K

By Mary Roberts Rinehart

CHAPTER I

The Street stretched away north and south in two lines of ancienthouses that seemed to meet in the distance. The man found it infinitelyinviting. It had the well-worn look of an old coat, shabby butcomfortable. The thought of coming there to live pleased him. Surelyhere would be peace--long evenings in which to read, quiet nights inwhich to sleep and forget. It was an impression of home, really, thatit gave. The man did not know that, or care particularly. He had beenwandering about a long time--not in years, for he was less than thirty. But it seemed a very long time. 

At the little house no one had seemed to think about references. Hecould have given one or two, of a sort. He had gone to considerabletrouble to get them; and now, not to have them asked for--

There was a house across and a little way down the Street, with a cardin the window that said: "Meals, twenty-five cents. " Evidently themidday meal was over; men who looked like clerks and small shopkeeperswere hurrying away. The Nottingham curtains were pinned back, and justinside the window a throaty barytone was singing:

 "Home is the hunter, home from the hill: And the sailor, home from sea. "

Across the Street, the man smiled grimly--Home!

For perhaps an hour Joe Drummond had been wandering up and down theStreet. His straw hat was set on the back of his head, for the eveningwas warm; his slender shoulders, squared and resolute at eight, by ninehad taken on a disconsolate droop. Under a street lamp he consulted hiswatch, but even without that he knew what the hour was. Prayer meetingat the corner church was over; boys of his own age were rangingthemselves along the curb, waiting for the girl of the moment. When shecame, a youth would appear miraculously beside her, and the world-oldpairing off would have taken place. 

The Street emptied. The boy wiped the warm band of his hat and slappedit on his head again. She was always treating him like this--keeping himhanging about, and then coming out, perfectly calm and certain thathe would still be waiting. By George, he'd fool her, for once: he'd goaway, and let her worry. She WOULD worry. She hated to hurt anyone. Ah!

Across the Street, under an old ailanthus tree, was the house hewatched, a small brick, with shallow wooden steps and--curiousarchitecture of Middle West sixties--a wooden cellar door beside thesteps. 

In some curious way it preserved an air of distinction among its morepretentious neighbors, much as a very old lady may now and then lendtone to a smart gathering. On either side of it, the taller houses hadan appearance of protection rather than of patronage. It was a matterof self-respect, perhaps. No windows on the Street were so spotlesslycurtained, no doormat so accurately placed, no "yard" in the rear sotidy with morning-glory vines over the whitewashed fence. 

The June moon had risen, sending broken shafts of white light throughthe ailanthus to the house door. When the girl came at last, she steppedout into a world of soft lights and wavering shadows, fragrant with treeblossoms not yet overpowering, hushed of its daylight sounds of playingchildren and moving traffic. 

The house had been warm. Her brown hair lay moist on her forehead, herthin white dress was turned in at the throat. She stood on the steps, the door closed behind her, and threw out her arms in a swift gesture tothe cool air. The moonlight clothed her as with a garment. From acrossthe Street the boy watched her with adoring, humble eyes. All hiscourage was for those hours when he was not with her. 

"Hello, Joe. "

"Hello, Sidney. "

He crossed over, emerging out of the shadows into her envelopingradiance. His ardent young eyes worshiped her as he stood on thepavement. 

"I'm late. I was taking out bastings for mother. "

"Oh, that's all right. "

Sidney sat down on the doorstep, and the boy dropped at her feet. 

"I thought of going to prayer meeting, but mother was tired. WasChristine there?"

"Yes; Palmer Howe took her home. "

He was at his ease now. He had discarded his hat, and lay back on hiselbows, ostensibly to look at the moon. Actually his brown eyes restedon the face of the girl above him. He was very happy. "He's crazy aboutChris. She's good-looking, but she's not my sort. "

"Pray, what IS your sort?"

"You. "

She laughed softly. "You're a goose, Joe!"

She settled herself more comfortably on the doorstep and drew alongbreath. 

"How tired I am! Oh--I haven't told you. We've taken a roomer!"

"A what?"

"A roomer. " She was half apologetic. The Street did not approve ofroomers. "It will help with the rent. It's my doing, really. Mother isscandalized. "

"A woman?"

"A man. "

"What sort of man?"

"How do I know? He is coming tonight. I'll tell you in a week. "

Joe was sitting bolt upright now, a little white. 

"Is he young?"

"He's a good bit older than you, but that's not saying he's old. "

Joe was twenty-one, and sensitive of his youth. 

"He'll be crazy about you in two days. "

She broke into delighted laughter. 

"I'll not fall in love with him--you can be certain of that. He is talland very solemn. His hair is quite gray over his ears. "

Joe cheered. 

"What's his name?"

"K. Le Moyne. "

"K. ?"

"That's what he said. "

Interest in the roomer died away. The boy fell into the ecstasy ofcontent that always came with Sidney's presence. His inarticulate youngsoul was swelling with thoughts that he did not know how to put intowords. It was easy enough to plan conversations with Sidney when he wasaway from her. But, at her feet, with her soft skirts touching him asshe moved, her eager face turned to him, he was miserably speechless. 

Unexpectedly, Sidney yawned. He was outraged. 

"If you're sleepy--"

"Don't be silly. I love having you. I sat up late last night, reading. I wonder what you think of this: one of the characters in the book I wasreading says that every man who--who cares for a woman leaves his markon her! I suppose she tries to become what he thinks she is, for thetime anyhow, and is never just her old self again. "

She said "cares for" instead of "loves. " It is one of the traditions ofyouth to avoid the direct issue in life's greatest game. Perhaps"love" is left to the fervent vocabulary of the lover. Certainly, as iftreading on dangerous ground, Sidney avoided it. 

"Every man! How many men are supposed to care for a woman, anyhow?"

"Well, there's the boy who--likes her when they're both young. "

A bit of innocent mischief this, but Joe straightened. 

"Then they both outgrow that foolishness. After that there are usuallytwo rivals, and she marries one of them--that's three. And--"

"Why do they always outgrow that foolishness?" His voice was unsteady. 

"Oh, I don't know. One's ideas change. Anyhow, I'm only telling you whatthe book said. "

"It's a silly book. "

"I don't believe it's true, " she confessed. "When I got started I justread on. I was curious. "

More eager than curious, had she only known. She was fairly vibrant withthe zest of living. Sitting on the steps of the little brick house, her busy mind was carrying her on to where, beyond the Street, with itsdingy lamps and blossoming ailanthus, lay the world that was some day tolie to her hand. Not ambition called her, but life. 

The boy was different. Where her future lay visualized before her, heroic deeds, great ambitions, wide charity, he planned years with her, selfish, contented years. As different as smug, satisfied summer fromvisionary, palpitating spring, he was for her--but she was for all theworld. 

By shifting his position his lips came close to her bare young arm. Ittempted him. 

"Don't read that nonsense, " he said, his eyes on the arm. "And--I'llnever outgrow my foolishness about you, Sidney. "

Then, because he could not help it, he bent over and kissed her arm. 

She was just eighteen, and Joe's devotion was very pleasant. Shethrilled to the touch of his lips on her flesh; but she drew her armaway. 

"Please--I don't like that sort of thing. "

"Why not?" His voice was husky. 

"It isn't right. Besides, the neighbors are always looking out thewindows. "

The drop from her high standard of right and wrong to the neighbors'curiosity appealed suddenly to her sense of humor. She threw back herhead and laughed. He joined her, after an uncomfortable moment. But hewas very much in earnest. He sat, bent forward, turning his new strawhat in his hands. 

"I guess you know how I feel. Some of the fellows have crushes on girlsand get over them. I'm not like that. Since the first day I saw you I'venever looked at another girl. Books can say what they like: there arepeople like that, and I'm one of them. "

There was a touch of dogged pathos in his voice. He was that sort, andSidney knew it. Fidelity and tenderness--those would be hers if shemarried him. He would always be there when she wanted him, looking ather with loving eyes, a trifle wistful sometimes because of his lack ofthose very qualities he so admired in her--her wit, her resourcefulness, her humor. But he would be there, not strong, perhaps, but always loyal. 

