Poor, Dear Margaret Kirby (2024)

THE WORKS OF KATHLEEN NORRIS

VOLUME III

This book is Jim's,—this page shall bear
Its witness to my love for him.
Best of small brothers anywhere,
Who would not do as much for Jim?

CONTENTS

POOR, DEAR MARGARET KIRBY
BRIDGING THE YEARS
THE TIDE-MARSH
WHAT HAPPENED TO ALANNA
THE FRIENDSHIP OF ALANNA
"S IS FOR SHIFTLESS SUSANNA"
THE LAST CAROLAN
MAKING ALLOWANCES FOR MAMMA
THE MEASURE OF MARGARET COPPERED
MISS MIX, KIDNAPPER
SHANDON WATERS
GAYLEY THE TROUBADOUR
DR. BATES AND MISS SALLY
THE GAY DECEIVER
THE RAINBOW'S END
ROSEMARY'S STEPMOTHER
AUSTIN'S GIRL
RISING WATER

POOR, DEAR MARGARET KIRBY

I

"You and I have been married nearly seven years," Margaret Kirbyreflected bitterly, "and I suppose we are as near hating each other astwo civilized people ever were!"

She did not say it aloud. The Kirbys had long ago given up anydiscussion of their attitude to each other. But as the thought cameinto her mind she eyed her husband—lounging moodily in her motor-car,as they swept home through the winter twilight—with hopeless, mutinousirritation.

What was the matter, she wondered, with John and Margaret Kirby—young,handsome, rich, and popular? What had been wrong with their marriage,that brilliantly heralded and widely advertised event? Whose fault wasit that they two could not seem to understand each other, could notseem to live out their lives together in honorable and dignifiedcompanionship, as generations of their forebears had done?

"Perhaps everyone's marriage is more or less like ours," Margaret musedmiserably. "Perhaps there's no such thing as a happy marriage."

Almost all the women that she knew admitted unhappiness of one sort oranother, and discussed their domestic troubles freely. Margaret hadnever sunk to that; it would not even have been a relief to a nature asself-sufficient and as cold as hers. But for years she had felt thather marriage tie was an irksome and distasteful bond, and only thatafternoon she had been stung by the bitter fact that the state ofaffairs between her husband and herself was no secret from their world.A certain audacious newspaper had boldly hinted that there would soonbe a sensational separation in the Kirby household, whose beautifulmistress would undoubtedly follow her first unhappy marital experiencewith another—and, it was to be hoped, a more fortunate—marriage.

Margaret had laughed when the article was shown her, with the easyflippancy that is the stock in trade of her type of society woman; butthe arrow had reached her very soul, nevertheless.

So it had come to that, had it? She and John had failed! They were tobe dragged through the publicity, the humiliations, that precede thesundering of what God has joined together. They had drifted, as so manyhundreds and thousands of men and women drift, from the warm, gloriouscompanionship of the honeymoon, to quarrels, to truces, to discussion,to a recognition of their utter difference in point of view, and tothis final independent, cool adjustment, that left their lives asutterly separated as if they had never met.

Yet she had done only what all the women she knew had done, Margaretreminded herself in self-justification. She had done it a little morebrilliantly, perhaps; she had spent more money, worn handsomer jewelsand gowns; she had succeeded in idling away her life in that utterleisure that was the ideal of them all, whether they were quite able toachieve it or not. Some women had to order their dinners, hadoccasionally to go about in hired vehicles, had to consider the cost ofhats and gowns; but Margaret, the envied, had her own carriage andmotor-car, her capable housekeeper, her yearly trip to Paris foruncounted frocks and hats.

All the women she knew were useless, boasting rather of what they didnot have to do than of what they did, and Margaret was moresuccessfully useless than the others. But wasn't that the lot of awoman who is rich, and marries a richer man? Wasn't it what marriedlife should be?

"I don't know what makes me nervous to-night," Margaret said to herselffinally, settling back comfortably in her furs. "Perhaps I only imagineJohn is going to make one of his favorite scenes when we get home.Probably he hasn't seen the article at all. I don't care, anyway! If itSHOULD come to a divorce, why, we know plenty of people who are happierthat way. Thank Heaven, there isn't a child to complicate things!"

Five feet away from her, as the motor-car waited before crossing thepark entrance, a tall man and a laughing girl were standing, waiting tocross the street.

"But aren't we too late for gallery seats?" Margaret heard the girlsay, evidently deep in an important choice.

"Oh, no!" the man assured her eagerly.

"Then I choose the fifty-cent dinner and 'Hoffman' by all means," shedecided joyously.

Margaret looked after them, a sudden pain at her heart. She did notknow what the pain was. She thought she was pitying that young husbandand wife; but her thoughts went back to them as she entered her ownwarm, luxurious rooms a few moments later.

"Fifty-cent dinner!" she murmured. "It must be awful!"

To her surprise, her husband followed her into her room, withoutknocking, and paid no attention to the very cold stare with which shegreeted him.

"Sit down a minute, Margaret, will you?" he said, "and let your womango. I want to speak to you."

Angry to feel herself a little at loss, Margaret nodded to the maid,and said in a carefully controlled tone:

"I am dining at the Kelseys', John. Perhaps some other time—"

Her husband, a thin, tall man, prematurely gray, was pacing the floornervously, his hands plunged deep in his coat pockets. He cleared histhroat several times before he spoke. His voice was sharp, and hiswords were delivered quickly:

"It's come to this, Margaret—I'm very sorry to have to tell you, butthings have finally reached the point where it's—it's got to come out!Bannister and I have been nursing it along; we've done all that wecould. I went down to Washington and saw Peterson, but it's no use! Weturn it all over—the whole thing—to the creditors to-morrow!" Hisvoice rose suddenly; it was shocking to see the control suddenly fail."I tell you it's all up, Margaret! It's the end of me! I won't face it!"

He dropped into a chair, but suddenly sprang up again, and began towalk about the room.

"Now, you can do just what you think wise," he resumed presently, inthe advisory, quiet tones he usually used to her. "You can always havethe income of your Park Avenue house; your Aunt Paul will be gladenough to go abroad with you, and there are personal things—the housesilver and the books—that you can claim. I've lain awake nightsplanning—" His voice shook again, but he gained his calm after amoment. "I want to ask you not to work yourself up over it," he added.

There was a silence. Margaret regarded him in stony fury. She wasdeadly white.

"Do you mean that Throckmorton, Kirby, & Son have—has failed?" sheasked. "Do you mean that my money—the money that my father left me—isGONE? Does Mr. Bannister say so? Why—why has it never occurred to youto warn me?"

"I did warn you. I did try to tell you, in July—why, all the worldknew how things were going!"

If, on the last word, there crept into his voice the plea that even astrong man makes to his women for sympathy, for solace, Margaret's eyeskilled it. John, turning to go, gave her what consolation he could.

"Margaret, I can only say I'm sorry. I tried—Bannister knows how Itried to hold my own. But I was pretty young when your father died, andthere was no one to help me learn. I'm glad it doesn't mean actualsuffering for you. Some day, perhaps, we'll get some of it back. Godknows I hope so. I've not meant much to you. Your marriage has cost youpretty dear. But I'm going to do the only thing I can for you."

Silence followed. Margaret presently roused herself.

"I suppose this can be kept from the papers? We needn't be discussedand pointed at in the streets?" she asked heavily, her face a mask ofdistaste.

"That's impossible," said John, briefly.

"To some people nothing is impossible," Margaret said.

Her husband turned again without a word, and left her. Afterward sheremembered the sick misery in his eyes, the whiteness of his face.

What did she do then? She didn't know. Did she go at once to thedressing-table? Did she ring for Louise, or was she alone as she slowlygot herself into a loose wrapper and unpinned her hair?

How long was it before she heard that horrible cry in the hall? Whatwas it—that, or the voices and the flying footsteps, that brought her,shaken and gasping, to her feet?

She never knew. She only knew that she was in John's dressing-room, andthat the servants were clustered, a sobbing, terrified group, in thedoorway. John's head, heavy, with shut eyes, was on her shoulder;John's limp body was in her arms. They were telling her that this wasthe bottle he had emptied, and that he was dead.

II

It was a miracle that they had got her husband to the hospital alive,the doctors told Margaret, late that night. His life could be only aquestion of moments. It was extraordinary that he should live throughthe night, they told her the next morning; but it could not last morethan a few hours now. It was impossible for John Kirby to live, theysaid; but John Kirby lived.

He lived, to struggle through agonies undreamed of, back to days of newpain. There were days and weeks and months when he lay, merelybreathing, now lightly, now just a shade more deeply.

There came a day when great doctors gathered about him to exult that heundoubtedly, indisputably winced when the hypodermic needle hurt him.There was a great day, in late summer, when he muttered something. Thencame relapses, discouragements, the bitter retracing of steps.

On Christmas Day he opened his eyes, and said to the grave, thin womanwho sat with her hand in his:

"Margaret!"

He slipped off again too quickly to know that she had broken into tearsand fallen on her knees beside him.

After a while he sat up, and was read to, and finally wept because thenurses told him that some day he would want to get up and walk aboutagain. His wife came every day, and he clung to her like a child.Sometimes, watching her, a troubled thought would darken his eyes; buton a day when they first spoke of the terrible past, she smiled at himthe motherly smile that he was beginning so to love, and told him thatall business affairs could wait. And he believed her.

One glorious spring afternoon, when the park looked deliriously freshand green from the hospital windows, John received permission to extendhis little daily walk beyond the narrow garden. With an invalid'simpatience, he bemoaned the fact that his wife would not be there thatday to accompany him on his first trip into the world.

His nurse laughed at him.

"Don't you think you're well enough to go and make a little call onMrs. Kirby?" she suggested brightly. "She's only two blocks away, youknow. She's right here on Madison Avenue. Keep in the sunlight and walkslowly, and be sure to come back before it's cold, or I'll send thepolice after you."

Thus warned, John started off, delighted at the independence that hewas gaining day after day. He walked the two short blocks with the carethat only convalescents know; a little confused by the gay, jarringstreet noises, the wide light and air about him.

He found the address, but somehow the big, gloomy double house didn'tlook like Margaret. There was a Mrs. Kirby there, the maid assured him,however, and John sat down in a hopelessly ugly drawing-room to waitfor her. Instead, there came in a cheerful little woman who introducedherself as Mrs. Kippam. She was of the chattering, confidential type sooften found in her position.

"Now, you wanted Mrs. Kirby, didn't you?" she said regretfully. "She'sout. I'm the housekeeper here, and I thought if it was just a questionof rooms, maybe I'd do as well?"

"There's some mistake," said John; and he was still weak enough to feelhimself choke at the disappointment. "I want Mrs. John Kirby—a verybeautiful Mrs. Kirby, who is quite prominent in—"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Mrs. Kippam, lowering her voice and growingconfidential. "That's the same one. Her husband failed, and all butkilled himself, you know—you've read about it in the papers? She soldeverything she had, you know, to help out the firm, and then she camehere—"

"Bought out an interest in this?" said John, very quietly, in hiswinning voice.

"Well, she just came here as a regular guest at first," said Mrs.Kippam, with a cautious glance at the door. "I was running it then; butI'd got into awful debt, and my little boy was sick, and I got totelling her my worries. Well, she was looking for something to do—acompanion or private secretary position—but she didn't find it, andshe had so many good ideas about this house, and helped me out so, justtalking things over, that finally I asked her if she wouldn't be mypartner. And she was glad to; she was just about worried to death bythat time."

"I thought Mrs. Kirby had property—investments in her own name?" Johnsaid.

"Oh, she did, but she put everything right back into the firm," saidMrs. Kippam. "Lots of her old friends went back on her for doing it,"the little woman went on, in a burst of loyal anger. "However," sheadded, very much enjoying her listener's close attention, "I declare myluck seemed to change the day she took hold! First thing was that herfriends, and a lot that weren't her friends, came here out ofcuriosity, and that advertised the place. Then she slaves day andnight, goes right into the kitchen herself and watches things; and shehas such a way with the help—she knows how to manage them. And theresult is that we've got the house packed for next winter, and we'llhave as many as thirty people here all summer long. I feel like anotherperson," the tears suddenly brimmed her weak, kind eyes, and shefumbled with her handkerchief. "You'll think I'm crazy running on thisway!" said little Mrs. Kippam, "but everything has gone so good. MyLesty is much better, and as things are now I can get him into thecountry next year; and I feel like I owed it all to Margaret Kirby!"

John tried to speak, but the room was wheeling about him. As he raisedhis trembling hand to his eyes, a shadow fell across the doorway, andMargaret came in. Tired, shabby, laden with bundles, she stood blinkingat him a moment; and then, with a sudden cry of tenderness and pity,she was on her knees by his side.

"Margaret! Margaret!" he whispered. "What have you done?"

She did not answer, but gathered him close in her strong arms, and theykissed each other with wet eyes.

III

A few weeks later John came to the boarding-house, nervous,discouraged, still weak. Despite Margaret's bravery, they both felt theposition a strained and uncomfortable one. As day after day proved hisutter unfitness for a fresh business start in the cruel, jarringcompetition of the big city, John's spirits nagged pitifully. He hatedthe boarding-house.

"It's only the bridge that takes us over the river," his wife remindedhim.

But when a little factory in a little town, half a day's journey away,offered John a manager's position, at a salary that made them bothsmile, she let him accept it without a murmur.

Her courage lasted until he was on the train, travelling toward the newtown and the new position. But as she walked back to her own business,a sort of nausea seized her. The big, heroic fight was over; John'slife was saved, and the debt reduced to a reasonable burden. But thedeadly monotony was ahead, the drudgery of days and days of hatefullabor, the struggle—for what? When could they ever take their placeagain in the world that they knew? Who could ever work up again fromdebts like these? Would John always be the weak, helpless convalescent,or would he go back to the old type, the bored, silent man of clubs andbusiness?

Margaret turned a grimy corner, and was joined by one of her boarders,a cheerful little army wife.

"Well, we'll miss Mr. Kirby, I'm sure," said little Mrs. Camp, as theymounted the steps. "And by the way, Mrs. Kirby, you won't mind if I askif we mayn't just now and then have some of the new towels on ourfloor—will you? We never get anything but the old, thin towels. Ofcourse, it's Alma's fault; but I think every one ought to take a turnat the new towels as well as the old, don't you?"

"I'll speak to Alma," said Margaret, turning her key.

A lonely, busy autumn fellowed, and a winter of hard and thankless work.

"I feel like a plumber's wife," smiled Margaret to Mrs. Kippam, when inNovember John wrote her of a "raise."

But when he came down for two days at Christmastime, she noticed thathe was brown, cheerful, and amazingly strong. They were as shy aslovers on this little holiday, Margaret finding that her old maternal,half-patronizing attitude toward her husband did not fit the case atall, and John almost as much at a loss.

In April she went up to Applebridge, and they spent a whole day roamingabout in the fresh spring fields together.

"It's really a delicious little place," she confided to Mrs. Kippamwhen she returned. "The sort of place where kiddies carry their lunchesto school, and their mothers put up preserves, and everybody has asurrey and an old horse. John's quite a big man up there."

After the April visit came a long break, for John went to Chicago inthe July fortnight they had planned to spend together; and when he atlast came to New York for another Christmas, Margaret was in bed with abad throat, and could only whisper her questions. So another winterstruggled by, and another spring, and when summer came Margaret foundthat it was almost impossible to break away from her increasingresponsibilities.

But on a fragrant, soft October day she found herself getting off theearly train in the little station; and as a big man waved his hat toher, and they turned to walk down the road together, they smiled intoeach other's eyes like two children.

"Were you surprised at the letter?" said John.

"Not so much surprised as glad," said Margaret, coloring like a girl.

They presently turned off the main road, and entered a certain gate.Beyond the gate was an old, overgrown garden, and beyond that ahouse—a broad, shabby house; and beyond that again an orchard, andbarns and outhouses.

John took a key from his pocket, and they opened the front door. Roses,looking in the back door, across a bare, wide stretch of hall, smiledat them. The sunlight fell everywhere in clear squares on the barefloors. It brightened the big kitchen, and glinted in the pantry, stillfaintly redolent of apples stored on shelves. It crept into the attic,and touched the scored casem*nt where years ago a dozen children hadrecorded their heights and ages.

Margaret and John came out on the porch again, and she turned to himwith brimming eyes. It suddenly swept over her, with a thankfulness toodeep for realization, that this would be her world. She would sit onthis wide porch, waiting for him in the summer afternoons; she would goabout from room to room on the happy, commonplace journeys ofhouse-keeping; would keep the fire blazing against John's return. Andin the years to come perhaps there would be other voices about the oldhouse; there would be little shining heads to keep the sunlight alwaysthere.

"Well, Margaret, do you like it?" said John, his arm about her, hisface radiant with pride and happiness.

"Like it!" said Margaret. "Why, it's home!"

IV

So the Kirbys disappeared from the world. Sometimes a newcomer atMargaret's club would ask about the great portrait that hung over thelibrary fireplace—the portrait of a cold-eyed woman with beautifulpearls about her beautiful throat. Then the history of poor, dearMargaret Kirby would be reviewed—its triumphs, its glories, Margaret'sbrilliant marriage, her beauty, her wit. These only led to the finaltragic scenes that had ended it all.

"And now she is grubbing away dear knows where!" her biographer wouldsay carelessly. "Absolutely, they might as well be buried!"

But about seven years after the Kirbys' disappearance, it happened thatfour of Margaret's old intimates—the T. Illington Frarys and theJosiah Dunnings—were taking a little motor trip in the Dunnings' bigcar, through the northern part of the State. Just outside the littlevillage of Applebridge, something mysterious and annoying happened tothe car, which stopped short, and after some discussion it was decidedthat the ladies should wait therein, while the men walked back insearch of help.

Mrs. Dunning and Mrs. Frary, settling themselves comfortably in thetonneau for a long wait, puzzled themselves a little over the name ofApplebridge.

"I can just remember hearing of it," said Mrs. Dunning, sleepily, "butwhen or where or how I don't know."

They opened their books. A brilliant May afternoon throbbed, hummed,sparkled all about them. The big wheels of the motor were deep in grassand blossoms. On either side of the road, fields were gay with bees andbutterflies. Larks looped the blackberry-vines with quick flights;mustard-tops showed their pale gold under the apple-blossoms.

Here and there a white cloud drifted in the deep, clear blue of thesky. There had been rains a day or two before, and in the fragrant airstill hung a little chill, a haunting suggestion of wet earth andrefreshed blossoms. Somewhere near, but out of sight, a flooded creekwas tumbling noisily over its shallows.

Suddenly the Sunday stillness was broken by voices. The two women inthe motor looked at each other, listening. They heard a woman's voice,singing; then a small boyish voice, then a man's voice. The speakers,whoever they were, apparently settled down in the meadow, not more thana dozen yards away, for a breathing space. A tangle of vines and bushesscreened them from the motor-car.

"Mother, are me and Billy going to turn the freezer?" said a child'svoice, and a man asked:

"Tired, old lady?"

"No, not at all. It's been a delicious walk," said the woman. The twositting in the motor gasped. "Yes, yes, yes, lovey," the woman's voicewent on, "you and Bill may turn, if Mary doesn't mind. Be careful of myfern, Jack!" And then, in German: "Aren't they lovely in all the grassand flowers, John?"

"Margaret!" breathed Mrs. Frary. "Poor, dear Margaret Kirby!"

"I hope they don't go by this way," whispered Mrs. Dunning, after anastounded second. "One's been so rude—don't you know—forgetting her!"

"She probably won't know us," Mrs. Frary whispered back, adjusting herveil in a stealthy way.

Mrs. Frary was right. The Kirbys presently passed with only a cursoryglance at the swathed occupants of the motor-car. They were laughinglike a lot of children as they scrambled through the hedge. John—abig, broad John, as strong and brisk as a boy—carried a tiny barefootgirl on his shoulder. Margaret, her beauty more startling than everunder the sweep of a gypsy hat; her splendid figure a little broader,but still magnificent under the cotton gown; her arms full of flowersand ferns, was escorted by two more children, sturdy little boys, whodoubled and redoubled on their tracks like puppies. The tiny barefootgirl, in her father's arms, was only a tangle of blue gingham anddrifting strands of silky hair; but the boys were splendidly alertlittle lads, and their high voices loitered in the air after theradiant, chattering little caravan had quite disappeared.

"Well!" said Mrs. Dunning, then.

"Poor, dear Margaret Kirby!" was on Mrs. Frary's lips; but she didn'tsay it.

She and Mrs. Dunning stared at each other a long minute, utterly at aloss. Then they reopened their books.

BRIDGING THE YEARS

The rain had stopped; and after long days of downpour, there seemed atlast to be a definite change. Anne Warriner, standing at one of thedining-room windows, with the tiny Virginia in her arms, could find adecided brightening in the western sky. Roofs—the roofs that made asteep sky-line above the hills of old San Francisco—glinted in thelight. The glimpse of the bay that had not yet been lost between thewalls of fast-encroaching new buildings, was no longer dull, and beatenlevel by the rain, but showed cold, and ruffled, and steely-blue; therewas even a whitecap or two dancing on the crests out toward Alcatraz. Arising wind made the ivy twinkle cheerfully against the old-fashionedbrick wall that bounded the Warriners' backyard.

"I believe the storm is really over!" Anne said, thankfully, halfaloud, "to-morrow will be fair!"

"Out to-morrow?" said Diego, hopefully. He was wedged in between hismother and the window-sill, and studying earth and sky as absorbedly asshe.

"Out to-morrow, sweetheart," his mother promised. And she wondered ifit was too late to take the babies out to-day.

But it was nearly four o'clock now; even the briefest airing was out ofthe question. By the time the baby was dressed, coated, and hooded, andlittle Diego buttoned into gaiters and reefer, and Anne herself hadchanged her house gown for street wear, and pinned on her hat and veil,and Helma, summoned from her ironing, had bumped Virginia's coach downthe back porch steps, and around the wet garden path to the frontdoor,—by the time all this was accomplished, the short winter daylightwould be almost gone, she knew, and the crowded hour that began withthe children's baths, and that ended their little day withbread-and-milky kisses to Daddy when he came in, and prayers, andcribs, would have arrived.

Anne sighed. She would have been glad to get out into the cool winterafternoon, herself, after a long, quiet day in the warm house. It wasjust the day and hour for a brisk walk, with one's hands plunged deepin the pockets of a heavy coat, and one's hat tied snugly against thewind. Twenty minutes of such walking, she thought longingly, would haveshaken her out of the little indefinable mood of depression that hadbeen hanging over her all day. She could have climbed the steep streeton which the cottage faced, and caught the freshening ocean breeze fullin her face at the corner; she could have looked down on the busylittle thoroughfares of the Chinese quarter just below, and theswarming streets of the Italian colony beyond, and beyond that again tothe bay, dotted now with the brown sails of returning fishing smacks,and crossed and recrossed by the white wakes of ferry-boats. For theWarriners' cottage clung to the hill just above the busy, picturesqueforeign colonies, and the cheerful unceasing traffic of the piers. Itwas in a hopelessly unfashionable part of the city now; its old,dignified neighbors—French and Spanish houses of plaster and brick,with deep gardens where willow and pepper trees, and fuchsias, andgreat clumps of calla lilies had once flourished—were all gone,replaced by modern apartment houses. But it had been one of the city'sshow places fifty years before, when its separate parts had beenbrought whole "around the Horn" from some much older city, and whenhomesick pioneer wives and mothers had climbed the board-walk that ledto its gate, just to see, and perhaps to cry over, the painted chinadoor-knobs, the colored glass fan-light in the hall, the iron-railedbalconies, and slender, carved balustrade that took their hungry heartsback to the decorous, dear old world they had left so far behind them.

Jimmy and Anne Warriner had stumbled upon the Jackson Street cottagefive years ago, just before their marriage, and after an ecstatic,swift inspection of it, had raced like children to the agent, to crowdinto his willing hand a deposit on the first month's rent. Anne hadnever kept house before, she had no eyes for obsolete plumbing, unevenfloors, for the dark cellar sacred to cats and rubbish. She and Jimchattered rapturously of French windows, of brick garden walks, of howplain little net curtains and Anne's big brass bowl full of nasturtiumswould look on the landing of the absurd little stairway that led fromthe square hall to two useless little chambers above.

"Jimski—this floor oiled, and the rug laid cross-wise! And oldtapestry papers from Fredericks! And the spindle-chair and Fanny'sclock in the hall!"

"And the davenport in the dining-room, Anne,—there's no room in here,and your tea-table at the fireplace, with your copper blazer on it!"

"Oh, Jim, we'll have a place people will talk about!" Anne would sighhappily, after one of these outbursts. And when they made their lastinspection before really coming to take possession of the cottage, shecame very close to him,—Anne was several inches shorter than her bighusband-to-be, and when she got as close as this to Jim she had to tipher serious little face up quite far, which Jim found attractive,—andsaid, in a little, breathless voice:

"It's going to be like a home from the very start, isn't it, Jim? Andaren't you glad, Jim, that we aren't doing EXACTLY what every one elsedoes, that you and I, who ARE a little different, Jim, are going toKEEP a little different? I mean that you really did do unusual work atcollege, and you really are of a fine family, and I am a Pendeering,and have travelled a lot, and been through Vassar,—don't you know,Jim? You don't think it's conceited for us to think we aren't quite theusual type, just between ourselves? Do you?"

Jim implied wordlessly that he did not. And whatever Jim thoughthimself, he was quite sincere in saying that he believed Anne to bepeerless among her kind.

So they came to Jackson Street, and Anne made it quite as quaint andcharming as her dreams. For a year they could not find a flaw in it.

Then little enchanting James Junior came, nick-named Diego forconvenience, who fitted so perfectly into the picture, with his checkedgingham, and his mop of yellow hair. Anne gallantly went on with herlittle informal luncheons and dinners, but she had to apologize for anuntrained maid now, and interrupt these festivities with flying visitsto the crib in the big bedroom that opened out of the dining-room. Andthen, very soon after Diego, Virginia was born—surely the mostradiant, laughing baby that ever brought her joyous little presenceinto any home anywhere. But with Virginia's coming, life grew verypractical for Anne, very different from what it had been in her vaguehopes and plans of years ago.

The cottage was no longer quite comfortable, to begin with. The garden,shadowed heavily by buildings on both sides, was undeniably damp, andthe fascinating railing of the little balconies was undeniably mouldy.The bath-room, despite its delightful size, and the ivy that rappedoutside its window, was not a modern bath-room. The backyard, oncesacred to geraniums and grass, and odd pots of shrubs, was sunny forthe children's playing, to be sure, but no longer picturesque aftertheir sturdy little boots had trampled it down, and with lines of theirlittle clothes intersecting it. Anne began to think seriously of thebig apartments all about, hitherto regarded as enemies, but perhaps thesolution, after all. The modern flats were delightfully airy, high upin the sun, their floors were hard-wood, their bath-rooms tiled, theirkitchens all tempting enamel, and nickel plate, and shining new wood.One had gas to cook with, furnace heat, hall service, and the joy ofthe lift.

"What if we do have to endure a dining-room with red paper and blackwoodwork, Jim," she would say, "and have near-Tiffany shades and a halltwo feet square? It would be so COMFORTABLE!"

But if Jim agreed,—"we'll have a look at some of them on Sunday," Annewould hesitate.

"They're so horribly commonplace; they're just what every one elsehas!" she would mourn.

Commonplace,—Anne said the word over to herself sometimes, in the longhours that she spent alone with the children. That was what her lifehad become. The inescapable daily routine left her no time forunnecessary prettiness. She met each day bravely, only to find herselfbeaten and exhausted every night. It was puzzling, it was sometimes alittle depressing. Anne reflected that she had always been busy, shewas indeed a little dynamo of energy, her college years and the yearsof travel had been crowded with interests and enterprises. But she hadnever been tired before; she had never felt, as she felt now, that shecould fall asleep at the dinner table for sheer weariness, and that notrial was more difficult to bear than Jim's cheerful announcement thatthe Deanes might be in later for a call, or the Weavers wanted them tocome over for a game of bridge.

And what did she accomplish, after all? she thought sometimes. Whatmark did her busy days leave upon her life? She dressed and undressedthe children, she bathed, rocked, amused them; indeed, she was soadoring a mother that sometimes whole precious fractions of hoursslipped by while she was watching them, laughing at them, catching thelittle unresponsive soft cheeks to hers for the kisses that interferedso seriously with their important little goings and comings. She sewedon buttons and made puddings for Jim, she went for aimless walks,pushing Jinny before her in the go-cart, and guiding the chatteringDiego with her free hand. She paused long in the market, uncomfortablyundecided between the expensive steak Jim liked so much, and thesausages that meant financial balm to her own harassed soul. Shecommenced letters to her mother that drifted about half-written untilJinny captured and destroyed them. She sewed up rents in cloth lionsand elephants, and turned page after page of the children's clothbooks. Same and eventless, the months went by,—it was March, and thelast of the rains,—it was July, and she and Jim were taking thechildren off for long Sundays in Sausalito, or on the Piedmonthills,—it was October, with the usual letter from Mother aboutThanksgiving,—it was Christmas-time again! The seasons raced throughtheir familiar surprises, and were gone. Anne had a desperate sense ofwanting to halt them; just to think, just to realize what life meant,and what she could do to make it nearer her dreams.

So the first five years of their marriage slipped by, but toward theend with a perceptible brightening of the prospect in every direction.Not in one day, nor in one week, did the change come; it was just thatthings went well for Jim at the office, that the children were dailygrowing less helpless and more enchanting, that Anne was beginning totake an interest in the theatre again, and was charming in a new suitand a really extravagant hat. The Warriners began to spend their Sundayafternoons with real estate agents in Berkeley—not this year, perhaps,but certainly next, they told each other, they could CONSIDER thatlovely one, with the two baths, and such a view, or the smaller one,nearer the station, don't you remember, Jim? where there was asleeping-porch, and the garden all laid out? They would bring thechildren up in the open air and sunshine, and find neighbors, andstrike roots, in the lovely college town.

Then suddenly, there were hard times again. Anne's health became poor,she was fitful and depressed, quite unlike her usual sunshiny self.Sometimes Jim found her in tears,—"It's nothing, dearest! Only I'm soMISERABLE all the time!" Sometimes she—Anne, the hopeful!—was filledwith forebodings for herself and the child that was to come. Nounnecessary expense could be incurred now, with this fresh, inevitableexpense approaching. Especial concessions must be made to Helma, shouldHelma really stay; the whole little household was like a ship thatshortens sail, and makes all snug against a storm. As a furthercomplication, business matters began to go badly for Jim. Salaries werecut, new rules made, and an unpopular manager installed at the office.Anne struggled bravely to hide her mental and physical discomfort fromJim. Jim, cut to the heart to have to add anything to her care justnow, touched her with a thousand little tendernesses; a joke over theburned pudding, a little name she had not heard since honeymoon days, ahundred barefoot expeditions about the bedroom in the dark, when Jinnyawoke crying in the night, or Diego could not sleep because he was so"firsty." Tender and intimate days these, but the strain of them toldon both husband and wife.

Things were at this point on the particular dark afternoon that foundAnne with the two children at the window. All three were still staringout into the early dusk when Helma came in from the kitchen with anarmful of damp little garments:

"Ef aye sprad dese hare, dey be dray en no tayme?" suggested Helma.

"Oh, yes! Spread them here by all means; then you can get a good startwith your ironing to-morrow!" Anne agreed, rousing herself from herrevery. "Put them all around the fire. And I MUST straighten thisroom!" she said, half to herself; "it's getting on to five!"

Followed by the stumbling children, she went briskly about the room,reducing it to order with a practised hand. Toys were piled in a largebasket, scraps tossed into the fire, sewing materials gathered togetherand put out of sight, the rugs laid smoothly, the window-shades drawn.Anne "brushed up" the floor, pushed chairs against the wall, put ashovelful of coals on the fire, and finally took her rocker at thehearth, and sat with Virginia in her arms, and Diego beside her, whiletwo silver bowls of bread and milk were finished to the last drop.

"There!" said she, pleasantly warmed by these exertions, "now fornighties! And Daddy can come as soon as he likes."

But Virginia was fretful and sleepy now, and did not want to be putdown. So Diego manfully departed kitchenward with the empty bowls, andAnne, baby, rocker, and all, hitched her way across the room to the oldchest of drawers by the hall door, and managed to secure the smallsleeping garments with the little daughter still in her arms. She hadhitched her way back to the fireplace again, and was very busy withbuttons and strings, when Helma, appearing in the doorway, announced avisitor.

"Who?" said Anne, puzzled. "Did the bell ring? I didn't hear it. Whatis it?"

"Jantl'man," said Helma.

"A gentleman?" Anne, very much at a loss, got up, and carrying Jinny,and followed by the barefoot Diego, went to the door. She had areassuring and instant impression that it was a very fine—even amagnificent—old man, who was standing in the twilight of the littlehall. Anne had never seen him before, but there was no question in herheart as to his reception, even at this first glance.

"How do you do?" she said, a little fluttered, but cordial, too. "Willyou come in here by the fire? The sitting-room is so cold."

"Thank you," said her caller, easily, with a little inclination of hishead that seemed to acknowledge her hospitality. He put his hat, ashining, silk hat, upon the hall table, and followed her into thedining-room. Anne found, when she turned to give him the big chair,that he had pulled off his big gloves, too, and that Diego had put aconfident, small hand into his.

He sat down comfortably, a big, square-built man, with rosy color, hairthat was already silvered, and a fast-silvering mustache, and keen,kind eyes as blue as Virginia's. In the expression of these eyes, andin the lines about his fine mouth, was that suggestion of simplefriendliness and sympathy that no man, woman, or child can long resist.Anne found herself already deciding that she LIKED this man. She wenton with Jinny's small toilet, even while she wondered about her caller,and while she decided that Jim should have an overcoat of exactly thisbig, generous cut, and of exactly this delightful, warm-looking roughcloth, some day.

"Perhaps this is a bad hour to disturb these little people?" said thecaller, smiling, but with something in his manner and in his ratherdeliberate and well-chosen speech, of the dignity and courtesy of anolder generation.

"Oh, no, indeed!" Anne assured him. "I'm going right on with them, yousee!"

Jinny, deliciously drowsy, gave the stranger a slow yet approvingsmile, from the safety of Anne's arms. Diego went to lay a small handupon the gentleman's knee.

"This is my shoe," said Diego, frankly exhibiting a worn specimen, "andBaby has shoes, too, blue ones. And Baby cried in the night when themirror fell down, didn't she, mother? And she broke her bowl, and bitedon the pieces, and blood came down on her bib—"

"All our tragedies!" laughed Anne.

"Didn't that hurt her mouth?" said the caller, interestedly, liftingDiego into the curve of his arm.

Diego rested his golden mop comfortably against the big shoulder.

"It hurt her teef," he said dreamily, and subsided.

As if it were quite natural that the child should be there, thegentleman eyed Anne over the little head.

"I've not told you my name, madam," said he. "I am Charles Rideout. Notthat that conveys anything to you, I suppose—?"

"But it does, as it happens!" Anne said, surprised and pleased."Jim—my husband, is with the Rogers-Wiley Company, and I think they doa good deal of cement work for Rideout & Company."

"Surely," assented the man, "and your husband's name is—?"

"Warriner,—James Warriner," Anne supplied.

"Ah—? I don't place him," Mr. Rideout said thoughtfully. "There are somany. Well, Mrs. Warriner," he turned his smiling, bright eyes to heragain, from the fire, "I am intruding on you this afternoon for areason that I hope you will find easy to forgive in an old man. I musttell you first that my wife and I used to live in this house, a goodmany years ago. We moved away from it—let me see—we left this housesomething like twenty-six or—eight years ago. But we've talked ahundred times of coming back here some day, and having a little lookabout 'little Ten-Twelve,' as we always used to call it. I see yournumber's changed. But"—his gesture was almost apologetic—"we are busypeople. Mrs. Rideout likes to live in the country a great part of thetime; this neighborhood is inaccessible now—time goes by, and, inshort, we haven't ever come back. But this was home to us for a goodmany years." He was speaking in a lower voice now, his eyes on thefire. "Yes, ma'am. Yes, ma'am," he said gently, "I brought Rose here abride—thirty-three years ago."

"Well, but fancy!" said Anne, her face radiant, "just as we did! Nowonder we said the house looked as if people had been happy in it!"

"There was a Frenchwoman here then," said Mr. Rideout, thoughtfully, "aqueer woman! She played fast and loose until I didn't know whether we'dever really get the place or not. This neighborhood was full of justsuch houses then, although I remember Rose used to make great capitalout of the fact that ours was the only brick one among them. This housecame around the Horn from Philadelphia, as a matter of fact, and"—hiseyes, twinkling with indulgent amusem*nt, met Anne's,—"and you knowthat before a lady has got a baby to boast of, she's going to do alittle boasting about her new house!"

Anne laughed. "Perhaps she boasted about her husband, too," she said,"as I do, when Jimmy isn't anywhere around."

She liked the tender look, that had in it just a touch of pleasedembarrassment with which he shook his head.

"Well, well, perhaps she did. Perhaps she did. She was very merry;pleased with everything; to this day my wife always sees the cheerfulside of things first. A great gift, that. She danced about this houseas if it were another toy, and she a little girl. We thought it a very,very lovely little home." His eyes travelled about the low walls. "Igot to thinking of it to-day, wondered if it were still standing. Istood at your gate a little while,—the path is the same, and thesteps, and some of the old trees,—a japonica, I remember, and thelemon verbenas. Finally, I found myself ringing your bell."

"I'm so glad you did!" Anne said. "There are lots of old trees andshrubs in the backyard, too, that you and your wife might remember. Wethink it is the dearest little house in the world, except that now weare rather anxious to get the children out of the city."

"Yes, yes," he agreed with interest, "much better for them somewhereacross the bay. I remember that finally we moved into thecountry—Alameda. The boy was a baby, then, and the two little girlsvery small. It was quite a move! Quite a move! We got one load started,and then had to wait and wait here—it was raining, too!—for the mento come for the other load. My wife's sister had gone ahead with thegirls, but I remember Rose and I and the baby waiting andwaiting,—with the baby's little coat and cap on top of a box, ready tobe put on. Finally, I got Rose a carriage, to go to the ferry,—quite aluxury in those days!" he interrupted himself, with a smile.

"And did the children love it,—the country?" said Anne, wistfully.

"Made them over!" said he, nodding reflectively. "Yes. I remember thatthe day after we moved was a Sunday, and we had quite a patch of lawnover there that I thought needed cutting. I shall never forget thoselittle girls tumbling about in the cut grass, and Rose watching fromthe steps, with the baby in her lap. It made us all over." His voicefell again, and he stared smilingly into the fire.

"The children were born here, then?" said Anne.

"The little girls, yes. And the oldest boy. Afterward there was anotherboy, and a little girl—" he paused. "A little girl whom we lost," hefinished gravely.

"Both these babies were born here," Anne said, after a moment. Hercaller looked from one child to the other with an expression ofinterest and understanding that no childless man can ever wear.

"Our Rose was born here, our first girl," he said. "Sometimes a foggymorning even now will bring that morning back to me. My wife was veryill, and I remember creeping out of her room, when she had gone tosleep, and hearing the fog-horns outside,—it was early morning. We hadan old woman taking care of her,—no trained nurses in those days!—andshe was sitting here by this fireplace, with the tiny girl in her lap.Do you know—" his smile met Anne's—"do you know, I was so tired, andwe had been so frightened for Rose, and it seemed to me that I had beenup and moving about through unfamiliar things for so many, many hours,that I had almost forgotten the baby! I remember that it came to mewith a shock that Rose was safe, and asleep, and that morning had come,and breakfast was ready, and here was the baby, the same baby we hadbeen so placidly expecting and planning for, and that, in short, it wasall right, and all over!"

"Oh, I KNOW!" Anne laid an impulsive hand for a second on his, and theeyes of the young wife, and of the man who had been a young fatherthirty years before, met in wonderful understanding. "That's—that'sthe way it is," said Anne, a little lamely, with a swift thought foranother foggy morning, when the familiar horn, the waking noises of thecity, had fallen strangely on her own senses, after the terror andtriumph of the night. Neither spoke for a moment. Diego's voice brokecheerily into the pause.

"I can undress myself," he announced, with modest complacence.

"Can you?" said Charles Rideout. "How about buttons?"

"I can't do buttons," Diego qualified firmly.

"Well, I think—I can—remember—how to unbutton—a boy!" said the man,with his pleasant deliberation, as he began on the button that wasalways catching itself on Diego's hair. Diego cheerfully extendedlittle arms and legs in turn for the disrobing process. Presently asmall heap of garments lay on the floor, and the children were quitedelicious in baggy blue flannels. All the four were laughing andabsorbed, when James Senior came in a few minutes later, and found them.

"Jim," said his wife, eagerly, rising to greet him, and to bring him,cold and ruddy, to the fireplace, "this is Mr. Rideout, dear!"

"How do you do, sir?" said Jim, stretching out his hand, and with asmile on his tired, keen, young face. "Don't get up. I see that my boyis making himself at home."

"Yes, sir; we've been having a great time getting undressed," said thevisitor.

"Jim," Anne went on radiantly, "Mr. Rideout and HIS wife lived hereyears ago, when THEY were just married, and their children were bornhere too!"

"No—is that so!" Jim was as much pleased and surprised as Anne, as hesettled himself with Virginia's web of silky hair against his shoulder."Built it, perhaps, Mr. Rideout?"

"No. No, it was eight or ten years old, then. I used to pass it,walking to the office. We had a little office down on Meig's pier then.As a matter of fact, my wife never saw it until I brought her home toit. She was the only child of a widow, very formal Southern people, andwe weren't engaged very long. So my brother and I furnished the house;used—" his eyes twinkled—"used to buy our pictures in a lump. Wedecided we needed about four to each room, and we'd go to a dealer's,and pick out a dozen of 'em, and ask him to make us a price!"

"Just like men!" said the woman.

"I suppose so. I know that some of those pictures disappeared afterRose had been here a while! And we had linen curtains—"

"Not linen!" protested Anne.

"Very—pretty—little—ruffled—curtains they were," he affirmedseriously. "Linen, with blue bands, in this bedroom, and red bandsupstairs. And things—things—" he made a vague gesture—"things on thedressing-tables and bed to match 'em! I remember that on our weddingday, when I brought Rose home, we had a little maid here, and dinnerwas all ready, but no, Rose must run up and down stairs looking ateverything in her little wedding dress—" Suddenly came another pause.The room was dark now, but for the firelight. Little Jinny was asleepin her father's arms, Diego blinking manfully. Neither husband norwife, whose hands had found each other, cared to break the silence. Butafter a while Anne said:

"What WAS her wedding dress?"

Instantly roused, the guest raised bright, pleased eyes.

"The ladies' question, Warriner," said he. "It was silk, my dear, herfirst silk gown. Yellowish, or brownish, it was. And she had one ofthose little ruffled capes the ladies used to wear. And a littlebonnet—"

"A BONNET!"

"A bonnet she had trimmed herself. I remember watching her, when wewere engaged, making that trimming. You don't see it any more, but thatyear all the girls were making it. They made little bunches of grapesout of dried peas covered with chamois skin—"

"Oh, not really!" ejacul*ted Anne.

"Indeed, they did. Then they covered their bonnets with them, and withleaves cut out of the chamois skin. They were charming, too. My wifewore that bonnet a long time. She trimmed it over and over." He sighed,but there was a shade of longing as well as pity in his eyes. "We wereyoung," he said thoughtfully; "I was but twenty-five; we had our hardtimes. The babies came pretty fast. Rose wasn't very strong. I workedtoo hard, got broken down a little, and expenses went right on, youknow—"

"You bet I know!" Jim said, with his pleasant laugh, and a glance forAnne.

"Well," said Charles Rideout, looking keenly from one to the other,"thank God for it, you young people! It never comes back! The days whenyou shoulder your troubles cheerfully together,—they come to theirend! And they are"—he shook his head—"they are very wonderful to lookback to! I remember a certain day," he went on reminiscently, "when wehad paid the last of the doctor's bills, and Rose met me down town fora little celebration. We had had five or six years of pretty hardsailing then. We bought her new gloves that day, I remember,and—shoes, I think it was, and I got a hat, and a book I'd beenwanting. We went to a little French restaurant to dinner, with all ourbundles. And that, that, my dear,—" he said, smiling at Anne,—"seemedto be the turning point. We got into the country next year, picked outa little house. And then, the rest of it all followed; we had twomaids, a surrey, I was put into the superintendent's place—" a sweepof the fine hand dismissed the details. "No man and wife, who do whatwe did," said he, gravely, "who live modestly, and work hard, and loveeach other and their children, can FAIL. That's one of the blessedthings of life."

Jim cleared his throat, but did not speak. Anne was frankly unable tospeak.

"And now I mustn't keep these children out of bed any longer," said theolder man. "This has been a—a lovely afternoon for me. I wish Mrs.Rideout had been with me." He stood up. "Shall I give you this littlefellow, Mrs. Warriner?"

"We'll put the babies down," said Jim, rising, too, "and then, perhaps,you'd like to look about the house, Mr. Rideout?"

"But I know how a lady feels about having her house inspected—"hesitated the caller, with his bright, fatherly look for Anne.

"Oh, please do!" she urged them.

So the gas was lighted, and they all went into the bedroom, where Annetucked the children into their cribs. She stayed there while the otherswent on their tour of inspection, patting her son's small, warm body inthe darkness, and listening with a smile to the visitor's cheerfulcomments in kitchen and hallway, and Jim's answering laugh.

When she came blinking out into the lighted dining-room, the men wereupstairs, and Helma, to Anne's astonishment, was showing in anothercaller,—and another Charles Rideout, as Anne's puzzled glance at thecard in her hand, assured her. This was a tall young man, a littledishevelled, in a big storm coat, and with dark rings about his eyes.

"I beg your pardon, madam," said he, abruptly, "but was my father, Mr.Charles Rideout, here this afternoon?"

"Why, he's upstairs with my husband now!" Anne said, strangelydisquieted by the young man's manner.

"Thank God!" said the newcomer, briefly. And he wiped his forehead withhis handkerchief, and drew a deep short breath.

"He—I must apologize to you for breaking in upon you this way," saidyoung Rideout, "but he came out in the car this afternoon, and wedidn't know where he had gone. He made the chauffeur wait at the cornerat the bottom of the hill, and the fool man waited an hour before itoccurred to him to telephone me at the house. I came at once."

"He's been here all that time," Anne said. "He's all right. Your motherand father used to live here, you know, years ago. In this same house."

"Yes, I know we did. I think I was born here," said Charles Rideout,Junior. "I had a sort of feeling that he had come here, as soon asBates telephoned. Dear old dad! He and mother have told us about thisplace a hundred times! They were talking about it for a couple of hoursa few nights ago." He looked about the room as his father had done."They were very happy here. There—" he smiled a little bashfully atAnne—"there never was a pair of lovers like mother and dad!" he said.Then he cleared his throat. "Did my father tell you—?" he began, andstopped.

"No," Anne said, troubled. He had told them a great deal, but not—shefelt sure—not this, whatever it was.

"That's why we worried about him," said his son, his honest, distressedeyes meeting hers. "You see—you see—we're in trouble at the house—mymother—my mother left us, last night—"

"Dead?" whispered Anne.

"She's been ill a good while," said the young man, "but wethought—She's been so ill before! A day or two ago the rest of us knewit, and we wired for my married sister, but we couldn't get dad torealize it. He never left her, and he's not been eating, and he'd tellall the doctors what serious sicknesses she'd gotten over before—" Andwith a suddenly shaking lip and filling eyes, he turned his back onAnne, and went to the window.

"Ah!" said Anne, pitifully. And for a full moment there was silence.

Then Charles Rideout, the younger, came back to her, pushing hishandkerchief into his coat pocket; and with a restored self-control.

"Too bad to bother you with our troubles," he said, with a little smilelike his father's. "To us, of course, it seems like the end of theworld, but I am sorry to distress YOU! Dad just doesn't seem to graspit, he hasn't been excited, you know, but he doesn't seem tounderstand. I don't know that any of us do!" he finished simply.

"Here they are!" Anne said warningly, as the two other men came downthe stairs.

"Hello, Dad!" said young Rideout, easily and cheerfully, "I came tobring you home!"

"This is MY boy, Mrs. Warriner," said his father; "you see he's turnedthe tables, and is looking after me! I'm glad you came, Charley. I'vebeen telling your good husband, Mrs. Warriner," he said, in a lowertone, "that we—that I—"

"Yes, I know!" Anne said, with her ready tenderness, and a little gasplike a child's.

"So you will realize what impulse brought me here to-day," the olderman went on; "I was talking to my wife of this house only a day or twoago." His voice had become almost inaudible, and the three young peopleknew he had forgotten them. "Only a day or two ago," he repeatedmusingly. And then, to his son, he added wistfully, "I don't seem toget it through my head, my boy. For a while to-day, I forgot—I forgot.The heart—" he said, with his little old-world touch of dignity—"theheart does not learn things as quickly as the mind, Mrs. Warriner."

Anne had found something wistful and appealing in his smile before, nowit seemed to her heartbreaking. She nodded, without speaking.

"Dear old Dad," said Charles Rideout, affectionately. "You are tiredout. You've been doing too much, sir, you want sleep and rest."

"Surely—surely," said his father, a little heavily. Father and sonshook hands with Jim and Anne, and the older man said gravely, "Godbless you both!" as he and his son went down the wet path, in the shaftof light from the hall door. At the gate the boy put his arm tenderlyabout his father's shoulders.

"Oh, Anne, Anne," said her husband as she clung to him when the doorwas shut, "I couldn't live one day without YOU, my dearest! Butdon't—don't cry. Don't let it make you blue,—he HAD his happiness,you know,—he has his children left!"

Anne tightened her arms about his neck.

"I am crying a little for sorrow, Jim, dearest!" she sobbed, buryingher face in his shoulder. "But I believe it is mostly—mostly for joyand gratitude, Jim!"

THE TIDE-MARSH

"What are you going to wear to-night in case you CAN go, Mary Bell?"said Ellen Brewster in her lowest tones.

"Come upstairs and I'll show you," said Mary Bell Barber, glancing, asthey tiptoed out of the room, toward the kitchen's sunny big westwindow, where the invalid mother lay in uneasy slumber.

"My new white looks grand," said Ellen on the stairs. "I made itempire."

Mary Bell said nothing. She opened the door of her spacious barebedroom, where tree shadows lay like a pattern on the faded carpet, andthe sinking sun found worn places in the clean white curtains. On thebed lay a little ruffled pink gown, a petticoat foamy with lace, whitestockings, and white slippers. Mary Bell caught up the gown and heldthe shoulders against her own, regarding the older girl meanwhile withinnocent, exultant eyes. Ellen was impressed.

"Well, for pity's sake—if you haven't done wonders with that dress!"she ejacul*ted admiringly. "What on earth did you do to it?"

"Well—first I thought it was too far gone," confessed Mary Bell,laying it down tenderly, "and I wished I hadn't been in such a hurry toget my new hat. But I ripped it all up and washed it, and I took theselittle roses off my year-before-last hat, and got a new pattern,—and Itell you I WORKED! Wait until you see it on! I just finished pressingit this afternoon."

"Oh, say—I hope you can go now, after all this!" said Ellen, earnestly.

The other girl's face clouded.

"I'll never get over it if I don't!" she said. "It seems to me I neverwanted to go anywhere so much in all my life! But some one's got tostay with mama."

"I'd go crazy,—not KNOWING!" said Ellen. "Who are you going to ask?"

"There it is!" said Mary Bell. "Until yesterday I thought, of course,Gran'ma Scott would come. Then Mary died, and she went up to Dayne. SoI went over and asked Bernie; her baby isn't but three weeks old, youknow, and I thought she might bring it over here. Mama would love tohave it! But late last night Tom came over, and he said Bernie was socrazy to go, they were going to take the baby along!"

"You poor thing!" said the sympathetic listener.

"I was nearly crazy!" said Mary Bell, crimping a pink ruffle withcareful finger-tips. "I was working on this when he came, and afterhe'd gone I crumpled it all up and cried all over it! Well, I guess Ididn't sleep much, and finally, I got up early, and wrote a letter toAunt Matty, in Sacramento, and I ran over to Dinwoodie's with it thismorning, and asked Lew if he was going up there to-day. He said he was,and he took the note for Aunt Mat. I told her about the dance, and thatevery one was going, and asked her to come back with Lew. He said he'dsee her first thing!"

"Oh, she will!" said Ellen, confidently. "But, say, Mary Bell, whydon't you walk over to the hotel with me now and ask Johnnie if she'llstay if your aunt doesn't come? I don't believe she and Walt are going."

"They mightn't want to leave the hotel on account of drummers on thenight train," said Mary Bell, dubiously. "And that's the very time mamagets most scared. She's always afraid there are boes on the train."

"Boes!" said Ellen, scornfully, "what could a bo do!"

"Well, I WILL go over and talk to Johnnie," said Mary Bell, with suddenhope. "I'm going to get all ready except my dress, in case Aunt Matcomes," she confided eagerly, when she had kissed the drowsy mother,and they were on their way.

"Say, did you know that Jim Carr is going to-night with CarrieParmalee?" said Ellen, significantly, as the girls crossed the clean,bare dooryard, under the blossoming locust trees.

Mary Bell's heart grew cold,—sank. She had hoped, if she DID go, thatsome chance might make her escort no other than Jim Carr.

"It'll make me sick if she gets him," said Ellen, frankly. Althoughengaged herself, she felt an unabated interest in the love-affairsabout her.

"Is he going to drive her over?" asked Mary Bell, clearing her throat.

"No, thank the Lord for that!" said Ellen, piously. "No. It's all Mrs.Parmalee's doing, anyway! His horse is lame, and I guess she thought itwas a good chance! He'll drive over there with Gus and mama and papaand Sadie and Mar'gret; and I guess he'll get enough of 'em, too!"

Mary Bell breathed again. He hadn't asked Carrie, anyway. And if she,Mary Bell, really went to the dance, and the pink frock looked well,and Jim Carr saw all the other boys crowding about her for dances—

The rosy dream brought them to the steps of the American Palace Hotel,for Deaneville was only a village, and a brisk walker might havecircled it in twenty minutes. The hideous brown hotel, with its longporches, was the largest building in the place, except for hay barns,and fruit storehouses. Three or four saloons, a "social hall," the"general store," and the smithy, formed the main street, and divergingfrom it scattered the wide shady lanes that led to old homesteads andorchards.

"Johnnie," Walt Larabee's little black-eyed manager and wife, and themost beloved of Deaneville matrons, was in the bare, odorous hallway.She was clad in faded blue denim overalls, and a floating transparentkimono of some cheap stuff. Her coal-black hair was rigidly puffed andpinned, and ornamented with two coquettish red roses, and her thincheeks were rouged.

"Well, say—don't you girls think you're the whole thing!" said thelady, blithely. "Not for a minute! Walt and me are going to this dance,too!"

She waved toward them one of the slippers she was cleaning.

"Walt said somethin' about it yes'day," continued Mrs. Larabee, withrelish, "but I said no; no twelve-mile drive for me, with a young baby!But some folks we know came down on the morning train—you girls haveheard me speak of Ed and Lizzie Purdy?"

"Oh, yes!" said Mary Bell, sick with one more disappointment.

"Well," pursued Johnnie, "they had dinner here, and come t' talk itover, Lizzie was wild to go, and Ed got Walt all worked up, and nothingwould do but we must get out our old carryall, and take their Thelmaand my Maxine along! Well, LAUGH—we were like a lot of kids! I'm crazyto dance just once in Pitcher's barn. We're going up early, and haveour supper up there."

"We're going to do that, too," said Ellen, with pleasant anticipation."Ma and I always help set tables, and so on! It's lots of fun!"

Mary Bell's face grew sober as she listened. It WOULD be fun to be oneof the gay party in the big barn, in the twilight, and to have hershare of the unpacking and arranging, and the excitement of arrivingwagons and groups. The great supper of cold chicken and boiled eggs andfruit and pickles, the fifty varieties of cake, would be spreaddownstairs; and upstairs the musicians would be tuning theirinstruments as early as seven o'clock, and the eager boys and girlstrying their steps, and changing cards. And then there would befeasting and laughing and talking, and, above all, dancing until dawn!

"Beg pardon, Johnnie?" she stammered.

"Well, looks like some one round here is in love, or something!" saidJohnnie, freshly. "I never had it that bad, did you, Ellen? Ellen'sbeen telling me how you're fixed, Mary Bell," she went on with deepconcern, "and I was suggestin' that you run over to the general store,and ask Mis' Rowe—or I should say, Mis' Bates," she corrected herselfwith a grin, and the girls laughed—"if she won't sleep at your housetonight. Chess'll tend store. It'll be something fierce if you don'tgo, Mary Bell, so you run along and ask the bride!" laughed Johnnie.

"I believe I would," approved Ellen, and the girls accordingly crossedthe grassy, uneven street to the store.

An immense gray-haired woman was in the doorway.

"Well, is it ribbon or stockings, or what?" said she, smiling. "Theplace has gone crazy! There ain't going to be a soul here but meto-night."

Mary Bell was silent. Ellen spoke.

"Chess ain't going, is he?" she asked.

The old woman shook with laughter.

"Chess ain't nothing but a regular kid," she said. "He was dying to go,but he knew I couldn't, and he never said a word. Finally, my boy Tomand his wife, and Len and Josie and the children, they all drove by ontheir way to Pitcher's; and Len—he's a good deal older'n Chess, youknow—he says to me, 'You'd oughter leave Chess come along with therest of us, ma; jest because he's married ain't no reason he's forgothow to dance!' Well, I burst right out laughing, and I says, 'Whydidn't he say he wanted to go?' and Chess run upstairs for his othersuit, and off they all went!"

There was nothing for it, then, but to wait for Lew Dinwoodie and thenews from Aunt Mat.

Mary Bell walked slowly back through the fragrant lanes, passed now andthen by a surrey loaded with joyous passengers already bound forPitcher's barn. She was at her own gate, when a voice calling herwhisked her about as if by magic.

"Hello, Mary Bell!" said Jim Carr, joining her. But she looked sopretty in her blue cotton dress, with the yellow level of a field ofmustard-tops behind her, and beyond that the windbreak of gold-tippedeucalyptus trees, that he went on almost confusedly, "You—you lookterribly pretty in that dress! Is that what you're going to wear?"

"This!" laughed Mary Bell. And she raised her dancing eyes, to grow alittle confused in her turn. Nature, obedient to whose law blossomswere whitening the fruit trees, wheat pricking through the damp earth,robins mating in the orchards, had laid the first thread of her greatbond upon these two. They smiled silently at each other.

"I'm not even sure I'm going!" said Mary Bell, ruefully.

The sudden look of concern in his face went straight to her heart. JimCarr really cared, then, that she couldn't go! Big, clever, kindly JimCarr, who was superintendent at the power-house, and a comparativenewcomer in Deaneville, was an important personage.

"Not going!" said Jim, blankly. "Oh, say—why not!"

Mary Bell explained. But Jim was encouraging.

"Why, of course your aunt will come!" he assured her sturdily. "She'llknow what it means to you. You'll go up with the Dickeys, won't you?I'm going up early, with the Parmalees, but I'll look out for you! I'vegot to hunt up my kid brother now; he's got to sleep at Montgomery'sto-night. I don't want him alone at the hotel, if Johnnie isn't there.If you happen to see him, will you tell him?"

"All right," said Mary Bell. And her spirits were sufficiently bracedby his encouragement to enable her to call cheerfully after him, "Seeyou later, Jim!"

"See you later!" he shouted back, and Mary Bell went back to thekitchen with a lightened heart. Aunt Mat wouldn't—COULDN'T—fail her!

She carried a carefully prepared tray in to her mother at five o'clock,and sat beside her while the invalid slowly finished her milk-toast andtea, and the cookies and jelly Mary Bell was famous for. The girlchatted cheerfully.

"You don't feel very badly about the dance, do you, deary?" said Mrs.Barber, as the gentle young hands settled her comfortably for the night.

"Not a speck!" answered Mary Bell, bravely, as she kissed her.

"Bernie and Johnnie going—married women!" said the old lady, sleepily."I never heard such nonsense! Don't you go out of call, will you, dear?"

Mary Bell was eating her own supper, ten minutes later, when the trainwhistled, and she ran, breathless, to the road, to meet Lew Dinwoodie.

"What did Aunt Matty say, Lew?" called Mary Bell, peering behind himinto the closed surrey, for a glimpse of the old lady.

The man stared at her with a falling jaw.

"Well, I guess I owe you one for this, Mary Bell!" he stammered. "I'lleat my shirt if I thought of your note again!"

It was too much. Mary Bell began to dislodge little particles of driedmud carefully from the wheel, her eyes swimming, her breast rising.

"Right in her part of town, too!" pursued the contrite messenger; "but,as I say—"

Mary Bell did not hear him. After a while he was gone, and she wassitting on the steps, hopeless, dispirited, tired. She sombrely watchedthe departing surreys and phaetons. "I could have gone with them—orwith them!" she would think, when there was an empty seat.

The Parmalees went by; two carriage loads. Jim Carr was in the phaetonwith Carrie at his side. All the others were in the surrey.

"I'm keeping 'em where I can have an eye on 'em!" Mrs. Parmalee calledout, pointing to the phaeton.

Everybody waved, and Mary Bell waved back. But when they were gone, shedropped her head on her arms.

Dusk came; the village was very still. A train thundered by, andPotter's windmill creaked and splashed,—creaked and splashed. Acow-bell clanked in the lane, and Mary Bell looked up to see theDickeys' cow dawdle by, her nose sniffing idly at the clover, her downygreat bag leaving a trail of foam on the fresh grass. From up the roadcame the faint approaching rattle of wheels.

Wheels?

The girl looked toward the sound curiously. Who drove so recklessly?She noticed a bank of low clouds in the east, and felt a puff of coolair on her cheek.

"It feels like rain!" she said, watching the wagon as it came near."That's Henderson's mare, and that's their wooden-legged hired man!Why, what is it?"

The last words were cried aloud, for the galloping old horse and driverwere at the gate now, and eyes less sharp than Mary Bell's would havedetected something wrong.

"What IS it?" she cried again, at the gate. The man pulled up sharply.

"Say, ain't there a man here, nowhere?" he demanded abruptly. "I'vebeen banging at every house along the way; ain't there a soul in theplace?"

"Dance!" explained Mary Bell. "The Ladies' Improvement Society inPitcher's new barn. Why! what is it? Mrs. Henderson sick?"

"No, ma'am!" said the old fellow, "but things is pretty serious downthere!" He jerked his hand over his shoulder. "There's some littlefellers,—four or five of 'em!—seems they took a boat to-day, to goducking, and they're lost in the tide-marsh! My God—an' I neverthought of the dance!" He gave a despairing glance at the quiet street."I come here to get twenty men—or thirty—for the search!" he saidheavily. "I don't know what to do, now!"

Mary Bell had turned very white.