"I thought, perhaps, " said Joe, growing red and white, and talking tothe hat, "that some day, when we're older, you--you might be willing tomarry me, Sid. I'd be awfully good to you. "

It hurt her to say no. Indeed, she could not bring herself to say it. In all her short life she had never willfully inflicted a wound. And because she was young, and did not realize that there is a shortcruelty, like the surgeon's, that is mercy in the end, she temporized. 

"There is such a lot of time before we need think of such things! Can'twe just go on the way we are?"

"I'm not very happy the way we are. "

"Why, Joe!"

"Well, I'm not"--doggedly. "You're pretty and attractive. When I see afellow staring at you, and I'd like to smash his face for him, I haven'tthe right. "

"And a precious good thing for you that you haven't!" cried Sidney, rather shocked. 

There was silence for a moment between them. Sidney, to tell the truth, was obsessed by a vision of Joe, young and hot-eyed, being haled to thepolice station by virtue of his betrothal responsibilities. The boy wasvacillating between relief at having spoken and a heaviness of spiritthat came from Sidney's lack of enthusiastic response. 

"Well, what do you think about it?"

"If you are asking me to give you permission to waylay and assault everyman who dares to look at me--"

"I guess this is all a joke to you. "

She leaned over and put a tender hand on his arm. 

"I don't want to hurt you; but, Joe, I don't want to be engaged yet. I don't want to think about marrying. There's such a lot to do in theworld first. There's such a lot to see and be. "

"Where?" he demanded bitterly. "Here on this Street? Do you wantmore time to pull bastings for your mother? Or to slave for your AuntHarriet? Or to run up and down stairs, carrying towels to roomers? Marryme and let me take care of you. "

Once again her dangerous sense of humor threatened her. He lookedso boyish, sitting there with the moonlight on his bright hair, soinadequate to carry out his magnificent offer. Two or three of thestar blossoms from the tree had fallen all his head. She lifted themcarefully away. 

"Let me take care of myself for a while. I've never lived my own life. You know what I mean. I'm not unhappy; but I want to do something. And some day I shall, --not anything big; I know. I can't do that, --butsomething useful. Then, after years and years, if you still want me, I'll come back to you. "

"How soon?"

"How can I know that now? But it will be a long time. "

He drew a long breath and got up. All the joy had gone out of the summernight for him, poor lad. He glanced down the Street, where Palmer Howehad gone home happily with Sidney's friend Christine. Palmer wouldalways know how he stood with Christine. She would never talk aboutdoing things, or being things. Either she would marry Palmer or shewould not. But Sidney was not like that. A fellow did not even caressher easily. When he had only kissed her arm--He trembled a little at thememory. 

"I shall always want you, " he said. "Only--you will never come back. "

It had not occurred to either of them that this coming back, sotragically considered, was dependent on an entirely problematical goingaway. Nothing, that early summer night, seemed more unlikely than thatSidney would ever be free to live her own life. The Street, stretchingaway to the north and to the south in two lines of houses that seemedto meet in the distance, hemmed her in. She had been born in the littlebrick house, and, as she was of it, so it was of her. Her hands hadsmoothed and painted the pine floors; her hands had put up the twine onwhich the morning-glories in the yard covered the fences; had, indeed, with what agonies of slacking lime and adding blueing, whitewashed thefence itself!

"She's capable, " Aunt Harriet had grumblingly admitted, watching fromher sewing-machine Sidney's strong young arms at this humble springtask. 

"She's wonderful!" her mother had said, as she bent over her hand work. She was not strong enough to run the sewing-machine. 

So Joe Drummond stood on the pavement and saw his dream of taking Sidneyin his arms fade into an indefinite futurity. 

"I'm not going to give you up, " he said doggedly. "When you come back, I'll be waiting. "

The shock being over, and things only postponed, he dramatized his griefa trifle, thrust his hands savagely into his pockets, and scowled downthe Street. In the line of his vision, his quick eye caught a tinymoving shadow, lost it, found it again. 

"Great Scott! There goes Reginald!" he cried, and ran after the shadow. "Watch for the McKees' cat!"

Sidney was running by that time; they were gaining. Their quarry, afour-inch chipmunk, hesitated, gave a protesting squeak, and was caughtin Sidney's hand. 

"You wretch!" she cried. "You miserable little beast--with catseverywhere, and not a nut for miles!"

"That reminds me, "--Joe put a hand into his pocket, --"I brought somechestnuts for him, and forgot them. Here. "

Reginald's escape had rather knocked the tragedy out of the evening. True, Sidney would not marry him for years, but she had practicallypromised to sometime. And when one is twenty-one, and it is a summernight, and life stretches eternities ahead, what are a few years more orless?

Sidney was holding the tiny squirrel in warm, protecting hands. Shesmiled up at the boy. 

"Good-night, Joe. "

"Good-night. I say, Sidney, it's more than half an engagement. Won't youkiss me good-night?"

She hesitated, flushed and palpitating. Kisses were rare in the staidlittle household to which she belonged. 

"I--I think not. "

"Please! I'm not very happy, and it will be something to remember. "

Perhaps, after all, Sidney's first kiss would have gone without herheart, --which was a thing she had determined would never happen, --goneout of sheer pity. But a tall figure loomed out of the shadows andapproached with quick strides. 

"The roomer!" cried Sidney, and backed away. 

"Damn the roomer!"

Poor Joe, with the summer evening quite spoiled, with no caress toremember, and with a potential rival who possessed both the years andthe inches he lacked, coming up the Street!

The roomer advanced steadily. When he reached the doorstep, Sidneywas demurely seated and quite alone. The roomer, who had walkedfast, stopped and took off his hat. He looked very warm. He carrieda suitcase, which was as it should be. The men of the Street alwayscarried their own luggage, except the younger Wilson across the way. Histastes were known to be luxurious. 

"Hot, isn't it?" Sidney inquired, after a formal greeting. She indicatedthe place on the step just vacated by Joe. "You'd better cool off outhere. The house is like an oven. I think I should have warned you ofthat before you took the room. These little houses with low roofs arefearfully hot. "

The new roomer hesitated. The steps were very low, and he was tall. Besides, he did not care to establish any relations with the peoplein the house. Long evenings in which to read, quiet nights in which tosleep and forget--these were the things he had come for. 

But Sidney had moved over and was smiling up at him. He folded upawkwardly on the low step. He seemed much too big for the house. Sidneyhad a panicky thought of the little room upstairs. 

"I don't mind heat. I--I suppose I don't think about it, " said theroomer, rather surprised at himself. 

Reginald, having finished his chestnut, squeaked for another. The roomerstarted. 

"Just Reginald--my ground-squirrel. " Sidney was skinning a nut with herstrong white teeth. "That's another thing I should have told you. I'mafraid you'll be sorry you took the room. "

The roomer smiled in the shadow. 

"I'm beginning to think that YOU are sorry. "

She was all anxiety to reassure him:--

"It's because of Reginald. He lives under my--under your bureau. He'sreally not troublesome; but he's building a nest under the bureau, and if you don't know about him, it's rather unsettling to see a paperpattern from the sewing-room, or a piece of cloth, moving across thefloor. "

Mr. Le Moyne thought it might be very interesting. "Although, if there'snest-building going on, isn't it--er--possible that Reginald is a ladyground-squirrel?"

Sidney was rather distressed, and, seeing this, he hastened to add that, for all he knew, all ground-squirrels built nests, regardless of sex. As a matter of fact, it developed that he knew nothing whatever ofground-squirrels. Sidney was relieved. She chatted gayly of the tinycreature--of his rescue in the woods from a crowd of little boys, of hisrestoration to health and spirits, and of her expectation, when he wasquite strong, of taking him to the woods and freeing him. 