"There isn't a soul here, Stumpy!" she said, terrified eyes on hisface. "There isn't a man in town! What CAN we do!—Say!" she criedsuddenly, springing to the seat, "drive me over to Mrs. Rowe's; she'smarried to Chess Bates, you know, at the store. Go on, Stumpy! Whatboys are they?"

"I know the Turner boys and the Dickey boy is three of 'em," said theold man, "and Henderson's own boy, Davy—poor leetle feller!—and BuddyHopper, and the Adams boy. They had a couple of guns, and they was allin this boat of Hopper's, poking round the marsh, and it began to looklike rain, and got dark. Well, she was shipping a little water, andHopper and Adams wanted to tie her to the edge and walk up over themarsh, but the other fellers wanted to go on round the point. So Adamsand Hopper left 'em, and come over the marsh, and walked to the point,but she wasn't there. Well, they waited and hallooed, but bimeby theygot scared, and come flying up to Henderson's, and Henderson andme—there ain't another man there to-night!—we run down to the marsh,and yelled, but us two couldn't do nothing! Tide's due at eleven, andit's going to rain, so I left him, and come in for some men.Henderson's just about crazy! They lost a boy in that tide-marsh awhile back."

"It's too awful,—it's just murder to let 'em go there!" said MaryBell, heart-sick. For no dragon of old ever claimed his prey moreregularly than did the terrible pools and quicksands of the great marsh.

Mrs. Bates was practical. Her old face blanched, but she began to planinstantly.

"Don't cry, Mary Bell!" said she; "this thing is in God's hands. He cansave the poor little fellers jest as easy with a one-legged man as hecould with a hundred hands. You drive over to the depot, Stumpy, andtell the operator to plug away at Barville until he gets some one totake a message to Pitcher's barn. It'll be a good three hours beforethey even git this far," she continued doubtfully, as the old maneagerly rattled away, "and then they've got to get down to Henderson's;but it may be an all-night search! Now, lemme see who else we can git.Deefy, over to the saloon, wouldn't be no good. But there's Adams'sChinee boy, he's a good strong feller; you stop for him, and gitGran'pa Barry, too; he's home to-night!"

"Look here, Mrs. Bates," said Mary Bell, "shall I go?"

The old woman speculatively measured the girl's superb figure, herglowing strength, her eager, resolute face. Mary Bell was like aspirited horse, wild to be given her head.

"You're worth three men," said the storekeeper.

"Got light boots?"

"Yes," said the girl, thrilled and quivering.

"You run git 'em!" said Mrs. Bates, "and git your good lantern. I'll begitting another lantern, and some whiskey. Poor little fellers! I hopeto God they're all sneakin' home—afraid of a lickin'!—this veryminute. And Mary Bell, you tell your mother I'll close up, and come andsit with her!"

It was a sorry search-party, after all, that presently rattled out oftown in the old wagon. On the back seat sat the impassive andgood-natured Chinese boy, and a Swedish cook discovered at the lastmoment in the railroad camp and pressed into service. On the front seatMary Bell was wedged in between the driver and Grandpa Barry, a thin,sinewy old man, stupid from sleep. Mary Bell never forgot the silentdrive. The evening was turning chilly, low clouds scudded across thesky, little gusts of wind, heavy with rain, blew about them. The fallof the horse's feet on the road and the rattle of harness and wheelswere the only sounds to break the brooding stillness that preceded thestorm. After a while the road ran level with the marshes, and they gotthe rank salt breeze full in their faces; and in the last light theycould see the glitter of dark water creeping under the rushes. Thefirst flying drops of rain fell.

"And right over the ridge," said Mary Bell to herself, "they aredancing!"

A fire had been built at the edge of the marsh, and three figures ranout from it as they came up: two boys and a heavy middle-aged man. Itwas for Mary Bell to tell Henderson that it would be hours before hecould look for other help than this oddly assorted wagonful. The man'sdisappointment was pitiful.

"My God—my God!" he said heavily, as the situation dawned on him, "an'I counted on fifty! Well, 'tain't your fault, Mary Bell!"

They all climbed out, and faced the trackless darkening stretch ofpools and hummocks, the treacherous, uncertain ground beneath a tangleof coarse grass. Even with fifty men it would have been an ugly search.

The marsh, like all the marshes thereabout, was intersected atirregular intervals by decrepit lines of fence-railing, running downfrom solid ground to the water's edge, half a mile away. Thesedivisions were necessary for various reasons. In duck season thehunters who came up from San Francisco used them both as guides and asproperty lines, each club shooting over only a given number ofsections. Between seasons the farmers kept them in repair, as a controlfor the cattle that strayed into the marsh in dry weather. The distancebetween these shaky barriers was some two or three hundred feet. Attheir far extremity, the posts were submerged in the restless blackwater of the bay.

Mary Bell caught Henderson's arm as he stood baffled and silent.

"Mr. Henderson!" she said eagerly, "don't you give in! While we'rewaiting for the others we can try for the boys along the fences!There's no danger, that way! We can go way down into the marsh, holdingon,—and keep calling!"

"That's what I say!" shrilled old Barry, fired by her tone.

The Chinese boy had already taken hold of a rail, and was warilyfollowing it across the uneven ground.

"They've BEEN there three hours, now!" groaned Henderson; but even ashe spoke he beckoned to the two little boys. Mary Bell recognized thetwo survivors.

"You keep those flames so high, rain or no rain," Henderson chargedthem, "that we can see 'em from anywheres!"

A moment later the searchers plunged into the marsh, facing bravelyaway from lights and voices and solid earth.

Stumbling and slipping, Mary Bell followed the fence. The rain slappedher face, and her rubber boots dragged in the shallow water. But shethought only of five little boys losing hope and courage somewhere inthis confusing waste, and her constant shouting was full of reassurance.

"Nobody would be scared with this fence to hang on to!" she assuredherself, "no matter how fast the tide came in!" She rested a moment onthe rail, glancing back at the distant fire, now only a dull glow, lowagainst the sky.

Frequently the rail was broken, and dipped treacherously for a fewfeet; once it was lacking entirely, and for an awful ten feet she mustbridge the darkness without its help. She stood still, turning herguttering lantern on waving grasses and sinister pools. "They are alldancing now!" she said aloud, wonderingly, when she had reached theopposite rail, with a fast-beating heart. After an endless period ofplunging and shouting, she was at the water's very edge.

There was light enough to see the ruffled, cruel surface of the river,where its sluggish forces swept into the bay. Idly bumping the grasseswas something that brought Mary Bell's heart into her throat. Then shecried out in relief, for it was not the thing she feared, but thelittle deserted boat, right side up.

"That means they left her!" said Mary Bell, trembling with nervousterror. She shouted again in the darkness, before turning for thehomeward trip. It seemed very long. Once she thought she must be goingaimlessly back and forth on the same bit of rail, but a moment morebrought her to the missing rail again, and she knew she had been right.Blown by the wind, struck by the now flying rain, deafened by thegurgling water and the rising storm, she fought her way back to thefire again. The others were all there, and with them three cramped andchilled little boys, crying fright and relief, and clinging to thenearest adult shoulder. The Chinese boy and Grandpa Barry had foundthem, standing on a hummock that was still clear of the rising tide,and shouting with all their weary strength.

"Oh, thank God!" said Mary Bell, her heart rising with sudden hope.

"We'll get the others, now, please God!" said Henderson, quietly. "Wewere working too far over. You said they were all right when you leftthem, Lesty?" he said to one of the shivering little lads.

"Ye-es, sir!" chattered Lesty, eagerly, shaking with nervousness. "Theywas both all right! Davy wanted to git Billy over to the fence, so ifthe tide come up!"—terror swept him again. "Oh, Mr. Henderson, git'em—git 'em! Don't leave 'em drowned out there!" he sobbedfrantically, clutching the big man with bony, wet little hands.

"I'm going to try, Lesty!"

Henderson turned back to the marsh, and Mary Bell went too.

"Billy who?" said Mary Bell; but her heart told her, before Hendersonsaid it, that the answer would be, "Jim Carr's kid brother!"

"Are you good for this?" said Henderson, when the four fittest hadreached that part of the marsh where the boys had been found.

She met his look courageously, his lantern showing her wet, brave youngface, crossed by dripping strands of hair.

"Sure!" she said.

"Well, God bless you!" he said; "God—bless—you! You take this fence,I'll go over to that 'n."

The rushing, noisy darkness again. The horrible wind, the slipping, theplunging again. Again the slow, slow progress; driven and whipped nowby the thought that at this very instant—or this one—the boys mightbe giving out, relaxing hold, abandoning hope, and slipping numb andunconscious into the rising, chuckling water.

Mary Bell did not think of the dance now. But she thought of rest; ofrest in the warm safety of her own home. She thought of the sunnydooryard, the delicious security of the big kitchen; of her mother, soplacid and so infinitely dear, on her couch; of the serene comings andgoings of neighbors and friends. How wonderful it all seemed! Lights,laughter, peace,—just to be back among them again, and to rest!

And she was going away from it all, into the blackness. Her lanternglimmered,—went out. Mary Bell's cramped fingers let it fall. Herheart pounded with fear of the inky dark.

She clung to the fence with both arms, panting, resting. And while shehung there, through rain and wind, across darkness and space, she hearda voice, a gallant, sturdy little voice, desperately calling,—

"Jim! Ji-i-m!"

Like an electric current, strength surged through Mary Bell.

"O God! You've saved 'em, you've got 'em safe!" she sobbed, plungingfrantically forward. And she shouted, "All right—all right, darling!Hang on, boys! Just HANG ON! Hal-lo, there! Billy! Davy! Here I am!"

Down in pools, up again, laughing, crying, shouting, Mary Bell reachedthem at last, felt the heavenly grasp of hard little hands reaching forhers in the dark, brushed her face against Billy Carr's wet littlecheek, and flung her arm about Davy Henderson's square shoulders. Theyhad been shouting and calling for two long hours, not ten feet from thefence.

Incoherent, laughing and crying, they clung together. Davy was alertand brave, but the smaller boy was heavy with sleep.

"Gee, it's good you came!" said Davy, simply, over and over.

"You've got your boots on!" she shouted, close to his ear; "they're tooheavy! We've got a long pull back, Davy,—I think we ought to gostocking feet!"

"Shall we take off our coats, too?" he said sensibly.

They did so, little Billy stumbling as Mary Bell loosened his handsfrom the fence. They braced the little fellow as well as they could,and by shouted encouragement roused him to something like wakefulness.

"Is Jim coming?" he shouted.

Mary Bell assented wildly. "Start, Davy!" she urged. "We'll keep himbetween us. Right along the fence! What is it?" For he had stopped.

"The other fellers?" he said pitifully.

She told him that they were safe, safe at the fire, and she could hearhim break down and begin to cry with the first real hope that the worstwas over.

"We're going to get out of this, ain't we?" he said over and over. Andover and over Mary Bell encouraged him.

"Just one more good spurt, Davy! We'll see the fire any minute now!"

In wind and darkness and roaring water, they struggled along. The tidewas coming in fast. It was up to Mary Bell's knees; she was almostcarrying Billy.

"What is it, Davy?" she shouted, as he stopped again.

"Miss Mary Bell, aren't we going toward the river!" he shouted back.

The sickness of utter despair weakened the girl's knees. But for amoment only. Then she drew the elder boy back, and made him pass her.Neither one spoke.

"Remember, they may come to meet us!" she would say, when Davy restedspent and breathless on the rail. The water was pushing about herwaist, and was about his armpits now; to step carelessly into a poolwould be fatal. Billy she was managing to keep above water by lettinghim step along the middle rail, when there was a middle rail. They madelong rests, clinging close together.

"They ain't ever coming!" sobbed Davy, hopelessly. "I can't go nofarther!"

Mary Bell managed, by leaning forward, to give him a wet slap, full inthe face. The blow roused the little fellow, and he bravely stumbledahead again.

"That's a darling, Davy!" she shouted. A second later somethingfloating struck her elbow; a boy's rubber boot. It was perhaps the mostdreadful moment of the long fight, when she realized that they wereonly where they had started from.

Later she heard herself urging Davy to take just ten steps more,—justanother ten. "Just think, five minutes more and we're safe, Davy!" someone said. Later, she heard her own voice saying, "Well, if you can't,then hang on the fence! DON'T let go the fence!" Then there wassilence. Long after, Mary Bell began to cry, and said softly, "God,God, you know I could do this if I weren't carrying Billy." After thatit was all a troubled dream.

She dreamed that Davy suddenly said, "I can see the fire!" and that, asshe did not stir, he cried it again, this time not so near. She dreamedthat the sound of splashing boots and shouting came down across thedark water, and that lights smote her eyelids with sharp pain. Anoverwhelming dread of effort swept over her. She did not want to moveher aching body, to raise her heavy head. Somebody's arm braced hershoulders; she toppled against it.

She dreamed that Jim Carr's voice said, "Take the kid, Sing! He's allright!" and that Jim Carr lifted her up, and shouted out, "She's almostgone!"

Then some one was carrying her across rough ground, across smoothground, to where there was a fire, and blankets, andvoices—voices—voices.

"It makes me choke!" That was Mary Bell Barber, whispering to Jim Carr.But she could not open her eyes.

"But drink it, dearest! Swallow it!" he pleaded.

"You were too late, Jim, we couldn't hold on!" she whispered pitifully.And then, as the warmth and the stimulant had their effect, she didopen her eyes; and the fire, the ring of faces, the black sky, and themoon breaking through, all slipped into place.

"Did you come for us, Jim?" she murmured, too tired to wonder why thebig fellow should cry as he put his face against hers.

"I came for you, dear! I came back to sit with you on the steps. Ididn't want to dance without my girl, and that's why I'm here. My bravelittle girl!"

Mary Bell leaned against his shoulder contentedly.

"That's right; you rest!" said Jim. "We're all going home now, andwe'll have you tucked away in bed in no time. Mrs. Bates is all readyfor you!"

"Jim," whispered Mary Bell.

"Darling?"—he put his mouth close to the white lips.

"Jim, will you remind Aunty Bates to hang up my party dress realcarefully? In all the fuss some one's sure to muss it!" said Mary Bell.

WHAT HAPPENED TO ALANNA

A capped and aproned maid, with a martyred expression, had twicesounded the dinner-bell in the stately halls of Costello, before anymember of the family saw fit to respond to it.

Then they all came at once, with a sudden pounding of young feet on thestairs, an uproar of young voices, and much banging of doors. Jim andDanny, twins of fourteen, to whom their mother was wont proudly toallude as "the top o' the line," violently left their own sanctum onthe fourth floor, and coasted down such banisters as lay between thatand the dining-room. Teresa, an angel-faced twelve-year-old in a bluefrock, shut 'The Wide, Wide World' with a sigh, and climbed down fromthe window-seat in the hall.

Teresa's pious mother, in moments of exultation, loved to compare andcommend her offspring to such of the saints and martyrs as theiryouthful virtues suggested. And Teresa at twelve had, as it were,graduated from the little saints, Agnes and Rose and Cecilia, and wasnow compared, in her mother's secret heart, to the gracious Queen ofall the Saints. "As she was when a little girl," Mrs. Costello wouldadd, to herself, to excuse any undue boldness in the thought.

And indeed, Teresa, as she was to-night, her blue eyes still cloudedwith Ellen Montgomery's sorrows, her curls tumbled about her hotcheeks, would have made a pretty foil in a picture of old Saint Anne.

But this story is about Alanna of the black eyes, the eight years, thelarge irregular mouth, the large irregular freckles.

Alanna was outrunning lazy little Leo—her senior, but not her match atanything—on their way to the dining-room. She was rendering desperatethe two smaller boys, Frank X., Jr., and John Henry Newman Costello,who staggered hopelessly in her wake. They were all hungry, clean, andgood-natured, and Alanna's voice led the other voices, even as herfeet, in twinkling patent leather, led their feet.

Following the children came their mother, fastening the rich silk andlace at her wrists as she came. Her handsome kindly face and her bigshapely hands were still moist and glowing from soap and warm water,and the shining rings of black hair at her temples were moist, too.

"This is all my doin', Dad," said she, comfortably, as she and herflock entered the dining-room. "Put the soup on, Alma. I'm the one thatwas goin' to be prompt at dinner, too!" she added, with asuperintending glance for all the children, as she tied on littleJohn's napkin.

F.X. Costello, Senior, undertaker by profession, and mayor by animmense majority, was already at the head of the table.

"Late, eh, Mommie?" said he, good-naturedly. He threw his newspaper onthe floor, cast a householder's critical glance at the lights and thefire, and pushed his neatly placed knives and forks to right and leftcarelessly with both his fat hands.

The room was brilliantly lighted and warm. A great fire roared in theold-fashioned black marble grate, and electric lights blazedeverywhere. Everything in the room, and in the house, was costly,comfortable, incongruous, and hideous. The Costellos were very rich,and had been very poor; and certain people were fond of telling of thequeer, ridiculous things they did, in trying to spend their money. Butthey were very happy, and thought their immense, ugly house was thefinest in the city, or in the world.

"Well, an' what's the news on the Rialter?" said the head of the housenow, busy with his soup.

"You'll have the laugh on me, Dad," his wife assured him, placidly."After all my sayin' that nothing'd take me to Father Crowley'smeetin'!"

"Oh, that was it?" said the mayor. "What's he goin' to have,—aconcert?"

"—AND a fair too!" supplemented Mrs. Costello. There was an intervaldevoted on her part to various bibs and trays, and a low aside to thewaitress. Then she went on: "As you know, I went, meanin' to beg off.On account of baby bein' so little, and Leo's cough, and the paperersbein' upstairs,—and all! I thought I'd just make a donation, and letit go at that. But the ladies all kind of hung back—there was very fewthere—and I got talkin'—"

"Well,'tis but our dooty, after all," said the mayor, nodding approval.

"That's all, Frank. Well! So finally Mrs. Kiljohn took the coffee, andthe Lemmon girls took the grab-bag. The Guild will look out for theconcert, and I took one fancy-work booth, and of course the Children ofMary'll have the other, just like they always do."

"Oh, was Grace there?" Teresa was eager to know.

"Grace was, darlin'."

"And we're to have the fancy-work! You'll help us, won't you, mother?Goody—I'm in that!" exulted Teresa.

"I'm in that, too!" echoed Alanna, quickly.

"A lot you are, you baby!" said Leo, unkindly.

"You're not a Child of Mary, Alanna," Teresa said promptly and uneasily.

"Well—WELL—I can help!" protested Alanna, putting up her lip. Can'tI, mother? "CAN'T I, mother?"

"You can help ME, dovey," said her mother, absently. "I'm not goin' towork as I did for Saint Patrick's Bazaar, Dad, and I said so! Mrs.O'Connell and Mrs. King said they'd do all the work, if I'd just be thenominal head. Mary Murray will do us some pillers—leather—withGibsons and Indians on them. And I'll have Lizzie Bayne up here for amonth, makin' me aprons and little Jappy wrappers, and so on."

She paused over the cutlets and the chicken pie, which she had beenhelping with an amazing attention to personal preference. The youngCostellos chafed at the delay, but their mother's fine eyes saw themnot.

"Kelley & Moffat ought to let me have materials at half price," shereflected aloud. "My bill's two or three hundred a month!"

"You always say that you're not going to do a thing, and then get inand make more than any other booth!" said Dan, proudly.

"Oh, not this year, I won't," his mother assured him. But in her heartshe knew she would.

"Aren't you glad it's fancy-work?" said Teresa. "It doesn't get allsloppy and mussy like ice-cream, does it, mother?"

"Gee, don't you love fairs!" burst out Leo, rapturously.

"Sliding up and down the floor before the dance begins, Dan, to work inthe wax?" suggested Jimmy, in pleasant anticipation. "We go every dayand every night, don't we, mother?"

"Ask your father," said Mrs. Costello, discreetly.

But the Mayor's attention just then was taken by Alanna, who had lefther chair to go and whisper in his ear.

"Why, here's Alanna's heart broken!" said he, cheerfully, encirclingher little figure with a big arm.

Alanna shrank back suddenly against him, and put her wet cheek on hisshoulder.

"Now, whatever is it, darlin'?" wondered her mother, sympathetically,but without concern. "You've not got a pain, have you, dear?"

"She wants to help the Children of Mary!" said her father, tenderly."She wants to do as much as Tessie does!"

"Oh, but, Dad, she CAN'T!" fretted Teresa. "She's not a Child of Mary!She oughtn't to want to tag that way. Now all the other girls' sisterswill tag!"

"They haven't got sisters!" said Alanna, red-cheeked of a sudden.

"Why, Mary Alanna Costello, they have too! Jean has, and Stella has,and Grace has her little cousins!" protested Teresa, triumphantly.

"Never mind, baby," said Mrs. Costello, hurriedly. "Mother'll find yousomething to do. There now! How'd you like to have a raffle book onsomething,—a chair or a piller? And you could get all the namesyourself, and keep the money in a little bag—"

"Oh, my! I wish I could!" said Jim, artfully. "Think of the last night,when the drawing comes! You'll have the fun of looking up the winningnumber in your book, and calling it out, in the hall."

"Would I, Dad?" said Alanna, softly, but with dawning interest.

"And then, from the pulpit, when the returns are all in," contributedDan, warmly, "Father Crowley will read out your name,—With Mrs. FrankCostello's booth—raffle of sofa cushion, by Miss Alanna Costello,twenty-six dollars and thirty-five cents!"

"Oo—would he, Dad?" said Alanna, won to smiles and dimples by thischarming prospect.

"Of course he would!" said her father. "Now go back to your seat,Machree, and eat your dinner. When Mommer takes you and Tess to thematinee to-morrow, ask her to bring you in to me first, and you andI'll step over to Paul's, and pick out a table or a couch, orsomething. Eh, Mommie?"

"And what do you say?" said that lady to Alanna, as the radiant littlegirl went back to her chair.

Whereupon Alanna breathed a bashful "Thank you, Dad," into the ruffledyoke of her frock, and the matter was settled.

The next day she trotted beside her father to Paul's big furniturestore, and after long hesitation selected a little desk of shiningbrass and dull oak.

"Now," said her father, when they were back in his office, and Teresaand Mrs. Costello were eager for the matinee, "here's your book ofnumbers, Alanna. And here, I'll tie a pencil and a string to it. Don'tlose it. I've given you two hundred numbers at a quarter each, and mindthe minute any one pays for one, you put their name down on the sameline!"

"Oo,—oo!" said Alanna in pride. "Two hundred! That's lots of money,isn't it, Dad? That's eleven or fourteen dollars, isn't it, Dad?"

"That's fifty dollars, goose!" said her father making a dot with thepencil on the tip of her upturned little nose.

"Oo!" said Teresa, awed. Hatted, furred, and muffed, she leaned on herfather's shoulder.

"Oo—Dad!" whispered Alanna, with scarlet cheeks.

"So NOW!" said her mother, with a little nod of encouragement andwarning. "Put it right in your muff, lovey. Don't lose it. Dan or Jimwill help you count your money, and keep things straight."

"And to begin with, we'll all take a chance!" said the mayor, bringinghis fat palm, full of silver, up from his pocket. "How old are you,Mommie?"

"I'm thirty-seven,—all but, as well you know, Frank!" said his wife,promptly.

"Thirty-six AND thirty-seven for you, then!" He wrote her name oppositeboth numbers. "And here's the mayor on the same page,—forty-four! Andtwelve for Tessie, and eight for this highbinder on my knee, here! Andnow we'll have one for little Gertie!"

Gertrude Costello was not yet three months old, her mother said.

"Well, she can have number one, anyway!" said the mayor. "You make arejooced rate for one family, I understand, Miss Costello?"

"I DON'T!" chuckled Alanna, locking her thin little arms about hisneck, and digging her chin into his eye. So he gave her full price, andshe went off with her mother in a state of great content, between rowsand rows of coffins, and cases of plumes, and handles and rosettes, anddesigns for monuments.

"Mrs. Church will want some chances, won't she, mother?" she saidsuddenly.

"Let Mrs. Church alone, darlin'," advised Mrs. Costello. "She's not aCatholic, and there's plenty to take chances without her!"

Alanna reluctantly assented; but she need not have worried. Mrs. Churchvoluntarily took many chances, and became very enthusiastic about thedesk.

She was a pretty, clever young woman, of whom all the Costellos werevery fond. She lived with a very young husband, and a very new baby, ina tiny cottage near the big Irish family, and pleased Mrs. Costello byasking her advice on all domestic matters and taking it. She made theCostello children welcome at all hours in her tiny, shining kitchen, orsunny little dining-room. She made them candy and told them stories.She was a minister's daughter, and wise in many delightful, girlish,friendly ways.

And in return Mrs. Costello did her many a kindly act, and sent heralmost daily presents in the most natural manner imaginable.

But Mrs. Church made Alanna very unhappy about the raffled desk. It sochanced that it matched exactly the other furniture in Mrs. Church'srather bare little drawing-room, and this made her eager to win it.Alanna, at eight, long familiar with raffles and their ways, realizedwhat a very small chance Mrs. Church stood of getting the desk. Itdistressed her very much to notice that lady's growing certainty ofsuccess.

She took chance after chance. And with every chance she warned Alannaof the dreadful results of her not winning, and Alanna, with a worriedline between her eyes, protested her helplessness afresh.

"She WILL do it, Dad!" the little girl confided to him one evening,when she and her book and her pencil were on his knee. "And it WORRIESme so."

"Oh, I hope she wins it," said Teresa, ardently. "She's not a Catholic,but we're praying for her. And you know people who aren't Catholics,Dad, are apt to think that our fairs are pretty—pretty MONEY-MAKING,you know!"

"And if only she could point to that desk," said Alanna, "and say thatshe won it at a Catholic fair."

"But she won't," said Teresa, suddenly cold.

"I'm PRAYING she will," said Alanna, suddenly.

"Oh, I don't think you ought, do you, Dad?" said Teresa, gravely. "Doyou think she ought, Mommie? That's just like her pouring her holywater over the kitten. You oughtn't to do those things."

"I ought to," said Alanna, in a whisper that reached only her father'sear.

"You suit me, whatever you do," said Mayor Costello; "and Mrs. Churchcan take her chances with the rest of us."

Mrs. Church seemed to be quite willing to do so. When at last the greatday of the fair came, she was one of the first to reach the hall, inthe morning, to ask Mrs. Costello how she might be of use.

"Now wait a minute, then!" said Mrs. Costello, cordially. Shestraightened up, as she spoke, from an inspection of a box offancy-work. "We could only get into the hall this hour gone, my dear,and 'twas a sight, after the Native Sons' Banquet last night. It'll bea miracle if we get things in order for to-night. Father Crowley saidhe'd have three carpenters here this morning at nine, without fail; butnot one's come yet. That's the way!"

"Oh, we'll fix things," said Mrs. Church, shaking out a dainty littleapron.

Alanna came briskly up, and beamed at her. The little girl was drivingabout on all sorts of errands for her mother, and had come in to report.

"Mother, I went home," she said, in a breathless rush, "and told Almafour extra were coming to lunch, and here are your big scissors, and Itold the boys you wanted them to go out to Uncle Dan's for greens, theytook the buckboard, and I went to Keyser's for the cheese-cloth, and hehad only eighteen yards of pink, but he thinks Kelley's have more, andthere are the tacks, and they don't keep spool-wire, and theelectrician will be here in ten minutes."

"Alanna, you're the pride of me life," said her mother, kissing her."That's all now, dearie. Sit down and rest."

"Oh, but I'd rather go round and see things," said Alanna, and off shewent.

The immense hall was filled with the noise of voices, hammers, andlaughter. Groups of distracted women were forming and dissolvingeverywhere around chaotic masses of boards and bunting. Whenever acarpenter started for the door, or entered it, he was waylaid, bribed,and bullied by the frantic superintendents of the various booths.Messengers came and went, staggering under masses of evergreen,carrying screens, rope, suit-cases, baskets, boxes, Japanese lanterns,freezers, rugs, ladders, and tables.

Alanna found the stage fascinating. Lunch and dinner were to be servedthere, for the five days of the fair, and it had been set with manychairs and tables, fenced with ferns and bamboo. Alanna was charmed toarrange knives and forks, to unpack oily hams and sticky cakes, andgreat bowls of salad, and to store them neatly away in a green room.

The grand piano had been moved down to the floor. Now and then anaudacious boy or two banged on it for the few moments that it took hismother's voice or hands to reach him. Little girls gently played TheCarnival of Venice or Echoes of the Ball, with their scared eyes alertfor reproof. And once two of the "big" Sodality girls came up, assuredand laughing and dusty, and boldly performed one of their conventduets. Some of the tired women in the booths straightened up andclapped, and called "encore!"

Teresa was not one of these girls. Her instrument was the violin;moreover, she was busy and absorbed at the Children of Mary's booth,which by four o'clock began to blossom all over its white-drapedpillars and tables with ribbons and embroidery and tissue paper, andcushions and aprons and collars, and all sorts of perfumed prettiness.

The two priests were constantly in evidence, their cassocks and handsshowing unaccustomed dust.

And over all the confusion, Mrs. Costello shone supreme. Her brisk, bigfigure, with skirts turned back, and a blue apron still furtherprotecting them, was everywhere at once; laughter and encouragementmarked her path. She wore a paper of pins on the breast of her silkdress, she had a tack hammer thrust in her belt. In her apron pocketswere string, and wire, and tacks. A big pair of scissors hung at herside, and a pencil was thrust through her smooth black hair. Sheadvised and consulted and directed; even with the priests it was to beobserved that her mild, "Well, Father, it seems to me," always won theday. She led the electricians a life of it; she became the terror ofthe carpenters' lives.

Where was the young lady that played the violin going to stay? Send herup to Mrs. Costello's.—Heavens! We were short a tablecloth! Oh, butMrs. Costello had just sent Dan home for one.—How on earth could theMale Quartette from Tower Town find its way to the hall? Mrs. Costellohad promised to tell Mr. C. to send a carriage for them.

She came up to the Children of Mary's booth about five o'clock.

"Well, if you girls ain't the wonders!" she said to the tired littleSodalists, in a tone of unbounded admiration and surprise. "You make meashamed of me own booth. This is beautiful."

"Oh, do you think so, mother?" said Teresa, wistfully, clinging to hermother's arm.

"I think it's grand!" said Mrs. Costello, with conviction. There was adelighted laugh. "I'm going to bring all the ladies up to see it."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" said all the girls together, reviving visibly.

"An' the pretty things you got!" went on the cheering matron. "You'llclear eight hundred if you'll clear a cent. And now put me down for achance or two; don't be scared, Mary Riordan; four or five! I'm goin'to bring Mr. Costeller over here to-night, and don't you let him offtoo easy."

Every one laughed joyously.

"Did you hear of Alanna's luck?" said Mrs. Costello. "When the Bishopgot here he took her all around the hall with him, and between this oneand that, every last one of her chances is gone. She couldn't keep herfeet on the floor for joy. The lucky girl! They're waitin' for you,Tess, darlin', with the buckboard. Go home and lay down awhile beforedinner."

"Aren't you lucky!" said Teresa, as she climbed a few minutes laterinto the back seat with Jim, and Dan pulled out the whip.

Alanna, swinging her legs, gave a joyful assent. She was too happy totalk, but the other three had much to say.

"Mother thinks we'll make eight hundred dollars," said Teresa.

"GEE!" said the twins together, and Dan added, "If only Mrs. Churchwins that desk now."

"Who's going to do the drawing of numbers?" Jimmy wondered.

"Bishop," said Dan, "and he'll call down from the platform, 'Numbertwenty-six wins the desk.' And then Alanna'll look in her book, andpipe up and say, 'Daniel Ignatius Costello, the handsomest fellow inthe parish, wins the desk.'"

"Twenty-six is Harry Plummer," said Alanna, seriously, looking up fromher chance book, at which they all laughed.

"But take care of that book," warned Teresa, as she climbed down. "Oh,I will!" responded Alanna, fervently.

And through the next four happy days she did, and took the precautionof tying it by a stout cord to her arm.

Then on Saturday, the last afternoon, quite late, when her mother hadsuggested that she go home with Leo and Jack and Frank and Gertrude andthe nurses, Alanna felt the cord hanging loose against her hand, andlooking down, saw that the book was gone.

She was holding out her arms for her coat when this took place, and shewent cold all over. But she did not move, and Minnie buttoned her insnugly, and tied the ribbons of her hat with cold, hard knuckles,without suspecting anything.

Then Alanna disappeared and Mrs. Costello sent the maids and babies onwithout her. It was getting dark and cold for the small Costellos.

But the hour was darker and colder for Alanna. She searched and shehoped and she prayed in vain. She stood up, after a longhands-and-knees expedition under the tables where she had been earlier,and pressed her right hand over her eyes, and said aloud in her misery,"Oh, I CAN'T have lost it! I CAN'T have. Oh, don't let me have lost it!"

She went here and there as if propelled by some mechanical force, awretched, restless little figure. And when the dreadful moment camewhen she must give up searching, she crept in beside her mother in thecarriage, and longed only for some honorable death.

When they all went back at eight o'clock, she recommenced her searchfeverishly, with that cruel alternation of hope and despair andweariness that every one knows. The crowds, the lights, the music, thelaughter, and the noise, and the pervading odor of pop-corn were notreal, when a shabby, brown little book was her whole world, and shecould not find it.

"The drawing will begin," said Alanna, "and the Bishop will call outthe number! And what'll I say? Every one will look at me; and HOW can Isay I've lost it! Oh, what a baby they'll call me!"

"Father'll pay the money back," she said, in sudden relief. But theimpossibility of that swiftly occurred to her, and she began huntingagain with fresh terror.

"But he can't! How can he? Two hundred names; and I don't know them, orhalf of them."

Then she felt the tears coming, and she crept in under some benches,and cried.

She lay there a long time, listening to the curious hum and buzz aboveher. And at last it occurred to her to go to the Bishop, and tell thisold, kind friend the truth.

But she was too late. As she got to her feet, she heard her own namecalled from the platform, in the Bishop's voice.

"Where's Alanna Costello? Ask her who has number eighty-three on thedesk. Eighty-three wins the desk! Find little Alanna Costello!"

Alanna had no time for thought. Only one course of action occurred toher. She cleared her throat.

"Mrs. Will Church has that number, Bishop," she said.

The crowd about her gave way, and the Bishop saw her, rosy,embarrassed, and breathless.

"Ah, there you are!" said the Bishop. "Who has it?"

"Mrs. Church, your Grace," said Alanna, calmly this time.

"Well, did you EVER," said Mrs. Costello to the Bishop. She had gone upto claim a mirror she had won, a mirror with a gold frame, and lilacsand roses painted lavishly on its surface.

"Gee, I bet Alanna was pleased about the desk!" said Dan in thecarriage.

"Mrs. Church nearly cried," Teresa said. "But where'd Alanna go to? Icouldn't find her until just a few minutes ago, and then she was soqueer!"

"It's my opinion she was dead tired," said her mother. "Look how soundshe's asleep! Carry her up, Frank. I'll keep her in bed in the morning."

They kept Alanna in bed for many mornings, for her secret weighed onher soul, and she failed suddenly in color, strength, and appetite. Shegrew weak and nervous, and one afternoon, when the Bishop came to seeher, worked herself into such a frenzy that Mrs. Costello wonderinglyconsented to her entreaty that he should not come up.

She would not see Mrs. Church, nor go to see the desk in its new house,nor speak of the fair in any way. But she did ask her mother who sweptout the hall after the fair.

"I did a good deal meself," said Mrs. Costello, dashing one hope to theground. Alanna leaned back in her chair, sick with disappointment.

One afternoon, about a week after the fair, she was brooding over thefire. The other children were at the matinee, Mrs. Costello was out,and a violent storm was whirling about the nursery windows.

Presently, Annie, the laundress, put her frowsy head in at the door.She was a queer, warm-hearted Irish girl; her big arms were stillstreaming from the tub, and her apron was wet.

"Ahl alone?" said Annie, with a broad smile.

"Yes; come in, won't you, Annie?" said little Alanna.

"I cahn't. I'm at the toobs," said Annie, coming in, nevertheless. "Iwas doin' all the tableclot's and napkins, an' out drops your littlebuke!"

"My—what did you say?" said Alanna, very white.

"Your little buke," said Annie. She laid the chance book on the table,and proceeded to mend the fire.

Alanna sank back in her chair. She twisted her fingers together, andtried to think of an appropriate prayer.

"Thank you, Annie," she said weakly, when the laundress went out. Thenshe sprang for the book. It slipped twice from her cold little fingersbefore she could open it.

"Eighty-three!" she said hoarsely. "Sixty—seventy—eighty-three!"

She looked and looked and looked. She shut the book and opened itagain, and looked. She laid it on the table, and walked away from it,and then came back suddenly, and looked. She laughed over it, and criedover it, and thought how natural it was, and how wonderful it was, allin the space of ten blissful minutes.

And then, with returning appetite and color and peace of mind, her eyesfilled with pity for the wretched little girl who had watched this samesparkling, delightful fire so drearily a few minutes ago.

Her small soul was steeped in gratitude. She crooked her arm and puther face down on it, and sank to her knees.

THE FRIENDSHIP OF ALANNA

"NEW white dress, is it?" said Mrs. Costello in bland surprise. "Well,my, my, my! You'll have Dad and me in the poorhouse!"

She had been knitting a pink and white jacket for somebody's baby, butnow she put it into the silk bag on her knee, dropped it on the floor,and with one generous sweep of her big arms gathered Alanna into herlap instead. Alanna was delighted to have at last attracted hermother's whole attention, after some ten minutes of unregardedwhispering in her ear. She settled her thin little person with theconscious pleasure of a petted cat.

"What do you know about that, Dad?" said Mrs. Costello, absently, asshe stiffened the big bow over Alanna's temple into a more erectposition. "You and Tess could wear your Christmas procession dresses,"she suggested to the little girl.

Teresa, apparently absorbed until this instant in what the youngCostellos never called anything but the "library book," although thatvolume changed character and title week after week, now shut itabruptly, came around the reading-table to her mother's side, and saidin a voice full of pained reminder:

"Mother! EVERY ONE will have new white dresses and blue sashes forSuperior's feast!"

"I bet you Superior won't!" said Jim, frivolously, from thepicture-puzzle he and Dan were reconstructing. Alanna laughed joyously,but Teresa looked shocked.

"Mother, ought he say that about Superior?" she asked.

"Jimmy, don't you be pert about the Sisters," said his mother, mildly.And suddenly the Mayor's paper was lowered, and he was looking keenlyat his son over his glasses.

"What did you say, Jim?" said he. Jim was instantly smitten scarlet anddumb, but Mrs. Costello hastily explained that it was but a bit ofboy's nonsense, and dismissed it by introducing the subject of the newwhite dresses.

"Well, well, well! There's nothing like having two girls in society!"said the Mayor, genially, winding one of Teresa's curls about his fatfinger. "What's this for, now? Somebody graduating?"

"It's Mother Superior's Golden Jubilee," explained Teresa, "and therewill be a reunion of 'lumnae, and plays by the girls, you know, andduets by the big girls, and needlework by the Spanish girls. And ourroom and Sister Claudia's is giving a new chapel window, a dollar agirl, and Sister Ligouri's room is giving the organ bench."

"And our room is giving a spear," said Alanna, uncertainly.

"A spear, darlin'?" wondered her mother. "What would you give that toSuperior for?" Jim and Dan looked up expectantly, the Mayor's mouthtwitched. Alanna buried her face in her mother's neck, where shewhispered an explanation.

"Well, of course!" said Mrs. Costello, presently, to the company atlarge. Her eye held a warning that her oldest sons did not miss. "Asshe says, 'tis a ball all covered with islands and maps, Dad. A globe,that's the other name for it!"

"Ah, yes, a spear, to be sure!" assented the Mayor, mildly, and Alannareturned to view.

"But the best of the whole programme is the grandchildren's part,"volunteered Teresa. "You know, Mother, the girls whose mothers went toNotre Dame are called the 'grandchildren.' Alanna and I are, there aretwenty-two of us in all. And we are going to have a special march and aspecial song, and present Superior with a bouquet!"

"And maybe Teresa's going to present it and say the salutation!"exulted Alanna.

"No, Marg'ret Hammond will," Teresa corrected her quickly. "Marg'ret'sthree months older than me. First they were going to have me, butMarg'ret's the oldest. And she does it awfully nicely, doesn't she,Alanna? Sister Celia says it's really the most important thing of theday. And we all stand round Marg'ret while she does it. And the best ofit all is, it's a surprise for Superior!"

"Not a surprise like Christmas surprises," amended Alanna,conscientiously. "Superior sort of knows we are doing something,because she hears the girls practising, and she sees us going upstairsto rehearse. But she will p'tend to be surprised."

"And it's new dresses all 'round, eh?" said her father.

"Oh, yes, we must!" said Teresa, anxiously.

"Well, I'll see about it," promised Mrs. Costello.

"Don't you want to afford the expense, mother?" Alanna whispered in herear. Mrs. Costello was much touched.

"Don't you worry about that, lovey!" said she. The Mayor had presumablyreturned to his paper, but his absent eyes were fixed far beyond theprinted sheet he still held tilted carefully to the light.

"Marg'ret Hammond—whose girl is that, then?" he asked presently.

"She's a girl whose mother died," supplied Alanna, cheerfully. "She'sawfully smart. Sister Helen teaches her piano for nothing,—she's agreat friend of mine. She likes me, doesn't she, Tess?"

"She's three years older'n you are, Alanna," said Teresa, briskly, "andshe's in our room! I don't see how you can say she's a friend of YOURS!Do you, mother?"

"Well," said Alanna, getting red, "she is. She gave me a rag when I cutme knee, and one day she lifted the cup down for me when Mary Deanestuck it up on a high nail, so that none of us could get drinks, andwhen Sister Rose said, 'Who is talking?' she said Alanna Costellowasn't 'cause she's sitting here as quiet as a mouse!'"

"All that sounds very kind and friendly to me," said Mrs. Costello,soothingly.

"I expect that's Doctor Hammond's girl?" said the Mayor.

"No, sir," said Dan. "These are the Hammonds who live over by thebridge. There's just two kids, Marg'ret and Joe, and their father. Joeserved the eight o'clock Mass with me one week,—you know, Jim, theweek you were sick."

"Sure," said Jim. "Hammond's a nice feller."

Their father scraped his chin with a fat hand.

"I know them," he said ruminatively. Mrs. Costello looked up.

"That's not the Hammond you had trouble with at the shop, Frank?" shesaid.

"Well, I'm thinking maybe it is," her husband admitted. "He's had agood deal of bad luck one way or another, since he lost his wife." Heturned to Teresa. "You be as nice as you can to little Marg'retHammond, Tess," said he.

"I wonder who the wife was?" said Mrs. Costello. "If this little girlis a 'grandchild,' I ought to know the mother. Ask her, Tess."

Teresa hesitated.

"I don't play with her much, mother. And she's sort of shy," she began.

"I'll ask her," said Alanna, boldly. "I don't care if she IS going ontwelve. She goes up to the chapel every day, and I'll stop herto-morrow, and ask her! She's always friendly to me."

Mayor Costello had returned to his paper. But a few hours later, whenall the children except Gertrude were settled for the night, andGertrude, in a state of milky beatitude, was looking straight into hermother's face above her with blue eyes heavy with sleep, he enlightenedhis wife further concerning the Hammonds.

"He was with me at the shop," said the Mayor, "and I never was sorrierto let any man go. But it seemed like his wife's death drove him quitewild. First it was fighting with the other boys, and then drink, andthen complaints here and there and everywhere, and Kelly wouldn't standfor it. I wish I'd kept him on a bit longer, myself, what with hishaving the two children and all. He's got a fine head on him, and avery good way with people in trouble. Kelly himself was always sendinghim to arrange about flowers and carriages and all. Poor lad! And thencame the night he was tipsy, and got locked in the warehouse—"

"I know," said Mrs. Costello, with a pitying shake of the head, as shegently adjusted the sleeping Gertrude. "Has he had a job since, Frank?"

"He was with a piano house," said her husband, uneasily, as he wentslowly on with his preparations for the night. "Two children, has he?And a boy on the altar. 'Tis hard that the children have to pay for it."

"Alanna'll find out who the wife was. She never fails me," said Mrs.Costello, turning from Gertrude's crib with sudden decision in hervoice. "And I'll do something, never fear!"

Alanna did not fail. She came home the next day brimming with theimportance of her fulfilled mission.

"Her mother's name was Harmonica Moore!" announced Alanna, who could bedepended upon for unfailing inaccuracy in the matter of names. Teresaand the boys burst into joyous laughter, but the information was closeenough for Mrs. Costello.

"Monica Moore!" she exclaimed. "Well, for pity's sake! Of course I knewher, and a sweet, dear girl she was, too. Stop laughing at Alanna, allof you, or I'll send you upstairs until Dad gets after you. Very quietand shy she was, but the lovely singing voice! There wasn't a tune inthe world she wouldn't lilt to you if you asked her. Well, the poorchild, I wish I'd never lost sight of her." She pondered a moment. "Isthe boy still serving Mass at St. Mary's, Dan?" she said then.

"Sure," said Jim. For Dan was absorbed in the task of restoringAlanna's ruffled feelings by inserting a lighted match into his mouth.

"Well, that's good," pursued their mother. "You bring him home tobreakfast after Mass any day this week, Jim. And, Tess, you must bringthe little girl in after school. Tell her I knew her dear mother." Mrs.Costello's eyes, as she returned placidly to the task of labelling jarsupon shining jars of marmalade, shone with their most radiantexpression.

Marg'ret and Joe Hammond were constant visitors in the big Costellohouse after that. Their father was away, looking for work, Mrs.Costello imagined and feared, and they were living with some vague"lady across the hall." So the Mayor's wife had free rein, and she usedit. When Marg'ret got one of her shapeless, leaky shoes cut in theCostello barn, she was promptly presented with shining new ones, "theway I couldn't let you get a cold and die on your father, Marg'ret,dear!" said Mrs. Costello. The twins' outgrown suits were found to fitJoe Hammond to perfection, "and a lucky thing I thought of it, Joe,before I sent them off to my sister's children in Chicago!" observedthe Mayor's wife. The Mayor himself heaped his little guests' plateswith the choicest of everything on the table, when the Hammonds stayedto dinner. Marg'ret frequently came home between Teresa and Alanna tolunch, and when Joe breakfasted after Mass with Danny and Jim, Mrs.Costello packed his lunch with theirs, exulting in the chance. Thechildren became fast friends, and indeed it would have been hard tofind better playfellows for the young Costellos, their mother oftenthought, than the clever, appreciative little Hammonds.

Meantime, the rehearsals for Mother Superior's Golden Jubilee proceededsteadily, and Marg'ret, Teresa, and Alanna could talk of nothing else.The delightful irregularity of lessons, the enchanting confusion ofrehearsals, the costumes, programme, and decorations were food forendless chatter. Alanna, because Marg'ret was so genuinely fond of her,lived in the seventh heaven of bliss, trotting about with the biggergirls, joining in their plans, and running their errands. The"grandchildren" were to have a play, entitled "By Nero's Command," inwhich both Teresa and Marg'ret sustained prominent parts, and evenAlanna was allotted one line to speak. It became an ordinary thing, inthe Costello house, to hear the little girl earnestly repeating thisline to herself at quiet moments, "The lions,—oh, the lions!" Teresaand Marg'ret, in their turn, frequently rehearsed a heroic dialoguewhich began with the stately line, uttered by Marg'ret in the person ofa Roman princess: "My slave, why art thou always so happy at thy menialwork?"

One day Mrs. Costello called the three girls to her sewing-room, wherea brisk young woman was smoothing lengths of snowy lawn on the longtable.

"These are your dresses, girls," said the matron. "Let Miss Curry getthe len'ths and neck measures. And look, here's the embroidery I got.Won't that make up pretty? The waists will be all insertion, prettynear."

"Me, too?" said Marg'ret Hammond, catching a rapturous breath.

"You, too," answered Mrs. Costello in her most matter-of-fact tone."You see, you three will be the very centre of the group, and it'lllook very nice, your all being dressed the same—why, Marg'ret, dear!"she broke off suddenly. For Marg'ret, standing beside her chair, haddropped her head on Mrs. Costello's shoulder and was crying.

"I worried so about my dress," said she, shakily, wiping her eyes onthe soft sleeve of Mrs. Costello's shirt-waist; when a great deal ofpatting, and much smothering from the arms of Teresa and Alanna hadalmost restored her equilibrium, "and Joe worried too! I couldn't writeand bother my father. And only this morning I was thinking that I mighthave to write and tell Sister Rose that I couldn't be in theexhibition, after all!"

"Well, there, now, you silly girl! You see how much good worryingdoes," said Mrs. Costello, but her own eyes were wet.

"The worst of it was," said Marg'ret, red-cheeked, but brave, "that Ididn't want any one to think my father wouldn't give it to me. For youknow"—the generous little explanation tugged at Mrs. Costello'sheart—"you know he would if he COULD!"

"Well, of course he would!" assented that lady, giving the loyal littledaughter a kiss before the delightful business of fitting and measuringbegan. The new dresses promised to be the prettiest of their kind, andharmony and happiness reigned in the sewing-room.

But it was only a day later that Teresa and Alanna returned from schoolwith faces filled with expressions of utter woe. Indignant, protesting,tearful, they burst forth the instant they reached their mother'ssympathetic presence with the bitter tale of the day's happenings.Marg'ret Hammond's father had come home again, it appeared, and he wasawfully, awfully cross with Marg'ret and Joe. They weren't to come tothe Costellos' any more, or he'd whip them. And Marg'ret had beencrying, and THEY had been crying, and Sister didn't know what was thematter, and they couldn't tell her, and the rehearsal was no FUN!

While their feeling was still at its height, Dan and Jimmy came in,equally roused by their enforced estrangement from Joe Hammond. Mrs.Costello was almost as much distressed as the children, and excited andmutinous argument held the Costello dinner-table that night. The Mayor,his wife noticed, paid very close attention to the conversation, but hedid not allude to it until they were alone.

"So Hammond'll take no favors from me, Mollie?"

"I suppose that's it, Frank. Perhaps he's been nursing a grudge allthese weeks. But it's cruel hard on the children. From his comin' backthis way, I don't doubt he's out of work, and where Marg'ret'll get herwhite dress from now, I don't know!"

"Well, if he don't provide it, Tess'll recite the salutation," said theMayor, with a great air of philosophy. But a second later he added,"You couldn't have it finished up, now, and send it to the child on thechance?"

His wife shook her head despondently, and for several days went aboutwith a little worried look in her bright eyes, and a constant dread ofthe news that Marg'ret Hammond had dropped out of the exhibition.Marg'ret was sad, the little girls said, and evidently missing them asthey missed her, but up to the very night of the dress rehearsal shegave no sign of worry on the subject of a white dress.

Mrs. Costello had offered her immense parlors for the last rehearsal ofthe chief performers in the plays and tableaux, realizing that even themost obligingly blind of Mother Superiors could not appear to ignorethe gathering of some fifty girls in their gala dresses in the conventhall, for this purpose. Alanna and Teresa were gloriously excited overthe prospect, and flitted about the empty rooms on the eveningappointed, buzzing like eager bees.

Presently a few of the nuns arrived, escorting a score of little girls,and briskly ready for an evening of serious work. Then some of theolder girls, carrying their musical instruments, came in laughing.Laughter and talk began to make the big house hum, the nuns ruling theconfusion, gathering girls into groups, suppressing the hilarity thatwould break out over and over again, and anxious to clear a corner andbegin the actual work. A tall girl, leaning on the piano, scribbled acrude programme, murmuring to the alert-faced nun beside her as shewrote:

"Yes, Sister, and then the mandolins and guitars; yes, Sister, and thenMary Cudahy's recitation; yes, Sister. Is that too near Loretta's song?All right, Sister, the French play can go in between, and then Loretta.Yes, Sister."

"Of course Marg'ret'll come, Tess,—or has she come?" said Mrs.Costello, who was hastily clearing a table in the family sitting-roomupstairs, because it was needed for the stage setting. Teresa, who hadjust joined her mother, was breathless.

"Mother! Something awful has happened!"

Mrs. Costello carefully transferred to the book-case the lamp she hadjust lifted, dusted her hands together, and turned eyes full ofsympathetic interest upon her oldest daughter,—Teresa's tragedies werevery apt to be of the spirit, and had not the sensational urgency thatalarms from the boys or Alanna commanded.

"What is it then, darlin'?" said she.

"Oh, it's Marg'ret, mother!" Teresa clasped her hands in an ecstasy ofapprehension. "Oh, mother, can't you MAKE her take that white dress?"

Mrs. Costello sat down heavily, her kind eyes full of regret.

"What more can I do, Tess?" Then, with a grave headshake, "She's toldSister Rose she has to drop out?"

"Oh, no, mother!" Teresa said distressfully. "It's worse than that!She's here, and she's rehearsing, and what DO you think she's wearingfor an exhibition dress?"

"Well, how would I know, Tess, with you doing nothing but bemoaning andbewildering me?" asked her mother, with a sort of resigned despair."Don't go round and round it, dovey; what is it at all?"

"It's a white dress," said Teresa, desperately, "and of course it'spretty, and at first I couldn't think where I'd seen it before, and Idon't believe any of the other girls did. But they will! And I don'tknow what Sister will say! She's wearing Joe Hammond's surplice, yes,but she IS, mother!—it's as long as a dress, you know, and with a bluesash, and all! It's one of the lace ones, that Mrs. Deane gave all thealtar-boys a year ago, don't you remember? Don't you remember she madealmost all of them too small?"

Mrs. Costello sat in stunned silence.

"I never heard the like!" said she, presently. Teresa's fears awakenedanew.

"Oh, will Sister let her wear it, do you think, mother?"

"Well, I don't know, Tess." Mrs. Costello was plainly at a loss."Whatever could have made her think of it,—the poor child! I'm afraidit'll make talk," she added after a moment's troubled silence, "and Idon't know what to do! I wish," finished she, half to herself, "that Icould get hold of her father for about one minute. I'd—"

"What would you do?" demanded Teresa, eagerly, in utter faith.

"Well, I couldn't do anything!" said her mother, with her wholesomelaugh. "Come, Tess," she added briskly, "we'll go down. Don't worry,dear; we'll find some way out of it for Marg'ret."

She entered the parlors with her usual genial smile a few minuteslater, and the flow of conversation that never failed her.

"Mary, you'd ought always to wear that Greek-lookin' dress," said Mrs.Costello, en passant. "Sister, if you don't want me in any of thedances, I'll take meself out of your way! No, indeed, the Mayor won'tbe annoyed by anything, girls, so go ahead with your duets, for he'staken the boys off to the Orpheum an hour ago, the way they couldn't beat their tricks upsettin' everything!" And presently she laid her handon Marg'ret Hammond's shoulder. "Are they workin' you too hard,Marg'ret?"

Marg'ret's answer was smiling and ready, but Mrs. Costello read moretruthfully the color on the little face, and the distress in the brighteyes raised to hers, and sighed as she found a big chair and settledherself contentedly to watch and listen.

Marg'ret was wearing Joe's surplice, there was no doubt of that. But,Mrs. Costello wondered, how many of the nuns and girls had noticed it?She looked shrewdly from one group to another, studying the differentfaces, and worried herself with the fancy that certain undertones andquick glances WERE commenting upon the dress. It was a relief whenMarg'ret slipped out of it, and, with the other girls, assumed theGreek costume she was to wear in the play. The Mayor's wife,automatically replacing the drawing string in a cream-colored togalavishly trimmed with gold paper-braid, welcomed the little respitefrom her close watching.

"By Nero's Command" was presently in full swing, and the room echoed tostately phrases and glorious sentiments, in the high-pitched clearvoices of the small performers. Several minutes of these made all themore startling a normal tone, Marg'ret Hammond's everyday voice, sayingsharply in a silence:

"Well, then, why don't you SAY it?"

There was an instant hush. And then another voice, that of a girl namedBeatrice Garvey, answered sullenly and loudly:

"I WILL say it, if you want me to!"

The words were followed by a shocked silence. Every one turned to seethe two small girls in the centre of the improvised stage, the otherperformers drawing back instinctively. Mrs. Costello caught her breath,and half rose from her chair. She had heard, as all the girls knew,that Beatrice did not like Marg'ret, and resented the prominence thatMarg'ret had been given in the play. She guessed, with a quickeningpulse, what Beatrice had said.

"What is the trouble, girls?" said Sister Rose's clear voice severely.

Marg'ret, crimson-cheeked, breathing hard, faced the room defiantly.She was a gallant and pathetic little figure in her blue draperies. Theother child was plainly frightened at the result of the quarrel.

"Beatrice—?" said the nun, unyieldingly.

"She said I was a thief!" said Marg'ret, chokingly, as Beatrice did notanswer.

There was a general horrified gasp, the nun's own voice when she spokeagain was angry and quick.

"Beatrice, did you say that to Marg'ret?"

"I said—I said—" Beatrice was frightened, but aggrieved too. "I saidI thought it was wrong to wear a surplice, that was made to wear on thealtar, as an exhibition dress, and Marg'ret said, 'Why?' and I saidbecause I thought it was—something I wouldn't say, and Marg'ret said,did I mean stealing, and I said, well, yes, I did, and then Marg'retsaid right out, 'Well, if you think I'm a thief, why don't you say so?'"

Nobody stirred. The case had reached the open court, and no little girlpresent could have given a verdict to save her little soul.

"But—but—" the nun was bewildered, "but whoever did wear a surplicefor an exhibition dress? I never heard of such a thing!" Something inthe silence was suddenly significant. She turned her gaze from theroom, where it had been seeking intelligence from the other nuns andthe older girls, and looked back at the stage.

Marg'ret Hammond had dropped her proud little head, and her eyes werehidden by the tangle of soft dark hair. Had Sister Rose needed furtherevidence, the shocked faces all about would have supplied it.

"Marg'ret," she said, "were you going to wear Joe's surplice?"

Marg'ret did not answer.

"I'm sure, Sister, I didn't mean—" stammered Beatrice. Her voice diedout uncomfortably.

"Why were you going to do that, Marg'ret?" pursued the nun, quite at aloss.

Again Marg'ret did not answer.

But Alanna Costello, who had worked her way from a scandalized crowd oflittle girls to Marg'ret's side, and who stood now with her small faceone blaze of indignation, and her small person fairly vibrating withthe violence of her breathing, spoke out suddenly. Her brave littlevoice rang through the room.

"Well—well—" stammered Alanna, eagerly, "that's not a bad thing todo! Me and Marg'ret were both going to do it, weren't we, Marg'ret? Wedidn't think it would be bad to wear our own brothers' surplices, didwe, Marg'ret? I was going to ask my mother if we couldn't. Joe's is toolittle for him, and Leo's would be just right for me, and they're whiteand pretty—" She hesitated a second, her loyal little hand claspingMarg'ret's tight, her eyes ranging the room bravely. She met hermother's look, and gained fresh impetus from what she saw there. "AndMOTHER wouldn't have minded, would you, mother?" she finishedtriumphantly.

Every one wheeled to face Mrs. Costello, whose look, as she rose, wasall indulgent.

"Well, Sister, I don't see why they shouldn't," began her comfortablevoice. The tension over the room snapped at the sound of it like a cutstring. "After all," she pursued, now joining the heart of the group,"a surplice is a thing you make in the house like any other dress, andyou know how girls feel about the things their brothers wear,especially if they love them! Why," said Mrs. Costello, with adelightful smile that embraced the room, "there never were sisters moredevoted than Marg'ret and my Alanna! However"—and now a business-liketone crept in—"however, Sister, dear, if you or Mother Superior hasthe slightest objection in the world, why, that's enough for us all,isn't it, girls? We'll leave it to you, Sister. You're the one tojudge." In the look the two women exchanged, they reached a perfectunderstanding.

"I think it's very lovely," said Sister Rose, calmly, "to think of alittle girl so devoted to her brother as Margaret is. I could askSuperior, of course, Mary," she added to Mrs. Costello, "but I know shewould feel that whatever you decide is quite right. So that's settled,isn't it, girls?"

"Yes, Sister," said a dozen relieved voices, the speakers glad tochorus assent whether the situation in the least concerned them or not.Teresa and some of the other girls had gathered about Marg'ret, and asoothing pur of conversation surrounded them. Mrs. Costello lingeredfor a few satisfied moments, and then returned to her chair.

"Come now, girls, hurry!" said Sister Rose. "Take your places, and letthis be a lesson to us not to judge too hastily and uncharitably. Wherewere we? Oh, yes, we'll go back to where Grace comes in and says toTeresa, 'Here, even in the Emperor's very palace, dost dare....' Come,Grace!"

"I knew, if we all prayed about it, your father'd let you!" exultedTeresa, the following afternoon, when Marg'ret Hammond was about to rundown the wide steps of the Costello house, in the gathering dusk. TheMayor came into the entrance hall, his coat pocket bulging with papers,and his silk hat on the back of his head, to find his wife anddaughters bidding the guest good-by. He was enthusiastically imformedof the happy change of event.

"Father," said Teresa, before fairly freed from his arms and his kiss,"Marg'ret's father said she could have her white dress, and Marg'retcame home with us after rehearsal, and we've been having such fun!"

"And Marg'ret's father sent you a nice message, Frank," said his wife,significantly.

"Well, that's fine. Your father and I had a good talk to-day,Marg'ret," said the Mayor, cordially. "I had to be down by the bridge,and I hunted him up. He'll tell you about it. He's going to lend me ahand at the shop, the way I won't be so busy. 'Tis an awful thing whena man loses his wife," he added soberly a moment later, as they watchedthe little figure run down the darkening street.

"But now we're all good friends again, aren't we, mother?" saidAlanna's buoyant little voice. Her mother tipped her face up and kissedher.

"You're a good friend,—that I know, Alanna!" said she.

"S IS FOR SHIFTLESS SUSANNA"

"You look glorious. What's the special programme you've laid out forthis morning, Sue?" said Susanna's husband, coming upon her in her rosegarden early on a certain perfect October morning.

"I FEEL glorious too" young Mrs. Fairfax said, returning his kiss anddropping basket and scissors to bestow all her attention upon hisbuttonhole rose. "There is no special occasion for all thisextravagance," she added, giving a complacent downward glance at thefilmy embroideries of her gown, and her small whiteshod feet. "In fact,to-day breaks before me a long and delicious blank. I don't know when Ihave had such a Saturday. I shall write letters this morning—orperhaps wash my hair—I don't know. And then I'll take Mrs. Elliot fora drive this afternoon, or take some fruit to the Burkes, maybe, andstop for tea at the club. And if you decide to dine in town, I'll haveEmma set my dinner out on the porch and commence my new Locke. And ifyou can beat that programme for sheer idle bliss," said Susanna, "letme hear you do it!"

She finished fastening his rose, stepped back to survey it, and raisedto his eyes her own joyous, honest blue eyes, which still were ascandid as a nice child's. Jim Fairfax, keenly alive to the delight ofit, even after six months of marriage, kissed her again.

"You know, Jim," said Susanna, when they were presently sauntering withtheir load of roses toward the house and breakfast, "apropos of thisnew dress, I believe I put it on just BECAUSE there was no real reasonfor it. It is so delightful sometimes to get into dainty petties, andsilk stockings, and a darling new gown, just as a matter of course! Allmy life, you know, I've had just one good outfit at a time, andsometimes less than that, and all the things I wore every day were soawfully plain—!"

"I know, my darling," Jim said, a little gravely. For he was alwayssorry to remember that there had been long years of poverty andstruggle in Susanna's life before the day when he had found her, anunderpaid librarian in a dark old law library, in a dark old street.Susanna, buoyant, ambitious, and overworked, had never stopped in herhard daily round long enough to consider herself pitiful, but she couldlook back from her rose garden now to the days before she knew Jim, andjoin him in a little shudder of reminiscence.

"I don't believe a long, idle day will ever seem anything but a joyousholiday to me," she said now. "It seems so curious still, not to beexpected anywhere every morning!"

"Well, you may as well get used to it," Jim told her smilingly. But afew minutes later, when Susanna was busy with the coffee-pot, he lookedup from a letter to say: "Here's a job for you, after all, to-day, Sue!This—" and he flattened the crackling sheets beside his plate, "thisis from old Thayer."

"Thayer himself?" Susanna echoed appreciatively. For old WhitmanThayer, in whose hands lay the giving of contracts far larger than anythat had as yet been handled by Jim or his senior partners in the youngfirm of Reid, Polk & Fairfax, Architects, was naturally an enormouslyimportant figure in his and Susanna's world. They spoke of Thayernearly every night, Jim reporting to his interested wife that Thayerhad "come in," or "hadn't come in," that Thayer had "seemed pleased,"that Thayer had "jumped" on this, or had "been tickled to death" withthat; and the Fairfax domestic barometer varied accordingly.

"Go ON, Jim," said Susanna, in suspense.

"Why, it seems that his wife—she's awfully sweet and nice," Jimproceeded, "is coming into town this afternoon, and she wonders if itwould be too much trouble for Mrs. Fairfax to come in and lunch withher and help her with some shopping."

"Jim, it doesn't say that!" But Susanna's eyes were kindling with joyat the thought. "Oh, Jim, what a chance! Doesn't that look as if hereally liked you!"

"Liked YOU, you mean," Jim said, giving her the letter. "Now I callthat a very friendly, decent thing for them to do," young Mr. Fairfaxwent on musingly. "If you and she like each other, Sue—"

"Oh, don't worry, we will!" Mrs. Fairfax was always sure of her touchupon a feminine heart.

"Wonder why he didn't think of Mrs. Reid or Mrs. Polk?" said Jim.

"Oh, Jim, they are sort of—stiff, don't you know?" Susanna returned toher coffee, seasoning Jim's cup carefully before she added, with a lookof naive pleasure that Jim thought very charming: "You know I ratherTHOUGHT that Mr. Thayer liked me just that one day I saw him!"

"Well, you'll like her," Jim prophesied. "She's very sweet and gentle,not very strong. They live right up the line there somewhere. Sherarely comes into town. Old Thayer is devoted to her, and he alwaysseems—" Jim hesitated. "I don't know," he went on, "I may be all wrongabout this, Sue, but Thayer always seems to be protecting her, don'tyou know? I don't imagine he'd want to run her up against society womenlike Jane Reid and Mrs. Polk. You're younger and less affected; you'reapproachable. I don't know, but it seems to me that way. Anyway," hefinished with supreme satisfaction, "I wouldn't take anything in theworld for this chance! It shows the old man is really in earnest."

"He says she'll be at the office at eleven," said Susanna. "That meansI must get the ten twenty-two."

"Sure. And take a taxi when you get to town. Got money? Got the rightclothes?"

"Hydrangea hat," Susanna decided aloud. "New pongee, and pongee coathung in careless elegance over my arm. As the last chime of elevenrings I will step into your office—"

"I hope to goodness you will!" said Jim, with an anxious look. "You'llreally get there, won't you, Sue? No slips?"

This might have seemed overemphatic to an unprejudiced outsider. But noone who really knew Susanna would have blamed her young husband for anutter disbelief in the likelihood of her getting anywhere at any giventime. Susanna's one glaring fault was a cheerful indifference to thefixed plans of others. Engagements she forgot, ignored, or cancelled atthe last minute; dinner guests, arriving at her lovely home, neverdreamed how often the consternation of utter surprise was hidden underthe hilarious greetings of hostess and host. Dressmakers and dentistscharged Susanna mercilessly for forgotten appointments; but an adoringcircle of friends had formed a sort of silent conspiracy to save herfrom herself, and socially she suffered much less than she deserved.

"But some day you'll get an awful jolt; you'll get the lesson of yourlife, Sue," Jim used to say, and Susanna always answered meekly:

"Oh, Jim, I know it!"

"My mother used to have a nursery rhyme about me," she told Jim on oneoccasion. "It was one of those 'A is for Amiable Annie' things, youknow; 'K is for Kind little Katie, whose weight is one hundred andeighty'—you've heard them, of course? Well, 'S was for ShiftlessSusanna.' I know the next line was, 'But such was the charm of hermanner'—but I've forgotten the rest. Whether mother made that up formy especial benefit or not, I don't know."

"Well, you have the charm all right," Jim was obliged to confess, forSusanna had an undeniable genius for adjustment and placation. Nobodywas angry long at Susanna, perhaps because so many other people werealways ready to step in gladly and fill any gaps in her programme. Shewas too popular to be snubbed. And her excuses were always soreasonable!

"You know I simply lose my mind at the telephone," she would plead. "Iaccept anything then—it never occurs to me that we may haveengagements!" Or, "Well, the Jacksons said Thursday," she wouldbrilliantly elucidate, "and Mrs. Oliver said the twentieth, and itnever OCCURRED to me that it was the same day!"

And she was always willing—this was the maddening part of Susanna!—toown herself entirely in the wrong, and always ended any conversation onthe subject with a cheerful: "But anyway, I'm improving, you admitthat, don't you, Jim? I'm not nearly as bad as I used to be!"

She said now very seriously: "Jim, darling, you may depend upon me. Irealize what this means, and I am perfectly delighted to have thechance. At eleven to-day, 'one if by land, and two if by sea,' I'll beat your office. Trust me!"

"I do, dearest," Jim said. And he went down the drive a little later,under the blazing glory of the maples with great content in his heart.Susanna, going about her pretty house briskly, felt so sure of herselfthat the day's good work seemed half accomplished already.

She had adjusted the skirt of the pongee suit, and pinned the hydrangeahat at a fascinating angle when the telephone rang.

Susanna slipped her bare arms into the stiff sleeves of a Mandarin coatand crossed the hall to the instrument.

"Hello, Susanna!" said the cheerful voice of young Mrs. Harrington, aneighbor and friend, at the other end of the telephone. "I just rang upto know if I could come over early and help you out with anything andwhether—"

"Help me out with anything?" Mrs. Fairfax's voice ranged throughdelicate shades of surprise to dawning consternation. "Help me out withwhat?"

"Why, you told me yourself that this was the day of the bridge-clublunch at your house!" Mrs. Harrington said, almost indignantly. Butimmediately she became mirthful. "Oh, Susanna, Susanna! You haven'tforgotten—oh, you HAVE! Oh, you poor girl, what will you do! Listen, Icould bring a—"

"Oh, my goodness, Ethel—and I've got to go to town!" Susanna's tonewas hushed with a sort of horror. "And those seven women will be hereat half-past twelve! And not ONE thing in the house—"

"Oh, you could get Ludovici as far as the lunch goes, Sue. But thegirls will think it's odd, perhaps. Couldn't you wait and take the oneo'clock?"

"Yes, I'll get Ludovici," Susanna decided hastily. "No, I couldn't dothat. But I'll tell you what I COULD do. If you'll be an angel, Ethel,and do the honors until I get here, I could lunch early, get through mybusiness in town, and get the one-fifty train for home—"

"Well, that'll be all right. I'll explain," said the amiable Mrs.Harrington.

A few minutes later Mrs. Fairfax left the telephone and went down tothe kitchen to explain to Emma and Veronica, the maids, that therewould be a luncheon for eight ladies served by a caterer, in her home,that day, and that they must simply assist him. She herself must be intown unfortunately, but Mrs. Harrington had very kindly offered to comeover and be hostess and play the eighth hand of bridge afterward. Emmaand Veronica, perhaps more hardened to these emergencies than areordinary maids, rose to the occasion, and Susanna hurried off to hertrain satisfied that as far as the actual luncheon was concerned, allwould go well. But what the seven women would think was another story!

"I don't suppose Mrs. Thayer wants to do so very much shopping," saidSusanna to herself, hurrying along. "If I meet her at eleven and welunch at one, say, I don't see why I shouldn't get the one-fifty trainhome. I'd get here before the girls had fairly started playing bridge,and explain—somehow one can always explain things so much better inperson—"

"Or suppose we lunched at half-past twelve," her uneasy thoughts ranon. "That gives us an hour and a half to shop—that ought to be plenty.But we mustn't lose a minute getting started! Mrs. Thayer will come upin her motor—that will save us time. We can start right off theinstant I get to Jim's office."

She stopped at the caterer's for a brief but satisfactory interview.The caterer was an artist, but his enthusiasms this morning were wastedupon Susanna.

"Yes, yes—cucumber sandwiches by all means," she assented hastily,"and the ices—just as you like! Plain, I think—or did you say incases? I don't care. Only don't fail me, Mr. Ludovici."

Fail her? Mr. Ludovici's lexicon did not know the word. Susannabreathed more freely as she crossed the sunny village street to thetrain.

The station platform was deserted and bare. Susanna, accustomed to abreathless late arrival, could saunter with delightful leisure to theticket-seller's window.

"You've not forgotten the new time-table?" said the agent, pleasantly,when they had exchanged greetings.

"Oh, does the change begin to-day?" Susanna looked blank.

"October sixteenth, winter schedule," he reminded her buoyantly. "Goingto be lots of engagements missed to-day!"

"But mine is very important and I cannot miss it," said Susanna,displeased at his levity. "I MUST be in Mr. Fairfax's office at eleven."

"You won't be more than ten or twelve minutes late," said young Mr.Green, consolingly. "You tell Mr. Fairfax it's up to the N.Y. and E.W."

Susanna smiled perfunctorily, but took her place in the train with asinking heart. She would be late, of course, and Jim would be angry, ofcourse. Late to-day, when every minute counted and the programmeallowed for not an instant's delay! Her eyes on the flying countryside,she rehearsed her part, found herself eloquently explaining to apacified Jim, capturing a gracious Mrs. Thayer, successfully reachinghome again, and explaining to an entirely amiable bridge club.

It could be done, of course, but it meant a pretty full day! Susanna'smind reverted uneasily to the consideration that she had alreadybungled matters. Oh, well, if she was late, she was late, that was all;and if Jim was furious, why, Jim would simply have to be furious! Andshe began her explanations again—

After all, it was but fifteen minutes past eleven when she walked intoher husband's office. But neither Jim nor Mrs. Thayer was there.

"Mr. Fairfax went out not three minutes ago," said the prettystenographer in the outer office. Susanna, brought to a full stop,stared at her blankly.

"Went out!"

"Yes, with Mrs. Thayer to the dentist. He said to say he was afraid youhad missed your train. There's a note."

The note was forthwith produced. Susanna read it frowningly. It wasrather conspicuously headed "Eleven-twelve!"

DEAREST GIRL: Can't wait any longer. Mrs. T. must see her dentist(Archibald). I'm taking her up. Thayers and we lunch at the Palace atone-thirty. Wait for me in my office. J. F.

"Oh, what is the matter with everything to-day!" Susanna burst out inexasperation. "He's wild, of course. When does he ever sign himself 'J.F.' to me! When did they go?" she asked Miss Perry, briefly, with anunreasonable wish that she might somehow hold that irreproachable youngwoman responsible.

"Just about three minutes ago," said Miss Perry. "He said that if youhad missed your train, you wouldn't be here for more than an hour, andit was no use waiting."

"You see, it was a changed time-table, and he forgot it just as I did,"explained Susanna, pleased to find him fallible, even to that extent.

"But HE was on time," fenced Miss Perry, innocently.

"They don't change the business trains," Susanna said coldly. And shedecided that she disliked this girl. She opened a magazine and sat downby the open window.

The minutes ticked slowly by. The telephone rang, doors opened andshut, and men came and went through the office. Susanna, opposed inevery fibre of her being to passive waiting, suddenly rose.

"Dr. Archibald is in the First National Bank Building, isn't he?" sheinquired. "I think I'll join Mrs. Thayer up there. There's no use in mywaiting here."

Miss Perry silently verified Dr. Archibald's address in the telephonebook, and to the First National Bank Building Susanna immediately madeher way. It was growing warmer now and the streets seemed noisy andcrowded, but no matter—"If I can only get to them and SEE Jim!"thought Susanna.

In the pleasant shadiness of Dr. Archibald's office, rising from adelightful mahogany arm-chair, Susanna presently asked if Mrs. Thayercould be told that Mrs. Fairfax was there.

"I think Mrs. Thayer is gone," said the attendant pleasantly. "I'm notsure, but I'll see."

In a few minutes she returned to inform Mrs. Fairfax that Mrs. Thayerhad just come in to have a bridge replaced, and was gone.

"You don't know where?" Susanna's voice was a trifle husky withrepressed emotion. She realized that she was getting a headache.

No, the attendant didn't know where.

So there was nothing for it but to go back to Jim's office, and backSusanna accordingly went. She walked as fast as she could, conscious ofevery separate hot step, and was nervous and headachy when she enteredMiss Perry's presence again.

Mr. Fairfax and Mrs. Thayer had not come in; no, but Miss Perryreported that Mr. Fairfax had telephoned not ten minutes ago, andseemed very anxious to get hold of his wife.

"Oh, dear, dear!" lamented Susanna. "And where is he now?"

Miss Perry couldn't say. "I wrote his message down," she said, withsympathetic amusem*nt at Susanna's crushed dismay. And, referring toher notes, she repeated it:

"Mr. Fairfax said that Mrs. Thayer had had an appointment to see a sickfriend in a hospital this afternoon. But she has gone right out therenow instead, so that you and she can go shopping after lunch. You are,please, to meet Mr. Fairfax and the Thayers at the Palace for luncheonat half-past one; there'll be a table reserved. Mr. Fairfax has alittle business to attend to just now, but if you don't mind waiting inthe office, he thinks it's the coolest place you could be. He wanted toknow if you had the whole afternoon free—"

"Oh, absolutely!" Susanna assented eagerly. This was not the time tospeak or think of the bridge club.

"And that was all," finished Miss Perry, "except he said perhaps youwould like to look at the plans of the orphanage. Mr. Fairfax got themout to show to Mr. Thayer this afternoon. I can get them for you."

"Oh, thank you! I do want to see them!" said Susanna, gratefully. Andshe established herself comfortably by the open window, the orphanageplans, a stiff roll of blue paper, in her lap, her idle eyes followingthe noonday traffic in the street below.

What a shame to have to sit here doing nothing, to-day of all days, fornearly two hours! Susanna thought. Why, she could have met her luncheonguests, seen that the meal was at least under way, apologized inperson, and then started for town. As it was, they might be angry, andno wonder! And these were her neighbors and very good friends, afterall, the women upon whose good feeling half the joy of her country homeand garden depended. It was too bad!

She glanced at the blue-prints, but one of her sudden inspirationsturned the page blank. What time was it? Ten minutes of twelve. Shereferred to her new timetable. Ten minutes of—why, she could justcatch the noon train, rush home, meet her guests, explain, and comeback easily on the one o'clock. But would it be wise? Why not?

Her thoughts in a jumble, Susanna hastily gathered her smallpossessions together, moved to a decision by the always imperativeargument that in a few minutes it would be too late to decide.

"Heavens! I'm glad I thought of that!" she ejacul*ted, seating herselfin the train as the noon whistles shrilled all over the city. A momentlater she was a trifle disconcerted to find the orphanage plans stillin her hand.

"Well, this is surely one of my crazy days!" Susanna strapped the stiffsheets firmly to her handbag. "I must not forget to take those back,"she told herself. "Jim will ask for them the very first thing."

Her house; when she reached it, seemed quiet, seemed empty. Susannacrossed the porch, wondering, and encountered the maid.

"Emma! Nobody come?"

"Sure you had the wrong day of it," said Emma, beaming. "Mrs.Harrington fomed about an hour ago, and she says 'tis NEXT Saturdaythin!"

"What do you mean?" said Susanna, sharply.

"'Tis not to-day they're comin', Mrs. Fairfax—"

"Nonsense!" Susanna said under her breath. She flew to her desk andsnatched up the scribbled card of engagements. "Why, it's no suchthing!" she said indignantly. "Of course it's to-day! Octobersixteenth, as plain as print." And with her eyes still on the card shereached for her desk telephone.

"Ethel," said Susanna, a moment later. "Listen, Ethel, this is Susanna.Ethel, what made you say the club luncheon wasn't to-day? This is myday to have the girls.... Certainly.... Why, I don't care what shesaid, I have it written down!... Why, I think that's very funny.... Ihave it written.... No, you can laugh all you want to, but I know I'mright.... No, that's nothing. Jim will eat it all up to-morrow; he sayshe never gets enough to eat on Sundays.... But I can't understand, andI don't believe YET that I... Yes, it's written right here; I've got myeyes on it now! It's the most extraordinary...."

A little vexed at Mrs. Harrington's unbounded amusem*nt, Susannaterminated the conversation as soon as was decently possible, and wentkitchenward. In her anxiety not to miss her train back to the city, sherefused Teresa's offer of dainty sandwiches, pastries, and tea, andmerely stopped long enough to brush up her hair and to ascertain bycarefully enumerating them out loud that she had her purse, her gloves,the orphanage plans, and the new time-table.

"This will seem very funny," said poor Susanna, gallantly to herself,as she took her seat in the train and tried to ignore a really sharpheadache, "when once I see them! If I can only get hold of Jim, and ifthe afternoon goes smoothly, I shan't mind anything!"

Only ten minutes late for her luncheon engagement, Susanna entered thecool depths of the restaurant and, piloted by an impressed head waiter,looked confidently for her own party. It was very pleasant here, andthe trays of salads and iced things that were borne continually pasther were very inviting.

But still there was no Mrs. Thayer and no Jim. Susanna waited a fewnervous minutes, sat down, got up again, and finally, at two o'clock,went out into the blazing, unfriendly streets, and walked the fiveshort squares that lay between the restaurant and her husband's office.A hot, dusty wind blew steadily against her; the streets were full ofhappy girls and men with suit-cases, bound for the country and a day ortwo of fresh air and idleness. Miss Perry was putting the cover on hertypewriter as Susanna entered the office, her own suit-case waiting ina corner. She looked astonished as Susanna came in.

"My goodness, Mrs. Fairfax!" she ejacul*ted. "We've been trying andtrying to get you by telephone! Mr. Fairfax was so anxious to get holdof those orphanage plans. Mr. Thayer wanted—"

"I've been following him about all day," said Susanna, with anundignified, but uncontrollable gulp. She sat down limply. "WHAThappened to the luncheon plan?" she asked forlornly. "Where is Mr.Fairfax?"

Miss Perry, perhaps softened by the sight of Susanna's filling eyes andtired face, became very sympathetic. "Isn't it TOO bad—I know youhave! But you see Mrs. Thayer couldn't see her friend in the hospitalthis morning, so she came right down here and got here not ten minutesafter you left. She said she couldn't wait for you, as she had to beback at the hospital at two, so she would do a little shopping herselfand let the rest wait."

"Well," said Susanna, after a pause in which her very soul rebelled,"it can't be helped, I suppose! Did Mr. Fairfax go out with her?"

"He was to take her somewhere for a cup of tea and then he was goinghome."

"Going home! But I've just come from there!"

"He thought he'd probably catch you there, I think. He was anxious toget hold of those plans."

"Oh, I could CRY—" Susanna began despairingly. But indeed Miss Perryneeded no assurance of that. "I could cry!" said Susanna again."To-day," she expanded, "has been simply one miserable accident afteranother! I hope it'll be a lesson to me! Well—" She broke off short,for Miss Perry, while kind, was human, and was visibly conscious thatshe had promised her brother and sister-in-law to be at their house inEast Auburndale, a populous suburb, long before it was time to put thebaby to bed. "I suppose there's nothing for me to do but go home,"finished Susanna, discontentedly.

"Accidents will happen!" trilled Miss Perry, blithely, hurrying for hercar.

Susanna went thoughtfully home, reflecting soberly upon the events ofthe day. If she could but live this episode down, she told herself; butmeet and win Mrs. Thayer somehow in the near future; but bring Jim tothe point of entirely forgetting and forgiving the whole disgracefulday, she would really reform. She would "keep lists," she would "makenotes," and she would "think twice." In short, she would do all thethings that those who had her good at heart had been advising for thepast ten years.

Of course, if the Thayers were resentful—refused to beplacated—Susanna made a little wry mouth. But they wouldn't be!

Still deep in stimulating thoughts of a complete reformation, Susannareached home again, crossed the deep-tiled porch with its potted olivesand gay awnings, entered the big hall now dim with afternoon shadows.Now for Jim—!

But where was Jim?

"Mr. Fairfax is home, Emma?"

"Oh, there you are, Mrs. Fairfax! And us trying and trying to telefomeyou! No ma'am, he's not home. He left on the three-twenty. He'd onlycome out in a rush for some papers, and he had to get back to town tosee some one at once. There's a note—"

Susanna sat down. Her head was splitting, she was hungry and exhausted,and, at the effort she made to keep the tears out of her eyes, a waveof acute pain swept across her forehead. She opened the note.

If you can find a reliable messenger [said the note, without preamble],I wish you would get those orphanage plans to me at Thornton's officebefore six. I have to meet him there at four. The matter is reallyimportant, or I would not trouble you. I'll dine with Thayer at theclub. J.F. The pretty hallway and the glaring strip of light beyondthe open garden door swam suddenly before Susanna's eyes. The hand thatheld the note trembled.

"I could not be so mean to him!" said Susanna to herself. "But perhapshe was tired and hot—poor Jim!" And aloud she said with dignity: "Ishall have to take this paper—these plans—in to Mr. Fairfax, Emma.I'll catch the four-twenty."

"You'll be dead!" said Emma, sympathetically.

"My head aches," Mrs. Fairfax admitted briefly. But when she wasupstairs and alone she found herself suddenly giving way to the longdeferred burst of tears.

After a while she bathed her eyes, brushed her hair, and substituted amore substantial gown for the pongee. Then she started out once more,refreshed and more cheerful in spite of herself, and soothedunconsciously by the quiet close of the lovely autumn afternoon.

Her own gateway was separated by a flight of shallow stone steps fromthe road, and Susanna paused there on her way to the train to gatherher skirts safely for the dusty walk. And while she was standing thereshe found her gaze suddenly riveted upon a motor-car that, still aquarter of a mile away, was rapidly descend the slope of the hill, itstwo occupants fairly shaken by its violent and rapid approach. The roadhere was not wide, and curved on a sharp grade, and Susanna alwaysfound the descent of a large car, like this one, a matter ofhalf-terrified fascination. But surely with this car there was morethan the ordinary danger, she thought, with a sudden sick thumping ather heart. Surely here was something all wrong! Surely no sane driver—

"That man is drunk," she said, quite aloud. "He cannot make it! Hecan't possibly—ah-h-h!"

Her voice broke on a gasp, and she pressed one hand tight over hereyes. For with swift and terrible precision the accident had indeedcome to pass. The car skidded, turned, hung for a sickening second onone wheel, struck the stone of the roadside fence with a horriblegrinding jar and toppled heavily over against the bank.

When Susanna uncovered her eyes again, and before she could move or cryout in the dumb horror that had taken possession of her, she saw a manin golfing wear run from the Porters' gate opposite; and another motor,in which Susanna recognized the figure of a friend and neighbor, Dr.Whitney, swept up beside the overturned one. When she ran, as shepresently found herself running, to the spot, other men and women hadgathered there, drawn from lawns and porches by this sudden projectionof tragedy into the gayety of their Saturday afternoon.

"Hurt?" gasped Susanna, joining the group.

"The man is—dead, Billy says," said young Mrs. Porter, in loweredtones, with an agitated clutch of Susanna's arm. "And, poor thing! shedoesn't realize it, and she keeps asking where her chauffeur is and whyhe doesn't come to her!"

"Wouldn't you think people would have better sense than to keep a manlike that!" added another neighbor, Dexter Ellis, with a bitternessborn entirely of nervousness. "He was drunk as a lord! Young and I werejust coming out of my side gate—"

Every one talked at once—there was a confusion of excited comment.Somebody had flung a carriage robe over the silent form of the man asit lay tumbled in the dust and weeds; Susanna glanced toward it with ashudder. Somehow she found herself supporting the car's other occupant,the woman, who was half sitting and half lying on the bank where shehad fallen. The woman had opened her eyes and was looking slowly aboutthe group; she had pushed away the whiskey the doctor held to her lips,but she looked sick and seemed in pain.

"I had just put the baby down when I heard Dex shout—" Susanna couldhear Mrs. Ellis saying behind her in low tones. "Oh, it is, it's anoutrage—they should have regarded it years ago," said another voice."Merest chance in the world that we took the side gate," Dexter Elliswas saying, and some man's voice Susanna did not know reiterated overand over: "Well, I guess he's run his last car, poor fellow; I guesshe's run his last car—"

"You feel better, don't you?" the doctor asked his patient,encouragingly. "Just open your mouth and swallow this." And Susannasaid gently: "Just try it; you'll feel so much stronger!"

The woman turned upon her a pair of eyes as heavy as a sick animal's,and moistened her lips. "Arm," she said with difficulty.

"Her arm's broken," said the doctor, in a low tone, "and I think herleg, too. Kane has gone to wire for the ambulance. We'll get her rightinto town."

"You can't take her to town!" Susanna ejacul*ted, turning so that shemight not be heard by the sufferer. "Take her in to my house."

"The hospital is really the most comfortable place for her, Mrs.Fairfax," the doctor said guardedly. "I am afraid there is internalinjury. Her mind seems somewhat confused. You can't undertake theresponsibility—"

"Ah, but you can't jolt the poor thing all the way into town—" Susannabegan again. Mrs. Porter, at her shoulder, interrupted her in anearnest whisper:

"Sue, dear, it's always done. It won't take very long, and nobodyexpects you—"

"I know just how Susanna feels," interrupted Mrs. Ellis, "but afterall, you never can tell—we don't know one thing about her—"

"She'll be taken good care of," finished the doctor, soothingly.

"Please—don't let them frighten—my husband—" said the woman herself,slowly, her distressed eyes moving from one face to another. "If Icould—be moved somewhere before he hears—"

"We won't frighten him," Susanna assured her tenderly. "But will youtell us your name so we may let him know?"

The injured woman frowned. "I did tell you—didn't I?" she askedpainfully.

"No"—Susanna would use this tone in her nursery some day—"No, dear,not yet."

"Tell us again," said the doctor, with too obvious an intention tosoothe.

The woman gave him a look full of dignified reproach.

"If I could rest on your porch a little while," she said to Susanna,ignoring the others rather purposely, "I should be quite myself again.That will be best. Then I can think—I can't think now. Thesepeople—and my head—"

And she tried to rise, supporting herself with a hand on Susanna's arm.But with the effort the last vestige of color left her face, and sheslipped, unconscious, back to the grass.

"Dead?" asked Susanna, very white.

"No—no! Only fainted," Dr. Whitney said. "But I don't like it," headded, his finger at the limp wrist.

"Bring her in, won't you?" Susanna urged with sudden decision. "Isimply can't let her be taken 'way up to town! This way—"

And, relieved to have it settled, she led them swiftly across thegarden and into the house, flung down the snowy covers of theguest-room bed, and with Emma's sympathetic help established thestranger therein.

"Trouble," whispered the injured woman apologetically, when she openedher eyes upon walls and curtains rioting with pink roses, and felt thedelicious softness and freshness of the linen and pillows about her.

"Oh, don't think of that—I love to do it!" Susanna said honestly,patting her head. "A nurse is coming up from the village to look outfor you, and she and the doctor are going to make you more comfortable."

The woman, fixing her with a dazed yet curiously intent look, formedwith her lips the words, "God bless you," and wearily shut her eyes.Susanna, slipping out of the room a few minutes later, said over andover again to herself, "I don't care—I'm glad I did it!"

Still, it was not very reassuring to hear the big hall clock strikesix, and suddenly to notice the orphanage plans lying where they hadbeen flung on the hall table.

"I wish it was the middle of next year," said Susanna, thoughtfully,going out to sink wearily into a porch chair, "or even next week! I'dpretend to be asleep when Jim came home to-night," she went ongloomily, "if it wasn't my duty to sit up and explain that there are aperfect stranger and a trained nurse in the house. Of course, beingthere as I was, any humane person would have to do what I did, but itdoes seem strange, this day of all days, that I had to be there! And Iwish I had thought to send those plans in by messenger—that would havebeen one thing the less to worry about, at least!—What is it, Emma?"

For Emma, mildly repeating some question, had come out to the porch."Would you like tea, Mrs. Fairfax? I could bring it out here like youhad it last week with your book."

Susanna brightened. After all, she had not eaten for a long while; teawould be very welcome. And the porch was delightful, and there was thenew Locke.

"Well, that was my original idea, Emma," said she, "and although theday has not gone quite as I had planned, still there's no reason whythe idea should be changed. Bring a supper-tea, Emma, lots ofsandwiches—I'm combining three meals in one, Miss Smith," she brokeoff to explain smilingly, as the nurse, trimly clad in white, came tothe doorway. "I've not eaten since breakfast. You must have some teawith me. And how is she? Is her mind clearer?"

"Oh, dear me, yes! She's quite comfortable," Miss Smith saidcheerfully. "Doctor thinks there's no question of internal trouble. Herarm is broken and her ankle badly wrenched, but that's all. And she'sso grateful to you, Mrs. Fairfax. It seems she has a perfect horror ofhospitals, and she feels that you've done such a remarkably kindthing—taking her in. She asked to see you, and then we're going to tryto make her sleep. Oh, and may I telephone her husband?"

"Oh, she could give you his name then!" cried Susanna, in relief. "Oh,I am glad! Indeed, you may telephone. Who is she?"

Miss Smith repeated the name and address.

Susanna, stared at her blankly. Then the most radiant of all her readysmiles lighted her face.

"Well, this is really the most extraordinary day!" she said softly,after a pause. "I'll come right up, Miss Smith, but perhaps you mightlet me telephone for you first. I can get her husband easily. I knowjust where he is. He and my own husband are dining together thisevening, as it happens—"

THE LAST CAROLAN

A blazing afternoon of mid-July lay warmly over the old Carolan house,and over the dusty, neglected gardens that enclosed it. The heavywooden railing of the porch, half smothered in dry vines, was hot tothe touch, as were the brick walks that wound between parched lawns andthe ruins of old flowerbeds. The house, despite the charm of itssimple, unpretentious lines, looked shabby and desolate. Only the greatsurrounding trees kept, after long years of neglect, their beauty anddignity.

At the end of one of the winding paths was an old fountain. Its widestone basin was chipped, and the marble figure above it was discoloredby storm and sun. Weeds—such weeds as could catch a foothold in theshallow layer of earth—had grown rank and high where once water hadbrimmed clear and cool, and great lazy bees boomed among them. Cut inthe granite brim, had any one cared to push back the dry leaves andsifted earth that obscured them, might have been found the words:

Over land and water blown,
Come back to find your own.

A stone bench, sunk unevenly in the loose soil, stood near the fountainin the shade of the great elms, and here two women were sitting. One ofthem was Mary Moore, the doctor's wife, from the village, a charminglittle figure in her gingham gown and wide hat. The other was JeanCarolan, wife of the estate's owner, and mother of Peter, the lastCarolan.

Jean was a beautiful woman, glowing with the bloom of her earlythirties. Her eyes were moving contentedly over house and garden. Shegave Mrs. Moore's hand a sudden impulsive pressure. "Well, here we are,Mary!" she said, smiling, "just as we always used to plan at St.Mary's—keeping house in the country near each other, and bringing upour children together!"

"I never forgot those plans of ours," said the doctor's wife, her eyesfull of pleasant reminiscence. "But here I've been, nearly elevenyears, duly keeping house and raising four small babies in a row. Andwhat about YOU? You've been gadding all over Europe—never a word aboutcoming home to Carolan Hall until this year!"

"I know," said Mrs. Carolan, with a charming air of apology. "Oh, Iknow! But Sid had to hunt up his references abroad, you know, and thenthere was that hideous legal delay. I really have been frantic tosettle down somewhere, for years. And as for poor Peter! Theunfortunate baby has been farmed out in Italy, and boarded in Rome, andflung into English sanitariums, just as need arose! The marvel is he'snot utterly ruined. But Peter's unique—you'll love him!"

"Who's he like, Jean?"

"Oh, Sidney! He's Carolan all through." With the careless words a thinveil of shadow fell across her bright face, and there came a longsilence.

Carolan Hall! Jean had never seen it before to-day. Looking at thegarden, and the trees, and the roof that showed beyond, she felt as ifshe had not truly seen it until this minute. All its gloomy history,half forgotten, lightly brushed aside, came back to her slowly now.This was the home of her husband's shadowed childhood; it was here thatthose terrible events had taken place of which he had so seriously toldher before their wedding day.

Here old Peter Carolan, her little Peter's great-grandfather, had comewith his two dark boys and his silent wife, eighty years before. Acruel, passionate man he must have been, for stories presently creptabout the county of the whippings that kept his boys obedient to him.Rumor presently had an explanation of the wife's shadowed life. Therehad been a third boy, the first-born, whom no whippings could makeobedient. That boy was dead.

The day came when old Peter's blooded mare refused him obedience, too,and stood trembling and mutinous before the bars he would have had hertake. He presently had his way, and the lovely, frightened creaturewent bravely over. But after that he rode her at that fence day afterday, and sometimes the wood rang for an hour with his shouting andurging before she would essay the leap. While he forced her, MadamCarolan sat at the one library window that gave on the road, andknotted her hands together and waited. She waited, one gusty Marchevening, until the shouting stopped, and the bewildered mare cametrotting riderless into view. Then she and the maids ran to the wood.But even after that she still sat at that window at the end of everyday, a familiar figure to all who came and went upon the road.

The sons, Sidney and Laurence, grew up together, passionate, devoted,and widely loved. Sidney married and went away for a few years; butpresently he came back to his mother and brother, bringing with him themotherless little Sidney who was Jean's sunny big husband now. Thisyounger Sidney well remembered the day—and had once told his wife ofit—when his father and his uncle fell to sudden quarrelling in theirboat, during a morning's fishing on the placid river. He remembered, asmall watcher on the bank, that the boat upset, and that, when hisuncle reached the shore, it was to work unavailingly for hours over hisfather's silent form, which never moved again. The boy was sent awayfor a while, but came back to find his uncle a silent, morose shadow,pacing the lonely garden in unassailable solitude, or riding his horsefor hours in the great woods. Sometimes the little fellow would sitwith his grandmother in the library window, where she watched andwaited. Always, as he went about the garden and yards, he would lookfor her there, and wave his cap to her. He missed her, in hisunexpressed little-boy fashion, when she sat there no longer, althoughshe had always been silent and reserved with him. Then came his yearsof school and travel, and in one of them he learned that the Hall wasquite empty now. Sidney meant to go back, just to turn over the oldbooks, and open the old doors, and walk the garden paths again; but,somehow, he had never come until to-day. And now that he had come, he,and Jean, and Peter, too, wanted to stay.

Jean sighed.

"You knew Madam Carolan, didn't you, Mary?"

"No—no, I didn't," said Mrs. Moore, coloring uneasily. "I've seen her,though, as a small girl, at the window. I used to visit Billy's—myhusband's—people when we were both small, you know, and we often cameto these woods."

"I've been thinking of the house and its cheerful history," said Jean,with a little shudder. "Sweet heritage for Peterkin!"

"Heritage—nonsense!" said the other woman, hardily. "Every one tellsme that your husband is the gentlest and finest of them all—and hisfather was before him. I don't believe such things come down, anyway."

"Well," smiled Sidney's wife, a little proudly, "I've never seen theCarolan temper in the nine years we've been married!"

"Exactly. Besides, it's not a temper—just strong will."

"Sidney has WILL enough," mused Jean.

"Oh, all men have," said the doctor's wife contentedly. "Billy, now! Hewon't STAND a locked door. One night—I never shall forget!—thechildren locked themselves in the nursery, and Will simply burst thedoor in. Nobody makes a fuss or worries over THAT!"

If the illustration was beside the point, neither woman perceived it.

"There, you see!" said Jean, glad to be quite sure of conviction. "Itnever really worries me," she added, after a moment, "for Peter adoreshis father, and is only too eager to obey him. If Peter—and it'simpossible!—ever DID really work himself up to disobedience, why, Isuppose he'd get a thrashing,"—she made a wry face,—"and they'd loveeach other all the more for it."

"Of course they would," agreed the other cheerfully.

"There must have been some way in which Madam Carolan could havemanaged them," pursued Jean, thoughtfully. "The women of thatgeneration were a poor-spirited lot, I imagine. One isn't quite achild!" There was another little pause in the hot murmuring silence ofthe garden, and then, with a sudden change of manner, she rose to herfeet. "Mary! come and meet Sidney and the kiddy!" she commanded.

"Well, I rather hoped you were going to present them," said Mrs. Moore,rising too, and gathering up sunshade and gloves.

They threaded the silent garden paths again, passed the house, andcrossed a neglected stable yard, where a great red motor-car hadcrushed a path for itself across dry grass and weeds. In the stableitself they found Sidney Carolan, the little Peter, and a couple ofservants—the chauffeur with oily hands, and the wrinkled old Italianmaid, very gay in scarlet gown and headdress.

Jean's husband had all the Carolan beauty and charm, and was his mostgracious and radiant self to-day. His sunny cordiality gave Mary nochance to remember that she had a little feared the writer and critic.But, after the first moment, her eye was irresistibly drawn to thechild.

Tawny-haired, erect, and astonishing in the perfection of his childishbeauty, Peter Carolan advanced her a bronzed, firm little hand, andgave her with it a smile that seemed all brilliant color—white teeth,ocean-blue eyes, and poppied cheeks. His square little figure was veryboyish in the thin silk shirt and baggy knickerbockers, and a wide hat,slipping from his yellow mane, added a last debonair touch to hispicturesque little person. He was flushed, but gracious and at ease.

"You're one of the reasons we came!" he said in a rich littlevoice—when his mother's "You've heard me speak of Mrs. Moore, Peter?"had introduced them. "You have boys, too, haven't you?"

"I have three," said Mrs. Moore, in the rational, unhurried tone thatonly very clever people use to children. "Billy is nine, George seven,Jack is three; and then there's a girl—my Mary."

"I come next to Billy," calculated little Peter, his eyes very eager.

"You and he will like each other, I hope," said Billy's mother.

"I hope we will—I hope so!" he assented vivaciously. "I've beenthinking so!"

Mrs. Carolan presently suggested that he go off with Betta to pack theluncheon things in the car, and the three watched his sturdy, erectlittle figure out of sight. Mrs. Moore heard his gay voice break intoready Italian as they went.

A horde of workmen took possession of Carolan Hall a few days later,and for happy weeks Jean and Mary followed and directed them. The Moorechildren and Peter Carolan explored every fascinating inch of house andgarden. Linen and china were unpacked, old furniture polished, and oldpaintings restored.

Mrs. Moore, with her two oldest sons frolicking about her like excitedpuppies, came up to Carolan Hall one exquisite morning a month later.Brush fires were burning in the thinning woods, and the blue, fragrantsmoke drifted in thin veils across the sunlight.

A visit to the circus was afoot, and Peter Carolan, seated on the porchsteps in the full glory of starched blue linen and tan sandals, leapedup to join his friends in a war-dance of wild anticipation.

Jean came out, also starched and radiant, kissed her guests, piled somewraps into the waiting motor, and engineered the group into the shadeddining-room, where the excited children were somehow to be coaxed intoeating their luncheon. Sidney came in late, to smile at them all fromthe top of the table.

It was rapidly dawning on the adult consciousness that, above everyother sound, the voices of the children were really reachinginexcusable heights, when a burst of laughter and a brief strugglebetween Peter and Billy Moore resulted in an overturned mug, the usualrapidly spreading pool of milk, and the usual reckless mopping. Peter'ssilver mug fell to the floor, and rolled to the sideboard, where it layagainst the carved mahogany base, winking in the sun.

"Peter!" said Jean, severely. "No, don't ring, Sidney! He did that byhis own carelessness, and mother can't ask poor, busy Julia to pick upthings for boys who are noisy and rude at the table. Go pick up yourmug, dear!"

"Yes. Quite right!" approved Sidney, under his breath.

Peter, who had been laughing violently a moment before seemed ratherinclined to regard the incident as a tribute to his own brilliancy. Hecaught his heels in a rung of his chair, raised himself to a standingposition, and turned a bright little face to his mother.

"But—but—but what if I don't WANT to pick it up, mother?" he saidgayly.

The little Moore boys, still bubbling, giggled outright, and Peter'scheeks grew pink. He was innocently elated with this new role of clown.

"What do you mean?" said Sidney's big voice, very quietly. There was apause. Peter slowly turned his eyes toward his father.

"Oh, please, Sidney!" said Jean, a shade impatiently. "He thinks he hassome reason." She turned to Peter. "What do you mean, dear?" she askedpleasantly.

Peter looked about the group. He was confused and excited at findinghimself so suddenly the centre of attention.

"Well—well—why are you all looking at me?" he asked in his confidentlittle treble, with his baffling smile.

"Dearie, did you hear mother tell you to get quietly down and pick upyour mug?" demanded Jean, authoritatively.

"Well—well, you know, I don't want to, mother, because Billy and Iwere both reaching for that mug," drawled Peter, "and maybe it wasBilly who—"

"Now, look here, son!" said his father, controlling his impatience withdifficulty, "we've had enough of this! You do it because your mothertold you to, and you do it right NOW!"

"And don't let anything spoil this happy day," pleaded Jean's tendervoice.

"Can't I let it stay there, mother?" suggested Peter, brilliantly, "andhave my milk in a glass? I don't want my mug! It can just lie there—"

His mother unsmilingly interrupted this pleasantly offered solution.

"Peter! Father and mother are waiting."

"Gee—I'll pick it up!" said Billy Moore, good-naturedly, slipping tothe floor.

Sidney reached for the little boy, and brought him to anchor in thecurve of his big arm, without once glancing at him.

"Thank you, Billy," he said, "but Peter will pick it up himself. Now,Peter! We don't care who knocked it down, or whose fault it was. Yourmother told you to pick up your mug, and we are waiting to have you doit. Don't talk about it any more. Nobody thinks it is at all smart orfunny for boys to disobey their mothers!"

"It will take you JUST one second, dear," interpolated Jean softly,"and then we will all go upstairs and get ready, and forget all aboutit."

"Just a little too much c-i-r-c-u-s!" spelled Mrs. Moore, in the pause.

"Pick it up, son!" said Sidney, very calm.

Peter stopped smiling. He breathed hard and took a firm hold of hischair.

"Go on. Go ahead!" said his father, briskly, encouragingly.

The child moved his eyes from the mug to his father's face, but did notstir.

"Peter?" said Sidney. A white line had come about his mouth.

For a long moment there was not a sound in the rooms. Julia stoodtransfixed at the door. Mrs. Moore's eyes were on her plate. Jean'slips were shut tight; she was breathing as if she had been running.

"I won't!" said Peter, simply, with a quick breath.

"Sid!" said Jean, hurriedly. "Sidney!"

"Just a moment, Jean," said her husband, without glancing at her. "Youwill do it now, or have father punish you to make you do it," he saidto the boy. "Father can't have boys here who don't obey, you know.Every one obeys. Soldiers have to, engineers have to, even animals haveto. Are you going to do what mother told you to?"

"No," said little Peter. "I said I wouldn't, and now I won't!"

"He is hot and excited now," said Jean, quickly, in French, "but I'lltake him upstairs and quiet him down. He'll come to his senses. Leavehim to me, dear!"

"Much the wisest thing to do, Sidney," supplemented Mrs. Moore, in thesame tongue.

"Certainly!" said his father, coldly. "Give him time. Let himunderstand that if he doesn't obey, it means no circus. That'sreasonable, I think, Jean?"

"Oh, perfectly! Perfectly!" Mrs. Carolan assented nervously. Nothingmore was said as she took the boy's hand and led him away. The othersheard Peter chatting cheerfully as he mounted the stairway a momentlater.

"The boys and I will go down and look at Nellie's puppies," said Mrs.Moore, acutely uncomfortable.

Her host muttered something about closing his mail.

"But are we going to the circus?" fretted little George Moore. Hismother hardly heard him.

A moment later, Julia, the maid, appealed to her submissively.

"Shall you pick up the cup?" repeated the doctor's wife. "No. No,indeed, I wouldn't, Julia. Yes, you can clear the table, I think; we'veall finished."

She led her sons down to the fascinating realm of dogs and horses,vaguely uneasy, yet unwilling to admit her fears. An endless warm halfhour crept by. Then, glancing toward the house, she saw Sidney and Jeandeep in conversation on the porch, and a moment later Sidney came tofind her.

The boy was obstinate, he told her briefly—adding, with a look in hiskind eyes that was quite new to her, that Peter had met his match, andwould realize it sooner or later. Mary protested against there beingany further talk of the circus that day, but Sidney would not refusethe disappointed eyes of the small Moores. In the end, the doctor'sfamily went off alone in the motor-car.

"Don't worry, Mary," said Sidney, kindly, as he tucked her incomfortably. "Peter's had nothing but women and servants so far. Nowhe's got to learn to obey!"

"But such a baby, Sidney!" she reminded him.

"He's older than I was, Mary, when my poor father and Uncle Larry—"

"Yes—yes, I know!" she assented hurriedly. "Good-by!"

"Good-by!" repeated a hardy little voice from an upper window. Marylooked up to see Peter, composed and smiling, looking down from thenursery sill.

All the next day, and the next, Mary Moore's thoughts were at the Hall.She told her husband all about it on the afternoon of the second day,for no word or sign had come from Jean, and real anxiety began to haunther. She and the doctor were roaming about their pretty, shabby garden,Mrs. Moore's little hand, where she loved to have it, in the crook ofhis big arm. The doctor, stopping occasionally to shake a rose postwith his free hand, or to break a dead blossom from its stalk, scowledthrough the recital, even while contentedly enjoying his wife, hisgarden, and his pipe.

Before he could make a definite comment, they were interrupted bySidney himself, who brought his big riding horse up close to the fenceand waved his whip with a shout of greeting. The doctor went to meethim, Mary, a little pale, following.

"Good day to you!" said Sidney Carolan, baring his head without asmile. "I'm bound to Barville; my editor is there for a few days, and Imay have to dine with him. I stopped to ask if Mary would run in andsee Jean this afternoon. She's feeling a little down."

"Of course I will!" said Mary, heartily.

There was a pause.

"Mary's told you that we're having an ugly time with the boy?" saidSidney, then, combing his horse's mane with big gloved fingers.

"Too bad!" said the doctor, shaking his head and pursing his lips.

"No change, Sidney?" Mary asked gravely.

"No. No, I think the little fellow is rather gratified by the stir he'smaking. He—oh, Lord knows what he thinks!"

"Give him a good licking," suggested the doctor.

"Oh, I'd lick him fast enough, Bill, if that would bring him round!"his father said, scowling. "But suppose I do, and it leaves things justwhere they are now? That's all I CAN do, and he knows it. His motherhas talked to him; I've talked to him." He looked frowningly at theseam of his glove. "Well, I mustn't bother you. He's a Carolan, Isuppose—that's all!"

"And you're a Carolan," said the doctor.

"And I'm a Carolan," assented the other, briefly.

Mary found Jean, serious and composed over her sewing, on the coolnorth veranda. When they had talked awhile, they went up to see Peter,who was sprawled on the floor, busy with hundreds of leaden soldiers.He was no longer gay; there was rather a strained look about hisbeautiful babyish eyes. But at Jean's one allusion to the unhappyaffair, he flushed and said with nervous decision:

"Please don't, mother! You know I am sorry; you know I just CAN'T!"

"He has all his books and toys?" said Mary when they went downstairsagain.

"Oh, yes! Sidney doesn't want him to be sick. He's just to be shut upon bread and milk until he gives in. I must say, I think Sid is verygentle," said Jean, leaning back wearily in her chair, with closedeyes. Her voice dropped perceptibly as she added, "But he says he isgoing to thrash him to-morrow."

"I think he ought to," said Mary Moore, sturdily. "This isn'texcitement or showing off any more; it's sheer naughty obstinacy over aperfectly simple demand!"

"Oh, but I couldn't bear it!" whispered Jean, with a shudder. A momentlater she added sensibly, "But he's right, of course; Sidney always is."

Peter was duly whipped the next day. It was no light punishment thatSidney gave his son. Jean's gold-mounted riding-crop had never seenseverer service. The maids, with paling cheeks, gathered together inthe kitchen when Sidney went slowly upstairs with the whip in his hand;and Betta and her mistress, their hands over their ears, endured a veryagony while the little boy's cries rang through the house. Sidney wentfor a long and lonely walk afterward, and later Jean went to her son.

Mrs. Moore heard of this event from her husband, who stopped at theHall late that evening, and found Peter asleep, and Jean restless andheadachy. He spent a long and almost silent hour pacing the roseterrace with Sidney in the cool dark. Late into the night the doctorand his wife lay wakeful, discussing affairs at the Hall.

After some hesitation, Mrs. Moore went the next day to find Jean. Therewas no sound as she approached the house, and she stepped timidly intothe big hall, listening for voices. Presently she went softly to thedining-room, and stood in the doorway. The room was empty. But Mary'sheart rose with a throb of thanksgiving. Peter's silver mug was in itsplace on the sideboard. She went swiftly to the pantry where Julia wascleaning the silver.

"Julia!" she said eagerly, softly, "I notice that the baby's cup isback. Did he give in?"

The maid, who had started at the interruption, shook her head gravely.

"No'm. Mrs. Carolan picked it up."

"MRS. Carolan?"

"Yes'm. She seemed quite wildlike this morning," went on the maid, withthe simple freemasonry of troubled times, "and after Peter went offwith Mrs. Butler, she—"

"Oh, he went off? Did his father let him go?" Mary's voice was full ofrelief. Mrs. Butler was Jean's cousin, a cheery matron who had taken asummer cottage at Broadsands, twenty miles away.

Julia's color rose; she looked uneasy.

"Mr. Carolan had to go to Barville quite early," she evadeduncomfortably, "and when Mrs. Butler asked could she take Peter, hismother said yes, she could."

"Thank you," Mary said pleasantly, but her heart was heavy. She wentslowly upstairs to find Jean.

Peter's mother was lying in a darkened bedroom, and the face she turnedto the door at Mary's entrance was shockingly white. They exchanged along pressure of fingers.

"Headache, Jean, dear?"

"Oh, and heartache!" said Jean, with a pitiful smile. "Sid thrashed himyesterday!" she added, with suddenly trembling lips.

"I know." Mary sat down on the edge of the bed and patted Jean's hand.

"I've let him go with Alice," said Jean, defensively. "I had to!" Sheturned on her elbow, her voice rising. "Mary, I didn't say one wordabout the whipping, but now—now he threatens to hold him under thestable pump!" she finished, dropping back wearily against her pillows.Mrs. Moore caught her breath.

"Ah!" They eyed each other sombrely.

"Mary, would YOU permit it?" demanded Mrs. Carolan, miserably.

"Jeanie, dearest, I don't know what I'd do!"

After a long silence, Mary slipped from the bedside and wentnoiselessly to the door and down the stairs, vague ideas of hot tea inmind. In the dining-room she was surprised to find Sidney, lookingwhite and exhausted, and mixing himself something at the sideboard.

"I'm glad you're with Jean," he said directly. "I'm off to get the boy!The car is to be brought round in a few minutes."

Mrs. Moore went to him, and laid her fingers on his arm.

"Sidney!" she protested sharply, "you must stop this—not for Peter;he's as naughty as he can be, like all other boys his age sometimes;but you don't want to kill Jean!" And, to her self-contempt, she beganto cry.

"My dear girl," he said concernedly, "you mustn't take this matter toohard. Jean knows enough of our family history to realize—"

"All that is such nonsense!" she protested angrily. But she saw that hewas not listening. He compared his watch with the big dining-roomclock, and then, quite as mechanically picked Peter's mug from thegroup of bowls and flagons on the sideboard, studied the chasingabsently for a moment, and, stooping, placed the mug just as it hadfallen four days before. Mary watched as if fascinated.

A moment later she ran upstairs, her heart thundering with a sense ofher own daring. She entered the dark bedroom hurriedly, and leaned overJean.

"Jean! Jean, I hate to tell you! But Sidney's going to leave in a fewminutes to bring Peter home. He's going after him."

She had to repeat the message before the meaning of it flashed into theheavy eyes so near her own. Then Jean gathered her filmy gown together,and ran to the door.

"He shall not!" she said, panting, and Mary heard her imperative call,"Sidney! Sidney!" as she ran downstairs. Then she heard both theirvoices.

With an intolerable consciousness of eavesdropping, Mrs. Moore slippedout of the house by the servants' quarters, and crossed the drying lawnat the back of the house, to gain the old grape arbor beyond. She satthere with burning cheeks and a fast-beating heart, and gazed withunseeing eyes down the valley.

Presently she heard the horn and the scraping start of the motor-car,and a moment later it swept into view on the road below. Sidney was itsonly occupant.

Mrs. Moore sat there thinking a long while. Dull clouds bankedthemselves in the west, and the rising breeze brought dead leaves abouther feet.

She sat there half an hour—an hour. The afternoon was darkening towarddusk when she saw the motorcar again still a mile away. Even at thisdistance, Mary could see that Peter was sitting beside his father inthe tonneau, and that the little figure was as erect and unyielding asthe big one.

She rose to her feet and stood watching the car as it curved and turnedon the winding road that led to the gates of Carolan Hall. Even whenthe gates were entered, both figures still faced straight ahead.

Suddenly Sidney leaned toward the chauffeur, and a moment later the carcame to a full stop. Mary watched, mystified. Then Sidney got out, andstretched a hand to the boy to help him from his place. The simplelittle motion, all fatherly, brought the tears to her eyes. A momentlater the driver wheeled the car about, to take it to the garage by therear roadway, and Sidney and his son began to walk slowly toward thehouse, the child's hand still in his father's. Once or twice theystopped short, and once Mary saw Sidney point toward the house, andsaw, from the turn of Peter's head, that his eyes were following hisfather's. Her heart rose with a wild, unreasoning hope.

When a dip in the road hid them, Mary turned toward the house, notknowing whether to go to Jean or to slip away through the wood. But theinstant her eye fell on Madam Carolan's window she knew what had haltedSidney, and a wave of heartsickness made her breath come short.

Jean had taken her place there, to watch and wait. She was keeping thefirst vigil of her life. Mary could see how the slight figure droopedin the carved chair; she remembered, with a pang, the other patient,drooping figure that had stamped itself upon her childish memory somany years ago. The suffocating tears rose in her throat. A suddensense of helplessness overwhelmed her.

Obviously, the watcher had not seen Sidney and Peter. Her head wasresting on her hand, and her heavy eyes were fixed upon some sombreinner vision that was hers alone.

Mary crossed behind the house, and, as they came up through theshrubbery, met Sidney and his son at the side door. Sidney's face wastired, but radiant with a mysterious content. Peter looked white—awed.He was clinging with both small brown hands to one of his father'sfirm, big ones.

"I know what you're going to say, Mary," said Sidney, in a tonecuriously gentle, and with his oddly bright smile. "I know she's there.But we're going to her now, and it's all right. Peter and I have beentalking it over. I saw her there, Mary, and it was like a blow! SHE'Snot the one who must suffer for all this. Peter and I are going tostart all over again, and settle our troubles without hurting a woman;aren't we, Peter?"

The little boy nodded, with his eyes fixed on his father's.

"So the episode is closed, Mary," said Sidney, simply. "And the nexttime—if there is a next time!—Peter shall make his own decision, andabide by what it brings. The mug goes back to its place to-night,and—and we're going to tell mother that she never need watch and waitand worry about us again!"

They turned to the steps; but, as the boy ran ahead, Sidney came backto say in a lower tone:

"I—it may be weakness, Mary, but I can't have Jean doing what—whatSHE did, you know! I tried to give the boy some idea, just now, of theresponsibility of it. Nobody spared my grandmother, but Jean SHALL bespared, if I never try to control him or save him from himself again!"

"Ah, Sidney," Mary said, "you have done more, in taking him into yourconfidence, than any amount of punishing could do!"

"Well, we'll see!" he said, with a weary little shrug. "I must go toJeanie now."

As he mounted the steps, Peter reappeared in the darkened doorway. Thechild looked like a little knight, with his tawny loose mop of hair andshort tunic, and the uplifted look in his lovely eyes.

"Shall we go to her now, Dad?" said the little treble gallantly. And,as the boy came close to Sidney's side, Mary saw the silver mug glitterin his hand.

MAKING ALLOWANCES FOR MAMMA

At the head of her own breakfast table,—a breakfast table charminglylittered with dark-blue china and shining glass, and made springlike bya great bowl of daisies,—Mary Venable sat alone, trying to read herletters through a bitter blur of tears. She was not interested in herletters, but something must be done, she thought desperately, to checkthis irresistible impulse to put her head down on the table and crylike a child, and uninteresting letters, if she could only force hereyes to follow the lines of them, and her brain to follow the meaning,would be as steadying to the nerves as anything else.

Cry she would NOT; for every reason. Lizzie, coming in to carry awaythe plates, would see her, for one thing. It would give her a blazingheadache, for another. It would not help her in the least to solve theproblem ahead of her, for a third and best. She must think it outclearly and reasonably, and—and—Mary's lip began to quiver again, shewould have to do it all alone. Mamma was the last person in the worldwho could help her, and George wouldn't.

For of course the trouble was Mamma again, and George—

Mary wiped her eyes resolutely, finished a glass of water, drew a deepgreat breath. Then she rang for Lizzie, and carried her letters to theshaded, cool little study back of the large drawing-room. Fortified bythe effort this required, she sank comfortably into a deep chair, andbegan to plan sensibly and collectedly. Firstly, she reread Mamma'sletter.

Mary had seen this letter among others at her plate, only an hour ago.A deep sigh, reminiscent of the recently suppressed storm, caught herunawares as she remembered how happy she and George had been over theirbreakfast until Mamma's letter was opened. Mary had not wanted to openit, suggesting carelessly that it might wait until later; she couldtell George if there was anything in it. But George had wanted to hearit read immediately, and of course there had been something in it.There usually was something unexpected in Mamma's letters. In this oneshe broke the news to her daughter and son-in-law that she hatedMilwaukee, she didn't like Cousin Will's house, children, or self, shehad borrowed her ticket money from Cousin Will, and she was coming homeon Tuesday.

Mary had gotten only this far when George, prefacing his remarks with aforcible and heartfelt "damn," had said some very sharp and veryinconsiderate things of Mamma. He had said—But no, Mary wouldn't goover that. She would NOT cry again.

The question was, what to do with Mamma now. They had thought her sonicely settled with Cousin Will and his motherless boys, had packed heroff to Milwaukee only a fortnight ago with such a generous check tocover incidental expenses, had felt that now, for a year or two atleast, she was anchored. And in so many ways it seemed a specialblessing, this particular summer, to have Mamma out of theway,—comfortable and happy, but out of the way. For Mary had packedher three babies and their nurse down to the cottage at Beach Meadowfor the summer, and she and George had determined—with only briefweekend intervals to break it—to try staying in the New York house allsummer.

Ordinarily Mary, too, would have been at Beach Meadow with thechildren, seeing George only in the rare intervals when he could run upfrom town, two or three times a season perhaps, and really rather moreglad than otherwise to have Mamma with her. But this promised to be atrying and overworked summer for him, and Mary herself was tired from awinter of close attention to her nursery, and to them both the planseemed a most tempting chance for jolly little dinners together, Sundayand evening trips in the motor, roof-garden shows and suppers. They hadhad too little of each other's undivided society in the three crowdedyears that had witnessed the arrival of the twins and baby Mary, therehad been infantile illnesses, Mary's own health had been poor, Mammahad been with them, nurses had been with them, doctors had beenconstantly coming and going, nothing had been normal. Both Mary andGeorge had thought and spoken a hundred times of that one first, happyyear of their marriage, and they wanted to bring back some of its oldfree charm now. So the children, with Miss Fox, who was a "treasure" ofa trained nurse, and Myra, whose Irish devotion was maternal in itsintensity, were sent away to the seaside, and they were living on thebeach all day, and sleeping in the warm sea air all night, and hardierand browner and happier every time they rushed screaming out to welcomemother and daddy and the motor-car for a brief visit. And Mamma waswith Cousin Will. Or at least she HAD been—

Well, there was only one thing certain, Mary decided,—Mamma could notcome to them. That would spoil all the summer they had been planning sohappily. To picnic in the hot city with one beloved companion is onething, to keep house there for one's family is quite another. Mamma wasnot adaptable, she had her own very definite ideas. She hated a dimlylighted drawing-room, and interrupted Mary's music—to which Georgelistened in such utter content—with cheery random remarks, and theslapping of cards at Patience. Mamma hated silences, she hated town insummer, she made jolly and informal little expeditions the mostdiscussed and tedious of events. If George, settling himself happily insome restaurant, suggested enthusiastically a planked steak, Mammaquite positively wanted some chicken or just a chop for herself,please. If George suggested red wine, Mamma was longing for just a sipof Pommerey: "You order it, Georgie, and let it be my treat!"

It never was her treat, but that was the least of it.

No, Mamma simply couldn't come to them now. She would have to go toMiss Fox and the children. Myra wouldn't like it, and Mamma alwaysinterfered with Miss Fox, and would have to take the second bestbedroom, and George would probably make a fuss, but there was nothingelse to do. It couldn't be helped.

Sometimes in moments of less strain, Mary was amused to remember thatit was through Mamma that she had met George. She, Mary, had gone downfrom, her settlement work in hot New York for a little breathing spellat Atlantic City, where Mamma, who had a very small room at the top ofa very large hotel, was enjoying a financially pinched but entirelycarefree existence. Mary would have preferred sober and unpretentiousboarding in some private family herself, but Mamma loved the bigdining-room, the piazzas, the music, and the crowds of the hotel, andMary amiably engaged the room next to hers. They had to climb a flightof stairs above the last elevator stop to reach their rooms, and rarelysaw any one in their corridors except maids and chauffeurs, but Mammadidn't mind that. She knew a score of Southern people downstairs whoalways included her in their good times; her life never lacked thespice of a mild flirtation. Mamma rarely had to pay for any of her ownmeals, except breakfast, and the economy with which she could order abreakfast was a real surprise to Mary. Mamma swam, motored, danced,walked, gossiped, played bridge, and golfed like any debutante. Mary,watching her, wondered sometimes if the father she had lost when a tinybaby, and the stepfather whose marriage to her mother, and death hadfollowed only a few years later, were any more real to her mother thanthe dreams they both were to her.