Le Moyne, listening attentively, began to be interested. His quick mindhad grasped the fact that it was the girl's bedroom he had taken. Otherthings he had gathered that afternoon from the humming sewing-machine, from Sidney's businesslike way of renting the little room, from theglimpse of a woman in a sunny window, bent over a needle. Genteelpoverty was what it meant, and more--the constant drain of disheartened, middle-aged women on the youth and courage of the girl beside him. 

K. Le Moyne, who was living his own tragedy those days, what withpoverty and other things, sat on the doorstep while Sidney talked, andswore a quiet oath to be no further weight on the girl's buoyant spirit. And, since determining on a virtue is halfway to gaining it, his voicelost its perfunctory note. He had no intention of letting the Streetencroach on him. He had built up a wall between himself and the rest ofthe world, and he would not scale it. But he held no grudge against it. Let others get what they could out of living. 

Sidney, suddenly practical, broke in on his thoughts:--

"Where are you going to get your meals?"

"I hadn't thought about it. I can stop in somewhere on my way downtown. I work in the gas office--I don't believe I told you. It's ratherhaphazard--not the gas office, but the eating. However, it'sconvenient. "

"It's very bad for you, " said Sidney, with decision. "It leads toslovenly habits, such as going without when you're in a hurry, and thatsort of thing. The only thing is to have some one expecting you at acertain time. "

"It sounds like marriage. " He was lazily amused. 

"It sounds like Mrs. McKee's boarding-house at the corner. Twenty-onemeals for five dollars, and a ticket to punch. Tillie, the dining-roomgirl, punches for every meal you get. If you miss any meals, your ticketis good until it is punched. But Mrs. McKee doesn't like it if youmiss. "

"Mrs. McKee for me, " said Le Moyne. "I daresay, if I knowthat--er--Tillie is waiting with the punch, I'll be fairly regular to mymeals. "

It was growing late. The Street, which mistrusted night air, even on ahot summer evening, was closing its windows. Reginald, having eatenhis fill, had cuddled in the warm hollow of Sidney's lap, and slept. By shifting his position, the man was able to see the girl's face. Verylovely it was, he thought. Very pure, almost radiant--and young. Fromthe middle age of his almost thirty years, she was a child. There hadbeen a boy in the shadows when he came up the Street. Of course therewould be a boy--a nice, clear-eyed chap--

Sidney was looking at the moon. With that dreamer's part of her that shehad inherited from her dead and gone father, she was quietly worshipingthe night. But her busy brain was working, too, --the practical brainthat she had got from her mother's side. 

"What about your washing?" she inquired unexpectedly. 

K. Le Moyne, who had built a wall between himself and the world, hadalready married her to the youth of the shadows, and was feeling an oddsense of loss. 

"Washing?"

"I suppose you've been sending things to the laundry, and--what do youdo about your stockings?"

"Buy cheap ones and throw 'em away when they're worn out. " There seemedto be no reserve with this surprising young person. 

"And buttons?"

"Use safety-pins. When they're closed one can button over them as wellas--"

"I think, " said Sidney, "that it is quite time some one took a littlecare of you. If you will give Katie, our maid, twenty-five cents a week, she'll do your washing and not tear your things to ribbons. And I'llmend them. "

Sheer stupefaction was K. Le Moyne's. After a moment:--

"You're really rather wonderful, Miss Page. Here am I, lodged, fed, washed, ironed, and mended for seven dollars and seventy-five cents aweek!"

"I hope, " said Sidney severely, "that you'll put what you save in thebank. "

He was still somewhat dazed when he went up the narrow staircase tohis swept and garnished room. Never, in all of a life that had beenactive, --until recently, --had he been so conscious of friendliness andkindly interest. He expanded under it. Some of the tired lines left hisface. Under the gas chandelier, he straightened and threw out his arms. Then he reached down into his coat pocket and drew out a wide-awake andsuspicious Reginald. 

"Good-night, Reggie!" he said. "Good-night, old top!" He hardlyrecognized his own voice. It was quite cheerful, although the littleroom was hot, and although, when he stood, he had a perilous feelingthat the ceiling was close above. He deposited Reginald carefully onthe floor in front of the bureau, and the squirrel, after eyeing him, retreated to its nest. 

It was late when K. Le Moyne retired to bed. Wrapped in a paper andsecurely tied for the morning's disposal, was considerable masculineunderclothing, ragged and buttonless. Not for worlds would he have hadSidney discover his threadbare inner condition. "New underwear for yourstomorrow, K. Le Moyne, " he said to himself, as he unknotted his cravat. "New underwear, and something besides K. For a first name. "

He pondered over that for a time, taking off his shoes slowly andthinking hard. "Kenneth, King, Kerr--" None of them appealed to him. And, after all, what did it matter? The old heaviness came over him. 

He dropped a shoe, and Reginald, who had gained enough courage to emergeand sit upright on the fender, fell over backward. 

Sidney did not sleep much that night. She lay awake, gazing into thescented darkness, her arms under her head. Love had come into her lifeat last. A man--only Joe, of course, but it was not the boy himself, butwhat he stood for, that thrilled her had asked her to be his wife. 

In her little back room, with the sweetness of the tree blossomsstealing through the open window, Sidney faced the great mystery of lifeand love, and flung out warm young arms. Joe would be thinking of hernow, as she thought of him. Or would he have gone to sleep, secure inher half promise? Did he really love her?

The desire to be loved! There was coming to Sidney a time when lovewould mean, not receiving, but giving--the divine fire instead of thepale flame of youth. At last she slept. 

A night breeze came through the windows and spread coolness throughthe little house. The ailanthus tree waved in the moonlight and sentsprawling shadows over the wall of K. Le Moyne's bedroom. In the yardthe leaves of the morning-glory vines quivered as if under the touch ofa friendly hand. 

K. Le Moyne slept diagonally in his bed, being very long. In sleep thelines were smoothed out of his face. He looked like a tired, overgrownboy. And while he slept the ground-squirrel ravaged the pockets of hisshabby coat. 

CHAPTER II

Sidney could not remember when her Aunt Harriet had not sat at thetable. It was one of her earliest disillusionments to learn that AuntHarriet lived with them, not because she wished to, but because Sidney'sfather had borrowed her small patrimony and she was "boarding it out. "Eighteen years she had "boarded it out. " Sidney had been born and grownto girlhood; the dreamer father had gone to his grave, with valuablepatents lost for lack of money to renew them--gone with his faith inhimself destroyed, but with his faith in the world undiminished: for heleft his wife and daughter without a dollar of life insurance. 

Harriet Kennedy had voiced her own view of the matter, the after thefuneral, to one of the neighbors:--

"He left no insurance. Why should he bother? He left me. "

To the little widow, her sister, she had been no less bitter, and moreexplicit. 

"It looks to me, Anna, " she said, "as if by borrowing everything I hadGeorge had bought me, body and soul, for the rest of my natural life. I'll stay now until Sidney is able to take hold. Then I'm going to livemy own life. It will be a little late, but the Kennedys live a longtime. "

The day of Harriet's leaving had seemed far away to Anna Page. Sidneywas still her baby, a pretty, rather leggy girl, in her first yearat the High School, prone to saunter home with three or fourknickerbockered boys in her train, reading "The Duchess" stealthily, andbegging for longer dresses. She had given up her dolls, but she stillmade clothes for them out of scraps from Harriet's sewing-room. In theparlance of the Street, Harriet "sewed"--and sewed well. 

She had taken Anna into business with her, but the burden of thepartnership had always been on Harriet. To give her credit, she had notcomplained. She was past forty by that time, and her youth had slippedby in that back room with its dingy wallpaper covered with paperpatterns. 

On the day after the arrival of the roomer, Harriet Kennedy came down tobreakfast a little late. Katie, the general housework girl, had tieda small white apron over her generous gingham one, and was servingbreakfast. From the kitchen came the dump of an iron, and cheerfulsinging. Sidney was ironing napkins. Mrs. Page, who had taken advantageof Harriet's tardiness to read the obituary column in the morning paper, dropped it. 

But Harriet did not sit down. It was her custom to jerk her chair outand drop into it, as if she grudged every hour spent on food. Sidney, not hearing the jerk, paused with her iron in air. 

"Sidney. "

"Yes, Aunt Harriet. "

"Will you come in, please?"

Katie took the iron from her. 

"You go. She's all dressed up, and she doesn't want any coffee. "

So Sidney went in. It was to her that Harriet made her speech:--

"Sidney, when your father died, I promised to look after both you andyour mother until you were able to take care of yourself. That was fiveyears ago. Of course, even before that I had helped to support you. "

"If you would only have your coffee, Harriet!"

Mrs. Page sat with her hand on the handle of the old silver-platedcoffee-pot. Harriet ignored her. 

"You are a young woman now. You have health and energy, and you haveyouth, which I haven't. I'm past forty. In the next twenty years, at theoutside, I've got not only to support myself, but to save something tokeep me after that, if I live. I'll probably live to be ninety. I don'twant to live forever, but I've always played in hard luck. "

Sidney returned her gaze steadily. 

"I see. Well, Aunt Harriet, you're quite right. You've been a saint tous, but if you want to go away--"

"Harriet!" wailed Mrs. Page, "you're not thinking--"

"Please, mother. "

Harriet's eyes softened as she looked at the girl

"We can manage, " said Sidney quietly. "We'll miss you, but it's time welearned to depend on ourselves. "

After that, in a torrent, came Harriet's declaration of independence. And, mixed in with its pathetic jumble of recriminations, hostility toher sister's dead husband, and resentment for her lost years, camepoor Harriet's hopes and ambitions, the tragic plea of a woman who mustsubstitute for the optimism and energy of youth the grim determinationof middle age. 

"I can do good work, " she finished. "I'm full of ideas, if I could get achance to work them out. But there's no chance here. There isn't a womanon the Street who knows real clothes when she sees them. They don't evenknow how to wear their corsets. They send me bundles of hideous stuff, with needles and shields and imitation silk for lining, and when Iturn out something worth while out of the mess they think the dress isqueer!"

Mrs. Page could not get back of Harriet's revolt to its cause. To her, Harriet was not an artist pleading for her art; she was a sister and abread-winner deserting her trust. 

"I'm sure, " she said stiffly, "we paid you back every cent we borrowed. If you stayed here after George died, it was because you offered to. "

Her chin worked. She fumbled for the handkerchief at her belt. ButSidney went around the table and flung a young arm over her aunt'sshoulders. 

"Why didn't you say all that a year ago? We've been selfish, but we'renot as bad as you think. And if any one in this world is entitled tosuccess you are. Of course we'll manage. "

Harriet's iron repression almost gave way. She covered her emotion withdetails:--

"Mrs. Lorenz is going to let me make Christine some things, and ifthey're all right I may make her trousseau. "

"Trousseau--for Christine!"

"She's not engaged, but her mother says it's only a matter of a shorttime. I'm going to take two rooms in the business part of town, and puta couch in the backroom to sleep on. "

Sidney's mind flew to Christine and her bright future, to a trousseaubought with the Lorenz money, to Christine settled down, a marriedwoman, with Palmer Howe. She came back with an effort. Harriet had twotriangular red spots in her sallow cheeks. 

"I can get a few good models--that's the only way to start. And if youcare to do hand work for me, Anna, I'll send it to you, and pay you theregular rates. There isn't the call for it there used to be, but just atouch gives dash. "

 All of Mrs. Page's grievances had worked their way to the surface. Sidneyand Harriet had made her world, such as it was, and her world was inrevolt. She flung out her hands. 

"I suppose I must do something. With you leaving, and Sidney renting herroom and sleeping on a folding-bed in the sewing-room, everything seemsupside down. I never thought I should live to see strange men running inand out of this house and carrying latch-keys. "

This in reference to Le Moyne, whose tall figure had made a hurried exitsome time before. 

Nothing could have symbolized Harriet's revolt more thoroughly than hergoing upstairs after a hurried breakfast, and putting on her hat andcoat. She had heard of rooms, she said, and there was nothing urgent inthe work-room. Her eyes were brighter already as she went out. Sidney, kissing her in the hall and wishing her luck, realized suddenly whata burden she and her mother must have been for the last few years. Shethrew her head up proudly. They would never be a burden again--never, aslong as she had strength and health!

By evening Mrs. Page had worked herself into a state bordering onhysteria. Harriet was out most of the day. She came in at three o'clock, and Katie gave her a cup of tea. At the news of her sister's condition, she merely shrugged her shoulders. 

"She'll not die, Katie, " she said calmly. "But see that Miss Sidney eatssomething, and if she is worried tell her I said to get Dr. Ed. "

Very significant of Harriet's altered outlook was this casual summoningof the Street's family doctor. She was already dealing in largerfigures. A sort of recklessness had come over her since the morning. Already she was learning that peace of mind is essential to successfulendeavor. Somewhere Harriet had read a quotation from a Persian poet;she could not remember it, but its sense had stayed with her: "Whatthough we spill a few grains of corn, or drops of oil from the cruse?These be the price of peace. "

So Harriet, having spilled oil from her cruse in the shape of Dr. Ed, departed blithely. The recklessness of pure adventure was in her blood. She had taken rooms at a rental that she determinedly put out of hermind, and she was on her way to buy furniture. No pirate, fitting outa ship for the highways of the sea, ever experienced more guilty anddelightful excitement. 

The afternoon dragged away. Dr. Ed was out "on a case" and might not bein until evening. Sidney sat in the darkened room and waved a fan overher mother's rigid form. 

At half after five, Johnny Rosenfeld from the alley, who worked for aflorist after school, brought a box of roses to Sidney, and departedgrinning impishly. He knew Joe, had seen him in the store. Soon thealley knew that Sidney had received a dozen Killarney roses at threedollars and a half, and was probably engaged to Joe Drummond. 

"Dr. Ed, " said Sidney, as he followed her down the stairs, "can youspare the time to talk to me a little while?"

Perhaps the elder Wilson had a quick vision of the crowded officewaiting across the Street; but his reply was prompt:

"Any amount of time. "

Sidney led the way into the small parlor, where Joe's roses, refused bythe petulant invalid upstairs, bloomed alone. 

"First of all, " said Sidney, "did you mean what you said upstairs?"

Dr. Ed thought quickly. 

"Of course; but what?"

"You said I was a born nurse. "

The Street was very fond of Dr. Ed. It did not always approve of him. It said--which was perfectly true--that he had sacrificed himself to hisbrother's career: that, for the sake of that brilliant young surgeon, Dr. Ed had done without wife and children; that to send him abroadhe had saved and skimped; that he still went shabby and drove the oldbuggy, while Max drove about in an automobile coupe. Sidney, not atall of the stuff martyrs are made of, sat in the scented parlor and, remembering all this, was ashamed of her rebellion. 

"I'm going into a hospital, " said Sidney. 

Dr. Ed waited. He liked to have all the symptoms before he made adiagnosis or ventured an opinion. So Sidney, trying to be cheerful, andquite unconscious of the anxiety in her voice, told her story. 

"It's fearfully hard work, of course, " he commented, when she hadfinished. 

"So is anything worth while. Look at the way you work!"

Dr. Ed rose and wandered around the room. 

"You're too young. "

"I'll get older. "

"I don't think I like the idea, " he said at last. "It's splendid workfor an older woman. But it's life, child--life in the raw. As we getalong in years we lose our illusions--some of them, not all, thank God. But for you, at your age, to be brought face to face with things asthey are, and not as we want them to be--it seems such an unnecessarysacrifice. "

"Don't you think, " said Sidney bravely, "that you are a poor person totalk of sacrifice? Haven't you always, all your life--"

Dr. Ed colored to the roots of his straw-colored hair. 