On the day of Mary's arrival, mother and daughter came down to the widehotel porch, in the cool idle hour before dinner, and took possessionof big rocking-chairs, facing the sea. They were barely seated, when atall man in white flannels came smilingly toward them.

"Mrs. Honeywell!" he said, delightedly, and Mary saw her mother givehim a cordial greeting before she said:

"And now, George, I want you to know my little girl, Ma'y,—MissBannister. Ma'y, this is my Southe'n boy I was telling you about!"

Mary, turning unsmiling eyes, was quite sure the man would be nearerforty than thirty, as indeed he was, grizzled and rather solid into thebargain. Mamma's "boys" were rarely less; had he really been at allyouthful, Mamma would have introduced him as "that extr'ornarilyintrusting man I've been telling you about, Ma'y, dear!"

But he was a nice-looking man, and a nice seeming man, except for hisevidently having flirted with Mamma, which proceeding Mary always heldslightly in contempt. Not that he seemed flirtatiously inclined at thisparticular moment, but Mary could tell from her mother's manner thattheir friendship had been one of those frothy surface affairs intowhich Mamma seemed able to draw the soberest of men.

Mr. Venable sat down next to Mary, and they talked of the sea, in whicha few belated bathers were splashing, and of the hot and distant city,and finally of Mary's work. These topics did not interest Mamma, whocarried on a few gay, restless conversations with various acquaintanceson the porch meanwhile, and retied her parasol bow several times.

Mamma, with her prettily arranged and only slightly retouched hair, herdashing big hat and smart little gown, her red lips and black eyes, wasan extremely handsome woman, but Mr. Venable even now could not seem tomove his eyes from Mary's nondescript gray eyes, and rather colorlessfair skin, and indefinite, pleasant mouth. Mamma's lines were allcompact and trim. Mary was rather long of limb, even a little GAUCHE inan attractive, unself-conscious sort of way. But something fine andhigh, something fresh and young and earnest about her, made its instantappeal to the man beside her.

"Isn't she just the biggest thing!" Mamma said finally, with a littleaffectionate slap for Mary's hand. "Makes me feel so old, having agreat, big girl of twenty-three!"

This was three years short of the fact, but Mary never betrayed hermother in these little weaknesses. Mr. Venable said, not veryspontaneously, that they could pass for sisters.

"Just hear him, will you!" said Mamma, in gay scorn. "Why there'sseventeen whole years between us! Ma'y was born on the day I wasseventeen. My first husband—dearest fellow ever WAS—used to say hehad two babies and no wife. I never shall forget," Mamma went onyouthfully, "one day when Ma'y was about two months old, and I had herout in the garden. I always had a nurse,—smartest looking thing youever saw, in caps and ribbons!—but she was out, I forget where. Anywayour old Doctor Wallis came in, and he saw me, with my hair all hangingin curls, and a little blue dress on, and he called out, 'Look here,Ma'y Lou Duval, ain't you too old to be playin' with dolls?'"

Mary had often heard this, but she laughed, and Mr. Venable laughed,too, although he cut short an indication of further reminiscence onMamma's part by entering briskly upon the subject of dinner. Would Mrs.Honeywell and Miss Bannister dine with him, in the piazza, dining-room,that wasn't too near the music, and was always cool, and then afterwardhe'd have the car brought about—? Mary's first smiling shake of thehead subsided before these tempting details. It did sound so cool andrestful and attractive! And after all, why shouldn't one dine with thebig, responsible person who was one of New York's biggest constructionengineers, with whom one's mother was on such friendly terms?

That was the first of many delightful times. George Venable fell inlove with Mary and grew serious for the first time in his life. AndMary fell in love with George, and grew frivolous for the first time inhers. And in the breathless joy that attended their discovery of eachother, they rather forgot Mamma.

"Stealing my beau!" said the little lady, accusatively, one night, whenmother and daughter were dressing. Mary turned an uncomfortable scarlet.

"Oh, don't be such a little goosie!" Mrs. Honeywell said, with a greathug. And she artlessly added, "My goodness, Mary, I've got all thebeaux I want! I'm only too tickled to have you have one at last!"

By the time the engagement, with proper formality, was announced,George's attitude toward his prospective mother-in-law had shiftedcompletely. He was no longer Mamma's gallant squire, but had assumedsomething of Mary's tolerant, protective manner toward her. Later, whenthey were married, this change went still further, and George becamerather scornful of the giddy little butterfly, casually critical of herin conversations with Mary.

Mrs. Honeywell enjoyed the wedding as if she had been the bride'syounger sister now allowed a first peep at real romance.

"But I'm going to give you one piece of advice, dearie," said she, thenight before the ceremony. Mary, wrapped in all the mysterious thoughtsof that unreal time, winced inwardly. This was all so new, so sacred,so inexpressible to her that she felt Mamma couldn't understand it. Ofcourse she had been married twice herself, but then she was sodifferent.

"It's this," said Mrs. Honeywell, cheerfully, after a pause. "There'llcome a time when you'll simply hate him—"

"Oh, Mamma!" Mary said, with distaste.

"Yes, there will," her mother went on placidly, "and then you just sayto yourself that the best of 'em's only a big boy, and treat him asyou'd treat a boy!"

"All right, darling!" Mary laughed, kissing her. But she thought toherself that the men Mamma had married were of very different caliberfrom George.

Parenthood developed new gravities in George, all life became purer,sweeter, more simple, with Mary beside him. Through the stress of theirfirst married years they became more and more closely devoted,marvelled more and more at the miracle that had brought them together.But Mamma suffered to this. The atmosphere of gay irresponsibility andgossip that she brought with her on her frequent visitations becamevery trying to George. He resented her shallowness, her youthful gowns,her extravagances. Mary found herself eternally defending Mamma, in anunobtrusive sort of way, inventing and assuming congenialities betweenher and George. It had been an unmitigated blessing to have the littlelady start gayly off for Cousin Will's, only a month ago—And now hereshe was again!

Mary sighed, pushed her letters aside, and stared thoughtfully out ofthe window. The first of New York's blazing summer days hung heavilyover the gay Drive and the sluggish river. The Jersey hills wereblurred with heat. Dull, brief whistles of river-craft came to her;under the full leafa*ge of trees on the Drive green omnibuses lumbered;baby carriages, each with its attendant, were motionless in the shade.Mary drew her desk telephone toward her, pushed it away again,hesitated over a note. Then she sent for her cook and discussed theday's meals.

Alone again, she reached a second time for the telephone, waited for anumber, and asked for Mr. Venable.

"George, this is Mary," said Mary, a moment later. Silence. "George,darling," said Mary, in a rush, "I am so sorry about Mamma, and Irealize how trying it is for you, and I'm so sorry I took what you saidat breakfast that way. Don't worry, dear, we'll settle her somehow. AndI'll spare you all I can! George, would you like me to come down to theoffice at six, and have dinner somewhere? She won't be here untiltomorrow. And my new hat has come, and I want to wear it—?" Shepaused; there was a moment's silence before George's warm, big voiceanswered:

"You are absolutely the most adorable angel that ever breathed, Mary.You make me ashamed of myself. I've been sitting here as BLUE asindigo. Everything going wrong! Those confounded Carter people got theorder for the Whitely building—you remember I told you about it? Itwas a three-million dollar contract.

"Oh, George!" Mary lamented.

"Oh, well, it's not serious, dear. Only I thought we 'had it nailed.'I'd give a good deal to know how Carter does it. Sometimes I have theprofoundest contempt for that fellow's methods—then he lands somethinglike this. I don't believe he can handle it, either."

"I hate that man!" said Mary, calmly. George laughed boyishly.

"Well, you were an angel to telephone," he said. "Come early,sweetheart, and we'll go up to Macbeth's,—they say it's quite anextraordinary collection. And don't worry—I'll be nice to Mamma. Andwear your blessed little pink hat—"

Mary went upstairs ten minutes later with a singing heart. Let Mammaand her attendant problems arrive tomorrow if she must. Today would beall their own! She began to dress at three o'clock, as pleasantlyexcited as a girl. She laid her prettiest white linen gown beside thepink hat on the bed, selected an especially frilled petticoat, wasfastidious over white shoes and silken stockings.

The big house was very still. Lizzie, hitherto un-compromisingly acook, had so far unbent this summer as to offer to fill the place ofwaitress as well as her own. Today she had joyously accepted Mary'soffer of a whole unexpected free afternoon and evening. Mary was alone,and rather enjoying it. She walked, trailing her ruffled wrapper, toone of the windows, and looked down on the Drive. It was almostdeserted.

While she stood there idle and smiling, a taxicab veered to the curb,hesitated, came to a full stop. Out of it came a small gloved hand witha parasol clasped in it, a small struggling foot in a gray suede shoe,a small doubled-up form clad in gray-blue silk, a hat covered withcorn-flowers.

Mamma had arrived, as Mamma always did, unexpectedly.

Mary stared at the apparition with a sudden rebellious surge at herheart. She knew what this meant, but for a moment the full significanceof it seemed too exasperating to be true. Oh, how could she!—spoiltheir last day together, upset their plans, madden George afresh, whenhe was only this moment pacified! Mary uttered an impatient little sighas she went down to open the door; but it was the anticipation ofGeorge's vexation—not her own—that stirred her, and the sight ofMamma was really unwelcome to Mary only because of George's lack ofwelcome.

"No Lizzie?" asked Mamma, blithely, when her first greetings were over,and the case of Cousin Will had been dismissed with a few emphaticsentences.

"I let her go this afternoon instead of to-morrow, Muddie, dear. We'regoing down town to dinner."

"Oh; that's nice,—but I look a perfect fright!" said Mrs. Honeywell,following Mary upstairs. "Nasty trip! I don't want a thing but a cup oftea for supper anyway—bit of toast. I'll be glad to get my things offfor a while."

"If you LIKE, Mamma, why don't you just turn in?" Mary suggested. "It'snearly four now. I'll bring you up some cold meat and tea and so on."

"Sounds awfully nice," her mother said, getting a thin little silkwrapper out of her suit-case. "But we'll see,—there's no hurry. Whattime are you meeting Georgie?"

"Well, we were going to Macbeth's,—but that's not important,—weneedn't meet him until nearly seven, I suppose," Mary said patiently,"only I ought to telephone him what we are going to do."

"Oh, telephone that I'll come too, I'll feel fine in half an hour,"Mrs. Honeywell said decidedly.

Mary, unsatisfied with this message, temporized by sitting down in adeep chair. The room, which had all been made ready for Mamma, was cooland pleasant. Awnings shaded the open windows; the rugs, thewall-paper, the chintzes were all in gay and roseate tints. Mrs.Honeywell stretched herself luxuriously on the bed, both pillows underher head.

"I'm sure she'd be much more comfortable here than tearing about townthis stuffy night!" the daughter reflected, while listening to anaccount of Cousin Will's dreadful house, and dreadful children.

It was so easy when Mamma was away to think generously, affectionatelyof her, to laugh kindly at the memory of her trying moods. But it wasvery different to have Mamma actually about, to humor her whims, listento her ceaseless chatter, silently sacrifice to her comfort a thousandcomforts of one's own.

After a half hour of playing listener she went down to telephone George.

"Oh, damn!" said George, heartily. "And here I've been hustling throughthings thinking any minute that you'd come in. Well, this spoils itall. I'll come home."

"Oh, dearest,—it'll be just a 'pick-up' dinner, then. I don't knowwhat's in the house. Lizzie's gone," Mary submitted hesitatingly.

"Oh, damn!" George said forcibly, again.

"What does your mother propose to do?" he asked Mary some hours later,when the rather unsuccessful dinner was over, Mamma had retired, and heand his wife were in their own rooms. Mary felt impendingunpleasantness in his tone, and battled with a rising sense ofantagonism. She tucked her pink hat into its flowered box, folded thesilky tissue paper about it, tied the strings.

"Why, I don't know, dear!" she said pleasantly, carrying the box to herwardrobe.

"Does she plan to stay here?" George asked, with a reasonable air,carefully transferring letters, pocket-book, and watch-case from onevest to another.

"George, when does Mamma ever plan ANYTHING!" Mary reminded him, withelaborate gentleness.

There was a short silence. The night was very sultry, and no airstirred the thin window-curtains. The room, with its rich litter ofglass and silver, its dark wood and bright hangings, seemed somehow hotand crowded. Mary flung her dark cloud of hair impatiently back, as shesat at her dressing table. Brushing was too hot a business tonight.

"I confess I think I have a right to ask what your mother proposes todo," George said presently, with marked politeness.

"Oh, Georgie! DON'T be so ridiculous!" Mary protested impatiently. "Youknow what Mamma is!"

"I may be ridiculous," George conceded, magnificently, "but I fail tosee—"

"I don't mean that," Mary said hastily. "But need we decide tonight?"she added with laudable calm. "It's so HOT, dearest, and I am sosleepy. Mamma could go to Beach Meadow, I suppose?" she finishedunthinkingly.

This was a wrong move. George was disappearing into his dressing-roomat the moment, and did not turn back. Mary put out all the lights butone, turned down the beds, settled on her pillows with a great sigh ofrelief. But George, returning in a trailing wrapper, was mighty withresolution.

"I mean to make just one final remark on this subject, Mary," saidGeorge, flashing on three lights with one turn of the wrist, "but youmay as well understand me. I mean it! I don't propose to have yourmother at Beach Meadow, not for a single night—not for a day! Shedemoralizes the boys, she has a very bad effect on the nurse. Isympathize with Miss Fox, and I refuse to allow my children to be givencandy, and things injurious to their constitutions, and to be kept upuntil late hours, and to have their first perceptions of honor andtruth misled—"

"George!"

"Well," said George, after a brief pause, more mildly, "I won't haveit."

"Then—but she can't stay here, George. It will spoil our whole summer."

"Exactly," George assented. There was another pause.

"I'll talk to Mamma—she may have some plan," Mary said at last, with along sigh.

Mamma had no plan to unfold on the following day, and a week and thenten days went by without any suggestion of change on her part. Theweather was very hot, and Lizzie complained more than once that Mrs.Honeywell must have her iced coffee and sandwiches at four and thatbreakfast, luncheon, and dinner regularly for three was not at all likegetting two meals for two every day, and besides, there was anotherbedroom to care for, and the kitchen was never in order! Mary appliedan unfailing remedy to Lizzie's case, and sent for a charwoman besides.Less easily solved were other difficulties.

George, for example, liked to take long motoring trips out of the city,on warm summer evenings. He ran his own car, and was never so happy aswhen Mary was on the driver's seat beside him, where he could amuse herwith the little news of the day, or repeat to her long and, to Mary,unintelligible business conversations in which he had borne a part.

But Mamma's return spoiled all this. Obviously, the little ladycouldn't be left to bounce about alone in the tonneau. If Mary joinedher there, George would sit silently, immovably, in the front seat,chewing his cigar, his eyes on the road. Only when they had a friend ortwo with them did Mary enjoy these drives.

Mamma had an unlucky habit of scattering George's valuable bookscarelessly about the house, and George was fussy about his books. Andshe would sometimes amuse herself by trying roll after roll on thepiano-player, until George, perhaps trying to read in the adjoininglibrary, was almost frantic. And she mislaid his telephone directory,and took telephone messages for him that she forgot to deliver, andinsisted upon knowing why he was late for dinner, in spite of Mary'swarning, "Let him change and get his breath Mamma, dear,—he'sexhausted. What does it matter, anyway?"

Sometimes Mary's heart would ache for the little, resourceless lady,drifting aimlessly through her same and stupid days. Mamma had alwaysbeen spoiled, loved, amused,—it was too much to expect strength andunselfishness of her now. And at other times, when she saw the tireddroop to George's big shoulders, and the gallant effort he made to besweet to Mamma, George who was so good, and so generous, and who onlyasked to have his wife and home quietly to himself after the long day,Mary's heart would burn with longing to put her arms about him, and gooff alone with him somewhere, and smooth the wrinkles from hisforehead, and let him rest.

One warm Sunday in mid-July they all went down to Long Island to seethe rosy, noisy babies. It was a happy day for Mary. George was verygracious, Mamma charming and complaisant. The weather was perfection,and the children angelic. They shared the noonday dinner with littleGeorge and Richard and Mary, and motored home through the level lightof late afternoon. Slowly passing through a certain charming colony ofsummer homes, they were suddenly hailed.

Out from a shingled bungalow, and across a velvet lawn streamed threeold friends of Mamma's, Mrs. Law'nce Arch'bald, and her daughter,'Lizabeth Sarah, who was almost Mamma's age, and 'Lizabeth Sarah'shusband, Harry Fairfax. These three were rapturously presented to theVenables by Mrs. Honeywell, and presently they all went up to the porchfor tea.

Mary thought, and she could see George thought, that it was verypleasant to discuss the delicious Oolong and Maryland biscuit, andSouthern white fruit-cake, while listening to Mamma's happy chatterwith her old friends. The old negress who served tea called Mamma"chile," and Mrs. Archibald, an aristocratic, elderly woman, treatedher as if she were no more than a girl. Mary thought she had never seenher mother so charming.

"I wonder if the's any reason, Mary Lou'siana, why you can't just comedown here and stay with me this summah?" said Mrs. Archibald, suddenly."'Lizabeth Sarah and Harry Fairfax, they're always coming and going,and Lord knows it would be like havin' one of my own girls back, to me.We've room, and there's a lot of nice people down hereabouts—"

A chorus arose, Mrs. Honey well protesting joyously that that was toomuch imp'sition for any use, 'Lizabeth Sarah and Harry Fairfaxviolently favorable to the idea, Mrs. Archibald magnificentlyoverriding objections, Mary and George trying with laughter to separatejest from earnest. Mrs. Honeywell, overborne, was dragged upstairs toinspect "her room," old Aunt Curry, the colored maid and cook, addingher deep-noted welcome to "Miss Mar' Lou." It was arranged that Mammashould at least spend the night, and George and Mary left her there,and came happily home together, laughing, over their little downtowndinner, with an almost parental indulgence, at Mamma.

In the end, Mamma did go down to the Archibald's for an indefinitestay. Mary quite overwhelmed her with generous contributions to herwardrobe, and George presented her with a long-coveted chain. Theparting took place with great affection and regret expressed on bothsides. But this timely relief was clouded for Mary when Mamma flittedin to see her a day or two later. Mamma wondered if Ma'y dearest couldpossibly let her have two hundred dollars.

"Muddie, you've overdrawn again!" Mary accused her. For Mamma had anincome of a thousand a year.

"No, dear, it's not that. I am a little overdrawn, but it's not that.But you see Richie Carter lives right next do' to theArch'balds,"—Mamma's natural Southern accent was gaining strengthevery day now,—"and it might be awkward, meetin' him, don't you know?"

"Awkward?" Mary echoed, frowning.

"Well, you see, Ma'y, love, some years ago I was intimate with hiswife," her mother proceeded with some little embarrassment, "and sowhen I met him at the Springs last year, I confided in him about—laws!I forget what it was exactly, some bills I didn't want to botherGeorgie about, anyway. And he was perfectly charmin' about it I"

"Oh, Mamma!" Mary said in distress, "not Richard Carter of the CarterConstruction Company? Oh, Mamma, you know how George hates that wholecrowd! You didn't borrow money of him!"

"Not that he'd ever speak of it—he'd die first!" Mrs. Honeywell saidhastily.

"I'll have to ask George for it," Mary said after a long pause, "andhe'll be furious." To which Mamma, who was on the point of departure,agreed, adding thoughtfully, "I'm always glad not to be here ifGeorgie's going to fly into a rage."

George did fly into a rage at this piece of news, and said somescathing things of Mamma, even while he wrote out a check for twohundred dollars.

"Here, you send it to her," he said bitterly to Mary, folding the paperwith a frown. "I don't feel as if I ever wanted to see her again. Itell you, Mary, I warn you, my dear, that things can't go on this waymuch longer. I never refused her money that I know of, and yet sheturns to this fellow Carter!" He interrupted himself with anexasperated shrug, and began to walk about the room. "She turns toCarter," he burst out again angrily, "a man who could hurt meirreparably by letting it get about that my mother-in-law had to askhim for a petty loan!"

Mary, with a troubled face, was slowly, silently setting up a game ofchess. She took the check, feeling like Becky Sharp, and tucked it intoher blouse.

"Come on, George, dear," she said, after an uneasy silence. She pusheda white pawn forward. George somewhat unwillingly took his seatopposite her, but could not easily capture the spirit of the game. Hemade a hasty move or two, scowled up at the lights, scowled at thewindows that were already wide open to the sultry night, loosened hiscollar with two impatient fingers.

"I'd give a good deal to understand your mother, Mary," he burst outsuddenly. "I'd give a GREAT deal! Her love of pleasure I canunderstand—her utter lack of any possible vestige of business sense Ican understand, although my own mother was a woman who conducted animmense business with absolute scrupulousness and integrity—"

"Georgie, dear! What has your mother's business ability to do with poorMamma!" Mary said patiently, screwing the separated halves of a knightfirmly together.

"It has this to do with it," George said with sudden heat, "that mymother's principles gave me a pretty clear idea of what a lady does anddoes not do! And my mother would have starved before she turned to acomparative stranger for a personal loan."

"But neither one of her sons could bear to live with her, she was socold-blooded," Mary thought, but with heroic self-control she keptsilent. She answered only by the masterly advance of a bishop.

"Queen," she said calmly.

"Queen nothing!" George said, suddenly attentive.

"Give me a piece then," Mary chanted. George gave a fully arousedattention to the game, and saving it, saved the evening for Mary.

"But please keep Mamma quiet now for a while!" she prayed fervently inher evening devotions a few hours later. "I can't keep this up—we'llhave serious trouble here. Please make her stay where she is for a yearat least."

Two weeks, three weeks, went peaceably by. The Venables spent a happyweek-end or two with their children. Between these visits they were aslight-hearted as children themselves, in the quiet roominess of the NewYork home. Mamma's letters were regular and cheerful, she showed noinclination to return, and Mary, relieved for the first time since herchildhood of pressing responsibility, bloomed like a rose.

Sometimes she reflected uneasily that Mamma's affairs were onlytemporarily settled, after all, and sometimes George made her heartsink with uncompromising statements regarding the future, but for themost part Mary's natural sunniness kept her cheerful and unapprehensive.

Almost unexpectedly, therefore, the crash came. It came on a very hotday, which, following a week of delightfully cool weather, was like alast flaming hand-clasp from the departing summer. It was a Monday, andhad started wrong with a burned omelette at breakfast, and unripemelons. And the one suit George had particularly asked to have cleanedand pressed had somehow escaped Mary's vigilance, and still hungcreased and limp in the closet. So George went off, feeling a littleabused, and Mary, feeling cross, too, went slowly about her morningtasks. Another annoyance was when the telephones had been cut off; aman with a small black bag mysteriously appearing to disconnect them,and as mysteriously vanishing when once their separated parts layuseless on the floor. Mary, idly reading, and comfortably stretched ona couch in her own room at eleven o'clock, was disturbed by the franticand incessant ringing of the front doorbell.

"Lizzie went in to Broadway, I suppose," she reflected uneasily. "But Ioughtn't to go down this way! Let him try again."

"He"—whoever he was—did try again so forcibly and so many times thatMary, after going to the head of the kitchen stairs to call Lizzie,with no result, finally ran down the main stairway herself, andgathering the loose frills of her morning wrapper about her, warilyunbolted the door.

She admitted George, whose face was dark with heat, and whose voicerasped.

"Where's Lizzie?" he asked, eying Mary's negligee.

"Oh, dearie—and I've been keeping you waiting!" Mary lamented. "Comeinto the dining-room, it's cooler. She's marketing."

George dropped into a chair and mopped his forehead.

"No one to answer the telephone?" he pursued, frowning.

"It's disconnected, dear. Georgie, what is it?—you look sick."

"Well, I am, just about!" George said sternly. Then, irrelevantly, hedemanded: "Mary, did you know your mother had disposed of her Sunbrightshares?"

"Sold her copper stock!" Mary ejacul*ted, aghast For Mamma's entireincome was drawn from this eminently safe and sane investment, and Maryand George had never ceased to congratulate themselves upon her goodfortune in getting it at all.

"Two months ago," said George, with a shrewdly observant eye.

Mary interpreted his expression.

"Certainly I didn't know it!" she said with spirit.

"Didn't, eh? She SAYS you did," George said.

"Mamma does?" Mary was astounded.

"Read that!" Her husband flung a letter on the table.

Mary caught it up, ran through it hastily. It was from Mamma: She wasending her visit at Rock Bar, the Archibalds were going South ratherearly, they had begged her to go, but she didn't want to, and Marycould look for her any day now. And she was writing to Georgie becauseshe was afraid she'd have to tell him that she had done an awfullysilly thing: she had sold her Sunbright shares to an awfully attractiveyoung fellow whom Mr. Pierce had sent to her—and so on and so on.Mary's eye leaped several lines to her own name. "Mary agreed with methat the Potter electric light stock was just as safe and they offeredseven per cent," wrote Mamma.

"I DO remember now her saying something about the Potter," Mary said,raising honest, distressed eyes from the letter, "but with no possibleidea that she meditated anything like this!"

George had been walking up and down the room.

"She's lost every cent!" he said savagely. And he flung both hands outwith an air of frenzy before beginning his angry march again.

Mary sat in stony despair.

"Have you heard from her today?" he flung out.

His wife shook her head.

"Well, she's in town," George presently resumed, "because Bates told meshe telephoned the office while I was out this morning. Now, listen,Mary. I've done all I'm going to do for your mother! And she's not toenter this house again—do you understand?"

"George!" said Mary.

"She is not going to ENTER MY HOUSE," reiterated George. "I have oftenwondered what led to estrangements in families, but by the Lord, Ithink there's some excuse in this case! She lies to me, she sets myjudgment at naught, she does the things with my children that I'veexpressly asked her not to do, she cultivates the people I loathe, sheworks you into a state of nervous collapse—it's too much! Now she'sthrown her income away,—thrown it away! Now I tell you, Mary, I'llsupport her, if that's what she expects—"

"Really, George, you are—you are—Be careful!" Mary exclaimed, rousedin her turn. "You forget to whom you are speaking. I admit that Mammais annoying, I admit that you have some cause for complaint,—but youforget to whom you are speaking! I love my mother," said Mary, herfeeling rising with every word. "I won't have her so spoken of! Nothave her enter the house again? Why, do you suppose I am going to meether in the street, and send her clothes after her as if she were adischarged servant?"

"She may come here for her clothes," George conceded, "but she shallnot spend another night under my roof. Let her try taking care ofherself for a change!"

There was a silence.

"George, DON'T you see how unreasonable you are?" Mary said, after abitter struggle for calm.

"That's final," George said briefly.

"I don't know what you mean by final," his wife answered with warmth."If you really think—"

"I won't argue it, my dear. And I won't have my life ruined by yourmother, as thousands of men's lives have been ruined, by just suchunscrupulous irresponsible women!"

"George," said Mary, very white, "I won't turn against my mother!"

"Then you turn against me," George said in a deadly calm.

"Do you expect her to board, George, in the same city that I have myhome?" Mary demanded, after a pause.

"Plenty of women do it," George said inflexibly.

"But, George, you know Mamma! She'd simply be here all the time; itwould come to exactly the same thing. She'd come after breakfast, andyou'd have to take her home after dinner. She'd have her clothes madehere, and laundered here, and she'd do all her telephoning..."

"That is exactly what has got to stop," said George. "I will pay herboard at some good place. But I'll pay it... she won't touch the money.Besides that, she can have an allowance. But she must understand thatshe is NOT to come here except when she is especially invited, atcertain intervals."

"George, DEAR, that is absolutely absurd!"

"Very well," George said, flushing, "but if she is here to-night, Iwill not come home. I'll dine at the club. When she has gone, I'll comehome again."

Mary's head was awhirl. She scarcely knew where the conversation wasleading then, or what the reckless things they said involved. She wasmerely feeling blindly now for the arguments that should give her theadvantage.

"You needn't stay at the club, George," she said, "for Mamma and I willgo down to Beach Meadow. When you have come to your senses, I'll comeback. I'll let Miss Fox go, and Mamma and I will look out for thechildren—"

"I warn you," George interrupted her coldly, "that if you take any suchstep, you will have a long time to think it over before you hear fromme! I warn you that it has taken much less than this to ruin thehappiness of many a man and woman!"

Mary faced him, breathing hard. This was their first real quarrel.Brief times of impatience, unsympathy, differences of opinion there hadbeen, but this—this Mary felt even now—was gravely different. With afeeling curiously alien and cold, almost hostile, she eyed the faceopposite her own; the strange face that had been so familiar and dearonly at breakfast time.

"I WILL go," she said quietly. "I think it will do us both good."

"Nonsense!" George said. "I won't permit it."

"What will you do, make a public affair of it?"

"No, you know I won't do that. But don't talk like a child, Mary.Remember, I mean what I say about your mother, and tell her so when shearrives."

After that, he went away. A long time passed, while Mary sat very stillin the big leather chair at the head of the table. The sunlightshifted, fell lower,—shone ruby red through a decanter of claret onthe sideboard. The house was very still.

After a while she went slowly upstairs. She dragged a little trunk froma hall closet, and began quietly, methodically, to pack it with her ownclothes. Now and then her breast rose with a great sob, but shecontrolled herself instantly.

"This can't go on," she said aloud to herself. "It's not today—it'snot to-morrow—but it's for all time. I can't keep this up. I can'tworry and apologize, and neglect George, and hurt Mamma's feelings forthe rest of my life. Mamma has always done her best for me, and I neversaw George until five years ago—

"It's not," she went on presently, "as if I were a woman who takesmarriage lightly. I have tried. But I won't desert Mamma. And Iwon't—I will NOT!—endure having George talk to me as he did today!"

She would go down to the children, she would rest, she would read againduring the quiet evenings. Days would go by, weeks. But finally Georgewould write her—would come to her. He must. What else could he do?

Something like terror shook her. Was this the way serious, endlessseparations began between men and their wives? Her mind flitted sicklyto other people's troubles: the Waynes, who had separated because Roseliked gayety and Fred liked domestic peace; the Gardiners, who—well,there never did seem to be any reason there. Frances and the baby justwent to her mother's home, and stayed home, and after a while peoplesaid she and Sid had separated, though Frances said she would alwayslike Sid as a friend—not very serious reasons, these! Yet they hadproved enough.

Mary paused. Was she playing with fire? Ah, no, she told herself, itwas very different in her case. This was no imaginary case of "neglect"or "incompatibility." There was the living trouble,—Mamma. And even iftonight she conceded this point to George, and Mamma was banished,sooner or later resentment, bitter and uncontrollable, would riseagain, she knew, in her heart. No. She would go. George might do theyielding.

Once or twice tears threatened her calm. But it was only necessary toremind herself of what George had said to dry her eyes into angrybrilliance again. Too late now for tears.

At five o'clock the trunk was packed, but Mamma had not yet arrived.There remained merely to wait for her, and to start with her for BeachMeadow. Mary's heart was beating fast now, but it was less with regretthan with a nervous fear that something would delay her now. She turnedthe key in the trunk lock and straightened up with the suddenrealization that her back was aching.

For a moment she stood, undecided, in the centre of her room. Shouldshe leave a little note for George, "on his pincushion," or simply askLizzie to say that she had gone to Beach Meadow? He would not followher there, she knew; George understood her. He knew of how little usebullying or coaxing would be. There would be no scenes. She would beallowed to settle down to an existence that would be happy for Mamma,good for the children, restful—free from distressing strain—for Maryherself.

With a curious freedom from emotion of any sort, she selected a hat,and laid her gloves beside it on the bed. Just then the front door,below her, opened to admit the noise of hurried feet and of joyouslaughter. Several voices were talking at once. Mary, to whom the groupwas still invisible, recognized one of these as belonging to Mamma. Asshe went downstairs, she had only time for one apprehensive thrill,before Mamma herself ran about the curve of the stairway, and flungherself into Mary's arms.

Mamma was dressed in corn-colored silk, over which an exquisite wrap ofthe same shade fell in rich folds. Her hat was a creation of paleyellow plumes and hydrangeas, her silk stockings and little bootscorn-colored. She dragged the bewildered Mary down the stairway, andMary, pausing at the landing, looked dazedly at her husband, who stoodin the hall below with a dark, middle-aged man whom she had never seenbefore.

"Here she is!" Mamma cried joyously. "Richie, come kiss her right thisminute! Ma'y, darling, this is your new papa!"

"WHAT!" said Mary, faintly. But before she knew it the strange man didindeed kiss her, and then George kissed her, and Mamma kissed heragain, and all three shouted with laughter as they went over and overthe story. Mary, in all the surprise and confusion, still found time tomarvel at the sight of George's radiant face.

"Carter—of all people!" said George, with a slap on the groom'sshoulder. "I loved his dea' wife like a sister!" Mamma threw inparenthetically, displaying to Mary's eyes her little curled-up fistwith a diamond on it quite the width of the finger it adorned."Strangely enough," said Mr. Carter, in a deep, dignified boom, "yourhusband and I had never met until to-day, Mrs.—ah, Mary—when-" hisproud eye travelled to the corn-colored figure, "when this young ladyof mine introduced us!"

"Though we've exchanged letters, eh?" George grinned, cutting the wiresof a champagne bottle. For they were about the dining-room table now,and the bride's health was to be drunk.

Mary, managing with some effort to appear calm, outwardlycongratulatory, interested, and sympathetic; and already feelingsomewhere far down in her consciousness an exhilarated sense ofamusem*nt and relief at this latest performance of Mamma's,—wasnevertheless chiefly conscious of a deep and swelling indignationagainst George.

George! Oh, he could laugh now; he could kiss, compliment, rejoice withMamma now, he could welcome and flatter Richard Carter now, although hehad repudiated and insulted the one but a few hours ago, and had foryears found nothing good to say of the other! He could delightedlyinvolve Mary in his congratulations and happy prophecies now, when buttoday he had half broken her heart!

"Lovely!" she said, smiling automatically and rising with the otherswhen the bridegroom laughingly proposed a toast to the firm that mightsome day be "Venable and Carter," and George insisted upon drinking itstanding, and, "Oh, of course, I understand how sudden it all was,darling!" "Oh, Mamma, won't that be heavenly!" she responded withapparent rapture to the excited outpourings of the bride. But at herheart was a cold, dull weight, and her sober eyes went again and againto her husband's face.

"Oh, no!" she would say to herself, watching him, "you can't do that,George! You can't change about like a weatherco*ck, and expect me tochange, too, and forget everything that went before! You've chosen todig the gulf between us—I'm not like Mamma, I'm not a child—mydignity and my rights can't be ignored in this fashion!"

No, the matter involved more than Mamma now. George should be punished;he should have his scare. Things must be all cleared up, explained,made right between them. A few weeks of absence, a little realizationof what he had done would start their marriage off again on a newfooting.

She kissed her mother affectionately at the door, gave the new relativea cordial clasp with both hands.

"We'll let you know in a week or two where we are," said Mamma, allgirlish confusion and happiness. "You have my suit-case, Rich'? That'sright, dea'. Good-by, you nice things!"

"Good-by, darling!" Mary said. She walked back into the empty library,seated herself in a great chair, and waited for George.

The front door slammed. George reappeared, chuckling, and rubbing hishands together. He walked over to a window, held back the heavycurtain, and watched the departing carriage out of sight.

"There they go!" he said. "Carter and your mother—married, by Jove!Well, Mary, this is about the best day's work for me that's come alongfor some time. Carter was speaking in the carriage only an hour agoabout the possibility of our handling the New Nassau Bridge contracttogether. I don't know why not." George mused a moment, smilingly.

"I thought you had an utter contempt for him as a business man," Marysaid stingingly—involuntarily, too, for she had not meant to bediverted from her original plan of a mere dignified farewell.

"Never for him," George said promptly. "I don't like some of hispeople. Burns, his chief construction engineer, for instance. But I'vethe greatest respect for him! And your mother!" said George, laughingagain. "And how pretty she looked, too! Well, sir, they walked in on methis afternoon. I never was so surprised in my life! You know, Mary,"said George, taking his own big leather chair, stretching his legs outluxuriously, and eying the tip of a cigar critically, "you know thatyour mother is an extremely fascinating woman! You'll see now howshe'll blossom out, with a home of her own again—he's got a big houseover on the Avenue somewhere, beside the Bar Kock place—and he runsthree or four cars. Just what your mother loves!"

Mary continued to regard her husband steadily, silently. One look atthe fixed expression of contempt on her face would have enlightenedhim, but George was lighting his cigar now, and did not glance at her.

"I'll tell you another thing, Mary," said George, after amatch-scratching-and-puffing interlude, "I'll tell you another thing,my dear. You're an angel, and you don't notice these things as I do,but, by Jove, your mother was reaching the point where she prettynearly made trouble between us! Fact!" he pursued, with a serious nod."I get tired, you know, and nervous, and unreasonable—you must havehad it pretty hard sometimes this month between your mother and me! Iget hot—you know I don't mean anything! If you hadn't the dispositionof a saint, things would have come to a head long ago. Now this verymorning I talked to you like a regular kid. Mary, the minute I got backto the office I was ashamed of myself. Why, ninety-nine women out of ahundred would have raised the very deuce with me for that! But, byJove—" his voice dropped to a pause.

"By Jove," George went on, "you are an angel! Now tell me the honesttruth, old girl, didn't you resent what I said to-day, just for aminute?"

"I certainly did," Mary responded promptly and quietly, but with anuncomfortable sense of lessened wrath. "What you said was absolutelyunwarrantable and insulting!"

"I'll BET you did!" said George, giving her a glance that was a littletroubled, and a little wistful, too. "It was insulting, it wasunwarrantable. But, my Lord, Mary, you know how I love your mother!" hecontinued eagerly. "She and I are the best of friends. We rasp eachother now and then, but we both love you too much ever to come to realtrouble. I'm no angel, Mary," said George, looking down his cigarthoughtfully, "but as men go, I'm a pretty decent man. You know howmuch time I've spent at the club since we were married. You know thefellows can't rope me into poker games or booze parties. I love my wifeand my kids and my home. But when I think of you, and realize howunworthy I am of you, by Heaven—!" He choked, shook his head, findingfurther speech for a moment difficult. "There's no man alive who'sworthy of you!" he finished. "The Lord's been very good to me."

Mary's eyes had filled, too. She sat for a minute, trying to steady hersuddenly quivering lips. She looked at George sitting there in thetwilight, and said to herself it was all true. He WAS good, he WASsteady, he was indeed devoted to her and to the children. But—but hehad insulted her, he had broken her heart, she couldn't let him offwithout some rebuke.

"You should have thought of these things before you—" she began, witha very fair imitation of scorn in her voice. But George interruptedher. His hands were clasped loosely between his knees, his head hangingdejectedly.

"I know," he said despondently, "I know!"

Mary paused. What she had still to say seemed suddenly flat. And in thepause her mother's one piece of advice came to her mind. After all itonly mattered that he was unhappy, and he was hers, and she could makehim happy again.

She left her chair, went with a few quick steps to her husband's side,and knelt, and put her cheek against his shoulder. He gave a greatboyish laugh of relief and pleasure and put his arms about her.

"How old are you, George?" she said.

"How old am I? What on earth—why, I'm forty," he said.

"I was just thinking that the best of you men is only a little boy, andshould be treated as such!" said Mary, kissing him.

"You can treat me as you like," he assured her, joyously. "And I'mstarving. And unless you think there is any likelihood of Mammadropping in and spoiling our plan, I would like to take you out todinner."

"Well, she might," Mary agreed with a happy laugh, "so I'll simply runfor my hat. You never can be sure, with Mamma!"

THE MEASURE OF MARGARET COPPERED

Duncan Coppered felt that his father's second marriage was a greatmistake. He never said so; that would not have been Duncan's way. Buthe had a little manner of discreetly compressing his lips, when, thesecond Mrs. Coppered was mentioned, eying his irreproachable boots, andraising his handsome brows, that was felt to be significant. People whoknew and admired Duncan—and to know him was to admire him—realizedthat he would never give more definite indications of filialdisapproval than these. His exquisite sense of what was due hisfather's wife from him would not permit it. But all the more did thesilent sympathy of his friends go out to him.

To Harriet Culver he said the one thing that these friends, comparingnotes, considered indicative of his real feeling. Harriet, who met himon the Common one cold afternoon, reproached him, during the course ofa slow ride, for his non-appearance at various dinners and teas.

"Well, I've been rather bowled over, don't you know? I've been gettingmy bearings," said Duncan, simply.

"Of course you have!" said Harriet, with an expectant thrill.

"I'd gotten to count on monopolizing the governor," pursued Duncan,presently, with a rueful smile. "I shall feel no end in the way for awhile, I'm afraid, Of course, I didn't think Dad would always keep"-hisserious eyes met Harriet's—"always keep my mother's place empty; butthis came rather suddenly, just the same."

"Had your father written you?" said Harriet, confused between fear ofsaying the wrong thing and dread of a long silence.

"Oh, yes!" Duncan attempted an indifferent tone. "He had written me inAugust about meeting Miss Charteris and her little brother in Rome, youknow, and how much he liked her. Her brother was an invalid, and diedshortly after; and then Dad met her again in Paris, quite alone, andthey were married immediately."

He fell silent. Presently Harriet said daringly: "She's—clever; she'sgifted, isn't she?"

"I think you were very bold to say that, dear!" said Mrs. Van Winkle,when Harriet repeated this conversation, some hours later, in thefamily circle.

"Oh, Aunt Minnie, I had to—to see what he'd say."

"And what did he say?" asked Harriet's mother,

"He looked at me gravely, you know, until I was ashamed of myself," thegirl confessed, "and then he said: 'Why, Hat, you must know that Mrs.Coppered was a professional actress?'"

"And a very obscure little actress, at that," finished Mrs. Culver,nodding.

"Pacific Coast stock companies or something like that," said Harriet."Well, and then, after a minute, he said, so sadly, 'That's what hurts,although I hate myself for letting it make a difference.'"

"Duncan said that?" Mrs. Van Winkle was incredulous.

"Poor boy! With one aunt Mrs. Vincent-Hunter and the other an Englishduch*ess! The Coppereds have always been among Boston's best families.It's terrible," said Mrs. Culver.

"Well, I think it is," the girl agreed warmly. "Judge Clyde Potter'sgrandson, and brought up with the very nicest people, and sensitive ashe is—I think it's just too bad it should be Duncan!"

"There's no doubt she was an actress, I suppose, Emily?"

"Well," said Harriet's mother, "it's not denied." She shruggedeloquently.

"Shall you call, mother?"

"Oh, I shall have to once, I suppose. The Coppereds, you know. Everyone will call on her for Carey's sake," said Mrs. Culver, sighing.

Every one duly called on Mrs. Carey Coppered, when she returned toBoston; and although she made her mourning an excuse for declining allformal engagements, she sent out cards for an "at home" on a Friday inJanuary. She was a thin, graceful woman, with the blue-black Irish eyesthat are set in with a sooty finger, and an unexpectedly rich, deepvoice. Her quiet, almost diffident manner was obviously accentuatedjust now by her recent sorrow; but this did not conceal from herhusband's friends the fact that the second Mrs. Coppered was not oftheir world. Everything charming she might be, but to the manner bornshe was not. They would not meet her on her own ground, she could notmeet them on theirs. In her own home she listened like a puzzled,silenced child to the gay chatter that went on about her.

Duncan stood with his father, at his stepmother's side, on herafternoon at home, prompting her when names or faces confused her,treating her with a little air of gracious intimacy eminently becomingand charming under the circ*mstances. His tact stood between her andmore than one blunder, and it was to be noticed that she relied uponhim even more than upon his father. Carey Coppered, indeed, hithertostaid and serious, was quite transformed by his joy and pride in her,and would not have seen a thousand blunders on her part. The consensusof opinion, among his friends, was that Carey was "really a littleabsurd, don't you know?" and that Mrs. Carey was "quite deliciouslyodd," and that Duncan was "too wonderful—poor, dear boy!"

Mrs. Coppered would have agreed that her stepson was wonderful, butwith quite a literal meaning. She found him a real cause forwonder—this poised, handsome, crippled boy of nineteen, with histailor, and his tutor, and his groom, and the heavy socialresponsibilities that bored him so heartily. With the honesty of anaturally brilliant mind cultivated by hard experience, and muchsolitary reading, she was quite ready to admit that her marriage hadplaced her in a new and confusing environment; she wanted only to adaptherself, to learn the strange laws by which it was controlled. And shewould naturally have turned quite simply to Duncan for help.

But Duncan very gently, very coldly, repelled her. He wasrepresentative of his generation. Things were not LEARNED by the bestpeople; they were instinctively KNOWN. The girls that Duncan knew—thevery children in their nurseries—never hesitated over the wording of anote of thanks, never innocently omitted the tipping of a servant,never asked their maid's advice as to suitable frocks and gloves forcertain occasions. All these things, and a thousand more, hisstepmother did, to his cold embarrassment and annoyance.

The result was unfortunate in two ways. Mrs. Coppered shrank under theunexpressed disapproval into more than her native timidity, rightlythinking his attitude represented that of all her new world; and Carey,who worshipped his young wife, perceived at last that Duncan was notchampioning his stepmother, and for the first time in his life showed agenuine displeasure with his son.

This was exquisitely painful to Margaret Coppered. She knew what fatherand son had been to each other before her coming; she knew, far betterthan Carey, that the boy's adoration of his father was the one vitalpassion of his life. Mrs. Ayers, the housekeeper, sometimes made herheartsick with innocent revelations.

"From the day his mother died, Mrs. Coppered, my dear, when poor littleMaster Duncan wasn't but three weeks old, I don't believe he and hisfather were separated an hour when they could be together! Mr. Copperedwould take that little owl-faced baby downstairs with him when he camein before dinner, and 'way into the night they'd be in the librarytogether, the baby laughing and crowing, or asleep on a pillow on thesofa. Why, the boy wasn't four when he let the nurse go, and carriedthe child off for a month's fishing in Canada! And when we first knewthat the hip was bad, Mr. Coppered gave up his business and for fiveyears in Europe he never let Master Duncan out of his sight. The gamesand the books—I should say the child had a million lead soldiers! Thefirst thing in the morning it'd be, 'Is Dad awake, Paul?' and herunning into the room; and at noon, coming back from his ride, 'Is Dadhome?' Wonderful to him his father's always been."

"That's why I'm afraid he'll never like me," Margaret was quite simpleenough to say wistfully, in response. "He never laughs out or chatters,as Mr. Coppered says he used to do."

And after such a conversation she would be especially considerate ofDuncan—find some excuse for going upstairs when she heard the click ofhis crutch in the hall, so that he might find his father alone in thelibrary, or excuse herself from a theatre trip so that they might betogether.

"Oh, I'm so glad the Poindexters want us!" she said one night, over herletters.

"Why?" said Carey, amused by her ardor. "We can't go."

"I know it. But they're such nice people, Carey. Duncan will be sopleased to have them want me!"

Her husband laughed out suddenly, but a frown followed the laugh.

"You're very patient with the boy, Margaret. I—well, I've not beenvery patient lately, I'm afraid. He manages to exasperate me so, withthese grandiose airs, that he doesn't seem the same boy at all!"

Mrs. Coppered came over to take the arm of his chair and put her whitefingers on the little furrow between his eyes.

"It breaks my heart when you hurt him, Carey! He broods over it so.And, after all, he's only doing what they all—all the people he knowswould do!"

"I thought better things of him," said his father.

"If you go to Yucatan in February, Carey," Margaret said, "he and I'llbe here alone, and then we'll get on much smoother, you'll see."

"I don't know," he said. "I hate to go this year; I hate to leave you."

But he went, nevertheless, for the annual visit to his rubberplantation; and Margaret and Duncan were left alone in the big housefor six weeks. Duncan took especial pains to be considerate of hisstepmother in his father's absence, and showed her that he felt hercomfort to be his first care. He came and went like a polite,unresponsive shadow, spending silent evenings with her in the library,or acting as an irreproachable and unapproachable escort when escortwas needed. Margaret, watching him, began to despair of ever gaininghis friendship.

Late one wintry afternoon the boy came in from a concert, and waspassing the open door of his step-mother's room when she called him. Hefound her standing by one of the big windows, a very girlish figure inher trim walking-suit and long furs. The face she turned to him, underher wide hat, was rosy from contact with the nipping spring air.

"Duncan," she said, "I've had such a nice invitation from Mrs. Gregory."

Duncan's face brightened.

"Mrs. Jim?" said he.

"No, indeed!" exulted Margaret, gayly. "Mrs. Clement."

"Oh, I say!" said Duncan, smiling too. For if young Mrs. Jim Gregory'sfriendship was good, old Mrs. Clement's was much better. For the firsttime, he sat down informally in Margaret's room and laid aside hiscrutch.

"She's going to take General and Mrs. Wetherbee up to Snowhill forthree or four days," pursued Margaret, "and the Jim Gregorys and Mr.Fred Gregory and me. Won't your father be pleased? Now, Duncan, whatclothes do I need?"

"Oh, the best you've got," said Duncan, instantly interested; and,until it was time to dress for dinner, the two were deep in absorbedconsultation.

Duncan was whistling as he went upstairs to dress, and his stepmotherwas apparently in high spirits. But twenty minutes later, when he foundher in the library, there was a complete change. Her eyes were worried,her whole manner distressed, and her voice sharp. She looked up from atelegram as he came in.

"I've just had a wire from an old friend in New York," said she, "and Iwant you to telephone the answer for me, will you, Duncan? I've not amoment to spare. I shall have to leave for New York at the earliestpossible minute. After you've telephoned the wire, will you find outabout the trains from South Station? And get my ticket and reservation,will you? Or send Paul for them—whatever's quickest."

Duncan hardly recognized her. Her hesitation was gone, her diffidencegone. She did not even look at him as she spoke; his scowl passedentirely unnoticed. He stood coldly disapproving.

"I don't really see how you can go," he began. "Mrs. Gregory—"

"Yes, I know!" she agreed hastily. "I telephoned. She hadn't come inyet, so I had to make it a message—simply that Mrs. Coppered couldn'tmanage it tomorrow. She'll be very angry, of course. Duncan, would itsave any time to have Paul take this right to the telegraph station—"

"Surely," Duncan interrupted in turn, "you're not going to rush off—"

"Oh, surely—surely—surely—I am!" she answered, fretted by his tone."Don't tease me, dear boy! I've quite enough to worry over! I—I"—shepushed her hair childishly off her face—"I wish devoutly that yourfather was here. He always knows in a second what's to be done!But—but fly with this telegram, won't you?" she broke off suddenly.

Duncan went. The performance of his errand was not reassuring. Thetelegram was directed to Philip Penrose, at the Colonial Theatre, andread:

Will be with you this evening. Depend on me. Heartsick at news.MARGARET.

When he went upstairs again, he rapped at his stepmother's door.Hatted, and with a fur coat over her arm, she opened it.

"Are you taking Fanny?" said Duncan, icily. Fanny, the maid,middle-aged, loyal, could be trusted with the honor of the Coppereds.

"Heavens, no!" said Mrs. Coppered, vigorously.

"Then I hope you will not object to my escort," said the boy, flushing.

If he meant it for reproach, it missed its mark. Mrs. Coppered'ssurprised look became doubtful, finally changed to relief.

"Why, that's very sweet of you, Duncan," she said graciously,"especially as I can't tell you what I'm going for, my dear, for it maynot occur. But I think, of all people in the world, you're the one togo with me!"

Duncan eyed her severely.

"At the same time," he said, "I can't for one moment pretend—"

"Exactly; so that it's all the nicer of you to volunteer to comealong!" she said briskly. "You'll have to hurry, Duncan. And ask Paulto come up for my trunk, will you? We leave the house in half an hour!"

Mrs. Coppered advised her stepson to supply himself with magazines onthe train.

"For I shall have to read," she said, "and perhaps you won't be able tosleep."

And read she did, with hardly a look or a word for him. She turned andre-turned the pages of a little paper-covered book, moving her lips andknitting her brows over it as she read.

Duncan, miserably apprehensive that they would meet some acquaintanceand have to give an explanation of their mad journey, satisfied himselfthat there was no such immediate danger, and, assuming a forbiddingexpression, sat erect in his seat. But he finally fell into an uneasysleep, not rousing himself until the train drew into the Forty-secondStreet station late in the evening. His stepmother had made a roughpillow of his overcoat and put it between his shoulder and thewindow-frame; but he did not comment upon it as he slipped it on andfollowed her through the roaring, chilly station to a taxicab.

"The Colonial Theatre, as fast as you can!" said she, as they jumpedin. She was obviously nervous, biting her lips and humming under herbreath as she watched the brilliantly lighted streets they threaded soslowly. Almost before it stopped she was out of the cab, at theentrance of a Broadway theatre. Duncan, alert and suspicious, read thename "Colonial" in flaming letters, and learned from a larger sign thatMiss Eleanor Forsythe and an all-star cast were appearing therein in arevival of Reade's "Masks and Faces."

In the foyer Mrs. Coppered asked authoritatively for the manager. Itwas after ten o'clock, the curtain had risen on the last act, and ageneral opinion prevailed that Mr. Wyatt had gone home. But Mrs.Coppered's distinguished air, her magnificent furs, her beauty, all hadtheir effect, and presently Duncan followed her into the hot, untidylittle office where the manager was to be found.

He was a pleasant, weary-looking man, who wheeled about from his deskas they came in, and signed the page to place chairs.

"Mr. Wyatt," said Mrs. Coppered, with her pleasantest smile, "can yougive us five minutes?"

"I can give you as many as you like, madam," said the manager,patiently, but with a most unpromising air.

"Only five!" she reassured him, as they sat down. Then, with anabsolutely businesslike air, she continued: "Mr. Wyatt, you have Mr.and Mrs. Penrose in your company, I think, both very old friends ofmine. She's playing Mabel Vane,—Mary Archer is the name she uses,—andhe's Triplet. Isn't that so?"

The manager nodded, eying her curiously.

"Mr. Wyatt, you've heard of their trouble, of course? The accident thismorning to their little boy?"

"Ah, yes—yes," said Wyatt. "Of course. Hurt by a fall, poor littlefellow. Very serious. Yes, poor things! Did you want to see—"

"You know that one of your big surgeons here—I've forgotten thename!—is to operate on little Phil tomorrow?" asked Mrs. Coppered.

"So Penrose said," assented the manager, slowly, watching her as if alittle surprised at her insistence.

"Mr. Wyatt." said Mrs. Coppered,—and Duncan noticed that she hadturned a little pale,—"Mrs. Penrose wired me news of all this only afew hours ago. She is half frantic at the idea that she must go ontomorrow afternoon and evening; yet the understudy is ill, and she feltit was too short notice to ask you to make a change now. But itoccurred to me to come to see you about it. I want to ask you a favor.I want you to let me play Mrs. Penrose's part tomorrow afternoon andtomorrow night. I've played Mabel Vane a hundred times; it's a part Iknow very well," she went on quickly. "I—I am not in the least afraidthat I can't take it. And then she can be with the little boy throughthe operation and afterward—he's only five, you know, at theunreasonable age when all children want their mothers! Can't that bearranged, Mr. Wyatt?"

Duncan, holding a horrified breath, fixed his eyes, as he did, on themanager's face. He was relieved at the inflexible smile he saw there.

"My dear lady," said Wyatt, kindly, "that is—absolutely—OUT of thequestion! Anything in reason I will be delighted to do for Penrose andMiss Archer—but you must surely realize that I can't do that!"

"But wait!" said Mrs. Coppered, eagerly, not at all discouraged. "Don'tsay no yet! I AM an actress, Mr. Wyatt, or was one. I know the partthoroughly. And the circ*mstances—the circ*mstances are unusual,aren't they?"

While she was speaking the manager was steadily shaking his head.

"I have no doubt you could play the part," said he, "but I can't upsetmy whole company by substituting now. Tomorrow is going to be a bignight. The house is completely sold out to the Masons—their conventionweek, you know. As it happens, there couldn't be a more inconvenienttime. No, I can't consider it!"

Mrs. Coppered smiled at him. She had a very winning smile.

"It would mean a rehearsal; I suppose THAT would be inconvenient, tobegin with," she said.

"Exactly," said Wyatt. "Friday night. I can't ask my people to rehearseto-morrow."

"But suppose you put it to them and they were all willing?" pursued thelady.

"My dear lady, I tell you it's absolutely—" He made a goaded gesture.Then, making fierce little dashes and dots on his blotter with hispencil, and eying each one ferociously as he made it, he addedirritably, but in a quieter tone: "You're an actress, eh? Where'd youget your experience?"

"With various stock companies on the Pacific Coast," she answeredreadily. "My name was Margaret Charteris. I don't suppose you everheard it?"

"As it happens, I HAVE," he returned, surprised into interest. "Youknew Joe Pitcher, of course. He spoke of you. I remember the name verywell."

"Professor Pitcher!" she exclaimed radiantly. "Of course I knewhim—dear old man! Where is he—still there?"

"Still there," he assented absently. "You married, I think?"

"I am Mrs. Coppered now—Mrs. Carey Coppered," she said. The man gaveher a suddenly awakened glance.

"Surely," he said thoughtfully. They looked steadily at each other, andDuncan saw the color come into Margaret's face. There was a littlesilence.

Then the manager flung down his pencil, wheeled about in his chair, andrubbed his hands briskly together.

"Well!" he said. "And you think you can take Miss Archer's place, Mrs.Coppered?"

"If you will let me."

"Why," he said,—and Duncan would not have believed that the somewhatheavy face could wear a look so pleasant,—"you are doing so much, Mrs.Coppered, in stepping into the gap this way, that I'll do my share if Ican! Perhaps I can't arrange it, but we can try. I'll call a rehearsaland speak to Miss Forsythe to-night. If you know the part, it's justpossible that by going over it now we can get out of a rehearsaltomorrow. She wants to be with the little boy, eh?" he added musingly."Yes, I suppose it might make a big difference, his not being terrifiedby strangers." And then, turning toward Margaret, he said warmly and alittle awkwardly: "This is a remarkably kind thing for you to do, Mrs.Coppered."

"Oh, I would do more than that for Mary Penrose," said she, with alittle difficulty. "She knows it. She wired me as a mad last hopetoday, and we came as fast as we could, Mr. Coppered and I." And sheintroduced Duncan very simply: "My stepson, Mr. Wyatt."

Duncan, fuming, could be silent no longer.

"I hope my—Mrs. Coppered is not serious in offering to do this," saidhe, very white, and in a slightly shaking voice. "I assure you that myfather—that every one!—would think it a most extraordinary thing todo!"

Mrs. Coppered laid her hand lightly on his arm.

"Yes, I know, Duncan!" said she, quickly, soothingly. "I know how youfeel! But—"

Duncan slightly repudiated the touch.

"I can't think how you can consider it!" he said passionately, but in alow voice. "A thing like this always gets out! You know—you know howyour having been on the stage is regarded by our friends! It is simplyinsane—"

He had said a little more than he meant, in his high feeling, andMargaret's face had grown white.

"I asked you only for your escort, Duncan," she said gently, but withblazing eyes. There was open hostility in the look they exchanged.

"I can't see what good my escort does," said the boy, childishly, "whenyou won't listen to what you know is true!"

"Nevertheless, I still want it," she answered evenly. And after amoment Duncan, true to his training, and already a little ashamed ofhis ineffectual outburst,—for to waste a display of emotion was, inhis code, a lamentable breach of etiquette,—shrugged his shoulders.

"Still want to stay with it?" said Mr. Wyatt, giving her a shrewd,friendly look.

"Certainly," she said promptly; but she was breathing fast.

"Then we might go and talk things over," he said; and a moment laterthey were crossing the theatre to the stage door. The final curtain hadfallen only a moment before, but the lights were up, the orchestrahalfway through a swift waltz, and the audience, buttoning coats andstruggling with gloves, was pouring up the aisles. Duncan, through allhis anger and apprehension, felt a little thrill of superiority overthese departing playgoers as he and his stepmother were admitted behindthe scenes. He was young, and the imagined romance of green-rooms andfootlights appealed to him.

The company, suddenly summoned, appeared in various stages of streetand stage attire. Peg, a handsome young woman with brilliant color andgolden hair, still wore her brocaded gown and patches, and wore, inaddition, a slightly affronted look at this unprecedented proceeding.The other members of the cast, yawning, slightly curious, were groupedabout in the great draughty space between the wings that it cost Duncansome little effort to realize was the stage.

From this group, as Margaret followed the stage manager into the circleof light, a little woman suddenly detached herself, and, running acrossthe stage and breaking into sobs as she ran, she was in Margaret's armsin a second.

"Oh, Meg, Meg, Meg!" she cried, laughing and crying at the same time."I knew you'd come! I knew you'd manage it somehow! I've been prayingso—I've been watching the clock! Oh, Meg," she went on pitifully,fumbling blindly for a handkerchief, "he's been suffering so, and I hadto leave him! They thought he was asleep, but when I tried to loosenhis little hand he woke up!"

"Mary—Mary!" said Mrs. Coppered, soothingly, patting the bowedshoulder. No one else moved; a breathless attention held the group. "Ofcourse I came," she went on, with a little triumphant laugh, "and Ithink everything's ALL right!"

"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Penrose, with a convulsive effort atself-control. She caught Margaret's soft big muff, and drew it acrossher eyes. "I'm ru-ru-ruining your fur, Margaret!" she said, laughingthrough tears, "but—but seeing you this way, and realizing that Icould go—go—go to him now—"

"Mary, you must NOT cry this way," said Mrs. Coppered, seriously. "Youdon't want little Phil to see you with red eyes, do you? Mr. Wyatt andI have been talking it over," she went on, "but it remains to be seen,dear, if all the members of the company are willing to go to thetrouble." Her apologetic look went around the listening circle. "Itinconveniences every one, you know, and it would mean a rehearsaltonight—this minute, in fact, when every one's tired and cold." Hervoice was soothing, very low. But the gentle tones carried theirmessage to every one there. The mortal cleverness of such an appealstruck Duncan sharply, as an onlooker.

The warm-hearted star, Eleanor Forsythe, whose photographs Duncan hadseen hundreds of times, was the first to respond with a half-indignantprotest that SHE wasn't too tired and cold to do that much for the dearkiddy, and other volunteers rapidly followed suit. Ten minutes laterthe still tearful little mother was actually in a cab whirling throughthe dark streets toward the hospital where the child lay, and arehearsal was in full swing upon the stage of the Colonial. Only thefew actors actually necessary to the scenes in which Mabel figures needhave remained; but a general spirit of sympathetic generosity keptalmost the entire cast. Mr. Penrose, as Triplet, had the brunt of thedialogue to carry; and he and Margaret, who had quite unaffectedly laidaside her furs and entered seriously into the work of the evening,remained after all the others had lingered away, one by one.