"Certainly not, " he said almost irritably. "Max had genius; Ihad--ability. That's different. One real success is better than twohalves. Not"--he smiled down at her--"not that I minimize my usefulness. Somebody has to do the hack-work, and, if I do say it myself, I'm apretty good hack. "

"Very well, " said Sidney. "Then I shall be a hack, too. Of course, I hadthought of other things, --my father wanted me to go to college, --but I'mstrong and willing. And one thing I must make up my mind to, Dr. Ed; Ishall have to support my mother. "

Harriet passed the door on her way in to a belated supper. The man inthe parlor had a momentary glimpse of her slender, sagging shoulders, her thin face, her undisguised middle age. 

"Yes, " he said, when she was out of hearing. "It's hard, but I dare sayit's right enough, too. Your aunt ought to have her chance. Only--I wishit didn't have to be. "

Sidney, left alone, stood in the little parlor beside the roses. Shetouched them tenderly, absently. Life, which the day before had calledher with the beckoning finger of dreams, now reached out grim insistenthands. Life--in the raw. 

CHAPTER III

K. Le Moyne had wakened early that first morning in his new quarters. When he sat up and yawned, it was to see his worn cravat disappearingwith vigorous tugs under the bureau. He rescued it, gently but firmly. 

"You and I, Reginald, " he apostrophized the bureau, "will have to cometo an understanding. What I leave on the floor you may have, but whatblows down is not to be touched. "

Because he was young and very strong, he wakened to a certain lightnessof spirit. The morning sun had always called him to a new day, and thesun was shining. But he grew depressed as he prepared for the office. He told himself savagely, as he put on his shabby clothing, that, havingsought for peace and now found it, he was an ass for resenting it. Thetrouble was, of course, that he came of fighting stock: soldiers andexplorers, even a gentleman adventurer or two, had been his forefather. He loathed peace with a deadly loathing. 

Having given up everything else, K. Le Moyne had also given up thelove of woman. That, of course, is figurative. He had been too busy forwomen; and now he was too idle. A small part of his brain added figuresin the office of a gas company daily, for the sum of two dollars andfifty cents per eight-hour working day. But the real K. Le Moynethat had dreamed dreams, had nothing to do with the figures, but satsomewhere in his head and mocked him as he worked at his task. 

"Time's going by, and here you are!" mocked the real person--who was, ofcourse, not K. Le Moyne at all. "You're the hell of a lot of use, aren'tyou? Two and two are four and three are seven--take off the discount. That's right. It's a man's work, isn't it?"

"Somebody's got to do this sort of thing, " protested the small part ofhis brain that earned the two-fifty per working day. "And it's a greatanaesthetic. He can't think when he's doing it. There's somethingpractical about figures, and--rational. "

He dressed quickly, ascertaining that he had enough money to buy afive-dollar ticket at Mrs. McKee's; and, having given up the love ofwoman with other things, he was careful not to look about for Sidney onhis way. 

He breakfasted at Mrs. McKee's, and was initiated into the mystery ofthe ticket punch. The food was rather good, certainly plentiful;and even his squeamish morning appetite could find no fault with theself-respecting tidiness of the place. Tillie proved to be neat andaustere. He fancied it would not be pleasant to be very late for one'smeals--in fact, Sidney had hinted as much. Some of the "mealers"--theStreet's name for them--ventured on various small familiarities ofspeech with Tillie. K. Le Moyne himself was scrupulously polite, butreserved. He was determined not to let the Street encroach on hiswretchedness. Because he had come to live there was no reason why itshould adopt him. But he was very polite. When the deaf-and-dumb bookagent wrote something on a pencil pad and pushed it toward him, hereplied in kind. 

"We are very glad to welcome you to the McKee family, " was what waswritten on the pad. 

"Very happy, indeed, to be with you, " wrote back Le Moyne--and realizedwith a sort of shock that he meant it. 

The kindly greeting had touched him. The greeting and the breakfastcheered him; also, he had evidently made some headway with Tillie. 

"Don't you want a toothpick?" she asked, as he went out. 

In K. 's previous walk of life there had been no toothpicks; or, if therewere any, they were kept, along with the family scandals, in a closet. But nearly a year of buffeting about had taught him many things. He tookone, and placed it nonchalantly in his waistcoat pocket, as he had seenthe others do. 

Tillie, her rush hour over, wandered back into the kitchen and pouredherself a cup of coffee. Mrs. McKee was reweighing the meat order. 

"Kind of a nice fellow, " Tillie said, cup to lips--"the new man. "

"Week or meal?"

"Week. He'd be handsome if he wasn't so grouchy-looking. Lit up somewhen Mr. Wagner sent him one of his love letters. Rooms over at thePages'. "

Mrs. McKee drew a long breath and entered the lam stew in a book. 

"When I think of Anna Page taking a roomer, it just about knocks meover, Tillie. And where they'll put him, in that little house--helooked thin, what I saw of him. Seven pounds and a quarter. " This lastreferred, not to K. Le Moyne, of course, but to the lamb stew. 

"Thin as a fiddle-string. "

"Just keep an eye on him, that he gets enough. " Then, rather ashamed ofher unbusinesslike methods: "A thin mealer's a poor advertisement. Doyou suppose this is the dog meat or the soup scraps?"

Tillie was a niece of Mrs. Rosenfeld. In such manner was most of theStreet and its environs connected; in such wise did its small gossipstart at one end and pursue its course down one side and up the other. 

"Sidney Page is engaged to Joe Drummond, " announced Tillie. "He sent hera lot of pink roses yesterday. "

There was no malice in her flat statement, no envy. Sidney and she, living in the world of the Street, occupied different spheres. But thevery lifelessness in her voice told how remotely such things touchedher, and thus was tragic. "Mealers" came and went--small clerks, pettytradesmen, husbands living alone in darkened houses during the summerhegira of wives. Various and catholic was Tillie's male acquaintance, but compounded of good fellowship only. Once, years before, romance hadparaded itself before her in the garb of a traveling nurseryman--hadwalked by and not come back. 

"And Miss Harriet's going into business for herself. She's taken roomsdowntown; she's going to be Madame Something or other. "

Now, at last, was Mrs. McKee's attention caught riveted. 

"For the love of mercy! At her age! It's downright selfish. If sheraises her prices she can't make my new foulard. "

Tillie sat at the table, her faded blue eyes fixed on the back yard, where her aunt, Mrs. Rosenfeld, was hanging out the week's wash of tablelinen. 

"I don't know as it's so selfish, " she reflected. "We've only got onelife. I guess a body's got the right to live it. "

Mrs. McKee eyed her suspiciously, but Tillie's face showed no emotion. 

"You don't ever hear of Schwitter, do you?"

"No; I guess she's still living. "

Schwitter, the nurseryman, had proved to have a wife in an insaneasylum. That was why Tillie's romance had only paraded itself before herand had gone by. 

"You got out of that lucky. "

Tillie rose and tied a gingham apron over her white one. 

"I guess so. Only sometimes--"

"I don't know as it would have been so wrong. He ain't young, and Iain't. And we're not getting any younger. He had nice manners; he'd havebeen good to me. "

Mrs. McKee's voice failed her. For a moment she gasped like a fish. Then:

"And him a married man!"

"Well, I'm not going to do it, " Tillie soothed her. "I get to thinkingabout it sometimes; that's all. This new fellow made me think of him. He's got the same nice way about him. "

Aye, the new man had made her think of him, and June, and the loverswho lounged along the Street in the moonlit avenues toward the park andlove; even Sidney's pink roses. Change was in the very air of the Streetthat June morning. It was in Tillie, making a last clutch at youth, andfinding, in this pale flare of dying passion, courage to remember whatshe had schooled herself to forget; in Harriet asserting her right tolive her life; in Sidney, planning with eager eyes a life of servicewhich did not include Joe; in K. Le Moyne, who had built up a wallbetween himself and the world, and was seeing it demolished by adeaf-and-dumb book agent whose weapon was a pencil pad!