Duncan watched from one of the stage boxes, his vague, romantic ideasof life behind the footlights rather dashed before the three hours ofhard work were over. This was not very thrilling; this had no especialromantic charm. The draughts, the dust, the wide, icy space of thestage, the droning voices, the crisp interruptions, the stupid"business," endlessly repeated, all seemed equally disenchanting. Thestagehands had set the stage for the next day's opening curtain, andhad long ago departed. Duncan was cold, tired, headachy. He began torealize the edge of a sharp appetite, too; he and Margaret had barelytouched their dinner, back at home those ages ago.

He could have forgiven her, he told himself, bitterly, if this plungeinto her old life had had some little glory in it. If, for instance,Mrs. Gregory had asked her to play Lady Macbeth or Lady Teazle inamateur theatricals at home, why one could excuse her for yielding tothe old lure. But this, this secondary part, these commonplace,friendly actors, this tiring night experience, this eager deference onher part to every one, this pitiful anxiety to please, where sheshould, as Mrs. Carey Coppered, have been proudly commanding anddictatorial—it was all exasperating and disappointing to the lastdegree; it was, he told himself, savagely, only what one might haveexpected!

Presently, when Duncan was numb in every limb, Margaret began to buttonherself into her outer wraps, and, escorted by Penrose, they went tosupper. Duncan hesitated at the door of the cafe.

"This is an awful place, isn't it?" he objected. "You can't be going inhere!"

"One must eat, Duncan!" Mrs. Coppered said blithely, leading the way."And all the nice places are closed at this hour!" Duncan sullenlyfollowed; but, in the flood of reminiscences upon which she and Penroseinstantly embarked, his voice was not missed. Mollified in spite ofhimself by delicious food and strong coffee, he watched them, the man'sface bright through its fatigue, his stepmother glowing and brilliant.

"I'll see this through for Dad's sake," said Duncan, grimly, tohimself; "but, when he finds out about it, she'll have to admit Ikicked the whole time!"

At four o'clock they reached the Penroses' hotel, where rooms weresecured for Duncan and Margaret. The boy, dropping with sleep, heardher cheerfully ask at the desk to be called at seven o'clock.

"I've a cloak to buy," she explained, in answer to his glance ofprotest, "and a hairdresser to see, and a hat to find—they may bedifficult to get, too! And I must run out and have just a glimpse oflittle Phil, and get to the theatre by noon; there's just a little moregoing over that second act to do! But don't you get up."

"I would prefer to," said Duncan, with dignity, taking his key.

But he did not wake until afternoon, when the thin winter sunlight wasfalling in a dazzling oblong on the floor of his room; and even then hefelt a little tired and stiff. He reached for his watch—almost oneo'clock! Duncan's heart stood still. Had SHE overslept?

He sat up a little dazed, and, doing so, saw a note on the little tableby his bed. It was from Margaret, and ran:

DEAR DUNCAN:

If you don't wake by one they're to call you, for I want you to seeMabel's entrance. I've managed my hat and cloak, and seen thechild—he's quiet and not in pain, thank God. Have your breakfast, andthen come to the box-office; I'll leave a seat for you there. Or comebehind and see me, if you will, for I am terribly nervous and wouldlike it. So glad you're getting your sleep. MARGAEET.

P.S. Don't worry about the nerves; I ALWAYS am nervous.

Duncan looked at the note for three silent minutes, sitting on the edgeof his bed.

"I'm sorry. She—she wanted me. I wish I'd waked!" he said slowly,aloud.

And ten minutes later, during a hurried dressing, he read the noteagain, and said, aloud again:

"'Have breakfast'! I wonder if she had HERS?"

He entered the theatre so late, for all his hurry, that the first actwas over and the second well begun, and was barely in his seat beforethe now familiar opening words of Mabel Vane's part fell clearly on thesilence of the darkened house.

For a moment Duncan thought, with a great pang of relief, that some oneelse was filling his stepmother's place; but he recognized her inanother minute, in spite of rouge and powder and the piquant dress shewore. His heart stirred with something like pride. She was beautiful inher flowered hat and the caped coat that showed a foam of lacy frillsat the throat; and she was sure of herself, he realized in a moment,and of her audience. She made a fresh and appealing figure of theplucky little country bride, and the old lines fell with deliciousnaturalness from her lips.

Duncan's heart hardly beat until the fall of the curtain; tears came tohis eyes; and when Margaret shared the applause of the house with thegracious Peg, he found himself shaking with a violent nervous reaction.

He was still deeply stirred when he went behind the scenes after theplay. His stepmother presently came up from her dressing-room, dressedin street clothes and anxious to hurry to the hospital and have news ofthe little boy.

Duncan called a taxicab, for which she thanked him absently and withworried eyes; and presently, with her and with the child's father, hefound himself speeding toward the hospital. It was a silent trip.Margaret kept her ungloved fingers upon Penrose's hand, and said only acheerful word of encouragement now and then.

Duncan waited in the cab, when they went into the big building. She wasgone almost half an hour. Darkness came, and a sharp rain began to fall.

He was half drowsy when she suddenly ran down the long steps and jumpedin beside him. Her face was radiant, in spite of the signs of tearsabout her eyes.

"He took the ether like a little soldier!" she said, as the motor-carslowly wheeled up the wet street. "Mary held his hand all the while.Everything went splendidly, and he came out of it at about four. Marysang him off to sleep, sitting beside him, and she's still there—hehasn't stirred! Dr. Thorpe is more than well satisfied; he said thelittle fellow had nerves of iron! And the other doctor isn't even goingto come in again! And Thorpe says it is LARGELY because he could havehis mother!"

But the exhilaration did not last. Presently she leaned her head backagainst the seat, and Duncan saw how marked was the pallor of her face,now that the rouge was gone. There was fatigue in the droop of hermouth, and in the deep lines etched under her eyes.

"It's after six, Duncan," she said, without opening her eyes, "so Ican't sleep, as I hoped! We'll have to dine, and then go straight tothe theatre!"

"You're tired," said the boy, abruptly. She opened her eyes at thetone, and forced a smile.

"No—or, yes, I am, a little. My head's been aching. I wish to-nightwas over." Suddenly she sighed. "It's been a strain, hasn't it?" shesaid. "I knew it would be, but I didn't realize how hard! I just wantedto do something for them, you know, and this was all I could think of.And I've been wishing your father had been here; I don't know what hewill say. I don't stop to think—when it's the people I love—" shesaid artlessly. "I dread—" she began again, but left the sentenceunfinished, after all, and looked out of the window. "I suspect you'retired, too!" she went on brightly, after a moment. "I shan't forgetwhat a comfort it's been to have you with me through this queerexperience, Duncan. I know what it has cost you, my dear."

"Comfort!" echoed Duncan. He tried to laugh, but the laugh broke itselfoff gruffly. He found himself catching her hand, putting his free armboyishly about her shoulders. "I'm not fit to speak to you, Margaret!"he said huskily. "You're—you're the best woman I ever knew! I want youto know I'm sorry—sorry for it all—everything! And as for Dad, why,he'll think what I think—that you're the only person in the worldwho'd do all this for another woman's kid!"

Mrs. Coppered had tried to laugh, too, as she faced him. But the tearscame too quickly. She put her wet face against his rough overcoat andfor a moment gave herself up to the luxury of tears.

"Carey," said his wife, on a certain brilliant Sunday morning a monthlater, when he had been at home nearly a month. She put her head in atthe library door. "Carey, will you do me a favor?"

He looked up to smile at her, in her gray gown and flowered hat, andshe came in to take the seat opposite him at the broad table.

"I will. Where are you going?"

"Duncan and I are going to church, and you're to meet us at theGregorys' for lunch," she reminded him.

"Yes'm. And what do you two kids want? What's the favor?"

"Oh!" She became serious. "You remember what I told you of our New Yorktrip a month ago, Carey? The Penroses, you know?"

"I do."

"Well, Carey, I've discovered that it has been worrying Duncan eversince you got home, because he thinks I'm keeping it from you."

"Thinks you haven't told me, eh?"

"Yes. Don't laugh that way, Carey! Yes. And he asked me in the sweetestlittle way, a day or two ago, if I wouldn't tell you all about it."

"What did you do—box his young ears?"

"No." Margaret's eyes laughed, but she shook her head reprovingly. "Ithought it was so DEAR of him to feel that way, yet never give you evena hint, that I—"

"Well?" smiled her husband, as she paused.

"Well," hesitated Mrs. Coppered. And then in a little burst she added:"I said, 'Duncan, if you ask me to I WILL tell him!'"

"And what do you think you gain by THAT, Sapphira?" said Carey, muchamused.

"Why, don't you see? Don't you see it means EVERYTHING to him to havestood by me in this, and now to clear it all up between us! Don't yousee that it makes him one of us, in a way? He's done his adored fathera real service—"

"And his adored mother, too?"

His tone brought the happy tears to her eyes.

"And the favor?" he said presently.

"Oh! Well, you see, I'm supposed to be 'fessing up the whole horriblebusiness, Carey, and in a day or two I want you to thank him, just insome general way,—you'll know how!—for looking out for me so wellwhile you were away. Will you?"

"I will," he promised slowly.

"He's coming downstairs—so good-by!" said she. She came around thetable to kiss him, and, suddenly smitten with a sense of youth andwell-being and the glory of the spring morning, she added a littlewistfully:

"I wonder what I've done to be so happy, Carey—I wonder what I've everdone to be so loved?"

"I wonder!" said Carey, smiling.

MISS MIX, KIDNAPPER

I

"Well, he has done it now, confound his nerve!" said Anthony Fox, Sr.,in a tone of almost triumphant fury. He spread the loosely writtensheets of a long letter on the breakfast table. "Here I am, just out ofa sick-bed!" he pursued fretfully; "just home from a month's idlingabroad, and now I'll have to go away out to California to lick somesense into that young fool!"

"For Heaven's sake, Tony, don't get yourself all worked up!" saidhandsome, stately Mrs. Fox, much more concerned for father than forson. She sighed resignedly as she folded a flattering request from herclub for an address entitled, "Do We Forget Our Maids?" and gave himher full attention. "Read me the letter, dear," said she, placidly.

"Of course I always knew some woman would get hold of him," saidAnthony, Sr., fumbling blindly for his mouth with a bit of toast, hiseyes still on the letter; "but, by George, this sounds like CharlieRoss!"

"Woman!" repeated Mrs. Fox, with a relieved laugh. "Buddy's in love, ishe? Don't worry, Tony, it won't last! Of all boys in the world he's theleast likely to be foolish that way!"

"Of all boys in the world he's the kind that is easiest taken in!" saidhis father, dryly, securing the toast at last with a savage snap."H-m—she's his landlady! Keeps fancy fowls and takes boarders—ha!Says they rather hope to be married in June. This has quite a settledtone to it, for Buddy. I don't like the look of it!"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Fox, with dawning uneasiness. "You don't mean tosay he considers himself seriously engaged? At twenty! And to hislandlady, too—I never heard such nonsense! Buddy's in no position tomarry. Who IS the girl, anyway?"

"GIRL is good!" said the reader, bitterly. "She's thirty-two!"

Mrs. Fox, her hand hovering over a finger-bowl, grew rigid.

"Thirty-two!" she echoed blankly. Then sharply: "Anthony, do you thinkyou can stop it?"

"I'll do what I can, believe me!" he assured her grimly. "Yes, sir,she's thirty-two! By the way, Fanny, this letter's already a month old.Why haven't I had it before?"

"You told them to hold only the office mail while you were travelling,you know," Mrs. Fox reminded him. "That one evidently has beenfollowing you. Anthony, can Tony marry without your consent?"

"No-o, but of course he's of age in five months, and if she's got herhooks deep enough into him, she—oh, confound such a complication,anyway!"

"It looks to me as if she wanted his money," said Mrs. Fox.

"H-m!" said his father, again deep in the letter. "That's just occurredto you, has it? Poor old Buddy—poor old Bud!"

"Oh, he'll surely get over it," said Mrs. Fox, uncertainly.

"He may, but you can bet SHE won't! Not before they're married, anyway.No, Bud's the sort that gets it hard, when he does get it!" his fathersaid. "There's a final tone about the whole thing that I don't like.Listen to this!" He quoted from the letter with a rueful shake of thehead. "'I don't know what the darling girl sees in me, dad, but she hasturned down enough other fellows to know her own mind. At last Irealize what Mrs. Browning's wonderful sonnets—'"

"He DOESN'T say that?" ejacul*ted the listener, incredulously.

"'She doesn't know I am writing you,'" Mr. Fox read on grimly,"'because I don't want her to worry about your objecting. But you won'tobject when you know her. She doesn't care anything about money, andsays she will stick by me if we have to begin on aneighty-dollar-a-month job. You don't know how I love her, dad; it haschanged my whole life. It's not just because she's beautiful, and allthat. You will say that I am pretty young, but I know I can count onyou for some sort of job to begin with, and things will work out allright.'"

"H-m!" said Mrs. Fox. "Yes, you're right, Tony. This is serious!"

"All worked out, you see," said the man, gloomily, as he drummedabsently on the letter.

"Oh, Anthony, I can't help thinking of the Page boy, and that awfulwoman! Anthony, shall I go? Could I do any good if I went?"

"No," he said thoughtfully. "No, I'll go myself. Don't worry, Fanny,there's still time. Isn't it a curious thing that it's a quiet littlefellow like Bud that—well, we'll see what can be done. I'll talk tothis woman. She may think he has money of his own, you know. I'll buyher off if I can. Perhaps I can get him to go off somewhere with me fora trip. I'll see. Barker can look me up a train, and things here willhave to wait. You'll see about my things, will you, Fanny—have 'empacked? Oh, and here's the letter—pretty sick reading you'll find it!"

"Be gentle with him!" said Mrs. Fox, deep in the boy's letter."Thirty-two! Why, she might be his mother—in some countries she might,anyway. Anthony!"—her voice stopped him at the door—"IS her nameSally Mix?"

"Apparently," he said. "Can you beat it? It sounds like a drink!"

"Well," said Mrs. Fox, firmly, as if the name clenched the matter, "itmust be STOPPED, that's all! Sally Mix! I hope she's WHITE!"

II

Just a week later, in Palo Alto, California, Anthony Fox slammed thegate of Miss Mix's garden loudly behind him, and eyed the Mix homesteadwith disapproval. The house was square and white, with doors andwindows open to spring sunlight and air, and was surrounded by a gardenspace of flowers and trees and trim brick walks. The click of the gatebrought a maid to the doorway.

"Mr. Fox won't be here until noon," said the maid, in answer to hisquestion.

"Does Miss—could I see Miss Mix?" substituted Anthony, after amoment's thought.

He took a porch chair while she departed to find out.

"If you please," said the maid, suddenly reappearing, "Miss Mix issetting a Plymouth, and will you step right down?"

"Setting a—" scowled Anthony.

"Plymouth," supplied the maid, mildly.

Anthony eyed her suspiciously, but there was evidently nothingconcealed behind her innocence of manner. Finally he followed the pathshe indicated as leading to Miss Mix. He followed it past the house,past clothes drying on lines, past scattered apple trees withwhitewashed trunks, and down a board walk to the chicken yard.

No one was in sight. Anthony rattled the gate tentatively. A slim,neat, black Minorca fowl made an insulting remark about him to anotherhen. Both chuckled.

"Come in—come in and shut it!" called a clear voice from the interiorof the chicken house.

Anthony's jaw stiffened.

"May I speak to you?" he called, with as much dignity as a personshouting at an utter stranger across an unfamiliar chicken yard maycommand.

"Certainly! Come right in!" called the voice, briskly.

Seeing nothing else to do, Anthony unwillingly crossed the yard, andstepped into the pleasant, whitewashed gloom of the chicken house.Loose chaff was scattered on the floor, and whitewashed boxes lined thewalls. An adjoining shed held the roosts, which a few murmuring fowlswere looping with heavy flights.

As he entered, a young woman in blue linen shut a gray hen into a box,and turned a pleasantly inquiring glance upon him.

"Good morning!" she said, smiling. "I knew you would want to see thething sooner or later, so I asked Statia to show you right down here.Now, there's the trap"—she indicated a mass of loose chains and metalteeth on the floor—"and here's the key; but it simply WON'T work!"

Anthony was not following. He was staring at her. She was extremelypretty; that he had expected. But he had not expected thatshe—she—well, he was not prepared for this sort of a woman at all! Hemust go slow here. He—she—Bud—

"I beg your pardon," he interrupted himself to stammer apologetically,"I didn't catch—you were saying—"

"The trap!" she said, smiling.

"Ah, the trap!" repeated Anthony, inanely.

"Certainly!" she said, with a hint of impatience. Then, as he stillstared, she added quickly: "You're the man from Peterson's? From SanMateo? You came to fix it, didn't you?"

"Not at all," said Anthony, smiling. "I came from New York."

Light dawned in the girl's eyes. She gave a horrified laugh.

"Well, how stupid of me!" she ejacul*ted. "Of course, I thought youwere. I'm expecting a man to fix the trap, any day, and you sent noname. I bought this affair a week ago; there's a coon, or a fox, orsomething, that's been coming down from the hills after my pullets; butit won't work."

"I don't know anything about traps," said Anthony.

He was wondering how he had best introduce himself. The vague campaignthat he had outlined on those restless nights in the train would beuseless here, he had decided. As he spoke, he absently touched thetangled chains and bolts with his foot.

"Don't do that!" screamed Miss Mix.

At the same second there was a victorious convulsion of metal teeth,and Anthony found himself frantically jerking at his foot, which wasfast in the trap.

"Oh, you're caught! You are caught!" cried the girl, distressedly. "Oh,please don't hurt yourself tugging that way—you can't do it!"

Her eyes, full of concern and sympathy, met his for a second; then,suddenly, she broke into laughter.

"Why, confound the thing!" said Anthony, in pained surprise, as hestruggled and twisted. "How does it open?"

"It DOESN'T!" choked Miss Mix, her mirth quite beyond control, as shegave various futile little tugs and twitches at the trap. "That's thetrouble! The key never has had the slightest effect. Oh, I will NOTlaugh this way!" she upbraided herself sternly. "Bu—bu—but you didlook so—" She abruptly turned her back upon him for a moment, facinghim again with perfect calm, although with lashes still wet, andsuspicious little dimples about her mouth. "Now, I'll get you out of itimmediately," she assured him gravely; "and meanwhile I can't tell youhow sorry I am that—just sit on this box, you'll be more comfortable.I'll run and telephone a plumber, or some one." She paused in thedoorway. "But I don't know your name?"

"Appropriately enough, it's Fox," said he, briefly; "Anthony Fox."

Miss Mix gasped, opened her mouth, shut it without speaking, and gaspedagain. Then she sat down heavily on a box.

"Of New York—I see!" said she, but more as if speaking to herself thanto him. "Tony's father; he's written to you, and you've come all theway from New York to break it off. I see!" Desperation seemed to seizeher. "Oh, my heavenly day!" she ejacul*ted. "Why didn't I think ofthis? This serves me right, you know," she said seriously, bringing herattention to bear fully upon Anthony; "but let me tell you, Mr. Fox,that this is about the worst thing you could have done!"

"The worst!" said Anthony, dully.

He felt utterly stupefied.

"Absolutely," said she, calmly. "You know you only hasten a thing likethis by making an out-and-out fight of it. That's no way to stop it!"

"Are you Miss Mix?" said Anthony, feebly.

"I am." She nodded impatiently. "Sarah Mix."

"Then you and my son—" Anthony pursued patiently. "Didn't he write?Aren't you—"

"Engaged? Certainly we are," admitted the lady, with dignity. "And itwould no more than serve you right if we got married, after all!" sheadded, with a sudden smile.

Anthony liked the smile. He smiled broadly in return.

"IF you got married! Do you mean you don't intend to?"

"I see I'll have to tell you," said Miss Mix, suddenly castinghesitation to the winds. "Then we can talk. Yes, we're engaged, Mr.Fox. What else could I do? Anthony's twenty; one can't treat him quiteas if he were six. He's absolutely unable to take care of himself; andI've always liked him—always! How COULD I see a girl like MollieTemple—but of course you don't know her. She's with the 'Giddy Middy'company, playing in San Francisco now."

"No, I don't know her," said Mr. Fox, stiffly.

"Well," continued Miss Mix, "her mother lives here in Palo Alto, andMollie came home for September. Tony was just what she was looking for.A secret marriage, a sensational divorce, and alimony—Mollie asksnothing more of Fate! She made him her slave."

"Lord!" said Anthony.

"Every one was talking about it," continued Miss Mix; "but I neverdreamed of interfering until Thanksgiving, when the Temples planned aweek's house-party in Santa Cruz, and asked Tony to go. That would havesettled it; so I managed to see Tony, and from that day on I may say Inever let go of him. I took him about, I accompanied him when hesang—just big-sistered him generally! I'm thirty-two, you know, and Inever dreamed he would—but he DID. New Year's night, Mr. Fox. Well,then I either had to say no, and let him go again, or say yes, and holdhim. So I said yes. I couldn't stop him from planning, and I neverdreamed he'd write you! Now, do you begin to see?"

"I see," said Anthony, huskily.

He cleared his throat.

"Meanwhile," pursued Miss Mix, glowing delightedly in the sympathy ofher listener, "I introduced him to the Rogerses and the Peppers, andlots of jolly people, who are doing him a world of good. He goesabout—he's developing. And now, just as I began to hope that the timehad come when we could quietly break off our engagement, here YOU are,to make him feel in honor bound to stick to it!"

"Well, I am—" Anthony left it unfinished. "What can I do?" he askedmeekly.

"We'll find a plan somehow," said Miss Mix, approvingly. "But you mustbe got out first!"

"And meanwhile," said Anthony, awkwardly, "I don't really know how tothank you—"

"Oh, nonsense!" she said lightly. "You forget how fond I am of him!Now, I'll go up to the house, and—" Her confident voice faltered, andAnthony was astonished to see a look of dismay cross her face. "Oh, mygoodness gracious heavenly day!" she ejacul*ted softly. "Whatever shallwe do now? Now we never can get you out!"

"Then I'll stay in," laughed Anthony, philosophically.

Miss Mix echoed his laugh nervously. She glanced across the yard.

"It's that disgusting newspaper contest!" she said.

"That WHAT?"

"Please don't shout!" she begged, sitting down on her box again, "I'llexplain. You see, the San Francisco CALL, one of the big city dailies,has offered the job of being its local press representative to thecollege man who brings in the best newspaper story between now and thefirst of May—that's less than ten days. Of course, all the boys havegone crazy over it. It's a job that a boy could easily hold down withhis regular class work, and it might lead to a permanent position onthe paper's staff after graduation. About ten boys are workingfuriously for it, and all their friends are working for them. Tony'shelping Jerry Billings, and Jerry has already taken in a couple of goodstories, and has a good chance. This, of course, would land it!"

"What would?"

"Why, THIS!" She was laughing again. "Can't you see? Think of thehead-lines! Even your New York papers would play it up. Think of thechance to get funny! 'Old Fox in a Trap!' 'Goes to Bed with theChickens!' 'Iron King Plays Chanticleer!'"

"Thunder!" said Anthony, uncomfortably.

"There'd be no end of it, for you or me," said Miss Mix. "I know thistown."

"Yes, you're right!" agreed Anthony. "The idea is for me to sit hereuntil after the first of May, eh?" he continued uncertainly.

Her eyes danced.

"Oh, we MAY think of some other way!"

"Tony's not to be trusted, you think?"

"No-o! I wouldn't dare. He's simply mad to have Jerry win. He'd let itout involuntarily."

"The maid can go for a plumber?"

"Statia? She's working for Joe Bates. And both the boys in theplumber's shop are in college, anyway."

"You might telephone for a plumber from San Francisco?" suggestedAnthony, afterthought.

"Yes, I could do that." Miss Mix brightened. "No, I can't, either," shelamented. "Elsie White, the long-distance operator, is working for JoeBates, too." She meditated again for a space, then raised her head,listening. "They're calling me!" she whispered.

With a gesture for silence, she sprang to the door. Outside, some oneshouted:

"O Sally!"

"Hello, Tony!" she called hardily, in answer. "Lunch, is it? No, don'tcome down! I'm just coming up!"

With a warning glance over her shoulder for Anthony, she closed thedoor and was gone.

III

A long hour followed, the silence broken only by occasional lowcomments from the chickens, and by voices and footsteps coming andgoing on the side of the chicken house where the street lay. Anthony,his back against the rough wall, his hands in his pockets, had falleninto a smiling revery when Miss Mix suddenly returned. She carried aplate of luncheon, and two files.

"We are safe!" she reassured him. "The boys think I am playing bridge,and I've locked the gate on the inside. Now, files on parade!"

She tucked the filmy skirts of her white frock about her, sat down on abox, and began to grate away his bonds without an instant's delay. Herwarm, smooth hands he found very charming to watch. Loose strands ofhair fell across her flushed, smooth cheek. Anthony attacked his lunchwith sudden gayety.

"How much we have to talk about!" he said, observing contentedly thatfive minutes' filing made almost no impression upon his chains. Shecolored suddenly, but met his eyes with charming gravity.

"Haven't we?" she assented simply.

"Why, no, it won't break his heart, Mr. Fox. I think he'll even be alittle relieved to be able to go on serenely with the Peppers and theRogerses. He's having lovely times there!"

"Oh, if his mother had lived, of course I should have written to her;but I knew you were a very busy man, Mr. Fox. Tony hardly ever speaksof his Aunt Fanny. She's a great club woman, I know. So I had to do thebest I could."

"Why, I didn't think much about it, I suppose. But I certainly shouldhave said that Tony's father was more than forty-five!"

"Ye-es, I suppose it might. But—but what a very funny subject for usto get on! I suppose—look at that white hen coming in, Mr. Fox! She'smy prize winner. Isn't she a beauty?"

"Yes, indeed, he's all of that, dear old Tony! And then, as I say, hereminded me of—of that other, you know, years ago. I was onlynineteen, hardly more than a child, but the memory is very sweet, andit made me want to be a good friend to Tony!"

"There's the six o'clock bell, and you're all but free! Now, I'll letyou out by this door, on the street side, and you can find your hotel?Then, when you call this evening, we needn't say anything of this. Ithasn't been such a long afternoon, has it?"

Just after dinner, as Miss Mix and her youthful fiance were sitting onthe porch in the spring twilight, a visitor entered the garden from thestreet. At sight of him, the boy sprang to his feet with a cry of "Dad!"

Miss Mix was introduced, and to young Tony's delight, she and hisfather chatted as comfortably as old friends. Presently, when JerryBillings appeared with an invitation for the lady to accompany him tothe post office for possible mail, father and son were left alonetogether.

Young Anthony beamed at his father's praise of his choice, but hiscomments seemed to come more easily on other matters. He told hisfather of the Rogers boys, of the Pepper girls, and of tennis andtheatricals, and spoke hopefully of a possible camping trip with thesefriends.

"When did you think of announcing your engagement, Bud?"

The boy shifted in his chair, and laughed uneasily.

"Sally doesn't want to," he temporized, adding shyly, after a minute'ssilence, "and I didn't think you'd be in any hurry, dad!"

"But look here, son, you wrote that you planned being married in June!"

There was a pause. Then the boy said:

"I did think so; but now I don't see how we can. Sally sees that, too.I can't get married until I have a good job, and I've got another yearhere. We don't want to tell every one and then have to wait two orthree years, do we, sir?"

"H-m!" said his father. "And yet you don't want to ask me to supportyou and your wife for indefinite years, Bud?"

Bud squeezed his father's hand.

"I'll never ask you to do that!" he promised promptly.

IV

A week drifted pleasantly over the college town, and still no definitestep had been taken in the matter that had carried Anthony Fox over somany weary miles of country. If business matters in the Eastern citygave him any concern, he gave no sign of it to young Anthony or Sally,seeming entirely content with the passing moment.

The three were constantly together, except when the boy was in theclass-room. During these intervals Miss Mix piloted her friend's fatherover lovely Palo Alto; they visited museum and library together, tookdrives and walks. One long evening was spent at the Peppers', whereyoung Anthony was the centre of a buzzing and hilarious group, andwhere Sally, with her black evening gown and her violin, presented anentirely new phase.

On the evening of a certain glorious day, to young Anthony, sitting insilence on the porch steps, came Sally, who seated herself beside him.

"Tony," said she, firmly, "what have we decided about our engagement?"

Young Anthony eyed her expectantly, almost nervously, but he did notspeak.

"We must either announce it or NOT announce it, Tony!"

"Why, you see, Sally," said Anthony, after a pause, "I wanted to, awhile back, but—"

"I know you did," she said heartily, to his great relief.

"But now," he pursued slowly, "it would look pretty funny to theRogerses, and the Peppers, and all, you know. JUST now, I mean. I'vebeen up there all the time, right in things, and I've never said aword—"

"Well, well!" said a voice behind them; and to the unspeakableconfusion of both, Jerry Billings rose from a porch chair and came downto them.

"I couldn't help hearing," explained that gentleman, joyously. "I wasthere first. I wish you joy, children. Miss Sally, here's my bestwishes! I never dreamed you two—and yet I knew SOMETHING had broughtfather all the way from New York. But I never dreamed of this! Thisought to land me the Call job, all right! Hasn't that occurred toeither of you? Why, nobody has turned in anything to touch it!" Helooked at his watch. "I had better be getting down there, too," he saidexcitedly. "Tomorrow's the first of May, by George! and I've got to getany stuff in by ten. And there I've been sitting, cursing my luck foran hour! Here goes!"

"Look here, Jerry," began Sally and Anthony together, "look here—"

"You mean you don't want it announced?" said Mr. Billings, blankly. Apained look clouded the radiance of his face. "Isn't it TRUE?"

"We don't wish it announced yet," said Sally, feebly, as Anthony wassilent.

"I call that pretty mean!" ejacul*ted Mr. Billings, after a pause."It's TRUE," he went on aggrievedly. "I landed it—every old woman intown will be on to it in a few weeks—it's a corking job for me—everyone's wondering what Mr. Fox is doing here—and now you two hang back,just because you've not had time to tell your friends! Aw, be sports,"he said ingratiatingly. "PLEASE, Miss Sally! I'd do as much for youtwo. You know I may not be able to make it at all, next year, if Ihaven't a job! I can have it, can't I? I get it, don't I, Tony? What doyou two care—you've got what YOU want—"

"Oh, take your scoop!" half groaned young Anthony Fox.

Sally began to laugh, but it was curiously shaken laughter. Mr.Billings wisely seized this moment for a rapid departure. Mr. Fox,coming to the door a moment later, found the others silent on the steps.

"Now we are in for it!" said Sally, ruefully, as they made room for himbetween them. "What shall we do? Jerry's got it for the Call—wecouldn't LIE about it! And, oh, we CAN'T have it in print to-morrow!Can you—can't you stop it?"

"Too late now!" said young Anthony, with a bad attempt at unconcern.

"Tell me what happened," said his father.

The recent developments were rapidly reviewed, and then Sally, removingherself and her wide-spreading ruffles to young Anthony's side of thesteps, so that she might from time to time give his hand anaffectionate and enlightening squeeze, confessed the deception of herengagement to him, and, with her blue eyes very close to his, asked himmeekly to forgive her.

Young Anthony's forgiveness was a compound of boyish hurt andundisguised relief. It is probable that at no moment of theirfriendship had she seemed more dear to him.

"But—there's Jerry!" said Sally, suddenly, smitten with unpleasantrecollection in the midst of this harmonious readjustment. "He—heheard, you know. And we can't deny THAT, and it means so much to him!He'll have telephoned up to town by this time, and the Call will run itanyway—newspaper editors are such beasts about those things!"

And again she and young Anthony drooped, and clung to each other'shands.

"I have been thinking," said the other Anthony, slowly, "that I see away out of this. I HOPE I see one! I'd like—I'd like to discuss itwith Miss Sally. If you'll just step down to the—the chicken yard,Bud, for five minutes, say. We'll call you. And it's just possible thatwe can—can arrange matters."

Half an hour later, Jerry Billings succeeded a second time in gettingthe city editor of the Call on the long-distance wire.

"Hello, Mr. Watts! Say, about that engagement of young Fox, Mr. Watts,"he began.

"Well, what's the matter with it?" came back the editor's voice,sharply.

"Nothing's the matter with it," said Jerry, "only it's better than Ithought! It's—it's old Fox that Miss Mix is going to marry! Old A.F.himself!"

"Who said so?" snapped the other.

"Fox did."

"FOX?"

"Yes, sir. He just telephoned to me. Gave me the whole thing. Said hewanted it to be published straight."

There was a pregnant silence for a few moments, then:

"This is no jolly, Billings? It's big stuff if it's true, you know."

"Oh, it's true enough," said Jerry, trying to control his voice.

"Well, we've got his picture—I'm sure!" said Mr. Watts, calmly. Thenin obedience to Mr. Watts' curt "Hold the wire!" Jerry, with thereceiver pressed to his ear, heard the city editor's voice on anothertelephone on his desk talking presumably to the make-up man on the nextfloor.

"Hello, Frank!" said Watts. "Tell Mike Williams to run that suffragettestuff on the third page. I've got a big story. I want room for a doublecut and a column on the front!"

Then: "Hello, Billings! You telephone me six hundred words on thisthing inside of an hour. No frills you understand. Just give me thestraight facts. We'll fix the yarn up here."

SHANDON WATERS

"For mercy's sakes, here comes Shandon Waters!" said Jane Dinwoodie, ofthe post-office, leaving her pigeonholes to peer through the one smallwindow of that unpretentious building. "Mother, here's Shandon Watersdriving into town with the baby!" breathed pretty Mary Dickey, puttingan awed face into the sitting-room. "I declare that looks terrible likeShandon!" ejacul*ted Johnnie Larabee, straightening up at her wash-tubsand shading her eyes with her hand. "Well, what on earth brought her upto town!" said all Deaneville, crowding to the windows and doorways andhalting the march of the busy Monday morning to watch a mud-spatteredcart come bumping up and down over the holes in the little main street.

The woman—or girl, rather, for she was but twenty—who sat in the cartwas in no way remarkable to the eye. She had a serious, even sullenface, and a magnificent figure, buttoned just now into a tan ulsterthat looked curiously out of keeping with her close, heavy widow'sbonnet and hanging veil. Sprawled luxuriously in her lap, with one fat,idle little hand playing above her own gauntleted one on the reins, wasa splendid child something less than a year old, snugly coated andcapped against the cool air of a California February. She watched himclosely as she drove, not moving her eyes from his little face even fora glance at the village street.

Poor Dan Waters had been six months in his grave, now, and this was thefirst glimpse Deaneville had had of his widow. For an unbroken halfyear she had not once left the solitude of the big ranch down by themarsh, or spoken to any one except her old Indian woman servant and thevarious "hands" in her employ.

She had been, in the words of Deaneville, "sorta nutty" since herhusband's death. Indeed, poor Shandon had been "sorta nutty" all herlife. Motherless at six, and allowed by her big, half civilized fatherto grow up as wild as the pink mallow that fringed the home marshes,she was regarded with mingled horror and pity by the well-orderedDeaneville matrons. Jane Dinwoodie and Mary Dickey could well rememberthe day she was brought into the district school, her mutinous blackeyes gleaming under a shock of rough hair, her clumsy little aprontripping her with its unaccustomed strings. The lonely child had beenfrantic for companionship, and her direct, even forceful attempts atfriendship had repelled and then amused the Deaneville children. Asunfortunate chance would have it, it was shy, spoiled, adored littleMary Dickey that Shandon instantly selected for especial worship, andMary, already bored by admiration, did not like it. But the littlepeople would have adjusted matters in their own simple fashionpresently had they been allowed to do so. It was the well-meantinterference of the teacher that went amiss. Miss Larks explained tothe trembling little newcomer that she mustn't smile at Mary, that shemustn't leave her seat to sit with Mary: it was making poor Mary cry.

Shandon listened to her with rising emotion, a youthful titter or twofrom different parts of the room pointing the moral. When the teacherhad finished, she rose with a sudden scream of rage, flung her newslate violently in one direction, her books in another, and departed,kicking the stove over with a well-directed foot as she left. Thus shebecame a byword to virtuous infancy, and as the years went by, and herwild beauty and her father's wealth grew apace, Deaneville grew lessand less charitable in its judgment of her. Shandon lived in a housefulof men, her father's adored companion and greatly admired by the roughcattle men who came yearly to buy his famous stock.

When her father died, a little wave of pity swept over Deaneville, andmore than one kind-hearted woman took the five-mile drive down to theBell Ranch ready to console and sympathize. But no one saw her. Thegirl, eighteen now, clung more to her solitude than ever, spendingwhole days and nights in lonely roaming over the marsh and the lowmeadows, like some frantic sick animal.

Only Johnnie Larabee, the warm-hearted little wife of the village hotelkeeper, persevered and was rewarded by Shandon's bitter confidence,given while they rode up to the ridge to look up some roaming steer,perhaps, or down by the peach-cutting sheds, while Shandon supervised ahundred "hands." Shandon laughed now when she recounted the events ofthose old unhappy childish days, but Johnnie did not like the laughter.The girl always asked particularly for Mary Dickey, her admirers, herclothes, her good times.

"No wonder she acts as if there wasn't anybody else on earth but her!"would be Shandon's dry comment.

It was Johnnie who "talked straight" to Shandon when big Dan Watersbegan to haunt the Bell Ranch, and who was the only witness of theirlittle wedding, and the only woman to kiss the unbride-like bride.

After that even, Johnnie lost sight of her for the twelve happy monthsthat Big Dan was spared to her. Little Dan came, welcomed by no moreskillful hands than the gentle big ones of his wondering father and thepractised ones of the old Indian. And Shandon bought hats that werelaughed at by all Deaneville, and was tremulously happy in a clumsy,unused fashion.

And then came the accident that cost Big Dan his life. It was all ahideous blur to Shandon—a blur that enclosed the terrible, swift tripto Sacramento, with the blinking little baby in the hollow of her arm,and the long wait at the strange hospital. It was young Doctor Lowell,of Deaneville, who decided that only an operation could save Dan, andDoctor Lowell who performed it. And it was through him that Shandonlearned, in the chill dawn, that the gallant fight was lost. She didnot speak again, but, moving like a sleepwalker, reached blindly forthe baby, pushed aside the hands that would have detained her, and wentstumbling out into the street. And since that day no one in Deanevillehad been able to get close enough to speak to her. She did not go toDan's funeral, and such sympathizers as tried to find her were rewardedby only desolate glimpses of the tall figure flitting along the edge ofthe marshes like a hunted bird. A month old, little Danny accompaniedhis mother on these restless wanderings, and many a time his littlemottled hand was strong enough to bring her safely home when no otherwould have availed.

Her old Chinese "boy" came into the village once a week, and paidcertain bills punctiliously from a little canvas bag that was stuffedfull of gold pieces; but Fong was not a communicative person, andDeaneville languished for direct news. Johnnie, discouraged byfruitless attempts to have a talk with the forlorn young creature, hadto content herself with sending occasional delicacies from her ownkitchen and garden to Shandon, and only a week before this brightFebruary morning had ventured a note, pinned to the napkin that wrappeda bowl of cream cheese. The note read:

Don't shorten Danny too early, Shandy. Awful easy for babies to ketchcold this weather.

Of all the loitering curious men and women at doors and windows and inthe street, Johnnie was the only one who dared speak to her to-day.Mrs. Larabee was dressed in the overalls and jersey that simplifiedboth the dressing and the labor of busy Monday mornings; her sleekblack hair arranged fashionably in a "turban swirl." She ran out to thecart with a little cry of welcome, a smile on her thin, brown face thatwell concealed the trepidation this unheard-of circ*mstance caused her."Lord, make me say the right thing!" prayed Johnnie, fervently. Mrs.Waters saw her coming, stopped the big horse, and sat waiting. Her eyeswere wild with a sort of savage terror, and she was trembling violently.

"Well, how do, Shandon?" said Mrs. Larabee, cheerfully. Then her eyesfell on the child, and she gave a dramatic start. "Never you tell methis is Danny!" said she, sure of her ground now. "Well,you—old—buster—you! He's IMMENSE, ain't he, Shandon?"

"Isn't he?" stammered Shandon, nervously.

"He's about the biggest feller for nine months I ever saw," said Mrs.Larabee, generously. "He could eat Thelma for breakfast!"

"Johnnie—and he ain't quite seven yet!" protested Shandon, eagerly.

Mrs. Larabee gave her an astonished look, puckered up her forehead,nodded profoundly.

"That's right," she said. Then she dragged the wriggling small bodyfrom Shandon's lap and held the wondering, soft little face against herown.

"You come to Aunt Johnnie a minute," said she, "you fat old muggins!Look at him, Shandon. He knows I'm strange. Yes, 'course you do! Hewants to go back to you, Shandy. Well, what do you know about that?Say, dearie," continued Mrs. Larabee, in a lower tone, "you've got aterrible handsome boy, and what's more, he's Dan's image."

Mrs. Waters gathered the child close to her heart. "He's awful like Danwhen he smiles," said she, simply. And for the first time their eyesmet. "Say, thank you, for the redishes and the custard pie and thatcheese, Johnnie," said Shandon, awkwardly, but her eyes thanked thisone friend for much more.

"Aw, shucks!" said Johnnie, gently, as she dislodged a drying clod ofmud from the buggy robe. There was a moment's constrained silence, thenShandon said suddenly:

"Johnnie, what d'you mean by 'shortening' him?"

"Puttin' him in short clothes, dearie. Thelma's been short sinceGran'ma Larabee come down at Christmas," explained the other, briskly.

"I never knew about that," said Mrs. Waters, humbly. "Danny's the firstlittle kid I ever touched. Lizzie Tom tells me what the Indians do, andfor the rest I just watch him. I toast his feet good at the fire everynight, becuz Dan said his mother useter toast his; and whenever the suncomes out, I take his clothes off and leave him sprawl in it, but Iguess I miss a good deal." She finished with a wistful,half-questioning inflection, and Mrs. Larabee did not fail her.

"Don't ask me, when he's as big and husky as any two of mine!" saidshe, reassuringly. "I guess you do jest about right. But, Shandy,you've got to shorten him."

"Well, what'll I get?" asked Shandon.

Mrs. Larabee, in her element, considered.

"You'll want about eight good, strong calico rompers," she beganauthoritatively. Then suddenly she interrupted herself. "Say, why don'tyou come over to the hotel with me now," she suggestedenthusiastically. "I'm just finishing my wash, and while I wrench outthe last few things you can feed the baby; than I'll show you Thelma'sthings, and we can have lunch. Then him and Thel can take their naps,and you 'n' me'll go over to Miss Bates's and see what we can git.You'll want shoes for him, an' a good, strong hat—"

"Oh, honest, Johnnie—" Shandon began to protest hurriedly, in herhunted manner, and with a miserable glance toward the home road. "MaybeI'll come up next week, now I know what you meant—"

"Shucks! Next week nobody can talk anything but wedding," said Johnnie,off guard.

"Whose wedding?" Shandon asked, and Johnnie, who would have preferredto bite her tongue out, had to answer, "Mary Dickey's."

"Who to?" said Shandon, her face darkening. Johnnie's voice was verylow.

"To the doc', Shandy; to Arnold Lowell."

"Oh!" said Shandon, quietly. "Big wedding, I suppose, and whitedresses, and all the rest?"

"Sure," said Johnnie, relieved at her pleasant interest, and warming tothe subject. "There'll be five generations there. Parker's making thecake in Sacramento. Five of the girls'll be bridesmaids—Mary Bell andCarrie and Jane and the two Powell girls. Poor Mrs. Dickey, she feelsreal bad. She—"

"She don't want to give Mary up?" said Shandon, in a hard voice. Shebegan to twist the whip about in its socket. "Well, some people haveeverything, it seems. They're pretty, and their folks are crazy about'em, and they can stand up and make a fuss over marrying a man who asgood as killed some other woman's husband,—a woman who didn't have anyone else either."

"Shandy," said Johnnie, sharply, "ain't you got Danny?"

Something like shame softened the girl's stern eyes. She dropped herface until her lips rested upon the little fluffy fringe that markedthe dividing line between Danny's cap and Danny's forehead.

"Sure I have," she said huskily. "But I've—I've always sort of had itin for Mary Dickey, Johnnie, I suppose becuz she IS so perfect, and socool, and treats me like I was dirt—jest barely sees me, that's all!"

Johnnie answered at random, for she was suddenly horrified to see Dr.Lowell and Mary Dickey themselves come out of the post-office. Beforeshe could send them a frantic signal of warning, the doctor came towardthe cart.

"How do you do, Mrs. Waters?" said he, holding out his hand.

Shandon brought her startled eyes from little Danny's face. The child,with little eager grunts and frowning concentration, was busy with theclasp of her pocketbook, and her big, gentle hand had been guarding itfrom his little, wild ones. The sight of the doctor's face brought backher bitterest memories with a sick rush, at a moment when her endurancewas strained to the utmost. HE had decreed that Dan should be operatedon, HE had decided that she should not be with him, HE had come to tellher that the big, protecting arm and heart were gone forever—and nowhe had an early buttercup in his buttonhole, and on his lips the lastof the laughter that he had just been sharing with Mary Dickey! AndMary, the picture of complacent daintiness, was sauntering on, waitingfor him.

Shandon was not a reasonable creature. With a sound between a snarl anda sob she caught the light driving whip from its socket and brought thelash fairly across the doctor's smiling face. As he started back, stungwith intolerable pain, she lashed in turn the nervous horse, and inanother moment the cart and its occupants were racketing down the homeroad again.

"And now we never WILL git no closer to Shandon Waters!" said JohnnieLarabee, regretfully, for the hundredth time. It was ten days later,and Mrs. Larabee and Mrs. Cass Dinwoodie were high up on the wet hills,gathering cream-colored wild iris for the Dickey wedding that night.

"And serve her right, too!" said Mrs. Dinwoodie, severely. "A greatgirl like that lettin' fly like a child."

"She's—she's jest the kind to go crazy, brooding as she does," Mrs.Larabee submitted, almost timidly. She had been subtly pleadingShandon's cause for the past week, but it was no use. The last outragehad apparently sealed her fate so far as Deaneville was concerned. Now,straightening her cramped back and looking off toward the valleys belowthem, Mrs. Larabee said suddenly:

"That looks like Shandon down there now."

Mrs. Dinwoodie's eyes followed the pointing finger. She coulddistinguish a woman's moving figure, a mere speck on the road far below.

"Sure it is," said she. "Carryin' Dan, too."

"My goo'ness," said Johnnie, uneasily, "I wish she wouldn't take themcrazy walks. I don't suppose she's walking up to town?"

"I don't know why she should," said Mrs. Dinwoodie, dryly, "with thehorses she's got. I don't suppose even Shandon would attempt to carrythat great child that far, cracked as she seems to be!"

"I don't suppose we could drive home down by the marsh road?" Johnnieasked. Mrs. Dinwoodie looked horrified.

"Johnnie, are you crazy yourself?" she demanded. "Why, child, Mary'sgoing to be married at half-past seven, and there's the five-o'clocktrain now."

The older matron made all haste to "hitch up," sending not even anotherlook into the already shadowy valley. But Johnnie's thoughts were thereall through the drive home, and even when she started with her beaminghusband and her four young children to the wedding she was stillthinking of Shandon Waters.

The Dickey home was all warmth, merriment, and joyous confusion. Threeor four young matrons, their best silk gowns stretched to bursting overtheir swelling bosoms, went busily in and out of the dining-room. Inthe double parlors guests were gathering with the laughter and kissingthat marked any coming together of these hard-working folk. Starchedand awed little children sat on the laps of mothers and aunts, blinkingat the lamps; the very small babies were upstairs, some drowsilyenjoying a late supper in their mothers' arms, others already deep insleep in Mrs. Dickey's bed. The downstairs rooms and the stairway weredecorated with wilting smilax and early fruit-blossoms.

To Deaneville it seemed quite natural that Dr. Lowell, across whoseface the scar of Shandon Waters' whip still showed a dull crimson,should wait for his bride at the foot of the hall stairway, and thatMary's attendants should keep up a continual coming and going betweenthe room where she was dressing and the top of the stairs, and shouldhave a great many remarks to make to the young men below. Presently alittle stir announced the clergyman, and a moment later every one couldhear Mary Dickey's thrilling young voice from the upper hallway:

"Arnold, mother says was that Dr. Lacey?"

And every one could hear Dr. Lowell's honest, "Yes, dear, it was," andMary's fluttered, diminishing, "All right!"

Rain began to beat noisily on the roof and the porches. Johnnie Larabeecame downstairs with Grandpa and Grandma Arnold, and Rosamund Dinwoodieat the piano said audibly, "Now, Johnnie?"

There was expectant silence in the parlors. The whole house was sosilent in that waiting moment that the sound of sudden feet on theporch and the rough opening of the hall door were a startlingly loudinterruption.

It was Shandon Waters, who came in with a bitter rush of storm and wetair. She had little Dan in her arms. Drops of rain glittered on herhanging braids and on the shawl with which the child was wrapped, andbeyond her the wind snarled and screamed like a disappointed animal.She went straight through the frightened, parting group to Mrs.Larabee, and held out the child.

"Johnnie," she said in a voice of agony, utterly oblivious of hersurroundings, "Johnnie, you've always been my friend! Danny's sick!"

"Shandon,—for pity's sake!" ejacul*ted little Mrs. Larabee, reachingout her arms for Danny, her face shocked and protesting and pitying allat once, "Why, Shandy, you should have waited for me over at thehotel," she said, in a lower tone, with a glance at the incongruousscene. Then pity for the anguished face gained mastery, and she addedtenderly, "Well, you poor child, you, was this where you was walkingthis afternoon? My stars, if I'd only known! Why on earth didn't youdrive?"

"I couldn't wait!" said Shandon, hoarsely. "We were out in the woods,and Lizzie she gave Danny some mushrooms. And when I looked he—hislittle mouth—" she choked. "And then he began to have sorta cramps,and kinda doubled up, Johnnie, and he cried so queer, and I jeststarted up here on a run. He—JOHNNIE!" terror shook her voice when shesaw the other's face, "Johnnie, is he going to die?" she said.

"Mushrooms!" echoed Mrs. Larabee, gravely, shaking her head. And ascore of other women looking over her shoulder at the child, who laybreathing heavily with his eyes shut, shook their heads, too.

"You'd better take him right home with me, dearie," Mrs. Larabee saidgently, with a significant glance at the watching circle. "We oughtn'tto lose any time."

Dr. Lowell stepped out beside her and gently took Danny in his arms.

"I hope you'll let me carry him over there for you, Mrs. Waters," saidhe. "There's no question that he's pretty sick. We've got a hard fightahead."

There was a little sensation in the room, but Shandon only looked athim uncomprehendingly. In her eyes there was the dumb thankfulness ofthe dog who knows himself safe with friends. She wet her lips and triedto speak. But before she could do so, the doctor's mother touched hisarm half timidly and said:

"Arnold, you can't very well—surely, it's hardly fair to Mary—"

"Mary—?" he answered her quickly. He raised his eyes to where hiswife-to-be, in a startled group of white-clad attendants, was standinghalfway down the stairway.

She looked straight at Shandon, and perhaps at no moment in their livesdid the two women show a more marked contrast; Shandon muddy,exhausted, haggard, her sombre eyes sick with dread, Mary's alwaysfragile beauty more ethereal than ever under the veil her mother hadjust caught back with orange blossoms. Shandon involuntarily flung outher hand toward her in desperate appeal.

"Couldn't you—could you jest wait till he sees Danny?" she faltered.

Mary ran down the remaining steps and laid her white hand on Shandon's.

"If it was ten weddings, we'd wait, Shandon!" said she, her voicethrilling with the fellowship of wifehood and motherhood to come."Don't worry, Shandon. Arnold will fix him. Poor little Danny!" saidMary, bending over him. "He's not awful sick, is he, Arnold? Mother,"she said, turning, royally flushed, to her stupefied mother, "everyone'll have to wait. Johnnie and Arnold are going to fix up Shandon'sbaby."

"I don't see the slightest need of traipsing over to the hotel," saidMrs. Dickey, almost offended, as at a slight upon her hospitality."Take him right up to the spare room, Arnold. There ain't no noisethere, it's in the wing. And one of you chil'ren run and tell Aggie wewant hot water, and—what else? Well, go ahead and tell her that,anyway."

"Leave me carry him up," said one big, gentle father, who had tuckedhis own baby up only an hour ago. "I've got a kimmoner in my bag," oldMrs. Lowell said to Shandon. "It's a-plenty big enough for you. You gitdry and comfortable before you hold him." "Shucks! Lloydy ate a greencherry when he wasn't but four months old," said one consoling voice toShandon. "He's got a lot of fight in him," said another. "My Olive gotan inch screw in her throat," contributed a third. Mrs. Larabee said ina low tone, with her hand tight upon Shandon's shaking one, "He'll bejest about fa*gged out when the doctor's done with him, dearie, and ashungry as a hunter. Don't YOU git excited, or he'll be sick all overagain."

Crowding solicitously about her, the women got her upstairs and intodry clothing. This was barely accomplished when Mary Dickey came intothe room, in a little blue cotton gown, to take her to Danny.

"Arnold says he's got him crying, and that's a good sign, Shandon,"said Mary. "And he says that rough walk pro'bly saved him."

Shandon tried to speak again, but failed again, and the two girls wentout together. Mary presently came back alone, and the lessened but notuncheerful group downstairs settled down to a vigil. Various reportsdrifted from the sick-room, but it was almost midnight before Mrs.Larabee came down with definite news.

"How is he?" echoed Johnnie, sinking into a chair. "Give me a cup ofthat coffee, Mary. That's a good girl. Well, say, it looks like youcan't kill no Deaneville child with mushrooms. He's asleep now. Butsay, he was a pretty sick kid! Doc' looks like something the catbrought home, and I'm about dead, but Danny seems to feel real chipper.And EAT! And of course that poor girl looks like she'd inherited theearth, as the Scriptures say. The ice is what you might call brokenbetween the whole crowd of us and Shandon Waters. She's sitting thereholding Danny and smiling softly at any one who peeks in!" And, hervoice thickening suddenly with tears on the last words, Mrs. Larabeeburst out crying and fumbled in her unaccustomed grandeur for ahandkerchief.

Mary Dickey and Arnold Lowell were married just twenty-four hours laterthan they had planned, the guests laughing joyously at the wilteddecorations and stale sandwiches. After the ceremony the bride andbridegroom went softly up stairs, and the doctor had a last approvinglook at the convalescent Danny.

Mary, almost oppressed by the sense of her own blessedness on this dayof good wishes and affectionate demonstration, would have gentlydetached her husband's arm from her waist as they went to the door,that Shandon might not be reminded of her own loss and aloneness.

But the doctor, glancing back, knew that in Shandon's thoughts to-daythere was no room for sorrow. Her whole body was curved about the childas he lay in her lap, and her adoring look was intent upon him. Dannywas smiling up at his mother in a blissful interval, his soft littlehand lying upon her contented heart.

GAYLEY THE TROUBADOUR

Through the tremulous beauty of the California woods, in the silentApril afternoon, came Sammy Peneyre, riding Clown. The horse chose hisown way on the corduroy road, for the rider was lost in dreams. Clownwas a lean old dapple gray so far advanced in years and ailments thatwhen Doctor Peneyre had bought him, the year before, the dealer hadfelt constrained to remark:

"He's better'n he looks, Doc'. You'll get your seven dollars' worth outof him yet!"

To which the doctor had amiably responded:

"Your saying so makes me wonder if I WILL, Joe. However, I'll have myboy groom him and feed him, and we'll see!"

But, as Clown had stubbornly refused to respond to grooming andfeeding, he was, like other despised and discarded articles, voted bythe Peneyre family quite good enough for Sammy, and Sammy accepted himgratefully.

The spirit of spring was affecting them both to-day—a brilliant dayafter long weeks of rain. Sammy whistled softly. Clown coquetted withthe bit, danced under the touch of the whip, and finally took the steepmountain road with such convulsive springs as jolted his riderviolently from dreams.

"Why, you fool, are you trying to run away?" said Sammy, suddenly aliveto the situation. The road here was a mere shelf on the slope of themountain, constantly used by descending lumber teams, and dangerous atall times. A runaway might easily be fatal. Sammy pulled at the bit;but, at the first hard tug, the old bridle gave way, and Clown,maddened by a stinging blow from the loose flying end of the strap,bolted blindly ahead.

Terrified now, Sammy clung to the pommel and shouted. The trees flewby; great clods of mud were flung up by the horse's feet. From far upthe road could be heard the creaking of a lumber team and the crack ofthe lumberman's long whip.

"My Lord!" said Sammy, aloud, in a curious calm, "we'll never passTHAT!"

And then, like a flash, it was all over. Clown, suddenly freed from hisrider, galloped violently for a moment, stopped, snorted suspiciously,galloped another twenty feet, and stood still, his broken bridledangling rakishly over one eye. Sammy, dragged from the saddle at thecrucial instant to the safety of Anthony Gayley's arms, as he broughthis own horse up beside her, wriggled to the ground.

"That was surely going some!" said Anthony, breathing hard. "Hurt?"

"No-o!" said Sammy. But she leaned against the tall, big fellow, as hestood beside her, and was glad of his arm about her shoulders.

They had known each other by sight for years, but this was the firstspeech between them. Anthony suddenly realized that the doctor'syoungest daughter, with her shy, dark eyes and loosened silky braids,had grown from an awkward child into a very pretty girl. Sammy,glancing up, thought—what every other woman in Wheatfieldthought—that Anthony Gayley was the handsomest man she had ever seen,in his big, loose corduroys, with a sombrero on the back of his tawnyhead.

"I was awfully afraid I'd grate against your leg," said the boy, withhis sunny smile; "but I couldn't stop to figure it out. I just had tohustle!"

"There's a lumber wagon ahead there," Sammy said. "I'm—I'm very muchobliged to you!"

They both laughed. Presently Anthony made the girl mount his ownbeautiful mare.

"Ride duch*ess home. I'll take your horse," said he.

"Oh, no, indeed; PLEASE don't bother!" protested Sammy, eagerly.

But Anthony only laughed and gave her a hand up. Sammy settled herselfon the Spanish saddle with a sigh of satisfaction.

"I've always wanted to ride your horse!" said she, delightedly, as thebig muscles moved smoothly under her.

Anthony smiled. "She's the handsomest mare here-abouts," said he. "Iwouldn't take a thousand dollars for her!"

Sammy watched him deftly repair the broken bridle of the now docile andcrestfallen Clown, and spring to the saddle.

"I'm taking you out of your way!" she pleaded, and he answered gravely:

"Oh, no; I'll be much happier seeing you safe home."

When they reached her gate, the two changed horses, and Sammy rodeslowly up the dark driveway alone. Even on this brilliant afternoon theold Peneyre place looked dull and gloomy. Dusty dark pines andeucalyptus trees grew close about the house. There was no garden, buthere and there an unkempt geranium or rank great bush of margueritessprawled in the uncut grass, and rose bushes, long grown wild, stood inspraying clusters that were higher than a man's head. Pampas trees,dirty and overgrown, outlined the drive at regular intervals, theirshabby plumes uncut from year to year.

The house was heavy, bay-windowed, three-storied. Ugly, immense,unfriendly, it struck an inharmonious note in the riotous free growthof the surrounding woods. The dark entrance-hall was flanked by alibrary full of obsolete, unread books, and by double drawing-rooms,rarely opened now. All the windows on the ground floor were darkened bythe shrubbery outside and by heavy red draperies within.

Sammy, entering a side door, seemed to leave the day's brightnessbehind her. The air indoors was chill, flat. A half-hearted little coalfire flickered in the grate, and Koga was cleaning silver at the table.Sammy took David Copperfield from the mantel and settled herself in agreat chair.

"Koga, you go fix Clown now," she suggested.

Koga beamed assent. Departing, he wrestled with a remark: "Oh! Niseday. I sink so."

Sammy agreed. "You don't have weather like this in Japan in April!"

"Oh, yis," said Koga, and, drunk with the joy of speech, he added: "Isink so. Awe time nise in Jap-pon! I sink so."

"All the time nice in Japan?" echoed Sammy, lazily. "Oh, what a story!"

But Koga was convulsed with innocent mirth. However excruciating theeffort, he had produced a remark in English. He retired, repeatingbetween spasms of enjoyment: "Oh, I sink so. Awe time nise in Jap-pon!"

The day dragged on, to all outward seeming like all of Sammy's days.Twilight made her close her book and straighten her bent shoulders.Pong came in to set the table. The slamming of the hall door announcedher father.

Presently Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper, came downstairs. Lamps werelighted; dinner loitered its leisurely way. After it the doctor set upone of his endless chess problems on the end of the table, and Sammyreturned to David Copperfield.

"Father, you know Anthony Gayley—that young carpenter in Torney'sshop?"

"I do, my dear."

"Well, Clown ran away to-day, and he really saved me from a bad smash."

A long pause.

"Ha!" said the doctor, presently. "Set this down, will you, Sammy? Rookto queen's fourth. Check. Now, knight—any move. No—hold on. Yes.Knight any move. Now, rook—wait a minute!"

His voice fell, his eyes were fixed. Sammy sighed.

At eight she fell to mending the fire with such vigor that hercolorless little face burned. Then her spine felt chilly. Sammy turnedabout, trying to toast evenly; but it couldn't be done. She thoughtsuddenly of her warm bed, put her finger in her book, kissed herfather's bald spot between two yawns, and went upstairs.

The dreams went, too. There was nothing in this neglected, lonely day,typical of all her days, to check them. It was delicious, snugglingdown in the chilly sheets, to go on dreaming.

Again she was riding alone in the woods. Again Clown was running away.Again, big gentle Anthony Gayley was galloping behind her. Again forthat breathless moment she was in his arms. Sammy shut her eyes....

Her father, coming upstairs, wakened her. She lay smiling in the dark.What had she been thinking of? Oh, yes! And out came the dream horsesand their riders again....

The next day she rode over the same bit of road again, and the dayafter, and the day after that. The rides were absolutely uneventful,but sweet with dreams.

A week later Sammy teased Mrs. Moore into taking her to the Elks'concert and dance at the Wheatfield Hall over the post-office. WhenMrs. Moore protested at this unheard-of proceeding, the girl used herone unfailing threat: "Then I'll tell father I want another governess!"

Mrs. Moore hated governesses. There had been no governess at thedoctor's for two years. She looked uneasy. "You've nothing to wear,"said she.

"I'll wear my embroidered linen," said Sammy, "and Mary's spangledscarf."

"You oughtn't borrow your sister's things without permission," saidMrs. Moore, half-heartedly.

"Mary's in New York," said Sammy, recklessly. "She's not been home fortwo years, and she may not be back for two more! She won't care. I'meighteen, and I've never been to a dance, and I'm GOING—that's allthere is about it!"

And she burst into tears, and presently laughed herself out of them,and went to her sister's orderly empty room to see what other treasuresbesides the spangled scarf Mary had left behind her.

Three months later, on a burning July afternoon, the Wheatfield"Terrors" played a team from the neighboring town of Copadoro.Wheatfield's population was reputedly nine hundred, and certainlyalmost that number of onlookers had gathered to watch the game. Thefree seats were packed with perspiring women in limp summer gowns, andrestless, crimson-faced children; and a shouting, vociferous line ofmen fringed the field. But in the "grand stand," where chairs rentedfor twenty-five cents, there was still some room.