And yet, for a week nothing happened: Joe came in the evenings and saton the steps with Sidney, his honest heart, in his eyes. She could notbring herself at first to tell him about the hospital. She put it offfrom day to day. Anna, no longer sulky, accepted wit the childlike faithSidney's statement that "they'd get along; she had a splendid scheme, "and took to helping Harriet in her preparations for leaving. Tillie, afraid of her rebellious spirit, went to prayer meeting. And K. LeMoyne, finding his little room hot in the evenings and not wishing tointrude on the two on the doorstep, took to reading his paper in thepark, and after twilight to long, rapid walks out into the country. Thewalks satisfied the craving of his active body for exercise, and tiredhim so he could sleep. On one such occasion he met Mr. Wagner, and theycarried on an animated conversation until it was too dark to see thepad. Even then, it developed that Wagner could write in the dark; andhe secured the last word in a long argument by doing this and striking amatch for K. To read by. 

When K. Was sure that the boy had gone, he would turn back toward theStreet. Some of the heaviness of his spirit always left him at sight ofthe little house. Its kindly atmosphere seemed to reach out and envelophim. Within was order and quiet, the fresh-down bed, the tidiness ofhis ordered garments. There was even affection--Reginald, waiting onthe fender for his supper, and regarding him with wary and bright-eyedfriendliness. 

Life, that had seemed so simple, had grown very complicated for Sidney. There was her mother to break the news to, and Joe. Harriet wouldapprove, she felt; but these others! To assure Anna that she mustmanage alone for three years, in order to be happy and comfortableafterward--that was hard enough to tell Joe she was planning a futurewithout him, to destroy the light in his blue eyes--that hurt. 

After all, Sidney told K. First. One Friday evening, coming home late, as usual, he found her on the doorstep, and Joe gone. She moved overhospitably. The moon had waxed and waned, and the Street was dark. Eventhe ailanthus blossoms had ceased their snow-like dropping. The coloredman who drove Dr. Ed in the old buggy on his daily rounds had broughtout the hose and sprinkled the street. Within this zone of freshness, ofwet asphalt and dripping gutters, Sidney sat, cool and silent. 

"Please sit down. It is cool now. My idea of luxury is to have theStreet sprinkled on a hot night. "

K. Disposed of his long legs on the steps. He was trying to fit his ownideas of luxury to a garden hose and a city street. 

"I'm afraid you're working too hard. "

"I? I do a minimum of labor for a minimum of wage. 

"But you work at night, don't you?"

K. Was natively honest. He hesitated. Then:

"No, Miss Page. "

"But You go out every evening!" Suddenly the truth burst on her. 

"Oh, dear!" she said. "I do believe--why, how silly of you!"

K. Was most uncomfortable. 

"Really, I like it, " he protested. "I hang over a desk all day, and inthe evening I want to walk. I ramble around the park and see lovers onbenches--it's rather thrilling. They sit on the same benches eveningafter evening. I know a lot of them by sight, and if they're not thereI wonder if they have quarreled, or if they have finally got married andended the romance. You can see how exciting it is. "

Quite suddenly Sidney laughed. 

"How very nice you are!" she said--"and how absurd! Why should theirgetting married end the romance? And don't you know that, if you insiston walking the streets and parks at night because Joe Drummond is here, I shall have to tell him not to come?"

This did not follow, to K. 's mind. They had rather a heated argumentover it, and became much better acquainted. 

"If I were engaged to him, " Sidney ended, her cheeks very pink, "I--Imight understand. But, as I am not--"

"Ah!" said K. , a trifle unsteadily. "So you are not?"

Only a week--and love was one of the things she had had to give up, withothers. Not, of course, that he was in love with Sidney then. But he hadbeen desperately lonely, and, for all her practical clearheadedness, she was softly and appealingly feminine. By way of keeping his head, hetalked suddenly and earnestly of Mrs. McKee, and food, and Tillie, andof Mr. Wagner and the pencil pad. 

"It's like a game, " he said. "We disagree on everything, especiallyMexico. If you ever tried to spell those Mexican names--"

"Why did you think I was engaged?" she insisted. 

Now, in K. 's walk of life--that walk of life where there are notoothpicks, and no one would have believed that twenty-one meals couldhave been secured for five dollars with a ticket punch thrown in--younggirls did not receive the attention of one young man to the exclusion ofothers unless they were engaged. But he could hardly say that. 

"Oh, I don't know. Those things get in the air. I am quite certain, forinstance, that Reginald suspects it. "

"It's Johnny Rosenfeld, " said Sidney, with decision. "It's horrible, theway things get about. Because Joe sent me a box of roses--As a matterof fact, I'm not engaged, or going to be, Mr. Le Moyne. I'm going into ahospital to be a nurse. "

Le Moyne said nothing. For just a moment he closed his eyes. A man is ina rather a bad way when, every time he closes his eyes, he sees thesame thing, especially if it is rather terrible. When it gets to a pointwhere he lies awake at night and reads, for fear of closing them--

"You're too young, aren't you?"

"Dr. Ed--one of the Wilsons across the Street--is going to help me aboutthat. His brother Max is a big surgeon there. I expect you've heard ofhim. We're very proud of him in the Street. "

Lucky for K. Le Moyne that the moon no longer shone on the low graydoorstep, that Sidney's mind had traveled far away to shining floorsand rows of white beds. "Life--in the raw, " Dr. Ed had said that otherafternoon. Closer to her than the hospital was life in the raw thatnight. 

So, even here, on this quiet street in this distant city, there wasto be no peace. Max Wilson just across the way! It--it was ironic. Wasthere no place where a man could lose himself? He would have to move onagain, of course. 

But that, it seemed, was just what he could not do. For:

"I want to ask you to do something, and I hope you'll be quite frank, "said Sidney. 

"Anything that I can do--"

"It's this. If you are comfortable, and--and like the room and all that, I wish you'd stay. " She hurried on: "If I could feel that mother had adependable person like you in the house, it would all be easier. "

Dependable! That stung. 

"But--forgive my asking; I'm really interested--can your mother manage?You'll get practically no money during your training. "

"I've thought of that. A friend of mine, Christine Lorenz, is going tobe married. Her people are wealthy, but she'll have nothing but whatPalmer makes. She'd like to have the parlor and the sitting roombehind. They wouldn't interfere with you at all, " she added hastily. "Christine's father would build a little balcony at the side for them, asort of porch, and they'd sit there in the evenings. "

Behind Sidney's carefully practical tone the man read appeal. Neverbefore had he realized how narrow the girl's world had been. The Street, with but one dimension, bounded it! In her perplexity, she was appealingto him who was practically a stranger. 

And he knew then that he must do the thing she asked. He, who had fledso long, could roam no more. Here on the Street, with its menace justacross, he must live, that she might work. In his world, men had workedthat women might live in certain places, certain ways. This girl wasgoing out to earn her living, and he would stay to make it possible. Butno hint of all this was in his voice. 

"I shall stay, of course, " he said gravely. "I--this is the nearestthing to home that I've known for a long time. I want you to know that. "

So they moved their puppets about, Anna and Harriet, Christine andher husband-to-be, Dr. Ed, even Tillie and the Rosenfelds; shifted andplaced them, and, planning, obeyed inevitable law. 

"Christine shall come, then, " said Sidney forsooth, "and we will throwout a balcony. "

So they planned, calmly ignorant that poor Christine's story andTillie's and Johnny Rosenfeld's and all the others' were already writtenamong the things that are, and the things that shall be hereafter. 

"You are very good to me, " said Sidney. 