Three late-comers found seats there when the game was almostover—Sammy's sister Mary, an extremely handsome young woman in a linengown and wide hat, her brother Tom, a correct young man whose ordinaryexpression indicated boredom, and their aunt, a magnificent personagein gray silk, with a gray silk parasol. Their arrival caused somelittle stir.

"Well, for pit—!" exclaimed a stout matron seated immediately in frontof them. "If it ain't Mary Peneyre—an' Thomas too! An' Mrs. Bond—forgoodness' sake! Well, say, you folks ARE strangers. When 'jew all gethere? Sammy never told me you was coming!"

"How d'you do, Mrs. Pidgeon?" said Sammy's aunt, cordially. "No,Samantha didn't know it. We came—ah—rather suddenly. Yes, I've notbeen in Wheatfield for ten years. We got here on the two o'clock train."

"Going to stay long, Mary?" said Mrs. Pidgeon, sociably.

"Only a few days," said Miss Peneyre, distantly. ("That's the worst ofgrowing up in a place," she said to herself. "Every one calls you'Mary'!") "We are going to take Samantha back to New York with us," sheadded.

"Look out you don't find you're a little late," said Mrs. Pidgeon, withgreat archness. "I'm surprised you ain't asked me if there's any newsfrom Sammy. Whole village talking about it."

The three smiles that met her gaze were not so unconcerned as theirwearers fondly hoped. Mrs. Bond ended a tense moment when sheexclaimed, "There's Sammy now!" and indicated to the others the lastrow of seats, where a girl in blue, with a blue parasol, was sittingalone. Mrs. Pidgeon delivered a parting shot. "Sammy might do lotsworse than Anthony Gayley," said she, confidentially. "Carpenter or nocarpenter, he's an elegant fellow. I thought Lizzie Philliber was acehigh, an' then folks talked some of Bootsy White. I guess Bootsy'd liketo do some hair-pulling."

"I dare say it's just a boy-and-girl friendship," said Mrs. Bond,lightly, but trembling a little and pressing Mary's foot with her own.When they were climbing over the wooden seats a moment later, on theirway to join Sammy, she added:

"Oh, really, it's insufferable! I'd like to spank that girl!"

"Apparently the whole village is on," contributed Tom, bitterly.

A moment later Sammy saw them; and if her welcome was a littleconstrained, it was merely because of shyness. She settled downradiantly between her sister and aunt, with a hand for each.

"Well, this is FUN!" said Sammy. "Did you get my letter? Were yousurprised? Are you all going to stay until September?"

Her happy fusillade of questions distressed them all. Mary said theunwise thing, trying to laugh, as she had always laughed, at Sammy:

"DON'T talk as if you were going to be married, Sammy! It's tooawful—you don't know how aunty and I feel about it! Why, darling, wewant you to go back with us to New York! Sammy—"

The firm pressure of her aunt's foot against her own stopped her.

"I knew you would feel that way about it, Mary," said Sammy, veryquietly, but with blazing cheeks; "but I am of age, and father saysthat Anthony has as much right to ask for the girl he loves as anyother man, and that's all there is to it!"

"You have it all thought out," said Mary, very white; "but, I must say,I am surprised that a sister of mine, and a granddaughter of JudgePeters—a girl who could have EVERYTHING!—is content to marry anordinary country carpenter! You won't have grandmother's money untilyou're twenty-one; there's three years that you will have to cook andsweep and get your hands rough, and probably bring up—"

"Mary! MARY!" said Mrs. Bond.

"Well, I don't care!" said Mary, unreproved. "And when she DOES getgrandma's money," she grumbled, "what good will it do her?"

"We won't discuss it, if you please, Mary," said little Sammy, withdignity.

There was a silence. Tom lighted a cigarette. They watched the game,Mary fighting tears, Sammy defiant and breathing hard, Mrs. Bond withabsent eyes.

"Stunning fellow who made that run!" said the elder woman presently."Who is he, dear?"

"That's Anthony!" said Sammy, shortly, not to be won.

"Anthony!" Mrs. Bond's tone was all affectionate interest. She put upher lorgnette. "Well, bless his heart! Isn't he good to look at!" shesaid.

"He's all hot and dirty now," Sammy said, relenting a little.

"He's MAGNIFICENT," said Mrs. Bond, firmly. She cut Mary off from theirconversation with a broad shoulder, and pressed Sammy's hand. "We'llall love him, I'm sure," said she, warmly.

Sammy's lip trembled.

"You WILL, Aunt Anne," said she, a little huskily. Pent up confidencecame with a rush. "I know perfectly well how Mary feels!" said Sammy,eagerly. "Why, didn't you yourself feel a little sorry he's acarpenter?"

"Just for a moment," said Aunt Anne.

"I wish MYSELF he wasn't," Sammy pursued; "but he likes it, and he'smaking money, and he's liked by EVERY one. He's on the team, you know,and sings in all the concerts. Wild horses couldn't drag him away fromWheatfield. And why should he go away and study some profession hehates," she rushed on resentfully, "when I'm PERFECTLY satisfied withhim as he is? Father asked him if he wouldn't like to study aprofession—I don't see why he SHOULD!"

"Surely," said Mrs. Bond, sympathetically, but quite at a loss. After athoughtful moment she added seriously: "But, darling, what about yourtrousseau? Why not make it November, say, and take a flying trip to NewYork with your old aunty? I want the first bride to have all sorts ofpretty things, you know. No delays,—everything ready-made, not amoment lost—?"

Sammy hesitated. "You do like him, don't you, Aunt Anne?" she burst out.

"My dear, I HOPE I'm going to love him!"

"Do—do you mind my talking it over with him before I say I'll go?"Sammy's eyes shone.

"My darling, no! Take a week to think it over!" Mrs. Bond had nevertried fishing, but she had some of the instincts of the complete angler.

A mad burst of applause interrupted her, and ended the game. Strollingfrom the field in the level, pitiless sunshine, the Peneyres werejoined by young Gayley. He was quite the hero of the hour, stalwart inhis base-ball suit, nodding and shouting greetings in every direction.He transferred a bat to his left hand to give Mrs. Bond a cheerfullyassured greeting, and, with the freedom of long-gone days when he hadplayed in the back lot with the Peneyre children, he addressed theyoung people as "Mary" and "Tom." If three of the party thought himdecidedly "fresh," Sammy had no such criticism. She evidently adoredher lover.

It was at her suggestion, civilly indorsed by the others, that he cameto the house a few hours later for dinner. It was a painful meal. Mr.Gayley did not hesitate to monopolize the conversation. He wasaccustomed to admiration—too completely accustomed, in fact, toperceive that on this occasion it was wanting.

After dinner he sang—having quite frankly offered to sing. Mary playedhis accompaniments, and Sammy leaned on the closed cover of hermother's wonderful old grand piano—sadly out of tune in thesedays!—and watched him. Tom, frankly rude, went to bed. Mary,determined that the engaged pair should not be encouraged any furtherthan was unavoidable, stuck gallantly to her post.

Mrs. Bond sat watching, useless regrets filling her heart. How sweetthe child was! How full of possibilities! How true the gray eyes were!How stubborn the mouth might be! Sammy's power to do what she willed todo, in the face of all obstacles, had been notable since her babyhood.Her aunt looked from the ardent, virginal little head to the florid,handsome face of the singer, and her heart was sick within her.

Anthony Gayley came to the train to see them off, two weeks later, andSammy kissed him good-by before the eyes of all Wheatfield. She hadmade her own conditions in consenting to make the Eastern visit. Shewas going merely to buy her trousseau; the subject of her engagementwas never to be discussed; and every one—EVERY one—she met was toknow at once that she was going back to Wheatfield immediately to bemarried in December.

Anthony had agreed to wait until then.

"It isn't as if every one knew it, Kid," he said sensibly to hisfiancee; "it gives me a chance to save a little, and it's not so hardon mother. Besides, I'm looking out for a partner, and I'll have towork him in."

"I wonder you don't think of entering some other business, Anthony,"Mrs. Bond said, to this remark. "You're young enough to try anything.It's such a—it's such hard work, you know."

"I've often thought I'd like to be an actor," said Mr. Gayley,carelessly; "but there's not much chance to break into that."

"You could take a course of lessons in New York," suggested Mary, andSammy indorsed the idea with an eager look. But Anthony laughed.

"Not for mine! No, sir. I'll stick to Wheatfield. I was a year in SanFrancisco a while back, and it was one lonesome year, believe me. Noplace like home and friends for your Uncle Dudley!"

"Don't you meet a bunch of swell Eastern fellows and forget me," hesaid to Sammy, as they stood awaiting the train. "I'll be getting alittle home ready for you; I'll—I'll trust you, Kid."

"You may," said Sammy. She looked at the burning, dry little mainstreet, the white cottages that faced the station from behind theirblazing gardens; she looked at the locust trees that almost hid thechurch spire, at the straggling line of eucalyptus trees that followedthe country road to the graveyard a mile away. It was home. It was allshe had known of the world—and she was going away into a terrifyingnew life. Her eyes brimmed.

"I swear to you that I'll be faithful, Anthony," she said solemnly. "Onmy sacred oath, I will!"

And ten minutes later they were on their way. The porter had pinned hernew hat up in a pillow-case and taken it away, and Sammy was laughingbecause another porter quite seriously shouted: "Last call for luncheonin the dining-car!"

"I always knew they did it, but I never supposed they really DID!" saidSammy, following her aunt through the shaded brightness of the Pullmanto an enchanted table, from which one could see the glorious landscapeflashing by.

It was all like a dream—the cities they fled through, the luxury ofthe big house at Sippican, the capped and aproned maids that were soeager to make one comfortable. The people she met were like dreampeople; the busy, useless days seemed too pleasant to be real.

August flashed by, September was gone. With the same magic lack ofeffort, they were all in the New York house. Sammy wore her firstdinner gown, wore her first furs, made her youthful conquests right andleft.

From the first, she told every one of her engagement. The thought ofit, always in her mind, helped to give her confidence and poise.

"You must have heard of me, you know," said her first dinner partner,"for your sister's told me a lot about YOU. Piet van Soop."

"Piet van SOOP!" ejacul*ted Sammy, seriously.

"Certainly. Don't you think that's a pretty name?"

"But—but that can't be your name," argued Sammy, smilingly.

"Why can't it?"

"Why, because no one with a name like van Soop to begin with would namea little darling baby PIET," submitted Sammy.

"Oh, come," said Mr. van Soop. "Your own name, now! Sammy, as Maryalways calls you—that's nothing to boast of, you know, and I'll betyou were a very darling little baby yourself!"

Sammy laughed joyously, and a dozen fellow guests glancedsympathetically in the direction of the fresh, childish sound.

"Well, if that's really your name, of course you can't help it," sheconceded, adding, with the naivete that Mr. van Soop already founddelightful: "Wouldn't the COMBINATION be awful, though! Sammy van Soop!"

"If you'll consider it, I'll endeavor to make it the only sorrow youhave to endure," said Mr. van Soop; and the ensuing laughter broughtthem the attention of the whole table.

"No danger!" said Sammy, gayly. "I'm going home in December, you know,to be married!"

Every one heard it. Mary winced. Mrs. Bond flushed. Tom said a wordthat gave his pretty partner a right to an explanation. But Sammy wasapparently cheerful.

Only apparently, however. For that night, when she found herself in herluxurious room again, she took Anthony's picture from the bureau andstudied it gravely under the lights.

"I said that right out," she said aloud, "and I'll KEEP ON saying it.Then, when the time comes to go, I simply CAN'T back out!"

She put the picture back, and sat down at her dressing-table and staredat her own reflection. Her hair was filleted with silver and tinyroses; her gown was of exquisite transparent embroidery, and more tinyroses rumpled the deep lace collar. But even less familiar than thisfinery were the cheeks that blazed with so many remembered compliments,the scarlet lips that had learned to smile so readily, the eyesbrilliant with new dreams.

"I feel as if sorrow—SORROW," said little Sammy, shivering, "were justabout two feet behind me, and as if—if it ever catches up—I'll be themost unhappy girl in the world!"

And she gave herself a little shake and put a firm little finger-tip onGabrielle's bell.

"Sammy," said Mr. van Soop, one dull gray afternoon some weeks later,"I've brought you out for a special purpose to-day."

"Tea?" said Sammy, contentedly.

"Tea, gluttonous one," he admitted, turning his big car into the park."But, seriously, I want to ask you about your going away."

"I don't know that there's anything to say about it," said Sammy,carelessly. "I've had a wonderful time, and every one's been charming.And now I've got to go back."

"Sammy, I've no right to ask you a favor, but I've a REASON," Pietbegan. He halted. Both were crimson.

"Yes, yes; I know, Piet," said Sammy, fluttered.

The car slackened, stopped. Their faces were not two feet apart.

"Well! Will you let me BEG you—for your aunt, and sister, andfor—well, for me, and for your own sake, Sammy—will you let me BEGyou just to wait? Here, or there, or anywhere else—will you just WAITa while?"

Sammy was silent a moment. Then—

"For what reason?" she said.

"Because you may save yourself lifelong unhappiness."

Sammy pondered, her lashes dropped, her hands clasped in her muff.

"Piet," she said gravely, "it's not as bad as that. No—I'll not beunhappy. I love Wheatfield, and horses, and the old house, and—" shehesitated, adding more brightly: "and you can MAKE happiness, you know!Just because it's spring, or it's Thanksgiving, or you've got a goodbook! Please go on," she urged suddenly. "We're very conspicuous here."

They moved slowly along under the bare trees. A sullen sunset coloredthe western sky. The drive was filled with motor-cars, and groups ofriders galloped on the muddy bridle-path. It was just dusk. Suddenly,as the lamplighters went their rounds, all the park bloomed with milkydisks of light.

"You see," Sammy went on presently, "I've thought this all out.Anthony's a good man, and he loves me, and I—well, I've promised. WhatRIGHT have I to say calmly that I've changed my mind, and to hurt himand make him ridiculous before all the people he loves? He knows I'llhave money some day—no, Piet, you needn't look so! That has nothing todo with it! But, of course, he KNOWS it; and I said we would have amotor,—he's wild for one!—and entertain, don't you know, and that'swhat he's waiting for and counting on. He doesn't DESERVE to be shamedand humiliated. And, besides, it would break his mother's heart. She'sbeen awfully sweet to me. And it must be a BITTER thing to be told thatyou're not good enough for the woman you love. Anthony saved my life,you know, and I can't break my word. I said: 'On my oath, I'll comeback.' And just because there IS a difference between him—and us," shehesitated, "he's all the prouder and more sensitive. And it's only adifference in surface things!" finished Sammy, loyally.

Piet was silent.

"Why, Tom keeps telling me that mother was a Cabot, and grandfather ajudge, and talking Winthrop Colony and Copleys and Gilbert Stuarts tome!" the girl burst out presently. "As if that wasn't the very REASONfor my being honorable! That's what blood's for!"

Still Piet was silent, his kind, ugly face set and dark.

"And then, you know," said Sammy, with sudden brightness, "when I getback, and see the dear old place again, and get a good big breath ofAIR,—which we don't have here!—why, it'll all straighten out and seemright again. My hope is," she added, turning her honest eyes to thegloomy ones so near her, "my hope is that Anthony will be willing towait a while—"

"What makes you think he is likely to?" said Piet, dryly.

There was a silence. Then he added:

"When do you go?"

"The—the twenty-sixth, I believe. I've got aunty's consent—I go withthe Archibalds to San Francisco."

"And this is—?"

"The twentieth."

For some time after that they wove their way along the sweepingParkroads without speaking, and when they did begin to talk to oneanother again, the subject was a different one and Mr. van Soop wasmore cheerful. The tea hour was a fairly merry one. But when he leftSammy, an hour later, at her aunt's door, he took off his big glove,and grew a little white, and held out his hand to her and said:

"I won't see you again, Sammy. I've been thinking it over. You'reright; it's all my own fault. I was very wrong to attempt to persuadeyou. But I won't see you again. Good-by."

"Why—!" began Sammy, in astonishment; then she looked down andstammered, "Oh—," and finally she put her little hand in his and saidsimply:

"Good-by."

Therefore it was a surprise to Mr. van Soop to find himself enteringMrs. Bond's library just twenty-four hours later, and grasping thehands of the slender young woman who rose from a chair by the fire.

"Sammy! You sent for me?"

Sammy looked very young in a little velvet gown with a skirt shortenough to show the big bows on her slippers. Her eyes had a childishlybewildered expression.

"I wanted you," she said simply. "I—I've had a letter from Anthony. Itcame only an hour ago. I don't know whether to be sorry or glad. Readit! Read it!"

She sat on a little, low stool by the fire, and Piet flattened the manyloose pages of the letter on his knee and read.

Anthony had written on the glazed, ruled single sheets of the"Metropolitan Star Hotel"—had covered some twenty of them with hisloose, dashing hand-writing.

MY DEAR SAMMY [wrote Anthony, with admirable directness]: The boyswanted me to sit in a little game to-night, but the truth is I havebeen wanting for a long time to speak to you of a certain matter, andto-night seems a good chance to get it off my chest. A man feels prettyrotten writing a letter like this, but I've thought it over for morethan a month now, and I feel that no matter how badly you and I bothfeel, the thing to do is not to let things go too far before we thinkthe thing pretty thoroughly over and make sure that things—

"What the deuce is he getting at?" said Piet, breaking off suddenly.

"Go on!" said Sammy, bright color in her cheeks.

—make sure that things are best for the happiness of all parties[resumed Piet]. You see, Sammy [the letter ran on], as far as I amconcerned, I never would have said a word, but I have been talkingthings over with a party whose name I will tell you in a minute, andthey feel as if it would be better to write before you come on. I meanMiss Alma Fay. You don't know her. She is Lucy Barbee's cousin. Lucyand I had a great case years ago, and she and Tom asked me up to theirhouse a few weeks ago, and Alma was staying with Lucy. Well, I took herto the Hallowe'en dance, and it was a keen dance, the swellest we everhad at the hall. Some of us rowed the girls on the river between thedances; we had a keen time. Well, after that I took her riding once ortwice. She rides the best of any girl I ever saw; her father has thefinest horses in East Wood—I guess he counts for quite a lot up there,he has the biggest department store and runs his own motor. Well,Sammy, I never would of written one word of this to you, but when Almacame to go away we both realized how it was. You know I have often hadcases, as the boys call them, and a girl I was engaged to in Petrietold me once she hoped some day I'd get MINE. Well, she would bepleased if she knew that I HAVE. I have not slept since—

"Sammy!" said Piet, suddenly stopping.

"Go on!" said she, again.

But Piet couldn't go on. He glanced at the next page, read, "Now,Sammy, it is up to you to decide," skipped another page or two andread, "Neither Alma nor I would ever be happy if—" glanced at a third;then the leaves fluttered in wild confusion to the floor, and, withsomething between a sob and a shout, he caught Sammy in his arms.

"My darling," said Piet, an hour later, "if I release your right handfor ten minutes, do you think you could write a line to Mr. AnthonyGayley? I would like to mail it when I go home to dress."

"I was thinking I might wire—" said Sammy, dreamily.

DR. BATES AND MISS SALLY

Sometimes Ferdie's jokes were successful; sometimes they were not. Thiswas one of the jokes that didn't succeed; but as it led to a chain ofcirc*mstances that proved eminently satisfactory, Ferdie's wife praisedhim as highly for his share in it as if he really had done somethingrather meritorious.

At the time it occurred, however, nobody praised anybody, and feelingeven ran pretty high for a time between Ferdie and Elsie, his wife, andher sister Sally, and Dr. Bates.

Dr. Samuel Bates was a rising young surgeon, plain, quiet, and kindly.He was spending a few busy months in California, and writing dutifullyhome to friends and patients in Boston that he really could not freehis hands to return just yet. But Sally knew what that meant; she hadknown business to keep people in her neighborhood before. So she wasstudiously unkind to the doctor, excusing herself to Elsie on theground that nothing on earth would ever make her consider a man withfuzzy red hair and low collars.

Sally was a "daughter" and a "dame"; the doctor was the son of "Bates'sBlue-Ribbon Hair Renewer"—awful facts against which the additionalfact that he was rich and she was not, counted nothing. Sally talkedall the time; the doctor was the most silent of men. Sally wastwenty-two, the doctor thirty-five. Sally loved to flirt; the doctornever paid any attention to women. Altogether, it was the mostimpossible thing ever heard of, and Elsie might just as well stopthinking about it!

"It's a wonderful proof of what he feels," said Elsie, "to have him sogentle when you are rude to him, and so eager to be friends when youget over it!"

"It's a wonderful example of hair-tonic spirit!" Sally responded.

"There's a good deal behind that quiet manner," argued Elsie.

"But NOT the three generations that make a gentleman!" finished Sally.

Sally was out calling one hot Saturday afternoon when Ferdie, as washis habit, brought Dr. Bates home with him to the Ferdies' littleawninged and shingled summer home in Sausalito. Elsie, with an armfulof delightfully pink and white baby, led them to the cool side porch,and ordered cool things to drink. Sally, she said, as they sank intothe deep chairs, would be home directly and join them.

Presently, surely enough, some one ran up the front steps and came intothe wide hall, and Sally's voice called a blithe "Hello!" There was alittle rattle to show that her parasol was flung down, and then thevoice again, this time unmistakably impeded by hat-pins.

"Where's this fam-i-ly? Did the gentlemen come?"

This gave an opening for the sort of thing Ferdie thought he did verywell. He grinned at his guest, and raised a warning finger.

"Hello, Sally!" he called back. "Elsie and I are out here! Batescouldn't come—operation last minute!"

"What—didn't come?" Sally called back after an instant's pause. "Well,what has happened to HIM? But, thank goodness, now I can go to theBevis dinner to-morrow! Operation? I must say it's mannerly to send amessage the last minute like that!" She hummed a second, and then addedspitefully: "What can you expect of hair-tonic, anyway?" The frozengroup on the porch heard her start slowly upstairs. "Well, I might bewilling to marry him," added Sally, cheerfully, as she mounted, "butit's a real relief to snatch this glorious afternoon from the burning!Down in a second—keep me some tea!"

Nobody moved on the porch. The doctor's face was crimson, Elsie's kindeyes wide with horror. Sally called a final reflection from the firstlanding:

"Too bad not to have him see me looking so beautiful!" she sangfrivolously. "Operation—h'm! An important operation—I don't believeit!"

She proceeded calmly to her room, and was buttoning herself into a trimlinen gown when Elsie burst in, flushed and furious, cast the babydramatically upon the bed, and hysterically recounted the effects ofher recent remarks. Sally, at first making a transparent effort to seemamused, and following it with an equally vain attempt at beingdignified, finally became very angry herself.

"When Ferdie does things like this," said Sally, heatedly, "I declare Iwonder—I was going to say I wonder he has a friend left in the world!As you say, it's done now, but it makes me so FURIOUS! And I don'tthink it shows very much savior faire on your part, Elsie. However, wewon't discuss it! Ferdie will try one joke too many, one of these days,and then—Now, look here, Elsie," Sally interrupted her tirade to statewith deadly deliberation, "unless that man goes home before dinner, asa man of any spirit would do, I'm going over to Mary Bevis's, and youcan make whatever apologies you like!"

"Of course he won't go," said Elsie, with spirit. "The only thing to dois to ignore it entirely. And of course you'll come down."

Sally had resumed her ruffled calling costume, and was now pinning onan effective hat. Her mouth was set.

"Please!" pleaded her sister, inserting a gold bracelet tenderlybetween George's little jaws, without moving her eyes from Sally.

"I will not!" said Sally. "I never want to see him again—superior,big, calm codfish—too lofty to care what any one says about him! Idon't like a man you can walk on, anyway!" She began to pack things ina suit-case—beribboned night-wear, slippers, powder, and small jars.Presently, hasping these things firmly in, she went to the door, andopened it a cautious crack.

"Where are they?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Ferdie, dispiritedly. "I think you're verymean!"

The bedrooms of the Ferdies' house opened in charming Southern fashionupon open balconies, over whose slender rails one could look straightinto the hall below. Sally listened intently.

"What a horrible plan this house is built upon!" she said heartily."Nothing in the world is more humiliating than to have to sneak aboutone's own house like a thief, afraid of being seen! Where's themotor—at the side door? Good. I'll run it over to the Bevises' myself,and Billy can come back with it. That is, I will if I can manage to getto the side door. Those idiots of men are apparently looking at Ferd'srods and tackle, right down there in the hall! I can distinctly heartheir voices! I wish Ferd had thought of situations like this when heplanned this silly balcony business! The minute I open this doorthey'll look up; and I'll stay up here a week rather than meet them!"

"They'll go out soon," said Elsie, soothingly, as she removed ashoe-horn from contact with George's mouth.

"I knew Ferd would regret this balcony!" pursued Sally, eyes to thecrack.

"Ferdie's not regretting it!" tittered her sister.

Sally cast her a withering glance. Elsie devoted herself suddenly toGeorge.

"Go down and lure them into the garden," pleaded Sally, presently.

Elsie obligingly picked up her son and departed, but Sally, watchingher go, was infuriated to notice that a mild request from George'snurse, who met them in the hall, apparently drove all thoughts ofSally's predicament from the little mother's mind, for Elsie wentbriskly toward the nursery, and an absolute silence ensued.

Sally went listlessly to the window, where her eye was immediatelycaught by a long pruning ladder, leaning against the house a dozen feetaway. Alma, the little waitress, quietly mixing a mayonnaise on thekitchen porch, was pressed into service, and five minutes later Sally'ssuit-case was cautiously lowered, on the end of a Mexican lariat, andSally was steadying the top of the ladder against her window-sill. Almawas convulsed with innocent mirth, but her big, hard hands wereeffective in steadying the lower end of the ladder.

Sally, who was desperately afraid of ladders, packed her thin skirtstightly about her, gave a fearful glance below, and began a nervousdescent. At every alternate rung she paused, unwound her skirts, shuther eyes, and breathed hard.

"PLEASE don't shake it so!" she said.

"Aye dadden't!" said Alma, merrily.

The ladder slipped an inch, settling a little lower. Sally uttered asmothered scream. She dared not move her eyes from the rung immediatelyin front of them. Her face was flushed, her hair had slipped back fromher damp temples. It seemed to her as if she must already have climbeddown several times the length of the ladder. At every step she had tokick her skirts free.

"Permit me!" said a kind voice in the world of reeling brick walks anddwarfed gooseberry bushes below her.

Sally, with a thump at her heart, looked down to see Dr. Bates lay afirm hand upon the rocking ladder.

Speechless, she finished the descent, reeling a little unsteadilyagainst the doctor's shoulder as she faced about on the walk. Her facewas crimson. To climb down a ladder, with him looking pleasantly upfrom below, and then to fall into his very arms! Sally shook out herskirts like a furious hen, and walked, with one chilly inclination ofthe head for acknowledgment of his courtesy, toward the waiting motor.

"Ferdie has promised Bill Bevis that you will spin me over in themotor," said the doctor, a little timidly, when they reached it.

Sally eyed him stonily.

"Ferd—"

"Why, I had promised Bevis that I would look in to-day," pursued thedoctor, uncomfortably; "and when they telephoned about it, a fewminutes ago, one of the maids said that she believed that you weregoing right over, and would bring me."

"I have changed my mind," said Sally. "Perhaps you will drive yourselfover?"

"I don't know anything about motors," apologized the doctor, gravely.

"Ferd told one of the maids to say I would?" Sally said pleasantly."Very well. Will you get in?"

They got in, Sally driving. They swept in silence past the lawns, andinto the wide, white highway. A watering-cart had just passed, and theair was fresh and wet. The afternoon was one of exquisite beauty. Thesteamer from San Francisco was just in, and the road was filled withother motor-cars and smart traps. Sally and the doctor nodded and wavedto a score of friends.

"I am as sorry as you are," said the doctor, awkwardly, after thesilence had grown very long.

"Don't mention it," said Sally, her face flaming again. "That's mybrother's idea of humor. I—I shall stay at the Bevises' overnight."

"I—why, I said I would do that!" said Dr. Bates, hastily. "I justcalled in to the maid, when she telephoned Bevis, and said, 'Ask him ifhe can put me up overnight.' You see, I've got my things."

"Well, then, I won't," said Sally. Her tone was cold, but a side glanceat his serious face melted her a little. "This is ALL Ferdie!" sheburst out angrily.

"Too bad to make it so important," said the doctor, regretfully.

"I don't see why you should stay at the Bevises'," said the girl,fretfully. "It looks very odd—when you had come to us. I—I am goingto Glen Ellen early to-morrow, anyway. I would hate to have the Bevisessuspect—"

"Then I will go back with you," agreed the doctor, pleasantly.

Sally frowned. She opened her lips, but shut them without speaking. Shehad turned the car into a wide gateway, and a moment later they stoppedat a piazza full of young people. The noisy, joyous Bevis girls andboys swarmed rapturously about them.

After an hour of laughter and shouting, Sally and the doctor rose togo, accompanied to the motor by all the young people.

"Ah, you just got in, doctor?" said gentle Mrs. Bevis, with a glance atthe suit-cases.

Sally flushed, but the doctor serenely let the misunderstanding go.There was no good reason to give for the presence of two cases in thecar.

"You look quite like an elopement!" said Page Bevis with a joyous shout.

"Put one of the cases in front, Bates, and rest your feet on it,"suggested the older boy, Kenneth.

As he spoke, he caught up Sally's case, and gave it a mighty swing fromthe tonneau to the front seat. In mid-flight, the suit-case opened.Jars and powders, slippers and beribboned apparel scattered in everydirection. Small silver articles, undeniably feminine in nature, lay onthe grass; a spangled scarf which they had all admired on Sally'sslender shoulders had to be tenderly extricated from the brake.

With shrieks of laughter, the Bevis family righted the case andrepacked it. Sally was frozen with anger.

"Mother SAID she knew you two would run off and get married quietlysome day!" said pretty, audacious Mary Bevis.

"Dearie!" protested her mother. "I only said—I only thought—I said Ithought—Mary, that's very naughty of you! Sally, you know howinnocently one surmises an engagement, or guesses at things!"

"Oh, mother, you're getting in deeper and deeper!" said her older son."Never you mind, Sally! You can elope if you want to!"

"San Rafael's the place to go, Sally," said Mary. "All the elopers getmarried there. The court-house, you know. No delays about licenses!"

"They're very naughty," said their mother, beginning to see howunwelcome this joking was to the visitors. "Are you going straighthome, dear?"

"Straight home!" said the doctor.

"Well, speaking of San Rafael," pursued the matron, kindly—"can't youtwo and Elsie and Ferd go with us all to-night, say about an hour fromnow, up to Pastori's and have dinner?"

"Oh, thanks!" said Sally, trying to smile naturally. "I'm afraid notto-night. I've got a headache, and I'm going home to turn in."

Amid cheerful good-bys, she wheeled the car, and drove it alongrapidly, pursuing thoughts of the Bevis boys hardly short of murderous.The doctor was silent; but Sally, glancing at him, saw his quiet smilechange to an apologetic look, and hated both the smile and the apology.

They went more slowly on the steep road from the water front to thehillside. The level light of the sinking sun shone brilliantly ondaisies and nasturtiums at the roadside. Boats, riding at anchor,dipped in the wash of another incoming steamer. Dr. Bates hummed; butSally frowned, and he was immediately hushed.

"Boy looking for you?" he said presently, as a small and dusty boy rosefrom a boulder at one side of the road and shouted somethingunintelligible.

"Why, I guess he is for me!" said Sally, in the first natural tone shehad used that afternoon.

But the boy, upon being interrogated, said that the telegram was for"the doc that was visiting up to Miss Sally's house."

Dr. Bates read the little message several times, and absently dismissedthe messenger with a coin, which Sally thought outrageously large, anda muttered worried word or two.

"Bad news?" she asked.

"In a way," he said quickly. "When's the next train for San Rafael,Miss Sally? I've got to be there to-night—right away! Do we have tostand here? Thank you. There's a case Field and I have been watching;he says that there's got to be an operation at eight—" His voicetrailed off into troubled silence, and he drew out his watch. "Eight!"he muttered. "It's on seven now!"

"Oh, and you have to operate—horrible for you!" said Sally, taking thecar skilfully toward the railroad station as she spoke. "But I don'tsee how you CAN! You've missed the six-thirty train, and there's notanother until after nine. But you can wire Dr. Field that you will bethere the first thing in the morning."

The doctor paid no attention.

"The livery stable is closed, I suppose?" he asked.

"Oh, long ago!"

He ruminated frowningly. Suddenly his face cleared.

"Funny how one thinks of the right solution last!" he said in relief."How long would it take you to run me up there? Forty minutes?"

"I don't see how I could," said Sally, flushing. "I can take the carhome, though, and ask Ferd to do it. But that woman's at the hotel,isn't she? I couldn't go up there and sit outside, with every one Iknew coming out and wondering why I brought you instead of Ferd! Elsiewouldn't like it. You must see—"

"It would take us fifteen minutes at least to go up and get Ferd,"objected the doctor, seriously; "and he's not much better than I am atrunning it, anyway!"

"Well, I'm sorry," said Sally, shortly, "but I simply couldn't do it.Dr. Field should have given you more notice. It would look simplyabsurd for me to go tearing over these country roads at night—Elsiewould go mad wondering where I was—"

They were in the village now. Troubled and stubborn, Sally stopped thecar, and looked mutinously at her companion. The doctor's rosy face wasflushed under his flaming hair, and in his very blue eyes was a lookthat struck her with an almost panicky sensation of surprise. Sally hadnever seen any man regard her with an expression of distaste before,but the doctor's look was actually inimical.

"I feared that you would be the sort of woman to fail one utterly, likethis," he said quietly. "I've often wondered—I've often said tomyself, 'COULD she ever, under any circ*mstances, throw off that prettybaby way of hers, and forget that this world was made just for flirtingand dressing and being admired?' By George, I see you can't! I see youcan't! Well! Now, whom can I get to take me up there within the hour?"

He appeared to ponder. Sally sat as if stupefied.

"Don't resent what I say when I'm upset," said the doctor, absently."You can't help your limitations, I can't help mine. I see a youngwoman—she's just lost a little boy, and she's all her husband hasleft—I see her dying because we're too late. You see a fewempty-headed women saying that Sally Reade actually went driving alone,without her dinner, for three hours, with a man she hardly knew. I amnot blaming you. You have never pretended to be anything but what youare. I blame myself for hoping—thinking—but, by George, you'd be anutter dead weight on a man if it was ever up to you to face anepidemic, or run a risk, or do one-twentieth of the things that thosevery ancestors of yours, that you're so proud of, used to do!"

Sally set her teeth. She leaned from the car to summon a small girlloitering on the road.

"You're one of the White children, aren't you?" said she to the child."I want you to go up to Mrs. Ferdie Potter's house, and tell Mrs.Potter that her sister won't be home for several hours, and that I'llexplain later. Now," said Sally, turning superbly to the doctor, "pullyour hat down tight. We're going FAST!"

They were three miles farther on their way before he saw that herlittle chin was quivering, and great tears were running down her smallface. Time was precious, but for a few memorable moments they stoppedthe car again.

Miss Sally and Dr. Bates returned to the sleepy and excited Ferdies' atone o'clock that night. The light that never was on land or seaglittered in Sally's wonderful eyes; the doctor was white, shaken, andradiant. Sally flew to her sister's arms.

"We waited to see—and she came out of it—and she has a fair fightingchance!" said Sally, joyously; and the look she gave her doctor madeElsie's heart rise with a bound.

"Runaways," said Elsie, "come in and eat! I never knew a seriousoperation to have such a cheering effect on any one before!"

"It all went so well," said Sally, contentedly, over chicken and gingerale. "But, Elsie! Such fun!" she burst out, her dimples suddenly againin view. "I am disgraced forever! After we had done everything to makethe Bevis crowd think we were eloping, what did we do but run into thewhole crowd at San Anselmo! I wish you could have seen their faces! Wehad said we couldn't possibly go; and we were going too fast to stopand explain!"

"We'll explain to-morrow," said the doctor, so significantly thatFerdie rose instantly to grasp his hand, and Elsie fell again uponSally as if she had never kissed her before.

"Not—not really!" gasped Elsie, turning radiantly from one to theother.

"Oh, really!" said Sally, with her prettiest color. "He despises me,but he will take the case, anyway! And he has done nothing but mortifyand enrage me all day, but I feel that I should miss it if it stopped!So we are going to sacrifice our lives to each other—isn't it edifyingand beautiful of us? We'll tell you all about it to-morrow. Jam—Sam?"

THE GAY DECEIVER

After the meat course, Mrs. Tolley and Min rather languidly removed themain platters and, by reaching backward, piled the dinner plates on theshining new oak sideboard. Thus room was made for the salad, which wasalways mantled in tepid mayonnaise, whether it was sliced tomatoes, orpotatoes, or asparagus. After the salad there was another partialclearance, and then every available inch of the table was needed forpeach pies and apple sauce and hot gingerbread and raspberries, orvarious similar delicacies, and the coffee and yellow cheese andsoda-crackers with which the meal concluded.

By the time these appeared, on a hot summer evening, the wheezing clockin the kitchen would have struck six,—dinner was early atKirkwood,—and the level rays of the sun would be pouring boldly in atthe uncurtained western windows. The dining, room was bare, and notentirely free from flies, despite an abundance of new green screeningat the windows. Relays of new stiff oak chairs stood against its walls,ready for the sudden need of occasional visitors. On the walls hungframed enlarged photographs of machinery, and factories, andscaffoldings, and the like. There was one of laborers and bossesgrouped about great generators and water-wheels in transit, and anotherof a monster switchboard, with a smiling young operator, in his apronand overalls, standing beside it.

Mrs. Tolley sat at the head of the table—a big, joyous, vigorouswidow, who had managed the Company House at Kirkwood ever since itserection two years before, and who had been an employee of the Lightand Power Company, in one capacity or another, for some five yearsbefore that—or ever since, as she put it, "the juice got pore George."Mrs. Tolley loved every inch of Kirkwood; for her it was the captureddream.

Min Tolley, sitting next to her mother, loved Kirkwood, too, becauseshe was going to marry Harry Garvey, who was one of the shift bosses atthe plant. Harry sat next to Min. Then came her brother Roosy, tenyears old; and then the Hopps—Mrs. Lou, and little Lou, spatteringrice and potato all over himself and his chair, and big Lou, silently,deeply admiring them both. Then there were two empty chairs, for theChisholms, the resident manager and superintendent and his sister, atthe end of the table; and then Joe Vorse, the switchboard operator, andhis little wife; and then Monk White, another shift boss; and lastly,at Mrs. Tolley's left, Paul Forster, newly come from New York to be Mr.Chisholm's stenographer and assistant.

Paul was the first to leave the table that night. He drank his coffeein three savage gulps, pushed back his crumpled napkin, and rose. "Ifyou'll excuse me—" he began.

"You're cert'n'y excusable!" said Mrs. Tolley, elegantly—adding, whenthe door had closed behind him: "And leave me tell you right now thatsomebody was real fond of children to raise YOU!"

"An' I'm not planning to spend the heyday of my girlhood ironingnapkins for you, Pauly Pet!" said Min, reaching for his discardednapkin and folding it severely into a wooden ring.

Paul did not hear these remarks, but he heard the laughter that greetedthem, and he scowled as he selected a rocker on the front porch. He puthis feet up on the rail, felt in one pocket for tobacco, in another forpapers, and in a third for his match-case, and set himself to thecongenial task of composing a letter in which he should resign from theemploy of the Light and Power Company. It was a question of a brokencontract, so it must be diplomatically worded. Paul had spent the fiveevenings since his arrival at Kirkwood in puzzling over the phrasing ofthat letter.

Below the porch, the hillside, covered with scrub-oak and chaparral andmadrono trees, and the stumps where redwoods had been, dropped sharplyto the little river, which came tumbling down from the wooded mountainsto plunge roaring into one end of the big power-house, and which foamedout at the other side to continue its mad rush down the valley. Thepower-house, looming up an immense crude outline in the twilight,rested on the banks of the stream and stood in a rough clearing. Agreat gash in the woods above it showed whence lumber for buildings andfires came; another ugly gash marked the course of the "pole line" overthe mountain. Near the big building stood lesser ones, two or threerough little unpainted cottages perched on the hill above it. There wasa "cook-house," and a "bunk-house," and storage sheds, and Mrs.Tolley's locked provision shed, and the rough shack the builders livedin while construction was going on, and where the Hopps lived now, rentfree.

Nasturtiums languished here and there, where some of the women had madean effort to fight the unresponsive red clay. Otherwise, even after twoyears, the power-house and its environs looked unfinished, crude, ugly.On all sides the mountains rose dark and steep, the pointed tops of theredwoods mounting evenly, tier on tier. Except for the lumber slide andthe pole line, there was no break anywhere, not even a glimpse of theroad that wound somehow out of the canyon—up, up, up, twelve longmiles, to the top of the ridge.

And even at the top, Paul reflected bitterly, there was only anunpainted farm-house, where the stage stopped three times a week withmail. From there it was a fifty-mile drive to town—a Californiacountry town, asleep in the curve of two sluggish little rivers. Andfrom "town" to San Francisco it was almost a day's trip, and from SanFrancisco to the Grand Central Station at Forty-second Street it wasnearly five days more.

Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and began again: "Light and PowerCo.—GENTLEMEN."

Night came swiftly to Kirkwood. For a few wonderful moments the last ofthe sunlight lingered, hot and gold, on the upper branches of thehighest trees along the ridge; then suddenly the valley was plunged insoft twilight, and violet shadows began to tangle themselves about thegreat shafts of the redwoods. The heat of the day dropped from the airlike a falling veil. A fine mist spun itself above the river; batsbegan to wheel on the edge of the clearing.

With the coming of darkness every window in the place was suddenlyalight. The Company House blazed with it; the great power-house doorwaysent a broad stream of yellow into the deepening shadows of the night;the "cook-house," where Willy Chow Tong cooked for a score of "hands"and oilers, showed a thousand golden cracks in its rough walls. Thelittle cottages on the hill were hidden by the glare from theirdangling porch lights. Light was so plentiful, at this factory oflight, that even the Hopps' barnlike home blazed with a dozen"thirty-twos."

"Nothing like having a little light on the subject, Mr. Fo'ster," saidMrs. Tolley, coming out to the porch. The Vorses had small childrenthat they could not leave very long alone; so, when Min and her motherhad reduced the kitchen to orderly, warm, soap-scented darkness everynight, and wound the clock, and hung up their aprons, they went up tothe Vorses' to play "five hundred."

"Seems's if I never could get enough light, myself," the matroncontinued agreeably, descending the porch steps. "Before I come here Inever had nothing in my kitchen but an oil lamp and a reflector. Jestas sure as I'd be dishing up dinner, hot nights, that lamp would beginto flicker and suck—well, shucks! I'd look up at it and I'd say,'Well, why don't you go out? Go ahead!'" Mrs. Tolley laughed joyously."Well, one night—George—" she was continuing with relish, when Minpulled at her sleeve and, with a sort of affectionate impatience, said,"Oh, f've'vens' sakes ma!"

"Yes, I'm coming," said Mrs. Tolley, recalled. "Wish't you played 'fivehundred,' Mr. Fo'ster," she added politely.

"I don't play either that or old maid," said Paul, distinctly. Thisremark was taken in good part by the Tolleys.

"Old maid's a real comical game," Min conceded mildly.

"Well, you won't be s'lunsum next week when the Chisholms get back,"said Mrs. Tolley, unaffectedly, gathering up the skirt of her starchedgown to avoid contact with the sudden heavy dews. "He's an awful nicefeller, and she—she's twenty-six, but she's as jolly as a girl. Ideclare, I just love Patricia Chisholm."

"Twenty-six, is she?" said Paul, disgustedly, to himself, when theTolleys had gone. "Only one woman—of any class, that is—in thisforsaken hole, and she twenty-six!" And he had been thinking of thisPatricia with a good deal of interest, he admitted resentfully. Paulwas twenty-four, and liked slender little girls well under twenty.

"Lord, what a place!" he said, for the hundredth time.

He sat brooding in the darkness, discouraged and homesick. So he hadsat for all his nights at Kirkwood.

The men at the cook-house were playing cards, silently, intently. Thecook, serene and cool, was smoking in the doorway of his cabin. Abovethe dull roar of the river Paul could hear Min Tolley's cackle oflaughter from the cottages a hundred yards away, and Mrs. Hoppscrooning over her baby.

Presently the night shift went down to the powerhouse, the men takinggreat boyish leaps on the steep trail. Some of the lighted windows wereblotted out—the Hopps', the cook-house light. The singing pole lineabove Paul's head ceased abruptly, and with a little rising whine theopposite pole line took up the buzzing currant. That meant that thecopper line had been cut in, and the aluminum one would be "cold" forthe night.

Minutes went by, eventless. Half an hour, an hour—still Paul satstaring into the velvet dark and wrestling with bitter discouragementand homesickness.

"Lord, what a PLACE!" he said once or twice under his breath.

Finally, feeling cramped and chilly, he went stiffly indoors, throughthe hot, bright halls, that smelled of varnish and matting, to his room.

The next day was exactly like the five preceding days—hot, restless,aimless; and the next night Paul sat on the porch again, and listenedto the rush of the river, and Min Tolley's laugh at the "five hundred"table, and the Hopps' baby's lullaby. And again he composed hisresignation, and calculated that it would take three days for it toreach San Francisco, and another three for him to receive theiracceptance of it—another week at least of Kirkwood!

On the seventh day the Chisholms rode down the trail that followed thepole line, and arrived in a hospitable uproar. Alan Chisholm, some fiveyears older than Paul, was a fine-looking, serious, dark youth, afellow of not many words, being given rather to silent appreciation ofhis sister's chatter than to speech of his own. Miss Chisholm was verytall, very easy in manner, and powdered just now to her eyelashes withfine yellow dust. Paul thought her too tall and too large for beauty,but he liked her voice, and the fashion she had of crinkling up hereyes when she smiled. He sat on the porch while the Chisholms wentupstairs to brush and change, and thought that the wholesome noise oftheir splashing and calling, opening drawers, and banging doors was apleasant change from the usual quiet of the house.

Miss Chisholm was the first to reappear. She was followed by Min andMrs. Tolley, and was asking questions at a rate that kept bothanswering at once. Had her kodak films come? Was Minnie going to havesome little sense and be married in a dress she could get some use outof? How were the guinea-pigs, the ducks, the vegetables, the caged fox,the "boys" generally, Roosy's ear, Consuelo Vorse's lame foot? Did Mrs.Tolley know that she had made a deep impression on the old fellow whodrove the stage? "Oh, look at her blush, Min! Well, really!"

She came, delightfully refreshed by toilet waters and crisp linen, totake a deep rocker opposite Paul, and leaned luxuriously back, showingvery trim feet shod in white.

"Admit that you've fallen in love with Kirkwood, Mr. Forster," said she.

"I can't admit anything of the sort," said Paul, firmly, but smilingbecause she was so very good to look at. He had to admit that he hadnever seen handsomer dark eyes, nor a more tender, more expressive andcharacterful mouth than the one that smiled so readily and showed soeven a line of big teeth.

"Oh, you will!" she assured him easily. "There's no place likeKirkwood, is there, Alan?" she said to her brother, as he came out. Hesmiled.

"We don't think there is, Forster. My sister's been crazy about theplace since we got here—that's eighteen months ago; and I'm crazyabout it myself now!"

"Wait until you've slept out on the porch for a while," said MissChisholm, "and wait until you've got used to a plunge in the poolbefore breakfast every morning. Alan, you must take him down to thepool to-morrow, and I'll listen for his shrieks. Where are you goingnow—the power-house? No, thank you, I won't go. I'm going out to findsomething special to cook you for your suppers."

The something special was extremely delicious; Paul had a vagueimpression that there was fried chicken in it, and mushrooms, andcream, and sherry. Miss Chisholm served it from a handsome littlecopper blazer, and also brewed them her own particular tea, in a Cantontea-pot. Paul found it much pleasanter at this end of the table. To hissurprise, no one resented this marked favoritism—Mrs. Tolley observingcontentedly that her days of messing for men were over, and Mrs. Vorseremarking that she'd "orghter reely git out her chafing-dish and dosome cooking" herself.

Paul found that Miss Chisholm possessed a leisurely gift of fun; shewas droll, whether she quite meant to be or not. Everybody laughed.Mrs. Tolley became tearful with mirth.

"Now, this is the nicest part of the day," said Patricia, when theythree had carried their coffee out to the porch and were seated. "Didyou ever watch the twilight come, sitting here, Mr. Forster?"

"It seems to me I have never done anything else," said Paul. She gavehim a keen glance over her lifted teaspoon; then she drank her coffee,set the cup down, and said:

"Well! How is that combination of vaudeville and railway station andzotrope that is known as New York?"

"Oh, the little old berg is all there," said Paul, lightly. But hisheart gave a sick throb. He hoped she would go on talking about it. Butit was some time before any one spoke, and then it was Alan Chisholm,who took his pipe out of his mouth to say:

"Patricia hates New York."

"I can't imagine any one doing that," Paul said emphatically.

"Well, there was a time when I thought I couldn't live anywhere else,"said Alan, good-naturedly; "but there's a lot of the pioneer in anyfellow, if he gives it a chance."

"Oh, I had a nice enough time in New York," said Patricia, lazily, "butit just WEARS YOU OUT to live there; and what do you get out of it?Now, HERE—well, one's equal to the situation here!"

"And then some," Paul said; and the brother and sister laughed at histone.

"But, honestly," said Miss Chisholm, "you take a little place likeKirkwood, and you don't need a Socialist party. We all eat the same; weall dress about the same; and certainly, if any one works hard here,it's Alan, and not the mere hands. Why, last Christmas there wasn't aperson here who didn't have a present—even Willy Chow Tong! Every onehad all the turkey he could eat; every one a fire, and a warm bed, anda lighted house. Mrs. Tolley gets only fifty dollars a month, and MonkWhite gets fifty—doesn't he, Alan? But money doesn't make muchdifference here. You know how the boys adore Monk for his voice; and asfor Mrs. Tolley, she's queen of the place! Now, how much of that's trueof New York!"

"Oh, well, put it that way—" Paul said, in the tone of an offendedchild.

"Apropos of Mrs. Tolley's being queen of the place," said Alan to hissister, "it seems she's rubbing it into poor little Mollie Peavy. Lenbrought Mollie and the baby down from the ranch a week ago, andnobody's been near 'em."

"Who said so?" flashed Miss Chisholm, reddening.

"Why, I saw Len to-night, sort of lurking round the power-house, and hetold me he had 'em in that little cottage, across the creek, where thelumbermen used to live. Said Mollie was in agony because nobody camenear her."

"Oh, that makes me furious!" said Patricia, passionately. "I'll seeabout it to-morrow. Nobody went near her? The poor little thing!"

"Who are they?" said Paul.

"Why, she's a little blonde, sickly-looking thing of sixteen,"explained Miss Chisholm, "and Len's a lumberman. They have a littleblue-nosed, sickly baby; it was born about six weeks ago, at herfather's ranch, above here. She was—she had no mother, the poorchild—"

"And in fact, my sister escorted the benefit of clergy to them abouttwo months ago," said Alan, "and the ladies of the Company House arevery haughty about it."

"They won't be long," predicted Miss Chisholm, confidently. "The idea!I can forgive Mrs. Hopps, because she's only a kid herself; but Mrs.Tolley ought to have been big enough! However!"

"This place honestly can't spare you for ten minutes, Pat," her brothersaid.

"Well, honestly," she was beginning seriously, when she saw he waslaughing at her, and broke off, with a shamefaced, laughing look forPaul. Then she announced that she was going down to the power-house,and, packing her thin white skirts about her, she started off, and theyfollowed.

Paul was not accustomed to seeing a lady in the power-house, andthought that her enthusiasm was rather nice to watch. She flitted aboutthe great barnlike structure like a contented child, insisted upondisplaying the trim stock-room to Paul, demanded a demonstration of theswitchboard, spread her pretty hands over the whirling water thatshowed under the glass of the water-wheels, and hung, fascinated, overthe governors.

"I never get used to it," said Patricia, above the steady roaring ofthe river. "Do you realize that you are in one of the greatest forcefactories of the world? Look at it!" She swept with a gesture themonster machinery that shone and glittered all about them. "Do yourealize that people miles and miles away are reading by lights andtaking street-cars that are moved by this? Don't talk to me about thesubway and the Pennsylvania Terminal!"

"Oh, come, now!" said Paul.

"Well!" she flared. "Do you suppose that anything bigger was ever donein this world than getting these things—these generators andwater-wheels and the corrugated iron for the roof, and the door-knobsand tiles and standards and switchboard, and everything else, up to thetop of the ridge from Emville and down this side of the ridge? I seethat never occurred to you! Why, you don't KNOW what it was. Struggle,struggle, struggle, day after day—ropes breaking, and tackle breaking,and roads giving way, and rain coming! Suppose one of these had slippedoff the trail—well, it would have stayed where it fell. Butwait—wait!" she said, interrupting herself with her delightful smile."You'll love it as we do one of these days!"

"Not," said Paul to himself, as they started back to the house.

After that he saw Miss Chisholm every day, and many times a day; andshe was always busy and always cheerful. She wanted her brother andPaul to ride with her up to the dam for a swim; she wanted to go to thewoods for ferns for Min's wedding; she was going to make candy and theycould come in. She packed delicious suppers, to be eaten in cool placesby the creek, and to be followed by their smoking and her carelesssnatches of songs; she played poker quite as well as they; she playedold opera scores and sang to them; she had jig-saw puzzles for slowevenings. She could not begin a game of what Mrs. Tolley called"halmy," with that good lady, without somehow attracting the boys tothe table, where they hung, championing and criticising. Paul was moreamused than surprised to find Mrs. Peavy having tea with the otherladies on the porch less than a week later. The little mother lookedscared and shamed; but Mrs. Tolley had the baby, and was bidding him"love his Auntie Gussie," while she kissed his rounding little cheek.One night, some four weeks after his arrival, Patricia decided thatPaul's room must be made habitable; and she and Alan and Paul spent anentire busy evening there, discussing photographs and books, anddeciding where to cross the oars, and where to hang the Navajo blanket,and where to put the college colors. Miss Chisholm, who had the qualityof grace and could double herself up comfortably on the floor like achild, became thoughtful over the class annual.

"The Dicky, and the Hasty Pudding!" she commented. "Weren't you theSmarty?"

Paul, who was standing with a well-worn pillow in his hand, turned andsaid hungrily:

"Oh, you know Harvard?"

"Why, I'm Radcliffe!" she said simply.

Paul was stupefied.

"Why, but you never SAID so! I thought yours was some Western collegelike your brother's!"

"Oh, no; I went to Radcliffe for four years," said she, casually. Then,tapping a picture thoughtfully, she went on: "There's a boy whose facelooks familiar."

"Well, but—well, but—didn't you love it?" stammered Paul.

"I liked it awfully well," said Patricia. "Alan, you've got that one alittle crooked," she added calmly. Paul decided disgustedly that hegave her up. His own heart was aching so for old times and old voicesthat it was far more pain than pleasure to handle all these reminders:the photographs, the yacht pennant, the golf-clubs, the rumpled andtorn dominoes, the tumbler with "Cafe Henri" blown in the glass, theshabby camera, the old Hawaiian banjo. Oh, what fun it had all been,and what good fellows they were!

"It was lovely, of course," said Patricia, in a businesslike tone; "butthis is real life! Cheer up, Paul," she went on (they had reachedChristian names some weeks before). "I am going to have two darlinggirls here for two weeks at Thanksgiving, just from Japan. And think ofthe concert next month, with Harry Garvey and Laurette Hopps in a play,and Mrs. Tolley singing 'What Are the Wild Waves Saying?' Then, if Alansends you to Sacramento, you can go to the theatre every night you'rethere, and pretend"—her eyes danced mischievously—"that you're goingto step out on Broadway when the curtain goes down, and can look up thestreet at electric signs of cocoa and ginger beer and silk petticoats—"

"Oh, don't!" said Paul; and, as if she were a little ashamed ofherself, she began to busy herself with the book-case, and wasparticularly sweet for the rest of the evening. But she wouldn't talkRadcliffe, and Paul wondered if her college days hadn't been happy; sheseemed rather uneasy when he repeatedly brought up the subject.

But a day or two later, when he and she were taking a long ride andresting their horses by a little stream high up in the hills, she beganto talk of the East; and they let an hour, and then another, go by,while they compared notes. Paul did most of the talking, and MissChisholm listened, with downcast eyes, flinging little stones from thecrumbling bank into the pool the while.

A lazy leaf or two drifted upon the surface of the water, and wheregold sunlight fell through the thick leafa*ge overhead and touched thewater, brown water-bugs flitted and jerked. Once a great dragon-flycame through on some mysterious journey, and paused for a palpitatingbright second on a sunny rock. The woods all about were silent in thetense hush of the summer afternoon; even the horses were motionless,except for an occasional idle lipping of the underbrush. Now and then abreath of pine, incredibly sweet, crept from the forest.

Paul watched his companion as he talked. She was, as always, quiteunself-conscious. She sat most becomingly framed by the lofty rise ofoak and redwood and maple trees about her. Her sombrero had slippedback on her braids, and the honest, untouched beauty of her thoughtfulface struck Paul forcibly. He wondered if she had ever been inlove—what her manner would be to the man she loved.

"What did you come for, Paul?" She was ending some long sentence withthe question.

"Come here?" Paul said. "Oh, Lord, there seemed to be reasons enough,though I can't remember now why I ever thought I'd stay."

"You came straight from college?"

"No," he said, a little uneasily; "no. I finished three years ago. Yousee, my mother married an awfully rich old guy named Steele, the lastyear I was at college; and he gave me a desk in his office. He has twosons, but they're not my kind. Nice fellows, you know, but they worktwenty hours a day, and don't belong to any clubs,—they'll both dierich, I guess,—and whenever I was late, or forgot something, or beatit early to catch a boat, they'd go to the old man. And he'd ask motherto speak to me."

"I see," said Patricia.

"After a while he got me a job with a friend of his in a Philadelphiairon-works," said the boy; "but that was a ROTTEN job. So I came backto New York; and I'd written a sketch for an amateur theatrical thing,and a manager there wanted me to work it up—said he'd produce it. Itinkered away at that for a while, but there was no money in it, andSteele sent me out to see how I'd like working in one of the Humboldtlumber camps. I thought that sounded good. But I got my leg broken thefirst week, and had to wire him from the hospital for money. So, when Igot well again, he sent me a night wire about this job, and I went tosee Kahn the next day, and came up here."

"I see," she said again. "And you don't think you'll stay?"

"Honestly, I can't, Patricia. Honest—you don't know what it is! Icould stand Borneo, or Alaska, or any place where the climate andcustoms and natives stirred things up once in a while. But this is likebeing dead! Why, it just makes me sick to see the word 'New York' onthe covers of magazines—I'm going crazy here."

She nodded seriously.

"Yes, I know. But you've got to do SOMETHING. And since your course waselectrical engineering—! And the next job mayn't be half so easy, youknow—!"

"Well, it'll be a little nearer Broadway, believe me. No, I'm sorry. Inever knew two dandier people than you and your brother, and I like thework, but—!"

He drew a long breath on the last word, and Miss Chisholm sighed, too.

"I'm sorry," she said, staring at the big seal ring on her finger. "Itell you frankly that I think you're making a mistake. I don't arguefor Alan's sake or mine, though we both like you thoroughly, and yourbeing here would make a big difference this winter. But I think you'vemade a good start with the company, and it's a good company, and Ithink, from what you've said to-day, and other hints you're given me,that you'd make your mother very happy by writing her that you thinkyou've struck your groove. However!"

She got up, brushed the leaves from her skirt, and went to her horse.They rode home through the columned aisles of the forest almostsilently. The rough, straight trunks of the redwoods rose all aboutthem, catching gold and red on their thick, fibrous bark from thesetting sun. The horses' feet made no sound on the corduroy roadway.

For several days nothing more was said of Paul's going or staying. MissChisholm went her usual busy round. Paul wrote his letter ofresignation and carried it to the dinner-table one night, hoping toread it later to her, and win her approval of its finely roundedsentences.

But a heavy mail came down the trail that evening, brought by theobliging doctor from Emville, who had been summoned to dress the woundsof one of the line-men who had got too close to the murderous "sixtythousand" and had been badly burned by "the juice." And after theletters were read, and the good doctor had made his patientcomfortable, he proved an excellent fourth hand at the game of bridgefor which they were always hungering.

So at one o'clock Paul went upstairs with his letter still unapproved.He hesitated in the dim upper hallway, wondering if Patricia, who hadleft the men to beer and crackers half an hour earlier, had retired, orwas, by happy chance, still gossiping with Mrs. Tolley or Min. While heloitered in the hall, the door of her room swung slowly open.

Paul had often been in this room, which was merely a kind of adjunct tothe sleeping-porch beyond. He went to the doorway and said, "Patricia!"

The room, wide and charmingly furnished, was quite empty. On the deepcouch letters were scattered in a wide circle, and in their midst wasan indentation as if some one had been kneeling on the floor with herelbows there. Paul noticed this with a curious feeling of unease, andthen called softly again, "Patricia!"

No answer. He walked hesitatingly to his own room and to the window.Why he should have looked down at the dark path with the expectation ofseeing her, he did not know; but it was almost without surprise that herecognized the familiar white ruffles and dark head moving away in thegloom. Paul unhesitatingly followed.

He followed her down the trail as far as he had seen her go, and wasstanding, a little undecidedly, wondering just which way she hadturned, when his heart was suddenly brought into his throat by thesound of her bitter sobbing.

A moment later he saw her. She was sitting on a smooth fallen trunk,and had buried her face in her hands. Paul had never heard such sobs;they seemed to shake her from head to foot. Hardly would they lessen,bringing him the hope that her grief, whatever it was, was wearingitself out, when a fresh paroxysm would shake her, and she wouldabandon herself to it. This lasted for what seemed a long, long time.

After a while Paul cleared his throat, but she did not hear him. Andagain he stood motionless, waiting and waiting. Finally, when shestraightened up and began to mop her eyes, he said, trembling a little:

"Patricia!"

Instantly she stopped crying.

"Who is that?" she said, with an astonishing control of her voice. "Isthat you, Alan? I'm all right, dear. Did I frighten you? Is that you,Alan?"

"It's Paul," the boy said, coming nearer.

"Oh—Paul!" she said, relieved. "Does Alan know I'm here?"

"No," he reassured her; then, affectionately: "What is it, Pat?"

"Just—just that I happen to be a fool!" she said huskily, but with aneffort at lightness. Paul sat down, beginning to see in the darkness."I'm all right now," went on Patricia, hardily. "I just—I suppose Ijust had the blues." She put out a smooth hand in the darkness, andpatted Paul's appreciatively. "I'm ashamed of myself!" said she,catching a little sob, as she spoke, like a child.

"Bad news—in your letters?" he hazarded.