When she rose, K. Le Moyne sprang to his feet. 

Anna had noticed that he always rose when she entered his room, --withfresh towels on Katie's day out, for instance, --and she liked him forit. Years ago, the men she had known had shown this courtesy to theirwomen; but the Street regarded such things as affectation. 

"I wonder if you would do me another favor? I'm afraid you'll take toavoiding me, if I keep on. "

"I don't think you need fear that. "

"This stupid story about Joe Drummond--I'm not saying I'll never marryhim, but I'm certainly not engaged. Now and then, when you are takingyour evening walks, if you would ask me to walk with you--"

K. Looked rather dazed. 

"I can't imagine anything pleasanter; but I wish you'd explain justhow--"

Sidney smiled at him. As he stood on the lowest step, their eyes werealmost level. 

"If I walk with you, they'll know I'm not engaged to Joe, " she said, with engaging directness. 

The house was quiet. He waited in the lower hall until she had reachedthe top of the staircase. For some curious reason, in the time to come, that was the way Sidney always remembered K. Le Moyne--standing in thelittle hall, one hand upstretched to shut off the gas overhead, and hiseyes on hers above. 

"Good-night, " said K. Le Moyne. And all the things he had put out of hislife were in his voice. 

CHAPTER IV

On the morning after Sidney had invited K. Le Moyne to take her to walk, Max Wilson came down to breakfast rather late. Dr. Ed had breakfasted anhour before, and had already attended, with much profanity on the partof the patient, to a boil on the back of Mr. Rosenfeld's neck. 

"Better change your laundry, " cheerfully advised Dr. Ed, cutting a stripof adhesive plaster. "Your neck's irritated from your white collars. "

Rosenfeld eyed him suspiciously, but, possessing a sense of humor also, he grinned. 

"It ain't my everyday things that bother me, " he replied. "It's myblankety-blank dress suit. But if a man wants to be tony--"

"Tony" was not of the Street, but of its environs. Harriet was "tony"because she walked with her elbows in and her head up. Dr. Max was"tony" because he breakfasted late, and had a man come once a week andtake away his clothes to be pressed. He was "tony, " too, because he hadbrought back from Europe narrow-shouldered English-cut clothes, when theStreet was still padding its shoulders. Even K. Would have been classedwith these others, for the stick that he carried on his walks, for thefact that his shabby gray coat was as unmistakably foreign in cut as Dr. Max's, had the neighborhood so much as known him by sight. But K. , sofar, had remained in humble obscurity, and, outside of Mrs. McKee's, wasknown only as the Pages' roomer. 

Mr. Rosenfeld buttoned up the blue flannel shirt which, with a pair ofDr. Ed's cast-off trousers, was his only wear; and fished in his pocket. 

"How much, Doc?"

"Two dollars, " said Dr. Ed briskly. 

"Holy cats! For one jab of a knife! My old woman works a day and a halffor two dollars. "

"I guess it's worth two dollars to you to be able to sleep on yourback. " He was imperturbably straightening his small glass table. He knewRosenfeld. "If you don't like my price, I'll lend you the knife the nexttime, and you can let your wife attend to you. "

Rosenfeld drew out a silver dollar, and followed it reluctantly with alimp and dejected dollar bill. 

"There are times, " he said, "when, if you'd put me and the missus and aknife in the same room, you wouldn't have much left but the knife. "

Dr. Ed waited until he had made his stiff-necked exit. Then he took thetwo dollars, and, putting the money into an envelope, indorsed it in hisillegible hand. He heard his brother's step on the stairs, and Dr. Edmade haste to put away the last vestiges of his little operation. 

Ed's lapses from surgical cleanliness were a sore trial to the youngerman, fresh from the clinics of Europe. In his downtown office, to whichhe would presently make his leisurely progress, he wore a white coat, and sterilized things of which Dr. Ed did not even know the names. 

So, as he came down the stairs, Dr. Ed, who had wiped his tinyknife with a bit of cotton, --he hated sterilizing it; it spoiled theedge, --thrust it hastily into his pocket. He had cut boils withoutboiling anything for a good many years, and no trouble. But he was wisewith the wisdom of the serpent and the general practitioner, and therewas no use raising a discussion. 

Max's morning mood was always a cheerful one. Now and then the way ofthe transgressor is disgustingly pleasant. Max, who sat up until allhours of the night, drinking beer or whiskey-and-soda, and playingbridge, wakened to a clean tongue and a tendency to have a cigarettebetween shoes, so to speak. Ed, whose wildest dissipation had perhapsbeen to bring into the world one of the neighborhood's babies, wakenedcustomarily to the dark hour of his day, when he dubbed himself failureand loathed the Street with a deadly loathing. 

So now Max brought his handsome self down the staircase and paused atthe office door. 

"At it, already, " he said. "Or have you been to bed?"

"It's after nine, " protested Ed mildly. "If I don't start early, I neverget through. "

Max yawned. 

"Better come with me, " he said. "If things go on as they've been doing, I'll have to have an assistant. I'd rather have you than anybody, ofcourse. " He put his lithe surgeon's hand on his brother's shoulder. "Where would I be if it hadn't been for you? All the fellows know whatyou've done. "

In spite of himself, Ed winced. It was one thing to work hard that theremight be one success instead of two half successes. It was a differentthing to advertise one's mediocrity to the world. His sphere of theStreet and the neighborhood was his own. To give it all up and becomehis younger brother's assistant--even if it meant, as it would, betterhours and more money--would be to submerge his identity. He could notbring himself to it. 

"I guess I'll stay where I am, " he said. "They know me around here, andI know them. By the way, will you leave this envelope at Mrs. McKee's?Maggie Rosenfeld is ironing there to-day. It's for her. "

Max took the envelope absently. 

"You'll go on here to the end of your days, working for a pittance, "he objected. "Inside of ten years there'll be no general practitioners;then where will you be?"

"I'll manage somehow, " said his brother placidly. "I guess there willalways be a few that can pay my prices better than what you specialistsask. "

Max laughed with genuine amusement. 

"I dare say, if this is the way you let them pay your prices. "

He held out the envelope, and the older man colored. 

Very proud of Dr. Max was his brother, unselfishly proud, of his skill, of his handsome person, of his easy good manners; very humble, too, ofhis own knowledge and experience. If he ever suspected any lack offiner fiber in Max, he put the thought away. Probably he was too rigidhimself. Max was young, a hard worker. He had a right to play hard. 

He prepared his black bag for the day's calls--stethoscope, thermometer, eye-cup, bandages, case of small vials, a lump of absorbent cotton ina not over-fresh towel; in the bottom, a heterogeneous collection ofinstruments, a roll of adhesive plaster, a bottle or two of sugar-milktablets for the children, a dog collar that had belonged to a deadcollie, and had put in the bag in some curious fashion and thereremained. 

He prepared the bag a little nervously, while Max ate. He felt thatmodern methods and the best usage might not have approved of the bag. Onhis way out he paused at the dining-room door. 

"Are you going to the hospital?"

"Operating at four--wish you could come in. "

"I'm afraid not, Max. I've promised Sidney Page to speak about her toyou. She wants to enter the training-school. "

"Too young, " said Max briefly. "Why, she can't be over sixteen. "

"She's eighteen. "

"Well, even eighteen. Do you think any girl of that age is responsibleenough to have life and death put in her hands? Besides, although Ihaven't noticed her lately, she used to be a pretty little thing. Thereis no use filling up the wards with a lot of ornaments; it keeps theinternes all stewed up. "

"Since when, " asked Dr. Ed mildly, "have you found good looks in a girla handicap?"

In the end they compromised. Max would see Sidney at his office. Itwould be better than having her run across the Street--would put thingson the right footing. For, if he did have her admitted, she would haveto learn at once that he was no longer "Dr. Max"; that, as a matter offact, he was now staff, and entitled to much dignity, to speech withoutcontradiction or argument, to clean towels, and a deferential interne athis elbow. 