"No, GOOD; that's the trouble!" she said, with her whimsical smile, butwith trembling lips. "You see, all my friends are in the East, and someof them happened to be at the same house-party at Newport, andthey—they were saying how they missed me," her voice shook a little,"and—and it seems they toasted me, all standing, and—and—" Andsuddenly she gave up the fight for control, and began to cry bitterlyagain. "Oh, I'm so HOMESICK!" she sobbed, "and I'm so LONESOME! And I'mso sick, sick, sick of this place! Oh, I think I'll go crazy if I can'tgo home! I bear it and I BEAR it," said Patricia, in a sort ofdesperate self-defence, "and then the time comes when I simply CAN'Tbear it!" And again she wept luxuriously, and Paul, in an agony ofsympathy, patted her hand.

"My heart is just breaking!" she burst out again, her tears and wordstumbling over each other. "It—it isn't RIGHT! I want my friends, and Iwant my youth—I'll never be twenty-six again! I want to put my thingsinto a suit-case and go off with the other girls for countryvisits—and I want to dance!" She put her head down again, and after amoment Paul ventured a timid, "Patricia, dear, DON'T."

He thought she had not heard him, but after a moment, he was relievedto see her resolutely straighten up again, and dry her eyes, and pushup her tumbled hair.

"Well, I really will STOP," she said determinedly. "This will not do!If Alan even suspected! But, you see, I'm naturally a sociable person,and I had—well, I don't suppose any girl ever had such a good time inNew York! My aunt did for me just what she did for her own daughters—adance at Sherry's, and dinners—! Paul, I'd give a year of my life justto drive down the Avenue again on a spring afternoon, and bow to everyone, and have tea somewhere, and smell the park—oh, did you ever smellCentral Park in the spring?"

Both were silent. After a long pause Paul said:

"Why DO you stay? You've not got to ask a stepfather for a job."

"Alan," she answered simply. "No, don't say that," she interrupted himquickly; "I'm nothing of the sort! But my mother—my mother, in a way,left Alan and me to each other, and I have never done anything forAlan. I went to the Eastern aunt, and he stayed here; and after a whilehe drifted East—and he had too much money, of course! And I wasn'thalf affectionate enough; he had his friends and I had mine! Well thenhe got ill, and first it was just a cold and then it was,suddenly—don't you know?—a question of consultations, and a dryclimate, and no dinners or wine or late hours. And Alanrefused—refused flat to go anywhere, until I said I'd LOVE to come!I'll never forget the night it came over me that I ought to. I am—Iwas—engaged, you know?" She paused.

Paul cleared his throat. "No, I didn't know," he said.

"It wasn't announced," said Miss Chisholm. "He's a good deal older thanI. A doctor." There was a long silence. "He said he would wait, and hewill," she said softly, ending it. "It's not FOREVER, you know. Anotheryear or two, and he'll come for me! Alan's quite a different personnow. Another two years!" She jumped up, with a complete change ofmanner. "Well, I'm over my nonsense for another while!" said she. "Andit's getting cold. I can't tell you how I've enjoyed letting off steamthis way, Paul!"

"Whenever we feel this way," he said, giving her a steadying hand inthe dark, "we'll come out for a jaw. But cheer up; we'll have lots offun this winter!"

"Oh, lots!" she said contentedly. They entered the dark, open doorwaytogether.

Patricia went ahead of him up the stairs, and at the top she turned,and Paul felt her hand for a second on his shoulder, and felt somethingbrush his forehead that was all fragrance and softness and warmth.

Then she was gone.

Paul went into his room, and stood at the window, staring out into thedark. Only the door of the power-house glowed smoulderingly, and abroad band of light fell from Miss Chisholm's window.

He stood there until this last light suddenly vanished. Then he took aletter from his pocket, and began to tear it methodically to pieces.While he did so Paul began to compose another letter, this time to hismother.

THE RAINBOW'S END

"Well, I am discovered—and lost." Julie, lazily making theannouncement after a long silence, shut her magazine with a sigh ofsleepy content; and braced herself more comfortably against the oldrowboat that was half buried in sand at her back. She turned as shespoke to smile at the woman near her, a frail, keen-faced little womanluxuriously settled in an invalid's wheeled chair.

"Ann—you know you're not interested in that book. Did you hear what Isaid? I'm discovered."

"Well, it was sure to happen, sooner or later, I suppose." Mrs.Arbuthnot, suddenly summoned from the pages of a novel brought her gazepromptly to the younger woman's face, with the pitifully alert interestof the invalid. "You were bound to be recognized by some one, Ju!"

"Don't worry, a cannon wouldn't wake him!" said Julia, in reference toMrs. Arbuthnot's lowered voice, and the solicitous look the wife hadgiven a great opened beach umbrella three feet away, under which Dr.Arbuthnot slumbered on the warm sands. "He's forty fathoms deep. No,"continued the actress, returning aggrievedly to her own affairs, "Isuppose there's no such thing as escaping recognition—even as late inthe season as this, and at such an out-of-the-way place. Of course, Iknew," she continued crossly, "that various people here had placed me,but I did rather hope to escape actual introductions!"

"Who is it—some one you know?" Mrs. Arbuthnot adjusted the pillow ather back, and settled herself enjoyably for a talk.

"Indirectly; it's that little butterfly of a summer girl—the one Jimcalls 'The Dancing Girl'—of all people in the world!" said Julie,locking her arms comfortably behind her head. "You know how she's beenhaunting me, Ann? She's been simply DETERMINED upon an introductionever since she placed me as her adored Miss Ives of matinee fame. Iimagine she's rather a nice child—every evidence of money—theambitious type that longs to do something big—and is given todesperate hero worship. She's been under my feet for a week, with aFaithful Tray expression that drives me crazy. I've taken great painsnot to see her."

"And now—?" prompted the other, as the actress fell silent, and satstaring dreamily at the brilliant sweep of beach and sea before them.

"Oh—now," Miss Ives took up her narrative briskly. "Well, a new youngman arrived on the afternoon boat and, of course, the Dancing Girlinstantly captivated him. She has one simple yet direct method withthem all," she interrupted herself to digress a little. "She gets oneof her earlier victims to introduce him; they all go down for a swim,she fascinates him with her daring and her bobbing red cap, she returnsto white linen and leads him down to play tennis—they have tea at the'Casino,' and she promises him the second two-step and the first extrathat evening. He is then hers to command," concluded Julie, bringingher amused eyes back to Mrs. Arbuthnot's face, "for the remainder ofhis stay!"

"That's exactly what she DOES do," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, laughing, "butI don't see yet—"

"Oh, I forgot to say," Miss Ives amended hastily, "that to-day's youngman happens to be an acquaintance of mine; at least his uncleintroduced him to me at a tea last winter. She led him by to the tenniscourts an hour ago, and, to my disgust, I recognized him. That's allMiss Dancing Girl wants. Now—you'll see! They'll come up to our tablein the dining-room to-night, and to-morrow she'll bring up a group ofdear friends and he'll bring up another—to be introduced; and—therewe'll be!"

"Oh, not so bad as that, Julie!"

"Oh, yes, indeed, Ann!" pursued Miss Ives with morose enjoyment. "Youdon't know how helpless one is. I'll be annoyed to death for the restof the month, just so that the Dancing Girl can go back to the citythis winter and say, 'Oh, girls, Julia Ives was staying where mamma andI were this summer, and she's just a DEAR! She doesn't make up one bitoff the stage, and she dresses just as PLAIN! I saw her every day andgot some dandy snapshots. She's just a darling when you know her.'"

"Well! What an unspoiled modest little soul you are, Julie!"interrupted the doctor's admiring voice. He wheeled away the umbrellaand, lying luxuriously on his elbows in the sun, beamed at them boththrough his glasses.

"Jim," said the actress, severely, "it's positively indecent—the habityou're getting of evesdropping on Ann and me!"

"It gives me sidelights on your characters," said the doctor, quitebrazenly.

"Ann—don't you call that disgraceful?"

"I certainly do, Ju," his wife agreed warmly. "But Jim has no sense ofhonor." Ann Arbuthnot, in the fifteen years of her married life, hadnever been able to keep a thrill of adoration out of her voice when shespoke, however jestingly, of her husband. It trembled there now.

"Well, what's wrong, Julie? Some old admirer turn up?" asked thedoctor, sleepily content to follow any conversational lead, in the idlepleasantness of the hour.

"No—no!" she corrected him, "just some silly social complicationsahead—which I hate!"

"Be rude," suggested the doctor, pleasantly.

"Now, you know, I'd love that!" said Mrs. Arbuthnot, youthfully. "I'dsimply love to be followed and envied and adored!"

"No, you wouldn't, Ann!" Miss Ives assured her promptly. "You'd likeit, as I did, for a little while. And then the utter USELESSNESS of itwould strike you. Especially from such little complacent, fluffywhirlings as that Dancing Girl!"

"Yes, and that's the kind of a girl I like," persisted the other,smiling.

"That's the kind of a girl you WERE, Ann, I've no doubt," said theactress, vivaciously, "only sweeter. I know she wore white ruffles anda velvet band on her hair, didn't she, Jim? And roses in her belt?"

"She did," said the doctor, reminiscently. "I believe she flirted inher kindergarten days. She was always engaged to ride or dance or rowon the river with the other men—and always splitting her dances, andforgetting her promises, and wearing the rings and pins of her adorers."

"And the fun was, Ju," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, girlishly, with brightcolor in her cheeks, "that when Jim came there to give two lectures,you know, all the older girls were crazy about him—and he was tenyears older than I, you know, and I never DREAMED—"

"Oh, you go to, Ann! You never DREAMED!" said Miss Ives, lazily.

"Honestly, I didn't!" Mrs. Arbuthnot protested. "I remember my brotherBilly saying, 'Babs, you don't think Dr. Arbuthnot is coming here tosee ME, do you?' and then it all came over me! Why, I was onlyeighteen."

"And engaged to Billy's chum," said the doctor.

"Well," said the wife, naively, "he knew all along it wasn't serious."

"You must have been a rose," said Miss Ives, "and I would have hatedyou! Now, when I went to dances," she pursued half seriously, "I sat inone place and smiled fixedly, and watched the other girls dance. Or Italked with great animation to the chaperons. Ann, I've felt sometimesthat I would gladly die, to have the boys crowd around me just once,and grab my card and scribble their names all over it. I didn't dressvery well, or dance very well—and I never could talk to boys." Shebegan to trace a little watercourse in the sand with an exquisitefinger tip. "I was the most unhappy girl on earth, I think! I feltevery birthday was a separate insult—twenty, and twenty-two, andtwenty-four! We were poor, and life was—oh, not dramatic or big!—butjust petty and sordid. I used to rage because the dining-room was theonly place for the sewing-machine, and rage because my bedroom wasreally a back parlor. Well!—I joined a theatrical company—came away.And many a night, tired out and discouraged, I've cried myself to sleepbecause I'd never have any girlhood again!"

She stopped with a half-apologetic laugh. The doctor was watching herwith absorbed, bright eyes. Mrs. Arbuthnot, unable to imagine youthwithout joy and beauty, protested:

"Julie—I don't believe you—you're exaggerating! Do you mean youdidn't go on the stage until you were twenty-four!"

"I was twenty-six. I was leading lady my second season, and starred mythird," said the actress, without enthusiasm. "I was starred in 'TheJack of Clubs.' It ran a season in New York and gave me my start. Lud,how tired we all got of it!"

"And then I hope you went back home, Ju, and were lionized," said theother woman, vigorously.

"Oh, not then! No, I'd been meaning to go—and meaning to go—all thosethree years. The little sisters used to write me—such forlorn littleletters!—and mother, too—but I couldn't manage it. And then—the verynight 'Jack' played the three hundredth time, as it happened—I hadthis long wire from Sally and Beth. Mother was very ill, wantedme—they'd meet a certain train, they were counting the hours—"

Miss Ives demolished her watercourse with a single sweep of her palm.There was a short silence.

"Well!" she said, breaking it. "Mother got well, as it happened, and Iwent home two months later. I had the guest room, I remember. Sally waseverything to mother then, and I tried to feel glad. Beth was engaged.Every one was very flattering and very kind in the intervals left byengagements and weddings and new babies and family gatherings. Then Icame back to 'Jack,' and we went on the road. And then I broke down anda strange doctor in a strange hospital put me together again," she wenton with a flashing smile and a sudden change of tone, "and his whollyadorable wife sent me double white violets! And they—the Arbuthnots,not the violets—were the nicest thing that ever happened to me!"

"So that was the way of it?" said the doctor.

"That was the way of it."

"And as the duch*ess would say, the moral of THAT is—?"

"The moral is for me. Or else it's for little dancing girls, I don'tknow which." Miss Ives wiped her eyes openly and, restoring herhandkerchief to its place, announced that she perceived she had beentalking too much.

Presently the Dancing Girl came down from the tennis-court, with herdevoted new captive in tow. The captive, a fat, amiable-looking youth,was warm and wilted, but the girl was fresh and buoyant as ever. Theyheard her allude to the "second two-step" and something was said of the"supper dance," but her laughing voice stopped as she and her escortcame nearer the actress, and she gave Julie her usual look of muteadoration. The boy, flushing youthfully, lifted his hat, and Juliebowed briefly.

They were lingering over their coffee two hours later, when the newlyarrived young man made the expected move. He threaded the tablesbetween his own and the doctor's carefully, the eager Dancing Girl inhis wake.

"I don't know whether you remember me, Miss Ives—?" he began, when hecould extend a hand.

Julie turned her splendid, unsmiling eyes toward him.

"Mr. Polk. How do you do? Yes, indeed, I remember you," she said,unenthusiastically. "How is Mr. Gilbert?"

"Uncle John? Oh, he's fine!" said young Polk, rapturously. "I wonderwhy he didn't tell me you were spending the summer here!"

"I don't tell any one," said Julie, simply. "My winters are so crowdedthat I try to get away from people in the summer."

"Oh!" said the boy, a little blankly. There was an instant's pausebefore he added rather uncomfortably:

"Miss Ives—Miss Carter has been so anxious to meet you—"

"How do you do, Miss Carter?" said Julie, promptly, politely. She gaveher young adorer a ready hand. The usually poised Dancing Girl couldnot recall at the moment one of the things she had planned to say whenthis great moment came. But she thought of them all as she lay in bedthat night, and the conviction that she had bungled the long-wished-forinterview made her burn from her heels to the lobes of her ears. WhatHAD she said? Something about having longed for this opportunity, whichthe actress hadn't answered, and something about her desperateadmiration for Miss Ives, at which Miss Ives had merely smiled. Otherthings were said, or half said—the girl reviewed them mercilessly inthe dark—and then the interview had terminated, rather flatly. MarianCarter writhed at the recollection.

But the morning brought courage. She passed Julie, who was fresh from aplunge in the ocean, and briskly attacking a late breakfast, on her wayfrom the dining-room.

"Good morning, Miss Ives! Isn't it a lovely morning?"

"Oh, good morning, Miss Carter. I beg pardon—?"

"I said, 'Isn't it a lovely morning?'"

"Oh—? Yes, quite delightful."

"Miss Ives—but I'm interrupting you?"

Julie gave her book a glance and raised her eyes expectantly to MissCarter's face, but did not speak.

"Miss Ives," said Miss Carter, a little confusedly, "mamma waswondering if you've taken the trip to Fletcher's Forest? We've ourmotor-car here, you know, and they serve a very good lunch at the Inn."

"Oh, thank you, no!" said Julie, positively. "VERY good of you—but I'mwith the Arbuthnots, you know. Thank you, no."

"I hoped you would," said Miss Carter, disappointed. "I know you use amotor in town," she answered daringly. "You see I know all about you!"

Miss Ives paid to this confession only the small tribute of raisedeyebrows and an absent smile. She was quite at her ease, but in thelittle silence that followed Miss Carter had time to feel baffled—inthe way. "Here is Mrs. Arbuthnot," she said in relief, as Ann cameslowly in on the doctor's arm. Before they reached the table the girlhad slipped away.

That afternoon she asked Miss Ives, pausing beside the basking group onthe sands to do so, if she would have tea informally with mamma and afew friends. Oh—thank you, Miss Ives couldn't, to-day. Thank you. Thenext day Miss Carter wondered if Miss Ives would like to spin out tothe Point to see the sunset? No, thank you so much. Miss Ives was justgoing in. Another day brought a request for Miss Ives's company atdinner, with just mamma and Mr. Polk and the Dancing Girl herself.Declined. A fourth day found Miss Carter, camera in hand, smilinglyconfronting the actress as she came out on the porch.

"Will you be very cross if I ask you to stand still just a moment, MissIves?" asked the Dancing Girl.

"Oh, I'm afraid I will," said Julie, annoyed. "I DON'T like to bephotographed!" But she was rather disarmed at the speed with which MissCarter shut up her little camera.

"I know I bother you," said the girl, with a wistful sincerity that wasmost becoming and with a heightened color, "but—but I just can't seemto help it!" She walked down the steps beside Julie, laughing almostwith vexation at her own weakness. "I've always admired so—the peoplewho DO things! I've always wanted to do something myself," said MissCarter, awkwardly. "You don't know how unhappy it makes me. You don'tknow how I'd love to do something for you!"

"You can, you can let me off being photographed, like a sweet child!"said Julie, lightly. But twenty minutes later when, very trim anddainty in her blue bathing suit and scarlet cap, she came out of thebath-house to join Ann and the doctor on the beach, she reproachedherself. She might have met the stammered little confidence withsomething warmer than a jesting word, she thought with a little shame.

"You're not going in again!" protested Ann. "Oh, CHIL-dren!"

"I am," said Miss Ives, buoyantly. "I don't know about Jim. At Jim'sage every step counts, I suppose. These fashionable doctors habituallyovereat and oversleep, I understand, and it makes them lazy."

"I AM going in, Ann," said the doctor, with dignity, rising from thesand and pointedly addressing his wife. A few moments later he andJulie joyously breasted the sleepy roll of the low breakers, and pushedtheir way steadily through the smoother water beyond.

"Oh, that was glorious, Jim!" gasped the actress, as they gained theraft that was always their goal and pulling herself up to sitsiren-wise upon it. She was breathless, radiant, bubbling with the joyof sun and air and green water. She took off her cap and let thesunlight beat on her loosened braids.

"How you love the water, Julie!"

"Yes—best of all. I'm never so satisfied as when I'm in it!"

"You never look so happy as when you are," he said.

"Oh, these are happy days!" said Julie. "I wish they could lastforever. Just resting and playing—wouldn't you like a year of it, Jim?"

The doctor eyed her quietly.

"I don't know that I would," he said seriously, impersonally.

There was a little silence. Then the girl began to pin up her braidswith fingers that trembled a little.

"Ann's waving!" she said presently, and the doctor caught up herscarlet cap to signal back to the far blur on the beach that was Ann.He watched the tiny distant groups a moment.

"Here comes your admirer!" said he.

"Where?" Julie was ready at once to slip into the water.

"Oh—finish your hair—take your time! She's just in the breakers.We'll be off long before she gets here."

"That reminds me, Jim," Miss Ives was quite herself again, "that when Iwas in the bath-house a few moments ago your Dancing Girl and thatpretty little girl who is visiting her came into the next room. Youknow how flimsy the walls are? I could hear every word they said."

"If you'd been a character in a story, Ju, you'd have felt it your dutyto cough!"

"Well, I didn't," grinned Miss Ives; "not that I wanted to hear whatthey were saying. I didn't even know who they were until I heard littleMiss Carter say solemnly, 'Ethel, I used to want mamma to get thatForty-eighth Street house, and I used to want to do Europe, but I thinkif I had ONE wish now, it would be to do something that would MAKEeverybody know me—and everybody talk about me. I'd LOVE to be pointedout wherever I went. I'd love to have people stare at me. I'd like tobe just as popular and just as famous as Julia Ives!'"

"She HAS got it badly, Ju!" the doctor observed.

"She has. And it will be fuel on the flames to have me start to swimback to shore while she is swimming as hard as she can to the raft!"said the lady, tucking the last escaping lock under her cap andspringing up for the plunge that started the home trip.

It was only a little after midnight that night when Julie, lyingwakeful in the sultry summer darkness, was startled by a person in herroom.

"It's Emma, Miss Ives," said Mrs. Arbuthnot's maid, stumbling about,"Mrs. Arbuthnot wants you."

"She's ill!" Julie felt rather than said the words, instantly alert andalarmed, and reaching for her wrapper and slippers.

"No, ma'am. But the doctor feels like he ought to go down to the fire,and she's nervous—"

"The fire?"

"Yes'm," said Emma, simply, "the windmill is afire!"

"And I sleeping through it all!" Miss Ives was still bewildered,fastening the sash of her cobwebby black Mandarin robe as she followedEmma through the passage that joined her suite to the Arbuthnots'.

"Ann, dear—Emma tells me the laundry's on fire?" said she, enteringthe big room. "I had no idea of it!"

"Nor had we," the doctor's wife rejoined eagerly. "The first we knewwas from Emma. Jim says there's no danger. Do you think there is?"

"Certainly not, Ann!" Julie laughed. "I'll tell you what we can do,"she added briskly. "We'll wheel you down the hall here to the window;you can get a splendid view of the whole thing."

The doctor approving, the ladies took up their station at a wide hallwindow that commanded the whole scene.

Outside the velvet blackness and silence of the night were shattered.The great mill, ugly tongues of flame bursting from the door andwindows at its base, was the centre of a talking, shouting,shrill-voiced crowd that was momentarily, in the mysterious fashion ofcrowds, gathering size.

"Wonderful sight, isn't it, Ann?"

"Wonderful. Does this cut off our water supply, Emma?"

"No, Mrs. Arbuthnot. They're using the little mill for the engines now."

"What did they use the big mill for, Emma?"

"The laundry, Miss Ives. And there's a sort of flat on the second floorwhere the laundry woman and her husband—he's the man that drives the'bus—live."

"Good heavens!" said Ann. "I hope they got out!"

"Oh, sure," said the maid, comfortably. "It was all of an hour ago thefire started. They had lots of time."

The three watched for a while in silence. Ann's eyes began to droopfrom the bright monotony of the flames.

"I believe I'll wait until the tank falls, Ju? and then go back to mycomfortable bed—Julie, what is it—!"

Her voice rose, keen with terror. The actress, her hand on her heart,shook her head without turning her eyes from the mill.

For suddenly above the other clamor there had risen one horriblescream, and now, following it, there was almost a silence.

"Why—what on earth—" panted Miss Ives, looking to Mrs. Arbuthnot forexplanation after an endless interval in which neither stirred. Butagain they were interrupted, this time by such an outbreak of shoutingand cries from the watching crowd about the mill as made the nightfairly ring.

A moment later the entire top of the mill collapsed, sending a gush ofsparks far up into the night. Then at last the faithfully played hosesbegan to gain control.

"Do run down and find out what the shouting was, Emma," said Julie.Emma gladly obeyed.

"She'd come back, if anything had happened," said Julie, some tenminutes later.

"Who—Emma?" Mrs. Arbuthnot was not alarmed. "Oh, surely!" she yawned,and drew her wraps about her.

"It's all over now. But I suppose it will burn for hours. I think I'llturn in again," she said.

"I've had enough, too!" Julie said, not quite easy herself, but glad tofind the other so. "Let's decamp."

She wheeled the invalid carefully back to her room, where both womenwere still talking when a bell-boy knocked, bringing a message from thedoctor. A woman had been hurt; he would be busy with her for an hour.

"Who was it?" Julie asked him, but the boy, obviously frantic to returnto the fascinations of the fire, didn't know.

It was more than an hour later that the doctor came in. Julie had beenreading to Ann. She shut the book.

"Jim! What on earth has kept you so long?"

"Frighten you, dear?" The doctor was very pale; he looked, between thedirt and disorder of his clothes, and the anxiety of his face, like anold man.

"Some one was hurt?" flashed Julie, solicitous at once.

"Has no one told you about it?" he wondered. "Lord! I should think itwould be all over the place by this time!"

He dropped into an easy chair, and sank his head wearily into his hands.

"Lord—Lord—Lord!" he muttered. Then he looked up at his wife with thesmile that never failed her.

"Jim—no one was killed?"

"Oh, no, dear! No, I'll tell you." He came over and sat beside her onthe bed, patting her hand. The two women watched him with tense,absorbed faces.

"When I got there," said the doctor, slowly, "there was quite acrowd—the lower story of the mill was all aflame—and the firemen werekeeping the people back. They'd a ladder up at the second story andfiremen were pitching things out of the windows as fast as theycould—chairs, rugs, pillows, and so on. Finally the last man came out,smoke coming after him—it was quick work! Now, remember, dear, no onewas killed—" he stopped to pat his wife's hand reassuringly. "Well,just then, at the third-story windows—it seems the laundress haschildren—"

"Children!" gasped Miss Ives. "Oh, NO!"

"Yes, four of 'em—the oldest a little fellow of ten, had the baby inhis arms—." The doctor stopped.

"Go ON, Jim!"

"Well, they put the ladder back again, but the sill was aflame then. Nouse! Just then the mother and father—poor souls—arrived. They'd beenat a dance in the village. The woman screamed—"

"We heard."

"Ah? The man had to be held, poor fellow! It was—it was—" Again thedoctor stopped, unable to go on. But after a few seconds he began morebriskly: "Well! The mill was connected with this house, you know, by alittle bridge, from the tank floor of the mill to the roof. No one hadthought of it, because every one supposed that there was no one in themill. Before the crowd had fairly seen that there WERE children cagedup there, they left the window, and not a minute later we saw them comeup the trap-door by the tank. Lord, how every one yelled."

"They'd thought of it, the darlings!" half sobbed Mrs. Arbuthnot.

"No, they'd never have thought of it—too terrified, poor littlethings. No. We all saw that there was some one—a woman—with themhurrying them along. I was helping hold the mother or I might havethought it was the mother. They scampered across that bridge likelittle squirrels, the woman with the baby last. By that time the millwas roaring like a furnace behind them, and the bridge itself burstinto flames at the mill end. She—the woman—must have felt ittottering, for she flung herself the last few feet—but she couldn'tmake it. She threw the baby, by some lucky accident, for she couldn'thave known what she was doing, safe to the others, and caught at therail, but the whole thing gave way and came down.... I got there aboutthe first—she'd only fallen some dozen feet, you know, on the flatroof of the kitchen, but she was all smashed up, poor little girl. Wecarried her into the housekeeper's room—and then I saw that it waslittle Miss Carter—your Dancing Girl, Ju!"

"Jim! Dead?"

"Oh, no! I don't think she'll die. She's badly burned, of course—faceand hands especially—but it's the spine I'm afraid for. We can tellbetter to-morrow. We made her as comfortable as we could. I gave hersomething that'll make her sleep. Her mother's with her. But I'm afraidher dancing days are over."

"Think of it—little Miss Carter!" Julie's voice sounded dazed.

"But, Jim," Ann said, "what was she doing in the mill?"

"Why, that's the point," he said. "She wasn't there when the firestarted. She was simply one of the crowd. But when she heard that thechildren were there, she ran to the back of the mill, where there was astraight up-and-down ladder built against the wall outside, so that thetank could be reached that way. She went up it like a flash—says shenever thought of asking any one else to go. She broke a window andclimbed in—she says the floor was hot to her feet then—and she andthe kids ran up the inside flight to the trap-door. They obeyed herlike little soldiers! But the bridge side of the mill was the side thefire was on, and the wood was rotten, you know—almost explosive. Halfa minute later and they couldn't have made it at all."

"How do you ACCOUNT for such courage in a girl like that?" marvelledJulie.

"I don't know," he said. "Take it all in all, it was the mostextraordinary thing I ever saw. Apparently she never for one secondthought of herself. She simply ran straight into that hideousdanger—while the rest of us could do nothing but put our hands overour eyes and pray."

"But she'll live, Jim?" the actress asked, and as he nodded athoughtful affirmative, she added: "That's something to be thankfulfor, at least!"

"Don't be too sure it is," said Ann.

Ten days later Miss Ives came cheerfully into the sunny, big room whereMarian Carter lay. Bandaged, and strapped, and bound, it was a sorrylittle Dancing Girl who turned her serious eyes to the actress's face.But Julie could be irresistible when she chose, and she chose to be hermost fascinating self to-day. Almost reluctantly at first, later withsomething of her old gayety, the Dancing Girl's laugh rang out. Itstirred Julie's heart curiously to hear it, and made the littlepatient's mother, listening in the next room, break silently into tears.

"But this is what I really came to bring you," said the actress,presently, laying a score or more of newspaper clippings on the bed."You see you are famous! I had my press-agent watch for these, andthey're coming in at a great rate every mail. You see, here's anattering likeness of you in a New York daily, and here you are again,in a Chicago paper!"

"Those aren't of ME," said Marian, smiling.

"It SAYS they are," Julie said. "One says you are petite and dark, andthe other that you are a blond Gibson type. You wouldn't have believedthat your wish could come true so quickly, would you, just the otherday?"

"My wish?" stammered the girl.

"Yes. Don't you remember saying that you wished you could do somethingbig?" pursued Julie. "You've done a thing that makes the rest of usfeel pretty small, you know. Why, while there was any question of yourgetting better, there wasn't a dance given at any of the hotels betweenhere and Surf Point, and all sorts of people came here with inquiriesevery day. This place was absolutely hushed. The maids used to fightfor the privilege of carrying your trays up. None of us thought ofanything but 'How is Miss Carter?' And you'll be 'The young lady whosaved those children from the fire' for the rest of your life whereveryou go!"

Miss Carter was watching her gravely.

"You say I got my wish," she said now, her blue eyes brimming with slowtears, and her lips trembling. "But—but—you see how I AM, Miss Ives!Dr. Arbuthnot says I MAY be able to walk in a month or two, but noswimming or riding or dancing for years—perhaps never. And myface—it'll always be scarred."

Julie laid a gentle hand on the little helpless fingers.

"But that's part of the process, you know, little girl," said theactress after a little silence. "I pay one way, perhaps, and you payanother, but we both pay. Don't you suppose," a smile broke through theseriousness of her face, "don't you suppose I have my scars, too?"

Marian dried her eyes. "Scars?"

"When you are pointed out—as you WILL be, wherever you go—" saidJulie, "you'll think to yourself, 'Ah, yes, this is very lovely andvery flattering, but I'll never dance again—I'll never rush into thewaves again, I'll never spend a whole morning on the tennis court,'won't you?"

The Dancing Girl nodded, her eyes filling again, her lips trembling.

"And when people stare after me and follow me," said Julie, "I think tomyself—'Oh, this is very flattering, very delightful—but the youngyears are gone—the mother who missed me and longed for me is gone—thelittle sisters are married, and deep in happy family cares—they don'tneed me any more.' I have what I wanted, but I've paid the price! In alife like mine there's no room for the normal, wonderful ties of a homeand children. Never—" she put her head back against her chair and shuther eyes—"never that happiness for me!" She finished, her voicelowered and carefully controlled.

They were both silent awhile. Then Marian stirred her helpless fingersjust enough to deepen their light pressure on Julie's own.

"Thank you," she said shyly. "I see now. I think I begin to understand."

ROSEMARY'S STEPMOTHER

In the sunny morning-room there prevailed an atmosphere of business.Rosemary, at the desk, was rapidly writing notes and addressingenvelopes. Theodore, a deep wrinkle crossing his forehead, wasstruggling to reduce to order a confused heap of crumpled and illegiblepapers. Before him lay little heaps of silver and small gold, which hemoved and counted untiringly, referring now and then to various entriesin a large, flat ledger. Mrs. Bancroft, stepmother of these two, was ina deep chair, with her lap full of letters. Now and then she quotedaloud from these as she opened and glanced over them. Lastly, AnnWeatherbee, a neighbor, seated on the floor with her back against Mrs.Bancroft's knee, was sorting a large hamperful of silver spoons andcrumpled napkins into various heaps.

"There!" said Ann, presently. "I've finished the napkins—or nearly!Tell me, whose are these, Aunt Nell?"

Mrs. Bancroft reached a smooth hand for them and mused over themonograms.

"B—B—B—?" she reflected. "Both are B's, aren't they? And different,too. This is Mrs. Bayne's, anyway—I was with her when she boughtthese. But these—? Oh, I know now, Ann! That little cousin of thePotters',—what was her name, Rosemary?"

"Sutter, madam! Guess again."

"No; but her unmarried name, I mean?"

"Oh, Beatty, of course!" supplied Ann. "Aren't you clever to rememberthat! I'll tie them up. Oh, and should there only be eleven of theWhiteley Greek-borders?" she asked presently.

"One was sent home with a cake, dear,—we had too much cake."

"We always do, somehow," commented Rosemary, absently, and there was asilence. The last speaker broke it presently, with a long sigh.

"At your next concert, mamma, I shall insist upon having 'please omitflowers' on the tickets," said Rosemary, severely. "I think I havethanked forty people for 'your exquisite roses'!"

"Poor, overworked little Rosemary!" laughed her stepmother.

"You can look for a new treasurer, too," said Theodore. "This sort ofthing needs an expert accountant. No ordinary brain...! What with someof these women rubbing every item out three or four times, and othersusing pale green water for ink, nobody could get a balance."

Mrs. Bancroft, smiling serenely, leaned back in her chair,

"Aren't they unkind to me, Ann?" she complained. "They would expect apoor, forlorn old woman—Now, Rosemary!"

For Rosemary had interrupted her. Seating herself upon the arm of herstepmother's chair, she laid a firm hand over the speaker's mouth.

"Now she will fish, Ann," said Rosemary, calmly.

"Fish!" said Ann, indignantly. "After last night she doesn't have toFISH!"

"You bet she doesn't," said Theodore, affectionately. "Not she! She gotenough compliments last night to last her a long while."

"I was ashamed of myself," confessed Rosemary, with her slow smile;"for, after all, WE'RE only her family! But father, Ted, and I wentabout the whole evening with broad, complacent grins—as if WE'D beendoing something."

"Oh, I was boasting aloud most of the time that I knew herintimately," Ann added, laughing. "Just being a neighbor and old friendshed a sort of glory even on me!"

"Oh, well, it was the dearest concert ever," summarized Rosemary,contentedly. "The papers this morning say that the flowers were like anopera first night—though I never saw any opera singer get so manyhere—and that hundreds were turned away!"

"'Hundreds'!" repeated Mrs. Bancroft, chuckling at the absurdity of it.

"Well, mamma, the hall WAS packed," Ted reminded her promptly. Hegrinned over some amusing memory. "...Old lady Barnes weeping over'Nora Creina,'" he added.

"Ann, I didn't tell you that Dad and I met Herr Muller at the gate thismorning," said Rosemary, "shedding tears over the thought of some ofthe Franz songs, and blowing his nose on his blue handkerchief!"

"And you certainly did look stunning, mamma," contributed Ted.

"Children... children!" protested Mrs. Bancroft. But the pleased colorflooded her cheeks.

Another busy silence was broken by a triumphant exclamation fromTheodore, who turned about from his table to announce:

"Three hundred and seven dollars, ladies, and thirty-five cents, withold lady Baker still to hear from, and eight dollars to pay for thelights."

"WHAT!" said the three women together. Theodore repeated the sum.

"Nonsense!" cried Rosemary. "It CAN'T be so much."

Mrs. Bancroft stared dazedly.

"TWO hundred, Ted...?" she suggested.

"Three hundred!" the boy repeated firmly, beaming sympathetically asboth the young women threw themselves upon Mrs. Bancroft, and smotheredher in ecstatic embraces.

"Oh, Aunt Nell," said Ann, almost tearfully, "I don't know what thegirls will SAY. Why, Rose, it'll all but clear the ward. It's threetimes what we thought!"

"Your father will be pleased," said Mrs. Bancroft, winking a littlesuspiciously. "He's worried so about you girlies assuming that debt. Imust go tell him." She began to gather her letters together. "Do youknow where he is, Ted? Has he come in from his first round?" she asked.

"She's the dearest...!" said Ann, when the door closed behind her."There's nobody quite like your mother."

"Honestly there isn't," assented Rosemary, thoughtfully. "When youthink how unspoiled she is—with that heavenly voice of hers, you know,and every one so devoted to her. She doesn't do a THING, whether it'sarranging flowers, or apron patterns, or managing the maids, thatpeople don't admire and copy."

"She can't wait now to tell father the news," commented Theodore,smiling.

"He'll be perfectly enchanted," said Rosemary. "He sent her violetslast night, and this morning, when we were taking all her flowers outof the bathtub, and looking at the cards, she gave me such a funnylittle grin and said, 'I'll thank the gentleman for these myself,Rose!' Ted and I roared at her."

"But that was dear," said Ann, romantically.

"She simply does what she likes with Dad," said Ted, ruminatively.Rosemary, facing the others over the back of her chair, nodded. Ann hadher arms about her knees. They were all idle.

"She got Dad to give me my horse," the boy went on, "and she'll get himto let us go off to the Greers' next month—you'll see! I can't thinkhow she does it."

"I can remember the first day she came here," said Rosemary. She restedher chin in her hands; her eyes were dreamy.

"George! We were the scared, miserable little rats!" supplementedTheodore. Rosemary smiled pitifully, as if the mother asleep in hercould feel for the children of that long-passed day.

"I was only six," she said, "and when we heard the wheels we ran—"

"That's right! We ran upstairs," agreed her brother.

"Yes. And she followed us. I can remember the rustling of her dress....And she had roses on—she pinned one on Bess's little black frock. Andshe carried me down to dinner in her arms, and I sat in her lap."

"And that year you had a party," said Ann. "I remember that, for Icame. And the playhouse was built for Bess's birthday."

"So it was," said Rosemary, struck afresh. "That was all her doing,too. She just has to want a thing, and it gets done! I'll never forgetBess's wedding."

"Nor I," said Ann. "It was the most perfect little wedding I ever saw.Not a hitch anywhere. And wasn't the house a bower? I never had so muchfun at any wedding in my life. Bess was so fresh and gay, and she andGeorge helped us until the very last minute—do youremember?—gathering the roses and wrapping the cake. It was all ideal!"

"Bess told me the other day," said Rosemary, soberly, and in a loweredtone, "that on her wedding-day, when she was dressed, you know, mammaput on her veil, and pinned on the orange blossoms, and kissed her. AndBess saw the tears in her eyes. And mamma laughed, and put her armabout her and said: 'It is silly and wrong of me, dearest, but I wasthinking who might have been doing this for you to-day—of how proudshe would have been!' Then they came down, and Bess was married."

"Wasn't that like her?" said Ann. They were all silent a moment. Thenthe visitor jumped up.

"Well, I must trot home to my deserted parent, my children," sheexclaimed briskly. "He rages if he comes in and doesn't find me. But,if you ask me, I'll be over later to help you, Rose. Every one in theworld will be here for tea. And, meantime, make her rest, Ted. Shelooks tired to death."

"I'll see thee home, Mistress," said Ted, gallantly, and Rosemary wasleft alone. Her brother, coming in again nearly an hour afterward,found her still in the same thoughtful attitude, her big eyes fixedupon space. He knelt, and put his arm about her, and she drooped hersoft, cool little cheek against his, tightening her own arm about hisneck. There was a little silence.

"What is it?" said the boy, presently.

"Nothing, Teddy. But you're SUCH a comfort!"

"Well, but it's SOMETHING, old lady. Out with it!"

Rosemary tumbled his hair with her free hand.

"I was thinking of—mother," she confessed, very low.

His eyes were fast on hers for another short silence.

"Well,"—he spoke as if to a small child—"what were you thinking,dear?"

"Oh, I was just thinking, Ted, that it's not fair. It isn't fair," saidRosemary, with a little difficulty. "Not only Dad and Bess and themaids, but you and I, too, we can't help idolizing mamma. And sometimeswe never think of mother—our own mother!—except as tired and sick andstruggling—that's all I remember, anyway. And mamma is all strengthand sweetness and health."

"I—I know it, old lady."

"Oh, and Ted!—to-day, and sometimes before, it's hurt me so! I can'tfeel—I don't want to!—anything but what I do to mamma, butsometimes—"

She struggled for composure. Her brother cleared his throat.

"She was so wistful for pretty things and good times, even I canremember that," said Rosemary, with pitiful recollection. "And shenever had them! SHE would have loved to stand there last night, in laceand pearls, bowing and smiling to every one. She would have loved theapplause and the flowers. And it stings me to think of us, you and I,proud to be mamma's stepchildren!"

"Dad worshipped mother," submitted the boy, hesitatingly.

"Yes, of course! But he was working day and night, and they were poor,and then she was ill. I don't think she managed very well. Thosefrightful, sloppy servants we used to have, and smoky fires, and stickysummer dinners—and three bad little kids crying and leaving screendoors open, and spilling the syrup! I remember her at the stove,flushed and hot. You think I don't, but I do!"

"Yes, I do, too," he assented uncomfortably, frowningly.

"And do you remember the Easter eggs, Ted?"

Theodore nodded, wincing.

"She forgot to buy them, you know, and then walked two miles in the hotspring weather, just to surprise and please us!"

"And then the eggs smashed, didn't they?"

"On the way home, yes. And we cried with fury, little beasts that wewere!" said Rosemary, as if unable to stop the sad little train ofmemories. "I can remember that awful Belle that we had, making herdrink some port. I wouldn't kiss her. And she said that she would seeif she couldn't get me another egg the next day. And then Dad came in,and scolded us all so, and carried her upstairs!"

She suddenly burst out crying, and clung to her brother. And he let hercry for a while, patting her shoulder and talking to her until controland even cheerfulness came back, and she could be trusted to goupstairs and bathe her eyes for lunch.

When the lunch bell rang, Rosemary went downstairs, to find herstepmother at the wide hall doorway with a yellow telegram in her hand.

"News from Bess," said Mrs. Bancroft, quickly. "Good news, thank God!George wires that she and the little son are doing well. The baby cameat eleven this morning. Dad's just come in, and he's telephoning thatyou and I will come over right after lunch. Think of it! Think of it!"

"Bess!" said Rosemary, unsteadily. She read the telegram, and clung alittle limply to the firm hand that held it. "Bess's baby!" she saiddazedly.

"Bess's darling baby—think of holding it, Aunt Rose!"

Rosemary's sober eyes flashed joyously.

"Oh, I am—so I am! An aunt! DOESN'T it seem queer?"

"It seems very queer to me," said Mrs. Bancroft, as they sat down on awide window-seat to revel in the news, "for I went to see your mother,on just such a morning, when Bess herself was just a day old—it seemsonly a year ago! Bless us, how old we get! Your mother was younger thanI, you know, and I remember that SHE seemed to me mighty young to havea baby! And now here's her baby's baby! Your mother was like anexquisite child, Rosey-posy, showing off little Bess. They lived in alittle playhouse of a cottage, with blue curtains, and blue china, anda snubnosed little maid in blue! I passed it on my way to school,—Ihad been teaching for seven years or so, then,—and your mother wouldcall out from the garden and make me come in, and dance about me like alittle witch. She wanted me to taste jam, or to hold Teddy, or to seeher roses—I used to feel sometimes as if all the sunshine in the worldwas for Rose! Your father had boarded with my mother for three yearsbefore they were married, you know, and I was fighting the bitterestsort of heartache over the fact that I liked him and missed him—notthat he ever dreamed it! Perhaps she did, for she was always generouswith you babies—loaned you to me, and was as sweet to me as she couldbe." Mrs. Bancroft crumpled the telegram, smiled, and sighed. "Well, itall comes back with another baby—all those times when we were young,and gay, and unhappy, and working together. Bess will look back atthese days sometime, with the same feeling. There is nothing in lifelike youth and work, and hard times and good times, when people loveeach other, Rose."

Rosemary suddenly leaned over to kiss her. Her eyes were curiouslysatisfied.

"I see where the fairness comes in—I see it now," she said dreamily.But even her stepmother did not catch the whisper or its meaning.

AUSTIN'S GIRL

In the blazing heat of a July afternoon, Mrs. Cyrus Austin Phelps, ofBoston, arrived unexpectedly at the Yerba Buena rancho in California.She was the only passenger to leave the train at the little sun-burnedplatform that served as a station, and found not even a freight agentthere, of whom to ask the way to Miss Manzanita Boone's residence.There were a few glittering lizards whisking about on the dusty boards,and a few buzzards hanging motionless against the cloudless pale blueof the sky overhead. Otherwise nothing living was in sight.

The train roared on down the valley, and disappeared. Its last echodied away. All about was the utter silence of the foot-hills. The evenspires of motionless redwood trees rose, dense and steep, to meet thesky-line with a shimmer of heat. The sun beat down mercilessly, therewas no shadow anywhere.

Mrs. Phelps, trim, middle-aged, richly and simply dressed, typical ofher native city, was not a woman to be easily disconcerted, but shefelt quite at a loss now. She was already sorry that she had come atall to Yerba Buena, sorry that, in coming, she had not written Austinto meet her. She already disliked this wide, silent, half-savagevalley, and already felt out of place here. How could she possiblyimagine that there would not be shops, stables, hotels at the station?What did other people do when they arrived here? Mrs. Phelps crisplyasked these questions of the unanswering woods and hills.

After a while she sat down on her trunk, though with her small backerect, and her expression uncompromisingly stern. She was sitting therewhen Joe Bettancourt, a Portuguese milkman, happened to come by withhis shabby milk wagon, and his lean, shaggy horses, and—more becauseJoe, not understanding English, took it calmly for granted that shewished to drive with him, than because she liked the arrangement—Mrs.Phelps got him to take her trunk and herself upon their way. They drovesteadily upward, through apple orchards that stretched in hot zigzaglines, like the spokes of a great wheel, about them, and through stripsof forest, where the corduroy road was springy beneath the wagonwheels, and past ugly low cow sheds, where the red-brown cattle werealready gathering for the milking.

"You are taking me to Mr. Boone's residence?" Mrs. Phelps would ask, attwo-minute intervals. And Joe, hunched lazily over the reins, wouldrespond huskily:

"Sure. Thaz th' ole man."

And presently they did turn a corner, and find, in a great gash ofclearing, a low, rambling structure only a little better than the cowsheds, with wide, unpainted porches all about it, and a straggling lineof out-houses near by. A Chinese cook came out of a swinging door tostare at the arrival, two or three Portuguese girls, evidentlyhouse-servants, entered into a cheerful, nasal conversation with JoeBettancourt, from their seats by the kitchen door, and a very handsomeyoung woman, whom Mrs. Phelps at first thought merely another servantcame running down to the wagon. This young creature had a well-roundedfigure, clad in faded, crisp blue linen, slim ankles that showed aboveher heavy buckled slippers, and a loosely-braided heavy rope of brighthair. Her eyes were a burning blue, the lashes curled like a doll'slashes, and the brows as even and dark as a doll's, too. She wasextraordinarily pretty, even Mrs. Phelps could find no fault with thebright perfection of her face.

"Don't say you're Mother Phelps!" cried this young person, delightedly,lifting the older woman almost bodily from the wagon. "But I know youare!" she continued joyously. "Do you know who I am? I'm ManzanitaBoone!"

Mrs. Phelps felt her heart grow sick within her. She had thoughtherself steeled for any shock,—but not this! Stricken dumb for amoment, she was led indoors, and found herself listening to a stream ofgay chatter, and relieved of hat and gloves, and answering questionsbriefly and coldly, while all the time an agonized undercurrent ofprotest filled her heart: "He cannot—he SHALL NOT marry her!"

Austin was up at the mine, of course, but Miss Boone despatched amessenger for him in all haste. The messenger was instructed to saymerely that Manzanita had something she wanted to show him, but thesimple little ruse failed. Austin guessed what the something was, andbefore he had fairly dismounted from his wheeling buckskin, his motherheard his eager voice: "Mater! Where are you! Where's my mother?"

He came rushing into the ranch-house, and caught her in his arms,laughing and eager, half wild with the joy of seeing his mother and hisgirl in each other's company, and too radiant to suspect that hismother's happiness was not as great as his own.

"You got my letter about our engagement, mater? Of course,—and youcame right on to meet my girl yourself, didn't you? Good little mater,that was perfectly great of you! This is just about the best thing thatever—and isn't she sweet—do you blame me?" He had his arm aboutManzanita, their eyes were together, his tender and proud, the girl'slaughing and shy,—they did not see Mrs. Phelps's expression. "And whatdid you think?" Austin rushed on, "Were you surprised? Did you tellCornelia? That's good. Did you tell every one—have the home papers hadit? You know, mother," Austin dropped his voice confidentially, "Iwasn't sure you'd be awfully glad,—just at first, you know. I knew youwould be the minute you saw Manz'ita; but I was afraid—But now, it'sall right,—and it's just great!"

"But I thought Yerba Buena was quite a little village, dear," said Mrs.Phelps, accusingly.

"What's the difference?" said Austin, cheerfully, much concernedbecause Manzanita was silently implying that he should remove his armfrom her waist.

"Why, I thought I could stay at a hotel, or at least aboarding-house—" began his mother. Miss Boone laughed out. She was anoisy young creature.

"We'll 'phone the Waldorf-Astoria," said she.

"Seriously, Austin—" said Mrs. Phelps, looking annoyed.

"Seriously, mater," he met her distress comfortably, "you'll stay hereat the ranch-house. I live here, you know. Manz'ita'll love to haveyou, and you'll get the best meals you ever had since you were born!This was certainly a corking thing for you to do, mother!" he broke offjoyfully. "And you're looking awfully well!"

"I find you changed, Austin," his mother said, with a delicateinflection that made the words significant. "You're brown, dear, andbigger, and—heavier, aren't you?"

"Why don't you say fat?" said Manzanita, with a little push for heraffianced husband. "He was an awfully pasty-looking thing when he camehere," she confided to his mother. "But I fed him up, didn't I, Aus?"And she rubbed her cheek against his head like a little friendly pony.

"And he's going to marry her!" Mrs. Phelps said to herself, heartsick.She felt suddenly old and discouraged and helpless; out of their zoneof youth and love. But on the heels of despair, her courage rose upagain. She would save Austin while there was yet time, if human powercould do it.

The three were sitting in the parlor, a small, square room, throughwhose western windows the sinking sun streamed boldly. Mrs. Phelps hadnever seen a room like this before. There was no note of quaintnesshere; no high-boy, no heavy old mahogany drop-leaf table, no braidedrugs or small-paned windows. There was not even comfort. The chairswere as new and shining as chairs could be; there was a "mission style"rocker, a golden-oak rocker, a cherry rocker, heavily upholstered.There was a walnut drop-head sewing-machine on which a pink saucer ofsome black liquid fly-poison stood. There was a "body Brussels" rug onthe floor. Lastly, there was an oak sideboard, dusty, pretentious, withits mirror cut into small sections by little, empty shelves.

It all seemed like a nightmare to poor little Mrs. Phelps, as she satlistening to the delighted reminiscences of the young people, whopresently reviewed their entire acquaintanceship for her benefit. Itseemed impossible that this was her Austin, this big-voiced, brown,muscular young man! Austin had always been slender, and rather silent.Austin had always been so close to her, so quick to catch her point ofview. He had been nearer her even than Cornelia—

Cornelia! Her heart reached Cornelia's name with a homesick throb.Cornelia would be home from her club or concert or afternoon at cardsnow,—Mrs. Phelps did not worry herself with latitude orlongitude,—she would be having tea in the little drawing-room, underthe approving canvases of Copley and Gilbert Stuart. Her mother couldsee Cornelia's well-groomed hands busy with the Spode cups and theheavy old silver spoons; Cornelia's fine, intelligent face and smoothdark head well set off by a background of rich hangings and softlights, polished surfaces, and the dull tones of priceless rugs.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, rousing herself.

"I asked you if you didn't have a cat-fit when you realized that Auswas going to marry a girl you never saw?" Manzanita repeated withfriendly enjoyment. Mrs. Phelps gave her only a few seconds' steadyconsideration for answer, and then pointedly addressed her son.

"It sounds very strange to your mother, to have you called anything butAustin, my son," she said.

"Manz'ita can't spare the time," he explained, adoring eyes on thegirl, whose beauty, in the level light, was quite startling enough tohold any man's eyes.

"And you young people are very sure of yourselves, I suppose?" themother said, lightly, after a little pause. Austin only laughedcomfortably, but Manzanita's eyes came suddenly to meet those of theolder woman, and both knew that the first gun had been fired. A colorthat was not of the sunset burned suddenly in the girl's round cheeks."She's not glad we're engaged!" thought Manzanita, with a pang of uttersurprise. "She knows why I came!" Mrs. Phelps said triumphantly toherself.

For Mrs. Phelps was a determined woman, and in some ways a mercilessone. She had been born with Bostonian prejudices strong within her. Shehad made her children familiar, in their very nursery days, with thegreat names of their ancestors. Cornelia, when a plain,distinguished-looking child of six, was aware that her nose was "allSlocumb," and her forehead just like "great-aunt Hannah Maria RandBabco*ck's." Austin learned that he was a Phelps in disposition, but"the image of the Bonds and the Baldwins." The children often went todistinguished gatherings composed entirely of their near and distantkinspeople, ate their porridge from silver bowls a hundred years old,and even at dancing-school were able to discriminate against theberuffled and white-clad infants whose parents "mother didn't know." Indue time Austin went to a college in whose archives the names of hiskinsmen bore an honorable part; and Cornelia, having skated and studiedGerman cheerfully for several years, with spectacles on hernear-sighted eyes, her hair in a club, and a metal band across her bigwhite teeth, suddenly blossomed into a handsome and dignified woman,who calmly selected one Taylor Putnam Underwood as the most eligible ofseveral possible husbands, and proceeded to set up an irreproachableestablishment of her own.

All this was as it should be. Mrs. Phelps, a bustling little figure inher handsome rich silks, with her crisp black hair severely arranged,and her crisp voice growing more and more pleasantly positive as yearswent by, fitted herself with dignity into the role of mother-in-law andgrandmother. Cornelia had been married several years. When Austin camehome from college, and while taking him proudly with her on a round ofdinners and calls, his mother naturally cast her eye about her for thepearl of women, who should become his wife.

Austin, it was understood, was to go into Uncle Hubbard Frothingham'soffice. All the young sons and nephews and cousins in the familystarted there. When Austin, agreeing in the main to the proposal,suggested that he be put in the San Francisco branch of the business,Mrs. Phelps was only mildly disturbed. He had everything to lose andnothing to gain by going West, she explained, but if he wanted to, lethim try California.

So Austin went, and quite distinguished himself in his new work forabout a year. Then suddenly out of a clear sky came the astounding newsthat he had left the firm,—actually resigned from Frothingham, Curtis,and Frothingham!—and had gone up into the mountains, to manage a minefor some unknown person named Boone! Mrs. Phelps shut her lips into asevere line when she heard this news, and for several weeks she did notwrite to Austin. But as months went by, and he seemed always well andbusy, and full of plans for a visit home, she forgave him, and wrotehim twice weekly again,—charming, motherly letters, in which newspaperclippings and concert programmes likely to interest him were enclosed,and amateur photographs,—snapshots of Cornelia in her furs, laughingagainst a background of snowy Common, snapshots of Cornelia's childrenwith old Kelly in the motor-car, and of dear Taylor and Cornelia withSally Middleton on the yacht. Did Austin remember dear Sally? She hadgrown so pretty and had so many admirers.

It was Cornelia who suggested, when the staggering news of Austin'sengagement came to Boston, that her mother should go to California,stay at some "pretty, quiet farm-house near by," meet this MissManzanita Boone, whoever she was, and quietly effect, as mothers andsisters have hoped to effect since time began, a change of heart inAustin.

And so she had arrived here, to find that there was no such thing inthe entire valley as the colonial farmhouse of her dreams, to findthat, far from estranging Austin from the Boone family, she mustactually be their guest while she stayed at Yerba Buena, to find thather coming was interpreted by this infatuated pair to be a sign of herentire sympathy with their plans. And added to all this, Austin wasdifferent, noisier, bigger, younger than she remembered him: Manzanitawas worse than her worst fears, and the rancho, bounded only by thefar-distant mountain ridges, with its canyons, its river, its woodedvalleys and trackless ranges, struck actual terror to her homesick soul.

"Well, what do you think of her? Isn't she a darling?" demanded Austin,when he and his mother were alone on the porch, just before dinner.

"She's very PRETTY, dear. She's not a college girl, of course?"

"College? Lord, no! Why, she wouldn't even go away to boarding-school."Austin was evidently proud of her independent spirit. "She and herbrothers went to this little school over here at Eucalyptus, and Iguess Manz'ita ran things pretty much her own way. You'll like thekids. They have no mother, you know, and old Boone just adoresManzanita. He's a nice old boy, too."

"Austin, DEAR!" Mrs. Phelps's protest died into a sigh.

"Well, but he is, a fine old fellow," amended Austin.

"And you think she's the sort of woman to make you happy, dear. Is shemusical? Is she fond of books?"

Austin, for the first time, looked troubled.

"Don't you LIKE her, mother?" he asked, astounded.

"Why, I've just met her, dear. I want you to tell me about her."

"Every one here is crazy about her," Austin said half sulkily. "She'sbeen engaged four times, and she's only twenty-two!"

"And she TOLD you that, dear? Herself?"

The boy flushed quickly.

"Why shouldn't she?" he said uncomfortably. "Every one knows it."

His mother fanned for a moment in silence.

"Can you imagine Cornelia—or Sally—engaged four times, and talkingabout it?" she asked gently.

"Things are different here," Austin presently submitted, to which Mrs.Phelps emphatically assented, "Entirely different!"

There was a pause. From the kitchen region came much slamming of lightwire door, and the sound of hissing and steaming, high-keyed remarksfrom the Chinese and the Portuguese girls, and now and then the rippleof Manzanita's laughter. A farm-hand crossed the yard, with pails ofmilk, and presently a dozen or more men came down the steep trail thatled to the mine.

These were ranch-hands, cow-boys, and road-keepers, strong,good-natured young fellows, who had their own house and their own cooknear the main ranch-house, and who now began a great washing andsplashing, at a bench under some willow trees, where there were basinsand towels. An old Spanish shepherd, with his dogs, came down from thesheep range; other dogs lounged out from barns and stables; there was acheerful stir of reunion and relaxation as the hot day dropped to itsclose.

A great hawk flapped across the canyon below the ranch-house, batsbegan to wheel in the clear dusk, owls called in the woods. Just beforeManzanita appeared in the kitchen doorway to ring a clamorous bell forsome sixty ear-splitting seconds, her father, an immense old man on arestless claybank mare, rode into the yard, and the four brothers,Jose, Marty, Allen, and the little crippled youngest, eight-year-oldRafael, appeared mysteriously from the shadows, and announced that theywere ready for dinner. Martin Boone, Senior, gave Mrs. Phelps avigorous welcome.

"Well, sir! I never thought I'd be glad to see the mother of the fellowwho carried off my girl," said Martin Boone, wringing Mrs. Phelps'saching fingers, "but you and I married in our day, ma'am, and it's theyoungsters' turn. But he'll have to be a pretty fine fellow to satisfyManzanita!" And before the lady could even begin the spirited retortthat rose to her lips, he had led the way to the long, overloadeddinner-table.

"I am too terribly heartsick to go into details," wrote the poor littlelady, when Manzanita had left her for the night in her bare, bigbedroom and she had opened her writing-case upon a pine table overwhich hung, incongruously enough, a large electric light. "Austin isapparently blind to everything but her beauty, which is reallynoticeable, not that it matters. What is mere beauty beside suchrefinement as Sally's, for instance, how far will it go with OURFRIENDS when they discover that Austin's wife is an untrained, commonlittle country girl? Even when I tell you that she uses such words as'swell,' and 'perfect lady,' and that she asked me who Phillips Brookswas, and had never heard of William Morris or Maeterlinck you canreally form no idea of her ignorance! And the dinner,—one shudders atthe thought of beginning to teach her of correct service; horsd'oeuvres, finger-bowls, butter-spreaders, soup-spoons and salad-forkswill all be mysteries to her! And her clothes! A rowdyish-lookinglittle tight-fitting cotton a servant would not wear, and openworkhose, and silver bangles! It is terrible, TERRIBLE. I don't know whatwe can do. She is very clever. I think she suspects already that I donot approve, although she began at once to call me 'MotherPhelps'—with a familiarity that is quite typical of her. My one hopeis to persuade Austin to come home with me for a visit, and to keep himthere until his wretched infatuation has died a natural death. Whatpossible charm this part of the world can have for him is a mystery tome. To compare this barn of a house to your lovely home is enough tomake me long to be there with all my heart. Instead of my beautifulrooms, and Mary's constant attendance, imagine your mother writing in aroom whose windows have no shades, so that one has the uncomfortablesensation that any one outside may be looking in. Of course the valleydescends very steeply from the ranch-house, and there are thousands ofacres of silent woods and hills, but I don't like it, nevertheless, andshall undress in the dark. ...I shall certainly speak seriously toAustin as soon as possible."

But the right moment for approaching Austin on the subject of hisreturn to Boston did not immediately present itself, and for severaldays Manzanita, delighted at having a woman guest, took Mrs. Phelpswith her all over the countryside.

"I like lady friends," said Manzanita once, a little shyly. "You seeit's 'most always men who visit the rancho, and they're no fun!"

She used to come, uninvited but serene, into her prospectivemother-in-law's room at night, and artlessly confide in her, while shebraided the masses of her glorious hair. She showed Mrs. Phelps the"swell" pillow she was embroidering to represent an Indian's head, andwhich she intended to finish with real beads and real feathers. She wasas eagerly curious as a child about the older woman's dainty toiletaccessories, experimenting with manicure sets and creams and powderswith artless pleasure. "I'm going to have that and do it that way!" shewould announce, when impressed by some particular little nice touchabout Cornelia's letters, or some allusion that gave her a new idea.

"If you ever come to Boston, you will be expected to know all thesethings," Mrs. Phelps said to her once, a little curiously.

"Oh, but I'll never go there!" she responded confidently.

"You will have to," said the other, sharply. "Austin can hardly spendhis whole life here! His friends are there, his family. All histraditions are there. Those may not mean much to him now, but in timeto come they will mean more."

"We'll make more money than we can spend, right here," Manzanita said,in a troubled voice.

"Money is not everything, my dear."

"No—" Manzanita's brown fingers went slowly down to the last finestrands of the braid she was finishing. Then she said, brightening:

"But I AM everything to Aus! I don't care what I don't know, or can'tdo, HE thinks I'm fine!"

And she went off to bed in high spirits. She was too entirely normal ayoung woman to let anything worry her very long,—too busy to brood.The visitor soon learned why the ranch-house parlor presented so dismalan aspect of unuse. It was because Manzanita was never inside it. Thegirl's days were packed to the last instant with duties and pleasures.She needed no parlor. Even her bedroom was as bare and impersonal asher father's. She was never idle. Mrs. Phelps more than once saw thenew-born child of a rancher's or miner's wife held in those capableyoung arms, she saw the children at the mine gathering about Manzanita,the women leaving their doorways for eager talk with her. And once,during the Eastern woman's visit, death came to the Yerba Buena, andManzanita and young Jose spent the night in one of the ranch-houses,and walked home, white, tired, and a little sobered, in the earlymorning, for breakfast.

Manzanita rode and drove horses of which even her brothers were afraid;she handled a gun well, she chattered enough Spanish, Portuguese,Indian, and Italian to make herself understood by the ranch hands anddairy-men. And when there was a housewarming, or a new barn to gatherin, she danced all night with a passionate enjoyment. It might be withAustin, or the post-office clerk, or a young, sleek-haired rancher, ora miner shining from soap and water; it mattered not to Manzanita, ifhe could but dance. And when she and Mrs. Phelps drove, as they oftendid, to spend the day with the gentle, keen, capable women on otherranches thereabout, it was quite the usual thing to have them bring outbolts of silk or gingham for Manzanita's inspection, and seriouslyconsult her as to fitting and cutting.

Mrs. Phelps immensely enjoyed these day-long visits, though she wouldhave denied it; hardly recognized the fact herself. One could grow wellacquainted in a day with the clean, big, bare ranch-houses, the veryold people in the shining kitchens, the three or four capablecompanionable women who managed the family; one with a child at herbreast, perhaps another getting ready for her wedding, a third newlywidowed, but all dwelling harmoniously together and sharing alike thecare of menfolk and children. They would all make the Eastern womanwarmly welcome, eager for her talk of the world beyond their mountains,and when she and Manzanita drove away, it was with jars of speciallychosen preserves and delicious cheeses in their hands, pumpkins andgrapes, late apples and perhaps a jug of cider in the little wagonbody, and a loaf of fresh-baked cake or bread still warm in a whitenapkin. Hospitable children, dancing about the phaeton, would shoutgenerous offers of "bunnies" or "kitties," Manzanita would hang at adangerous angle over the wheel to accept good-by kisses, and perhapssome old, old woman, limping out to stand blinking in the sunlight,would lay a fine, transparent, work-worn hand on Mrs. Phelps and askher to come again. It was an "impossible" life, of course, and yet, atthe moment, absorbing enough to the new-comer. And it was at leastsurprising to find the best of magazines and books everywhere,—"theadvertisem*nts alone seem to keep them in touch with everything new,"wrote Mrs. Phelps.

Her whole attitude toward Manzanita might have softened sometimes, iflong years of custom had not made the little things of life vitallyimportant to her. A misused or mispronounced word was like a blow toher; inner forces over which she had no control forced her to discussit and correct it. She had a quick, horrified pity for Manzanita'signorance on matters which should be part of a lady's instinctiveknowledge. She winced at the girl's cheerful acknowledgement of thatignorance. No woman in Mrs. Phelps's own circle at home ever for oneinstant admitted ignorance of any important point of any sort; what shedid not know she could superbly imply was not worth knowing. Eventhough she might be secretly enjoying the universal, warm hospitalityof the rancho, Mrs. Phelps never lost sight of the fact that Manzanitawas not the wife for Austin, and that the marriage would be the ruin ofhis life. She told herself that her opposition was for Manzanita'shappiness as well as for his, and plotted without ceasing against theirplans.

"I've had a really remarkable letter from Uncle William, dear!" shesaid, one afternoon, when by some rare chance she was alone with herson.

"Good for you!" said Austin, absently, clicking the co*ck of the gun hewas cleaning. "Give the old boy my love when you write."

"He sends you a message, dear. He wants to know—but you're notlistening," Mrs. Phelps paused. Austin looked up.

"Oh, I'm listening. I hear every word."

"You seem so far from me these days, Austin," said his mother,plaintively. "But—" she brightened, "I hope dear Uncle William's planwill change all that. He wants you to come home, dear. He offers youthe junior partnership, Austin." She brought it out very quietly.

"Offers me the—WHAT?"

"The junior partnership,—yes, dear. Think of it, at your age, Austin!What would your dear father have said! How proud he would have been!Yes. Stafford has gone into law, you know, and Keith Curtis will liveabroad when Isabel inherits. So you see!"

"Mighty kind of Uncle William," mused Austin, "but of course there'snothing in it for me!" He avoided her gaze, and went on cleaning hisgun. "I'm fixed here, you know. This suits me."

"I hope you are not serious, my son." Austin knew that voice. He bracedhimself for unpleasantness.

"Manzanita," he said simply. There was a throbbing silence.

"You disappoint one of my lifelong hopes for my only son, Austin," hismother said very quietly.

"I know it, mother. I'm sorry."

"For the first time, Austin, I wish I had another son. I am going tobeg you—to beg you to believe that I can see your happiness clearerthan you can just now!" Mrs. Phelps's voice was calm, but she wastrembling with feeling.

"Don't put it that way, mater. Anyway, I never liked office work much,you know."

"Austin, don't think your old mammy is trying to manage you," Mrs.Phelps was suddenly mild and affectionate. "But THINK, dear. Taylorsays the salary is not less than fifteen thousand. You could have alovely home, near me. Think of the opera, of having a really formaldinner again, of going to Cousin Robert Stokes's for Christmas, andyachting with Taylor and Gerry."

Austin was still now, evidently he WAS thinking.

"My idea," his mother went on reasonably, "would be to have you come onwith me now, at once. See Uncle William,—we mustn't keep his kindnesswaiting, must we?—get used to the new work, make sure of yourself.Then come back for Manzanita, or have her come on—" She paused, hereyes a question.

"I'd hate to leave Yerba Buena—" Austin visibly hesitated.

"But, Austin, you must sooner or later." Mrs. Phelps was framing atriumphant letter to Cornelia in her mind.

But just then Manzanita came running around the corner of the house,and seeing them, took the porch steps in two bounds, and came to leanon Austin's shoulder.

"Austin!" she burst out excitedly. "I want you to ride straight down tothe stock pens,—they've got a thousand steers on the flats there goingthrough from Portland, and the men say they aren't to leave the carsto-night! I told them they would HAVE to turn them out and water them,and they just laughed! Will you go down?" She was breathing hard likean impatient child, her cheeks two poppies, her eyes blazing. "Willyou? Will you?"

"Sure I will, if you'll do something for me." Austin pulled her towardhim.

"Well, there!" She gave him a child's impersonal kiss. "You'll makethem water them, won't you, Austin?"

"Oh, yes. I'll 'tend to them." Austin got up, his arm about her. "Lookhere," said he. "How'd you like to come and live in Boston?"

Her eyes went quickly from him to his mother.

"I wouldn't!" she said, breathing quickly and defiantly.

"Never?"

"Never, never, never! Unless it was just to visit. Why, Austin—" herreproachful eyes accused him, "you said we needn't, ever! You KNOW Icouldn't live in a street!"

Austin laughed again. "Well, that settles Uncle William!" he announcedcomfortably. "I'll write him to-morrow, mother. Come on, now, we'llsettle this other trouble!"

And he and Manzanita disappeared in the direction of the stable.

Mrs. Phelps sat thinking, deep red spots burning in her cheeks. Thingscould not go on this way. Yet she would not give up. She suddenlydetermined to try an idea of Cornelia's.

So the word went all over the ranch-house next day that Mrs. Phelps wasill. The nature of the illness was not specified, but she could notleave her bed. Austin was all filial sympathy, Manzanita an untiringnurse. Hong Fat sent up all sorts of kitchen delicacies, the boysbrought trout, and rare ferns, and wild blackberries in from theirdaily excursions, for her especial benefit, and before two days wereover, every hour found some distant neighbor at the rancho with offersof sympathy and assistance. An old doctor came up from Emville at once,and Jose and Marty accompanied him all the twenty miles back into townfor medicines.

But days went by, and the invalid was no better. She lay, quiet anduncomplaining, in the airy bedroom, while October walked over themountain ranges, and the grapes were gathered, and the apples broughtin. She took the doctor's medicine, and his advice, and agreedpleasantly with him that she would soon be well enough to go home, andwould be better off there. But she would not try to get up.

One afternoon, while she was lying with closed eyes, she heard therattle of the doctor's old buggy outside, and heard Manzanita greet himfrom where she was labelling jelly glasses on the porch. Mrs. Phelpscould trace the old man's panting approach to a porch chair, and heardManzanita go into the house with a promise of lemonade and crullers. Ina few minutes she was back again, and the clink of ice against glasssounded pleasantly in the hot afternoon.

"Well, how is she?" said the doctor, presently, with a long, wet gaspof satisfaction.

"She's asleep," answered Manzanita. "I just peeked in.—There's more ofthat," she added, in apparent reference to the iced drink. And then,with a change of tone, she added, "What's the matter with her, anyway,Doc' Jim?"

To which the old doctor with great simplicity responded:

"You've got me, Manz'ita. I can diagnose as good as any one," he wenton after a pause, "when folks have GOT something. If you mashed yourhand in a food cutter, or c't something poisonous, or come down withscarlet fever, I'd know what to do for ye. But, these rich women—"

"Well, you know, I could prescribe for her, and cure her, too," saidManzanita. "All I'd do is tell her she'd got to go home right off. I'dsay that this climate was too bracing for her, or something."

"Shucks! I did say that," interrupted the doctor.

"Yes, but you didn't say you thought she'd ought to take her son alongin case of need," the girl added significantly. There was a long pause.

"She don't want ye to marry him, hey?" said the doctor, ending it.

Manzanita evidently indicated an assent, for he presently resumedindignantly: "Who does she want for him—Adelina Patti?" He marvelledover a third glass. "Well, what do you know about that!" he murmured.Then, "Well, I'll be a long time prescribing that."

"No, I want you to send her off, and send him with her," saidManzanita, decidedly, "that's why I'm telling you this. I've thought itall over. I don't want to be mean about it. She thinks that if he sawhis sister, and his old friends, and his old life, he'd get to hate theYerba Buena. At first I laughed at her, and so did Aus. But, I don'tknow, Doc' Jim, she may be right!"

"Shucks!" said the doctor, incredulously.

"No, of course she isn't!" the girl said, after a pause. "I know Aus.But let her take him, and try. Then, if he comes back, she can't blameme. And—" She laughed. "This is a funny thing," she said, "for shedoesn't like me. But I like her. I have no mother and no aunts, youknow, and I like having an old lady 'round. I always wanted some one tostay with me, and perhaps, if Aus comes back some day, she'll get toliking me, too. She'll remember," her tone grew a little wistful, "thatI couldn't help his loving me! And besides—" and the tone was suddenlyconfident again—"I AM good—as good as his sister! And I'm learningthings. I learn something new from her every day! And I'd LIKE to feelthat he went away from me—and had to come back!"

"Don't you be a fool," cautioned the doctor. "A feller gets among hisfriends for a year or two, and where are ye? Minnie Ferguson's fellernever come back to her and she was a real pretty, good girl, too."

"Oh, I think he'll come back," the girl said softly, as if to herself.

"I only hope, if he don't show up on the minute, you'll marry somebodyelse so quick it'll make her head spin!" said the doctor, fervently.Manzanita laughed out, and the sound of it made Mrs. Phelps wince, andshut her eyes.

"Maybe I will!" the girl said hardily. "You'll suggest his taking herhome, anyway, won't you, Doc' Jim?" she asked.

"Well, durn it, I'd jest as soon," agreed the doctor. "I don't know asyou're so crazy about him!"

"And you'll stay to dinner?" Manzanita instantly changed the subject."There's ducks. Of course the season's over, but a string of them cameup to Jose and Marty, and pushed themselves against their guns—youknow how it is."

"Sure, I'll stay," said the doctor. "Go see if she's awake, Manz'ita,that's a good girl. If she ain't—I'll walk up to the mine for a spell."

So Manzanita tiptoed to the door of Mrs. Phelps's room and noiselesslyopened it, and smiled when she saw the invalid's open eyes.

"Well, have a nice nap?" she asked, coming to put a daughterly littlehand over the older woman's hand. "Want more light? Your books havecome."

"I'm much better, dear," said Mrs. Phelps. The Boston woman's tonewould always be incisive, her words clear. But she kept Manzanita'shand. "I think I will get up for dinner. I've been lying here thinkingthat I've wasted quite enough time, if we are to have a wedding herebefore I go home—"

Manzanita stared at her. Then she knelt down beside the bed and beganto cry.

On a certain Thursday afternoon more than a year later, Mrs. Phelpshappened to be alone in her daughter's Boston home. Cornelia wasattending the regular meeting of a small informal club whose reason forbeing was the study of American composers. Mrs. Phelps might haveattended this, too, or she might have gone to several other clubmeetings, or she might have been playing cards, or making calls, butshe had been a little bit out of humor with all these things of late,and hence was alone in the great, silent house. The rain was fallingheavily outside, and in the library there was a great coal fire. Nowand then a noiseless maid came in and replenished it.

Cornelia was always out in the afternoons. She belonged to a great manyclubs, social, literary, musical and civic clubs, and card clubs.Cornelia was an exceptionally capable young woman. She had two nicechildren, in the selection of whose governesses and companions sheexercised very keen judgment, and she had a fine husband, a Harvard manof course, a silent, sweet-tempered man some years her senior, whoseone passion in life was his yacht, and whose great desire was that hiswife and children should have everything in life of the very best.Altogether, Cornelia's life was quite perfect, well-ordered,harmonious, and beautiful. She attended the funeral of a relative orfriend with the same decorous serenity with which she welcomed hernearest and dearest to a big family dinner at Christmas orThanksgiving. She knew what life expected of her, and she gave it withcalm readiness.

The library in her beautiful home, where her mother was sitting now,was like all the other drawing-rooms Cornelia entered. Its mahoganyreading-table bore a priceless lamp, and was crossed by a strip ofwonderful Chinese embroidery. There were heavy antique brasscandlesticks on the mantel, flanking a great mirror whose carved frameshowed against its gold rare touches of Florentine blue. The rugs onthe floor were a silken blend of Oriental tones, the books in the caseswere bound in full leather. An oil portrait of Taylor hung where hiswife's dutiful eyes would often find it, lovely pictures of thechildren filled silver frames on a low book-case.

Eleanor, the ten-year-old, presently came into the room, with FrauleinHinz following her. Eleanor was a nice child, and the only young lifein the house since Taylor Junior had been sent off to boarding-school.

"Here you are, grandmother," said she, with a kiss. "Uncle Edwardbrought us home. It's horrid out. Several of the girls didn't come atall to-day."

"And what have you to do now, dear?" Mrs. Phelps knew she had somethingto do.

"German for to-morrow. But it's easy. And then Dorothy's coming over,for mamma is going out. We'll do our history together, and have dinnerupstairs. She's not to go home until eight!"

"That's nice," said Mrs. Phelps, claiming another kiss before the childwent away. She had grown quite used to seeing Eleanor only for a momentnow and then.

When she was alone again, she sat staring dreamily into the fire, asmile coming and going in her eyes. She had left Manzanita's letterupstairs, but after all, she knew the ten closely covered pages byheart. It had come a week ago, and had been read several times a daysince. It was a wonderful letter.

They wanted her—in California. In fact, they had always wanted her,from the day she came away. She had stayed to see the new house built,and had stayed for the wedding, and then had come back to Boston,thinking her duty to Austin done, and herself free to take up the oldlife with a clear conscience. But almost the first letters from therancho demanded her! Little Rafael had painfully written to know wherehe could find this poem and that to which she had introduced him. Martyhad sent her a bird's nest, running over with ants when it was openedin Cornelia's breakfast-room, but he never knew that. Jose had writtenfor advice as to seeds for Manzanita's garden. And Austin had writtenhe missed her, it was "rotten" not to find mater waiting for them, whenthey came back from their honeymoon.

But best of all, Manzanita had written, and, ah, it was sweet to bewanted as Manzanita wanted her! News of all the neighbors, of the womenat the mine, pressed wildflowers, scraps of new gowns, and questions ofevery sort; Manzanita's letters brimmed with them. She could have herown rooms, her own bath, she could have everything she liked, but shemust come back!

"I am the only woman here at the house," wrote Manzanita, "and it's nofun. I'd go about ever so much more, if you were here to go with me. Iwant to start a club for the women at the mine, but I never belonged toa club, and I don't know how. Rose Harrison wants you to come on intime for her wedding, and Alice has a new baby. And old Mrs. Larabeesays to tell you—"

And so on and on. They didn't forget her, on the Yerba Buena, as themonths went by. Mrs. Phelps grew to look eagerly for the letters. Andnow came this one, and the greatest news in the world—! And now, itwas as it should be, Manzanita wanted her more than ever!

Cornelia came in upon her happy musing, to kiss her mother, send herhat and furs upstairs, ring for tea, and turn on the lights, all in thespace of some sixty seconds.

"It was so interesting to-day, mater," reported Cornelia. "Cousin Emilyasked for you, and Edith and the Butlers sent love. Helen is giving abridge lunch for Mrs. Marye; she's come up for Frances' wedding on thetenth. And Anna's mother is better; the nurse says you can see her onWednesday. Don't forget the Shaw lecture Wednesday, though. And thereis to be a meeting of this auxiliary of the political study club,—Idon't know what it's all about, but one feels one must go. I declare,"Cornelia poured a second cup, "next winter I'm going to try to do less.There isn't a single morning or afternoon that I'm not attending somemeeting or going to some affair. Between pure milk and politics andcharities and luncheons,—it's just too much! Belle says that women doall the work of the world, in these days—"

"And yet we don't GET AT anything," said Mrs. Phelps, in her brisk,impatient little way. "I attend meetings, I listen to reports, I sit onboards—But what comes of it all! Trained nurses and paid workers doall the actual work—"

"But mother, dear, a great deal will come of it all," Cornelia wasmildly reproachful. "You couldn't inspect babies and do nursingyourself, dear! Investigating and tabulating and reporting are verydifficult things to do!"

"Sometimes I think, Cornelia, that the world was much pleasanter forwomen when things were more primitive. When they just had householdsand babies to look out for, when every one was personally NEEDED."

"Mother, DEAR!" Cornelia protested indulgently. "Then we haven'tprogressed at all since MAYFLOWER days?"

"Oh, perhaps we have!" Mrs. Phelps shrugged doubtfully. "But I amsometimes sorry," she went on, half to herself, "that birth and wealthand position have kept me all my life from REAL things! I can't help myfriends in sickness or trouble, Cornelia, I don't know what's coming onmy own table for dinner, or what the woman next door looks like! I canonly keep on the surface of things, dressing a certain way, eatingcertain things, writing notes, sending flowers, making calls!"

"All of which our class—the rich and cultivated people of theworld—have been struggling to achieve for generations!" Corneliareminded her. "Do you mean you would like to be a laborer's mother,mater, with all sorts of annoying economies to practice, and all sortsof inconveniences to contend with?"

"Yes, perhaps I would!" her mother laughed defiantly.

"I can see you've had another letter from California," said Cornelia,pleasantly, after a puzzled moment. "You are still a pioneer in spiteof the ten generations, mater. Austin's wife is NOT a lady, Austin isabsolutely different from what he was, the people out there areactually COMMON, and yet, just because they like to have you, and thinkyou are intelligent and instructive, you want to go. Go if you want to,but I will think you are mad if you do! A girl who confused 'La Boheme'with 'The Bohemian Girl,' and wants an enlarged crayon portrait ofAustin in her drawing-room! Really, it's—well, it's remarkable to me.I don't know what you see in it!"

"Crayon portraits used to be considered quite attractive, and may beagain," said Mrs. Phelps, mildly. "And some day your children willthink Puccini and Strauss as old-fashioned as you think 'Faust' andOffenbach. But there are other things, like the things that a womanloves to do, for instance, when her children are grown, and her husbandis dead, that never change!"

Cornelia was silent, frankly puzzled.

"Wouldn't you rather do nothing than take up the stupid routine work ofa woman who has no money, no position, and no education?" she askedpresently.

"I don't believe I would," her mother answered, smiling. "Perhaps I'vechanged. Or perhaps I never sat down and seriously thought things outbefore. I took it for granted that our way of doing things was the onlyway. Of course I don't expect every one to see it as I do. But it seemsto me now that I belong there. When she first called me 'MotherPhelps,' it made me angry, but what sweeter thing could she have said,after all? She has no mother. And she needs one, now. I don't think youhave ever needed me in your life, Cornelia—actually NEEDED me, myhands and my eyes and my brain."

"Oh, you are incorrigible!" said Cornelia, still with an air oflenience. "Now," she stopped for a kiss, "we're going out to-night, soI brought you The Patricians to read; it's charming. And you read it,and be a good mater, and don't think any more about going out to stayon that awful, uncivilized ranch. Visit there in a year or two, if youlike, but don't strike roots. I'll come in and see you when I'mdressed."

And she was gone. But Mrs. Phelps felt satisfied that enough had beensaid to make her begin to realize that she was serious, and shecontentedly resumed her dreaming over the fire.

The years, many or few, stretched pleasantly before her. She smiledinto the coals. She was still young enough to enjoy the thought ofservice, of healthy fatigue, of busy days and quiet evenings, and longnights of deep sleep, with slumbering Yerba Buena lying beneath themoon outside her open window. There would be Austin close beside herand other friends almost as near, to whom she would be sometimesnecessary, and always welcome.

And there would be Manzanita, and the child,—and after a while, otherchildren. There would be little bibs to tie, little prayers to hear,deep consultations over teeth and measles, over morals and manners. Andwho but Grandmother could fill Grandmother's place?

Mrs. Phelps leaned back in her chair, and shut her eyes. She sawvisions. After a while a tear slipped from between her lashes.

RISING WATER

"If only my poor child had a sensible mother," said Mrs. Tressady,calmly, "I suppose we would get Big Hong's 'carshen' for him, and thatwould do perfectly! But I will not have a Chinese man for Timothy'snurse! It seems all wrong, somehow."

"Big Hong hasn't got a female cousin, I suppose?" said Timothy'sfather; "a Chinese woman wouldn't be so bad." "Oh, I think it would beas bad—nearly," Mrs. Tressady returned with vivacity. "Anyway, thisparticular carshen is a man—'My carshen lun floot store'—that's whoit is!"

"Will you kindly explain what 'My carshen lun floot store' means?"asked a young man who was lying in a hammock that he lazily moved nowand then by means of a white-shod foot. This was Peter Porter, who,with his wife, completed the little group on the Tressadys' roomy,shady side porch.

"It means my cousin who runs a fruit store," supplied Mrs. Porter—abig-boned, superb blonde who was in a deep chair sewing buttons onTimothy Tressady's new rompers. "Even I can see that—if I'm not anative of California."

"Yes, that's it," Mrs. Tressady said absently. "Go back and read thoseSituations Wanted over again, Jerry," she commanded with a decisivesnip of the elastic she was cunningly inserting into more new rompersfor Timothy.

Jerry Tressady obediently sat up in his steamer chair and flattened acopy of the Emville Mail upon his knee.

The problem under discussion this morning was that of getting a nursefor Timothy Tressady, aged two years. Elma, the silent, undemonstrativeSwedish woman who had been with the family since Timothy's birth, hadstarted back to Stockholm two months ago, and since then at least adozen unsatisfactory applicants for her position had taken their turnat the Rising Water Ranch.

Mrs. Tressady, born and brought up in New York, sometimes sighed as shethought of her mother's capped and aproned maids; of Aunt Anna's maids;of her sister Lydia's maids. Sometimes in the hot summer, when the sunhung directly over the California bungalow for seven hours every day,and the grass on the low, rolling hills all about was dry and slippery,when Joe Parlona forgot to drive out from Emville with ice and mail,and Elma complained that Timmy could not eat his luncheon on the porchbecause of buzzing "jellow yackets," Molly Tressady found herselfthinking other treasonable thoughts—thoughts of packing, of finaltelegrams, of the Pullman sleeper, of Chicago in a blowing mist ofrain, of the Grand Central at twilight, with the lights of taxicabsbeginning to move one by one into the current of Forty-secondStreet—and her heart grew sick with longings. And sometimes in winter,when rain splashed all day from the bungalow eaves, and Beaver Creekrose and flooded its banks and crept inch by inch toward the gardengate, and when from the late dawn to the early darkness not a soul camenear the ranch—she would have sudden homesick memories of FifthAvenue, three thousand miles away, with its motor-cars and its furredwomen and its brilliant tea-rooms. She would suddenly remember theopera-house and the long line of carriages in the snow, and the boyscalling the opera scores.

However, for such moods the quickest cure was a look at Jerry—strong,brown, vigorous Jerry—tramping the hills, writing his stories,dreaming over his piano, and sleeping deep and restfully under thegreat arch of the stars. Jerry had had a cold four years ago—"just amean cold," had been the doctor's cheerful phrase; but what terror itstruck to the hearts that loved Jerry! Molly's eyes, flashing to hismother's eyes, had said: "Like his father—like his aunt—like thelittle sister who died!" And for the first time Jerry's wife had foundherself glad that little Jerry Junior—he who could barely walk, whohad as yet no words—had gone away from them fearlessly into the greatdarkness a year before. He might have grown up to this, too.

So they came to California, and big Jerry's cold did not last very longin the dry heat of Beaver Creek Valley. He and Molly grew so strong andbrown and happy that they never minded restrictions and inconveniences,loneliness and strangeness—and when a strong and brown and happylittle Timothy joined the group, Molly renounced forever all seriousthoughts of going home. California became home. Such friends as chancebrought their way must be their only friends; such comfort as the drylittle valley and the brown hills could hold must suffice them now.Molly exulted in sending her mother snapshots of Timmy picking roses inDecember, and in heading July letters: "By our open fire—for it'sreally cool to-day."

Indeed it was not all uncomfortable and unlovely. All the summer nightswere fresh and cool and fragrant; there were spring days when all thevalley seemed a ravishing compound of rain-cooled air and roses, ofbuttercups in the high, sunflecked grass under the apple-trees, crossedand recrossed by the flashing blue and brown of mating jays and larks.It was not a long drive to the deep woods; and it was but six miles toEmville, where there was always the pleasant stir and bustle of a smallcountry town; trains puffing in to disgorge a dozen travelling agentsand their bags; the wire door at the post-office banging and banging;the maid at the Old Original Imperial Commercial Hotel coming out onthe long porch to ring a wildly clamorous dinner-bell. Molly grew tolove Emville.

Then, two or three times a year, such old friends as the Porters,homeward bound after the Oriental trip, came their way, and there wasdelicious talk at the ranch of old days, of the new theatres, and thenew hotels, and the new fashions. The Tressadys stopped playing doubleCanfield and polished up their bridge game; and Big Hong, beaming inhis snowy white, served meals that were a joy to his heart. Hong was amarvellous cook; Hong cared beautifully for all his domain; and LittleHong took care of the horses, puttered in the garden, swept, and washedwindows. But they needed more help, for there were times when Molly wasbusy or headachy or proof-reading for Jerry or riding with him. Someone must be responsible every second of the day and night for Timmy.And where to get that some one?

"Aren't they terrors!" said Mrs. Porter in reference to the nurse-maidsthat would not come to the ranch on any terms. "What do they expectanyway?"

"Oh, they get lonesome," Molly said in discouragement, "and of courseit is lonely! But I should think some middle-aged woman or some widowwith a child even—"

"Molly always returns to that possible widow!" said her husband. "Ithink we might try two!"

"I would never think of that!" said the mistress of the ranch firmly."Four servants always underfoot!"

"Did you ever think of trying a regular trained nurse, Molly?" PeterPorter asked.

"But then you have them at the table, Peter—and always in thedrawing-room evenings. And no matter how nice they are—"

"That's the worst of that!" agreed Peter.

Jerry Tressady threw the Mail on the floor and sat up.

"Who's this coming up now, Molly?" he asked.

He had lowered his voice, because the white-clad young woman who wascoming composedly up the path between the sunflowers and the overloadedrose-bushes was already within hearing distance. She was a heavy,well-developed young person upon closer view, with light-lashed eyes ofa guileless, childlike blue, rosy cheeks, and a mass of bright, shininghair, protected now only by a parasol. Through the embroidery insertionof her fresh, stiff dress she showed glimpses of a snowy bosom, andunder her crisp skirt a ruffle of white petticoat and white-shod feetwere visible. She was panting from her walk and wiped her glowing facewith her handkerchief before she spoke.

"Howdy-do, folks?" said the new-comer, easily, dropping upon the stepsand fanning herself with the limp handkerchief. "I don't wonder youkeep a motor-car; it's something fierce walking down here! I could ofwaited," she went on thoughtfully, "and had my brother brought me downin the machine, but I hadn't no idea it was so far. I saw your ad inthe paper," she went on, addressing Mrs. Tressady directly, with a sortof trusting simplicity that was rather pretty, "and I thought you mightlike me for your girl."

"Well,—" began Molly, entirely at a loss, for until this second nosuspicion of the young woman's errand had occurred to her. She darednot look at husband or guests; she fixed her eyes seriously upon thewould-be nurse.

"Of course I wouldn't work for everybody," said the new-comer hastilyand proudly. "I never worked before and mamma thinks I'm crazy to worknow, but I don't think that taking care of a child is anything to beashamed of!" The blue eyes flashed dramatically—she evidently enjoyedthis speech. "And what's more, I don't expect any one of my friends toshun me or treat me any different because I'm a servant—that is, solong as I act like a lady," she finished in a lower tone. A sound fromthe hammock warned Mrs. Tressady; and suggesting in a somewhat unsteadyvoice that they talk the matter over indoors, she led the new maid outof sight.

For some twenty minutes the trio on the porch heard the steady rise andfall of voices indoors; then Molly appeared and asked her husband in arather dissatisfied voice what he thought.

"Why, it's what you think, dear. How's she seem?"

"She's competent enough—seems to know all about children, and I thinkshe'd be strong and willing. She's clean as a pink, too. And she'd comefor thirty and would be perfectly contented, because she lives rightnear here—that house just before you come to Emville which saysChickens and Carpentering Done Here—don't you know? She has a widowedsister who would come and stay with her at night when we're away." Mrs.Tressady summed it up slowly.

"Why not try her then, dear? By the way, what's her name?"

"Darling—Belle Darling."

"Tell her I'm English," said Mr. Porter, rapturously, "and that overthere we call servants—"

"No, but Jerry,"—Mrs. Tressady was serious,—"would you? She's soutterly untrained. That's the one thing against her. She hasn't thefaintest idea of the way a servant should act. She told me she justloved the way I wore my hair, and she said she wanted me to meet herfriend. Then she asked me, 'Who'd you name him Timothy for?'"

"Oh, you'd tame her fast enough. Just begin by snubbing her everychance you get—"

"I see it!" laughed Mrs. Porter, for Mrs. Tressady was a woman full oftheories about the sisterhood of woman, about equality, about a fairchance for every one—and had never been known to hurt any one'sfeelings in the entire course of her life.

Just here Belle stepped through one of the drawing-room French windows,with dewy, delicious Timothy, in faded pale-blue sleeping-wear, in herarms.

"This darling little feller was crying," said Belle, "and I guess hewants some din-din—don't you, lover? Shall I step out and tell one ofthose Chinese boys to get it? Listen! From now on I'll have mamma saveall the banty eggs for you, Timmy, and some day I'll take you downthere and show you the rabbits, darling. Would you like that?"

Molly glanced helplessly at her husband.

"How soon could you come, Belle?" asked Jerry, and that settled it. Hehad interpreted his wife's look and assumed the responsibility. Mollyfound herself glad.

Belle came two days later, with every evidence of content. It soonbecame evident that she had adopted the family and considered herselfadopted in turn. Her buoyant voice seemed to leap out of every openeddoor. She rose above her duties and floated along on a constant streamof joyous talk.

"We're going to have fried chicken and strawberries—my favoritedinner!" said Belle when Molly was showing her just how she liked thetable set. After dinner, cheerfully polishing glasses, she suddenlyburst into song as she stood at the open pantry window, some ten feetfrom the side porch. The words floated out:

"And the band was bravely playing
The song of the cross and crown—
Nearer, my god, to thee—
As the ship—"

Mrs. Tressady sat up, a stirring shadow among the shadows of the porch.

"I must ask her not to do that," she announced quietly, and disappeared.

"And I spoke to her about joining in the conversation at dinner," shesaid, returning. "She took it very nicely."

Belle's youthful spirits were too high to succumb to one check,however. Five minutes later she burst forth again:

"Ring, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, on your telephone—
And ring me up tonight—"

"Soft pedal, Belle!" Jerry called.

Belle laughed.

"Sure!" she called back. "I forgot."

Presently the bright blot of light that fell from the pantry window onthe little willow trees vanished silently, and they could hear Belle'svoice in the kitchen.

"Good-natured," said Molly.

"Strong," Mrs. Porter said.

"And pretty as a peach!" said Peter Porter.

"Oh, she'll do!" Jerry Tressady said contentedly.

She was good-natured, strong, and pretty indeed, and she did a greatdeal. Timmy's little garments fluttered on the clothes-line beforebreakfast; Timmy's room was always in order: Timmy was always daintyand clean. Belle adored him and the baby returned her affection. Theymurmured together for hours down on the river bank or on the shadyporch. Belle always seemed cheerful.

Nor could it be said that Belle did not know her place. She revelled inher title. "This is Mrs. Tressady's maid," Belle would say mincingly atthe telephone, "and she does not allow her servants to make engagementsfor her." "My friends want me to enter my name for a prize for the mostpopular girl in the Emville bazaar, Mrs. Tressady; but I thought Iwould ask your permission first."

But there was a sort of breezy familiarity about her very difficult tocheck. On her second day at the ranch she suddenly came behind JerryTressady seated on the piano bench and slipped a sheet of music beforehim.

"Won't you just run over that last chorus for me, Mr. Tress'dy?" askedBelle. "I have to sing that at a party Thursday night and I can't seemto get it."

No maid between Washington Square and the Bronx Zoo would have askedthis favor. Yes, but Rising Water Ranch was not within those limits,nor within several thousand miles of them; so Jerry played the lastchorus firmly, swiftly, without comment, and Belle gratefully withdrew.The Porters, unseen witnesses of this scene, on the porch, thought thisvery amusing; but only a day later Mrs. Porter herself was discoveredin the act of buttoning the long line of buttons that went down theback of one of Belle's immaculate white gowns.

"Well, what could I do? She suddenly backed up before me," Mrs. Portersaid in self-defence. "Could I tell her to let Hong button her?"

After dinner on the same day Peter Porter cleared a space before him onthe table and proceeded to a demonstration involving a fork, a weddingring, and a piece of string. While the quartet, laughing, were absorbedin the mysterious swinging of the suspended ring, Belle, putting awayher clean silver, suddenly joined the group.

"I know a better one than that," said she, putting a glass of waterbefore Mrs. Tressady. "Here—take your ring again. Now wait—I'll pullout one of your hairs for you. Now swing it over the water inside theglass. It'll tell your age."

Entirely absorbed in the experiment, her fresh young face close totheirs, her arms crossed as she knelt by the table, she had eyes onlyfor the ring.

"We won't keep you from your dishes, Belle," said Molly.

"Oh, I'm all through," said Belle, cheerfully. "There!" For the ringwas beginning to strike the glass with delicate, even strokes—thirty.

"Now do it again," cried Belle, delightedly, "and it'll tell yourmarried life!"

Again the ring struck the glass—eight.

"Well, that's very marvellous," said Molly, in genuine surprise; butwhen Belle had gone back to her pantry, Mrs. Tressady rose, with alittle sigh, and followed her.

"Call her down?" asked Jerry, an hour later.

"Well, no," the lady admitted, smiling. "No! She was putting awayTimmy's bibs, and she told me that he had seemed a little upsetto-night, she thought; so she gave him just barley gruel and the whiteof an egg for supper, and some rhubarb water before he went to bed. Andwhat could I say? But I will, though!"

During the following week Mrs. Tressady told Belle she must not rushinto a room shouting news—she must enter quietly and wait for anopportunity to speak; Mrs. Tressady asked her to leave the house by theside porch and quietly when going out in the evening to drive with heryoung man; Mrs. Tressady asked her not to deliver the mail with theannouncement: "Three from New York, an ad from Emville, and one with afive-cent stamp on it;" she asked her not to shout out from the drive,"White skirt show?" She said Belle must not ask, "What's he doing?"when discovering Mr. Tressady deep in a chess problem; Belle must notdrop into a chair when bringing Timmy out to the porch after hisafternoon outing; she must not be heard exclaiming, "Yankee Doodle!"and "What do you know about that!" when her broom dislodged a spider orher hair caught on the rose-bushes.

To all of these requests Belle answered, "Sure!" with great penitenceand amiability.

"Sure, Mis' Tress'dy—Say, listen! I can match that insertion I spilledink on—in Emville. Isn't that the limit? I can fix it so it'll nevershow in the world!"

"I wouldn't stand that girl for—one—minute," said Mrs. Porter to herhusband; but this was some weeks later when the Porters were in acomfortable Pullman, rushing toward New York.

"I think Molly's afraid of flying in the face of Providence anddischarging her," said Peter Porter—"but praying every day that she'llgo."

This was almost the truth. Belle's loyalty, affection, good nature, andwillingness were beyond price, but Belle's noisiness, her slang, andher utter lack of training were a sore trial. When November came, withrains that kept the little household at Rising Water prisoners indoors,Mrs. Tressady began to think she could not stand Belle much longer.

"My goodness!" Belle would say loudly when sent for to bring a filledlamp. "Is that other lamp burned out already? Say, listen! I'll giveyou the hall lamp while I fill it." "You oughtn't to touch pie justafter one of your headaches!" she would remind her employer in arespectful aside at dinner. And sometimes when Molly and her husbandwere busy in the study a constant stream of conversation would reachthem from the nursery where Belle was dressing Timothy:

"Now where's the boy that's going to let Belle wash his face? Oh, my,what a good boy! Now, just a minny—minny—minny—that's all. Now giveBelle a sweet, clean kiss—yes, but give Belle a sweet, cleankiss—give Belle a kiss—oh, Timmy, do you want Belle to cry? Well,then, give her a kiss—give Belle a sweet kiss—"

When Molly was bathing the boy Belle would come and take a comfortablechair near by, ready to spring for powder or pins, but otherwisestudying her fingernails or watching the bath with genial interest.Molly found herself actually lacking in the strength of mind to exactthat Belle stand silently near on these occasions, and so listened to agreat many of Belle's confidences. Belle at home; Belle in the highschool; Belle trying a position in Robbins's candy store and not likingit because she was not used to freshness—all these Belles becamefamiliar to Molly. Grewsome sicknesses, famous local crimes, gossip,weddings—Belle touched upon them all; and Molly was ashamed to find itall interesting, it spite of herself. One day Belle told Molly of JoeRogers, and Joe figured daily in the narratives thereafter—Joe, whodrove a carriage, a motor, or a hay wagon, as the occasion required,for his uncle who owned a livery stable, but whose ambition was to buyout old Scanlon, the local undertaker, and to marry Belle.

"Joe knows more about embalming than even Owens of Napa does," confidedBelle. "He's got every plat in the cemetery memorized—and, his unclehaving carriages and horses, it would work real well; but Scanlon wantsthree thousand for the business and goodwill."

"I wish he had it and you this minute!" Molly would think. But when sheopened Timmy's bureau drawers, to find little suits and coats and socksin snowy, exquisite order; when Timmy, trim, sweet, and freshly clad,appeared for breakfast every morning, his fat hand in Belle's, and"Dea' Booey"—as he called her—figuring prominently in his limitedvocabulary, Molly weakened again.

"Is he mad this morning?" Belle would ask in a whisper before Jerryappeared. "Say, listen! You just let him think I broke the decanter!"she suggested one day in loyal protection of Molly. "Why, I think theworld and all of Mr. Tressady!" she assured Molly, when reproved forspeaking of him in this way. "Wasn't it the luckiest thing in theworld—my coming up that day?" she would demand joyously over and over.Her adoption of and by the family of Tressady was—to her, atleast—complete.

In January Uncle George Tressady's estate was finally distributed, andthis meant great financial ease at Rising Water. Belle, Molly said, wasreally getting worse and worse as she became more and more at home; andthe time had come to get a nice trained nurse—some one who could keepa professional eye on Timmy, be a companion to Molly, and who would bequiet and refined, and gentle in her speech.

"And not a hint to Belle, Jerry," Molly warned him, "until we see howit is going to work. She'll see presently that we don't need both."

When Miss Marshall, cool, silent, drab of hair and eye, arrived at theranch, Belle was instantly suspicious.

"What's she here for? Who's sick?" demanded Belle, coming into Mrs.Tressady's room and closing the door behind her, her eyes bright andhard.

Molly explained diplomatically. Belle must be very polite to thenew-comer; it was just an experiment—"This would be a good chance tohint that I'm not going to keep both," thought Molly, as Belle listened.

Belle disarmed her completely, however, by coming over to her with asuddenly bright face and asking in an awed voice:

"Is it another baby? Oh, you don't know how glad I'd be! The darling,darling little thing!"

Molly felt the tears come into her eyes—a certain warmth creep abouther heart.

"No," she said smiling; "but I'm glad you will love it if it evercomes!" This was, of course, exactly what she did not mean to say.

"If we got Miss Marshall because of Uncle George's money," said Belle,huffily, departing, "I wish he hadn't died! There isn't a thing in thisworld for her to do."

Miss Marshall took kindly to idleness—talking a good deal of previouscases, playing solitaire, and talking freely to Molly of variousinternes and patients who admired her. She marked herself at once asunused to children by calling Timothy "little man," and, except for avague, friendly scrutiny of his tray three times a day, did nothing atall—even leaving the care of her room to Belle.

After a week or two, Miss Marshall went away, to Belle's greatsatisfaction, and Miss Clapp came. Miss Clapp was forty, and strong andserious; she did not embroider or confide in Molly; she sat silent atmeals, chewing firmly, her eyes on her plate. "What would you like meto do now?" she would ask Molly, gravely, at intervals.

Molly, with Timothy asleep and Belle sweeping, could only murmur:

"Why, just now,—let me see,—perhaps you'd like to write letters—orjust read—"

"And are you going to take little Timothy with you when he wakes up?"

Molly would evade the uncompromising eyes.

"Why, I think so. The sun's out now. You must come, too."

Miss Clapp, coming, too, cast a damper on the drive; and she persistedin talking about the places where she was really needed.

"Imagine a ward with forty little suffering children in it, Mrs.Tressady! That's real work—that's a real privilege!"

And after a week or two Miss Clapp went joyously back to her real workwith a generous check for her children's ward in her pocket. She kissedTimothy good-by with the first tenderness she had shown.

"Didn't she make you feel like an ant in an anthill?" asked Belle,cheerfully watching the departing carriage. "She really didn't take nointerest in Timothy because there wasn't a hundred of him!"

There was a peaceful interval after this, while Molly diligentlyadvertised for "A competent nurse. One child only. Good salary. Smallfamily in country."

No nurse, competent or incompetent, replied. Then came the Januarymorning when Belle casually remarked: "Stupid! You never wound it!" tothe master of the house, who was attempting to start a stopped clock.This was too much! Mrs. Tressady immediately wrote the letter thatengaged Miss Carter, a highly qualified and high-priced nurserygoverness who had been recommended by a friend.

Miss Carter, a rosy, strong, pleasant girl, appeared two days later ina driving rain and immediately "took hold." She was talkative, assuredin manner, neat in appearance, entirely competent. She drove poor Belleto frenzy with her supervision of Timothy's trays, baths and clothes,amusem*nts and sleeping arrangements. Timmy liked her, which was pointone in her favor. Point two was that she liked to have her meals alone,liked to disappear with a book, could amuse herself for hours in herown room.

The Tressadys, in the privacy of their own room, began to say to eachother: "I like her—she'll do!"

"She's very complacent," Molly would say with a sigh.

"But it's nothing to the way Belle effervesces all over the place!"

"Oh, I suppose she is simply trying to make a good impression—that'sall." And Mrs. Tressady began to cast about in her mind for just thewords in which to tell Belle that—really—four servants were notneeded at the ranch. Belle was so sulky in these days and so rude tothe new-comer that Molly knew she would have no trouble in finding goodreason for the dismissal.

"Are we going to keep her?" Belle asked scornfully one morning—towhich her mistress answered sharply:

"Belle, kindly do not shout so when you come into my room. Do you seethat I am writing?"

"Gee whiz!" said Belle, sorrowfully, as she went out, and she visiblydrooped all day.

It was decided that as soon as the Tressadys' San Francisco visit wasover, Belle should go. They were going down to the city for a week inearly March—for some gowns for Molly, some dinners, some opera, andone of the talks with Jerry's doctor that were becoming so delightfullyunnecessary.

They left the ranch in a steady, gloomy downpour. Molly did her packingbetween discouraged trips to the window, and deluged Belle and MissCarter with apprehensive advice that was not at all like her usualtrusting outlook.

"Don't fail to telephone me instantly at the hotel if anything—but, ofcourse, nothing will," said Molly. "Anyway you know the doctor'snumber, Belle, and about a hot-water bag for him if his feet are cold,and oil the instant he shows the least sign of fever—"

"Cert'n'y!" said Belle, reassuringly.

"This is Monday," said Molly. "We'll be back Sunday night. Have LittleHong meet us at the Junction. And if it's clear, bring Timmy."

"Cert'n'y!" said Belle.

"I hate to go in all this rain!" Molly said an hour or two later fromthe depths of the motor-car.

Miss Carter was holding Timmy firmly on the sheltered porch railing.Belle stood on an upper step in the rain. Big Hong beamed from theshadowy doorway. At the last instant Belle suddenly caught Timmy in herarms and ran down the wet path.

"Give muddy a reel good kiss for good-by!" commanded Belle, and Mollyhungrily claimed not one, but a score.

"Good-by, my heart's heart!" she said. "Thank you, Belle." As thecarriage whirled away she sighed. "Was there ever such a good-hearted,impossible creature!"

Back into the house went Belle and Timmy, Miss Carter and Big Hong.Back came Little Hong with the car. Silence held the ranch; the waningwinter light fell on Timmy, busy with blocks; on Belle darning; on MissCarter reading a light novel. The fire blazed, sank to quivering blue,leaped with a sucking noise about a fresh log, and sank again. At fourthe lamps were lighted, the two women fussed amicably together overTimothy's supper. Later, when he was asleep, Miss Carter, who had noparticular fancy for the shadows that lurked in the corners of the bigroom and the howling wind on the roof, said sociably: "Shall we haveour dinner on two little tables right here before the fire, Belle?" Andstill later, after an evening of desultory reading and talking, shesuggested that they leave their bedroom doors open. Belle agreed. IfMiss Carter was young, Belle was younger still.

The days went by. Hong served them delicious meals. Timmy was angelic.They unearthed halma, puzzles, fortune-telling cards. The rain fellsteadily; the eaves dripped; the paths were sheets of water.

"It certainly gets on your nerves—doesn't it?" said Miss Carter, whenthe darkness came on Thursday night. Belle, from the hall, came andstood beside her at the fireplace.

"Our 'phone is cut off," said she, uneasily. "The water must of cutdown a pole somewheres. Let's look at the river."

Suddenly horror seemed to seize upon them both. They could not crossthe floor fast enough and plunge fast enough into the night. It wasdark out on the porch, and for a moment or two they could see nothingbut the swimming blackness, and hear nothing but the gurgle and drip ofthe rain-water from eaves and roof. The rain had stopped, or almoststopped. A shining fog seemed to lie flat—high and level over theriver-bed.

Suddenly, as they stared, this fog seemed to solidify before theireyes, seemed curiously to step into the foreground and show itself forwhat it was. They saw it was no longer fog, but water—a level spreadof dark, silent water. The Beaver Creek had flooded its banks and wasnoiselessly, pitilessly creeping over the world.

"It's the river!" Belle whispered. "Gee whiz, isn't she high!"

"What is it?" gasped Miss Carter, from whose face every vestige ofcolor had fled.

"Why, it's the river!" Belle answered, slowly, uneasily. She held outher hand. "Thank God, the rain's stopped!" she said under her breath.Then, so suddenly that Miss Carter jumped nervously, she shouted:"Hong!"

Big Hong came out, and Little Hong. All four stood staring at themotionless water, which was like some great, menacing presence in thedark—some devil-fish of a thousand arms, content to bide his time.

The bungalow stood on a little rise of ground in a curve of the river.On three sides of it, at all seasons, were the sluggish currents ofBeaver Creek, and now the waters met on the fourth side. The gardenpath that led to the Emville road ran steeply now into this pool, andthe road, sloping upward almost imperceptibly, emerged from the waterperhaps two hundred feet beyond.

"Him how deep?" asked Hong.

"Well, those hollyhocks at the gate are taller than I am," Belle said,"and you can't see them at all. I'll bet it's ten feet deep most of theway."

She had grown very white, and seemed to speak with difficulty. MissCarter went into the house, with the dazed look of a woman in a dream,and knelt at the piano bench.

"Oh, my God—my God—my God!" she said in a low, hoarse tone, herfingers pressed tightly over her eyes.

"Don't be so scared!" said Belle, hardily, though the sight of theother woman's terror had made her feel cold and sick at her stomach."There's lots of things we can do—"

"There's an attic—"

"Ye-es," Belle hesitated. "But I wouldn't go up there," she said. "It'sjust an unfloored place under the roof—no way out!"

"No—no—no—not there, then!" Miss Carter said heavily, paler thanbefore. "But what can we do?"

"Why, this water is backing up," Belle said slowly, "It's not comingdownstream, so any minute whatever's holding it back may burst and thewhole thing go at once—or if it stops raining, it won't go any higher."

"Well, we must get away as fast as we can while there is time," saidMiss Carter, trembling, but more composed. "We could swim thatdistance—I swim a little. Then, if we can't walk into Emville, we'llhave to spend the night on the hills. We could reach the hills, Ishould think." Her voice broke. "Oh—this is terrible!" she broke outfrantically—and she began to walk the floor.

"Hong, could we get the baby acrost?" asked Belle.

"Oh, the child—of course!" said Miss Carter, under her breath. Hongshook his head.

"Man come bimeby boat," he suggested. "Me no swim—Little Hong no swim."

"You can't swim" cried Miss Carter, despairingly, and covered her facewith her hands.

Little Hong now came in to make some earnest suggestion in Chinese. Hisuncle, approving it, announced that they two, unable to swim, would,nevertheless, essay to cross the water with the aid of a floatingkitchen bench, and that they would fly for help. They immediatelycarried the bench out into the night.

The two women followed; a hideous need of haste seemed to possess themall. The rain was falling heavily again.

"It's higher," said Miss Carter, in a dead tone. Belle eyed the waternervously.

"You couldn't push Timmy acrost on that bench?" she ventured.

It became immediately evident, however, that the men would be extremelyfortunate in getting themselves across. The two dark, sleek heads madeslow progress on the gloomy water. The bench tipped, turned slowly,righted itself, and tipped again. Soon they worked their slow way outof sight.

Then came silence—silence!

"She's rising!" said Belle.

Miss Carter went blindly into the house. She was ashen and seemed to bechoking. She sat down.

"They'll be back in no time," said she, in a sick voice.

"Sure!" said Belle, moistening her lips.

There was a long silence. Rain drummed on the roof.

"Do you swim, Belle?" Miss Carter asked after a restless march aboutthe room.

"Some—I couldn't swim with the baby—"

Miss Carter was not listening. She leaned her head against themantelpiece. Suddenly she began to walk again, her eyes wild, herbreath uneven.

"Well, there must be something we can do, Belle!"

"I've been trying to think," said Belle, slowly. "A bread boardwouldn't float, you know, even if the baby would sit on it. We've notgot a barrel—and a box—"

"There must be boxes!" cried the other woman.

"Yes; but the least bit of a tip would half fill a box with water.No—" Belle shook her head. "I'm not a good enough swimmer."

Another short silence.

"Belle, does this river rise every winter?"

"Why, yes, I suppose it does. I know one year Emville was flooded andthe shops moved upstairs. There was a family named Wescott living upnear here then—" Belle did not pursue the history of the Westcottfamily, and Miss Carter knew why.

"Oh, I think it is criminal for people to build in a place like this!"Miss Carter burst out passionately. "They're safe enough—oh,certainly!" she went on with bitter emphasis. "But they leave us—"

"It shows how little you know us, thinking we'd run any risk withTimmy—" Belle said stiffly; but she interrupted herself to saysharply: "Here's the water!"

She went to the door and opened it. The still waters of Beaver Creekwere lapping the porch steps.

Miss Carter made an inarticulate exclamation and went into her room.Belle, following her to her door, saw her tear off her shoes andstockings, and change her gown for some brief, dark garment.

"It's every one for himself now!" said Miss Carter, feverishly. "Thisis no time for sentiment. If they don't care enough for their childto—This is my gym suit—I'm thankful I brought it. Don't be utterlymad, Belle! If the water isn't coming, Timmy'll be all right. If it is,I don't see why we should be so utterly crazy as not to try to saveourselves. We can easily swim it, and then we can get help—You've gota bathing suit—go put it on. My God, Belle, it's not as if we could doanything by staying. If we could, I'd—"

Belle turned away. When Miss Carter followed her, she found her in Mrs.Tressady's bedroom, looking down at the sleeping Timmy. Timmy had takento bed with him a box of talcum powder wrapped in a towel, as a"doddy." One fat, firm little hand still held the meaningless toy. Hewas breathing heavily, evenly—his little forehead moist, his hairclinging in tendrils about his face.

"No—of course we can't leave him!" said Miss Carter, heavily, as thewomen went back to the living-room. She went frantically from window towindow. "It's stopped raining!" she announced.

"We'll laugh at this to-morrow," said Belle. They went to the door. Ashallow sheet of water, entering, crept in a great circle about theirvery feet.

"Oh, no—it's not to be expected; it's too much!" Miss Carter cried.Without an instant's hesitation she crossed the porch and splashed downthe invisible steps.

"I take as great a chance in going as you do in staying," she said,with chattering teeth. "If—if it comes any higher, you'll swim forit—won't you, Belle?"

"Oh, I'd try it with him as a last chance," Belle answered sturdily.She held a lamp so that its light fell across the water. "That's right.Keep headed that way!" she said.

"I'm all right!" Miss Carter's small head was bravely cleaving thesmooth dark water. "I'll run all the way and bring back help in notime," she called back.

When the lamp no longer illumined her, Belle went into the house. Thedoor would not shut, but the water was not visibly higher. She went into Timmy's crib, knelt down beside him, and put her arms about his warmlittle body.

Meanwhile Timmy's father and mother, at the hotel, were far from happy.They stopped for a paper on their way to the opera on Thursday night;and on their return, finding no later edition procurable, telephonedone of the newspapers to ask whether there was anything in the reportsthat the rivers were rising up round Emville. On Friday morning Jerry,awakening, perceived his wife half-hidden in the great, rose-coloredwindow draperies, barefoot, still in her nightgown, and reading a paper.

"Jerry," said she, very quietly, "can we go home today? I'm worried.Some of the Napa track has been washed away and they say the water'sbeing pushed back. Can we get the nine o'clock train?"

"But, darling, it must be eight now."

"I know it."

"Why not telephone to Belle, dear, and have them all come into Emvilleif you like."

"Oh, Jerry—of course! I never thought of it." She flew to thetelephone on the wall. "The operator says she can't get them—they'reso stupid!" she presently announced.

Jerry took the instrument away from her and the little lady contentedlybegan her dressing. When she came out of the dressing-room a fewmoments later, her husband was flinging things into his suitcase.

"Get Belle, Jerry?"

"Nope." He spoke cheerfully, but did not meet her eyes. "Nope. Theycan't get 'em. Lines seem to be down. I guess we'll take the nine."

"Jerry,"—Molly Tressady came over to him quietly,—"what did they tellyou?"

"Now, nothing at all—" Jerry began. At his tone terror sprang toMolly's heart and sank its cruel claws there. There was no special newsfrom Rising Water he explained soothingly; but, seeing that she wasnervous, and the nine was a through train, and so on—and on—

"Timmy—Timmy—Timmy!" screamed Molly's heart. She could not see; shecould not think or hear, or taste her breakfast. Her little boy—herlittle, helpless, sturdy, confident baby, who had never beenfrightened, never alone—never anything but warm and safe and doubly,trebly guarded—

They were crossing a sickening confusion that was the hotel lobby. Theywere moving in a taxicab through bright, hideous streets. The nextthing she knew, Jerry was seating her in a parlor car.

"Yes, I know, dear—Of course—Surely!" she said pleasantly andmechanically when he seemed to expect an answer.—She thought of how hewould have come to meet her; of how the little voice always rang out:"Dere's my muddy!"

"Raining again!" said Jerry. "It stopped this morning at two. Oh, yes,really it did. We're almost there now. Hello! Here's the boy with themorning papers. See, dear, here's the head-line: Rain Stops atOne-fifty—"

But Molly had seen another headline—a big headline that read: "Loss ofLife at Rising Water! Governess of Jerome Tressady's Family Swims OneMile to Safety!"—and she had fainted away.

She was very brave, very reasonable, when consciousness came back, butthere could be no more pretence. She sat in the demoralized littleparlor of the Emville Hotel—waiting for news—very white, verycomposed, a terrible look in her eyes. Jerry came and went constantly;other people constantly came and went. The flood was falling fast nowand barges were being towed down the treacherous waters of BeaverCreek; refugees—and women and children whom the mere sight of safetyand dry land made hysterical again—were being gathered up. Emvillematrons, just over their own hours of terror, were murmuring aboutgowns, about beds, about food: "Lots of room—well, thank God forthat—you're all safe, anyway!" "Yes, indeed; that's the only thingthat counts!" "Well, bless his heart, we'll tell him some day that whenhe was a baby—" Molly caught scraps of their talk, their shakenlaughter, their tears; but there was no news of Belle—of Timmy—

"Belle is a splendid, strong country girl, you know, dear," Jerry said."Belle would be equal to any emergency!"

"Of course," Molly heard herself say.

Jerry presently came in from one of his trips to draw a chair close tohis wife's and tell her that he had seen Miss Carter.

"Or, at least, I've seen her mother," said Jerry, laying a restraininghand upon Molly, who sat bolt upright, her breast heavingpainfully—"for she herself is feverish and hysterical, dear. It seemsthat she left—Now, my darling, you must be quiet."

"I'm all right, Jerry. Go on! Go on!"

"She says that Hong and Little Hong managed to get away early in theevening for help. She didn't leave until about midnight, and Belle andthe boy were all right then—"

"Oh, my God!" cried poor Molly.

"Molly, dear, you make it harder."

"Yes, I know." Her penitent hot hand touched his own. "I know,dear—I'm sorry."

"That's all, dear. The water wasn't very high then. Belle wouldn'tleave Timmy-" Jerry Tressady jumped suddenly to his feet and went tostare out the window with unseeing eyes. "Miss Carter didn't get intotown here until after daylight," he resumed, "and the mother, poorsoul, is wild with fright over her; but she's all right. Now, Molly,there's a barge going up as far as Rising Water at four. They say thebungalow is still cut off, probably, but they'll take us as near asthey can. I'm going, and this Rogers—Belle's friend—will go, too."

"What do you think, Jerry?" she besought him, agonized.

"My darling, I don't know what to think."

"Were—were many lives lost, Jerry?"

"A few, dear."

"Jerry,"—Molly's burning eyes searched his,—"I'm sane now. I'm notgoing to faint again; but—but—after little Jerry—I couldn't bear itand live!"

"God sent us strength for that, Molly."

"Yes, I know!" she said, and burst into bitter tears.

It had been arranged that Molly should wait at the hotel for the returnof the barge; but Jerry was not very much surprised, upon going onboard, to find her sitting, a shadowy ghost of herself, in the shelterof the boxed supplies that might be needed. He did not protest, but satbeside her; and Belle's friend, a serious, muscular young man, took hisplace at her other side.

The puffing little George Dickey started on her merciful journey onlyafter some agonizing delays; but Molly did not comment upon them once,nor did any one of the trio speak throughout the terrible journey. Thestorm was gone now, and pale, uncertain sunlight was falling over thealtered landscape—over the yellow, sullen current of the river; overthe drowned hills and partly submerged farms. A broom drifted by; achild's perambulator; a porch chair. Now and then there was franticsignalling from some little, sober group of refugees, huddled togetheron a water-stained porch or travelling slowly down the heavy roads in aspattered surrey.

"This is as near as we can go," Jerry said presently. The three wererowed across shallow water and found themselves slowly following onfoot the partly obliterated road they knew so well. A turn of the roadbrought the bungalow into view.

There the little house stood, again high above the flood, though thegarden was a drenched waste, and a shallow sheet of water still layacross the pathway. The sinking sun struck dazzling lights from all thewindows; no living thing was in sight. A terrible stillness held theplace!

To the gate they went and across the pool. Then Jerry laid arestraining hand on his wife's arm.

"Yes'm. You'd 'a' better wait here," said young Rogers, speaking forthe first time. "Belle wouldn't 'a' stayed, you may be sure. We'll justtake a look."

They were not ten feet from the house, now—hesitating, sick withdread. Suddenly on the still air there was borne a sound that stoppedthem where they stood. It was a voice—Belle's voice—tired andsomewhat low, but unmistakably Belle's:

"Then i'll go home, my crown to wear;
for there's a crown for me—"

"Belle!" screamed Molly. Somehow she had mounted the steps, crossed theporch, and was at the kitchen door.

Belle and Timothy were in the kitchen—Timothy's little bib tied abouthis neck, Timothy's little person securely strapped in his high chair,and Timothy's blue bowl, full of some miraculously preserved cereal,before him. Belle was seated—her arms resting heavily and wearily uponhis tray, her dress stained to the armpits, her face colorless andmarked by dark lines. She turned and sprang up at the sound of voicesand feet, and had only time for a weak smile before she fell quitesenseless to the floor. Timmy waved a welcoming spoon, and shoutedlustily: "Dere's my muddy!"

Presently Belle was resting her head upon Joe's big shoulder, andlaughing and crying over the horrors of the night. Timothy was in hismother's arms, but Molly had a hand free for Belle's hand and did notlet it go through all the hour that followed. Her arms might tightenabout the delicious little form, her lips brush the tumbled littlehead—but her eyes were all for Belle.

"It wasn't so fierce," said Belle. "The water went highest at one; andwe went to the porch and thought we'd have to swim for it—didn't we,Timmy? But it stayed still a long time, and it wasn't raining, and Icame in and set Timmy on the mantel—my arms were so tired. It's reallucky we have a mantel, isn't it?"

"You stood, and held Tim on the mantel: that was it?" asked Jerry.

"Sure—while we was waiting," said Belle. "I wouldn't have mindedanything, but the waiting was fierce. Timmy was an angel! He set thereand I held him—I don't know—a long time. Then I seen that the waterwas going down again; I could tell by the book-case, and I begun tocry. Timmy kept kissing me—didn't you, lover?" She laughed, withtrembling lips and tearful eyes. "We'll have a fine time cleaning thishouse," she broke off, trying to steady her voice; "it's simplyawful—everything's ruined!"

"We'll clean it up for your marriage, Belle," said Jerry, cheerfully,clearing his throat. "Mrs. Tressady and I are going to start Mr. Rogershere in business—"

"If you'd loan it to me at interest, sir—" Belle's young man beganhoarsely. Belle laid her hand over Molly's, her voice tender andcomforting—for Molly was weeping again.

"Don't cry, Mis' Tress'dy! It's all over now, and here we are safe andsound. We've nothing to cry over. Instead," said Belle, solemnly, "we'dought to be thanking God that there was a member of the family here tolook out for Timmy, instead of just that hired governess and the Chineeboys!"