Having given his promise, Max promptly forgot about it. The Street didnot interest him. Christine and Sidney had been children when he went toVienna, and since his return he had hardly noticed them. Society, alwayskind to single men of good appearance and easy good manners, had takenhim up. He wore dinner or evening clothes five nights out of seven, andwas supposed by his conservative old neighbors to be going the pace. Therumor had been fed by Mrs. Rosenfeld, who, starting out for her day'swashing at six o'clock one morning, had found Dr. Max's car, lampslighted, and engine going, drawn up before the house door, with itsowner asleep at the wheel. The story traveled the length of the Streetthat day. 

"Him, " said Mrs. Rosenfeld, who was occasionally flowery, "sittin' upas straight as this washboard, and his silk hat shinin' in the sun; butexceptin' the car, which was workin' hard and gettin' nowhere, the wholeoutfit in the arms of Morpheus. "

Mrs. Lorenz, whose day it was to have Mrs. Rosenfeld, and who wasunfamiliar with mythology, gasped at the last word. 

"Mercy!" she said. "Do you mean to say he's got that awful drug habit!"

Down the clean steps went Dr. Max that morning, a big man, almost astall as K. Le Moyne, eager of life, strong and a bit reckless, not fine, perhaps, but not evil. He had the same zest of living as Sidney, butwith this difference--the girl stood ready to give herself to life: heknew that life would come to him. All-dominating male was Dr. Max, thatmorning, as he drew on his gloves before stepping into his car. It wasafter nine o'clock. K. Le Moyne had been an hour at his desk. The McKeenapkins lay ironed in orderly piles. 

Nevertheless, Dr. Max was suffering under a sense of defeat as he rodedowntown. The night before, he had proposed to a girl and had beenrejected. He was not in love with the girl, --she would have been asuitable wife, and a surgeon ought to be married; it gives peopleconfidence, --but his pride was hurt. He recalled the exact words of therejection. 

"You're too good-looking, Max, " she had said, "and that's the truth. Nowthat operations are as popular as fancy dancing, and much less bother, half the women I know are crazy about their surgeons. I'm too fond of mypeace of mind. "

"But, good Heavens! haven't you any confidence in me?" he had demanded. 

"None whatever, Max dear. " She had looked at him with level, understanding eyes. 

He put the disagreeable recollection out of his mind as he parked hiscar and made his way to his office. Here would be people who believedin him, from the middle-aged nurse in her prim uniform to the row ofpatients sitting stiffly around the walls of the waiting-room. Dr. Max, pausing in the hall outside the door of his private office, drew a longbreath. This was the real thing--work and plenty of it, a chance to showthe other men what he could do, a battle to win! No humanitarian was he, but a fighter: each day he came to his office with the same battle lust. 

The office nurse had her back to him. When she turned, he faced anagreeable surprise. Instead of Miss Simpson, he faced a young andattractive girl, faintly familiar. 

"We tried to get you by telephone, " she explained. "I am from thehospital. Miss Simpson's father died this morning, and she knew youwould have to have some one. I was just starting for my vacation, sothey sent me. "

"Rather a poor substitute for a vacation, " he commented. 

She was a very pretty girl. He had seen her before in the hospital, buthe had never really noticed how attractive she was. Rather stunningshe was, he thought. The combination of yellow hair and dark eyeswas unusual. He remembered, just in time, to express regret at MissSimpson's bereavement. 

"I am Miss Harrison, " explained the substitute, and held out his longwhite coat. The ceremony, purely perfunctory with Miss Simpson on duty, proved interesting, Miss Harrison, in spite of her high heels, beingsmall and the young surgeon tall. When he was finally in the coat, shewas rather flushed and palpitating. 

"But I KNEW your name, of course, " lied Dr. Max. "And--I'm sorry aboutthe vacation. "

After that came work. Miss Harrison was nimble and alert, but thesurgeon worked quickly and with few words, was impatient when she couldnot find the things he called for, even broke into restrained profanitynow and then. She went a little pale over her mistakes, but preservedher dignity and her wits. Now and then he found her dark eyes fixedon him, with something inscrutable but pleasing in their depths. Thesituation was: rather piquant. Consciously he was thinking only of whathe was doing. Subconsciously his busy ego was finding solace after lastnight's rebuff. 

Once, during the cleaning up between cases, he dropped to a personality. He was drying his hands, while she placed freshly sterilized instrumentson a glass table. 

"You are almost a foreign type, Miss Harrison. Last year, in a Londonballet, I saw a blonde Spanish girl who looked like you. "

"My mother was a Spaniard. " She did not look up. 

Where Miss Simpson was in the habit of clumping through the morning inflat, heavy shoes, Miss Harrison's small heels beat a busy tattoo onthe tiled floor. With the rustling of her starched dress, the sound wasessentially feminine, almost insistent. When he had time to notice it, it amused him that he did not find it annoying. 

Once, as she passed him a bistoury, he deliberately placed his finehand over her fingers and smiled into her eyes. It was play for him; itlightened the day's work. 

Sidney was in the waiting-room. There had been no tedium in themorning's waiting. Like all imaginative people, she had the gift ofdramatizing herself. She was seeing herself in white from head tofoot, like this efficient young woman who came now and then to thewaiting-room door; she was healing the sick and closing tired eyes; shewas even imagining herself proposed to by an aged widower with grownchildren and quantities of money, one of her patients. 

She sat very demurely in the waiting-room with a magazine in her lap, and told her aged patient that she admired and respected him, but thatshe had given herself to the suffering poor. 

"Everything in the world that you want, " begged the elderly gentleman. "You should see the world, child, and I will see it again through youreyes. To Paris first for clothes and the opera, and then--"

"But I do not love you, " Sidney replied, mentally but steadily. "In allthe world I love only one man. He is--"

She hesitated here. It certainly was not Joe, or K. Le Moyne of thegas office. It seem to her suddenly very sad that there was no oneshe loved. So many people went into hospitals because they had beendisappointed in love. 

"Dr. Wilson will see you now. "

She followed Miss Harrison into the consulting room. Dr. Max--not thegloved and hatted Dr. Max of the Street, but a new person, one she hadnever known--stood in his white office, tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, competent, holding out his long, immaculate surgeon's hand, and smilingdown at her. 

Men, like jewels, require a setting. A clerk on a high stool, poringover a ledger, is not unimpressive, or a cook over her stove. But placethe cook on the stool, poring over the ledger! Dr. Max, who had livedall his life on the edge of Sidney's horizon, now, by the simplechanging of her point of view, loomed large and magnificent. Perhapshe knew it. Certainly he stood very erect. Certainly, too, there wasconsiderable manner in the way in which he asked Miss Harrison to go outand close the door behind her. 

Sidney's heart, considering what was happening to it, behaved very well. 

"For goodness' sake, Sidney, " said Dr. Max, "here you are a young ladyand I've never noticed it!"

This, of course, was not what he had intended to say, being staff andall that. But Sidney, visibly palpitant, was very pretty, much prettierthan the Harrison girl, beating a tattoo with her heels in the nextroom. 

Dr. Max, belonging to the class of man who settles his tie every time hesees an attractive woman, thrust his hands into the pockets of his longwhite coat and surveyed her quizzically. 

"Did Dr. Ed tell you?"

"Sit down. He said something about the hospital. How's your mother andAunt Harriet?"

"Very well--that is, mother's never quite well. " She was sitting forwardon her chair, her wide young eyes on him. "Is that--is your nurse fromthe hospital here?"

"Yes. But she's not my nurse. She's a substitute. "

"The uniform is so pretty. " Poor Sidney! with all the things she hadmeant to say about a life of service, and that, although she was young, she was terribly in earnest. 

"It takes a lot of plugging before one gets the uniform. Look here, Sidney; if you are going to the hospital because of the uniform, andwith any idea of soothing fevered brows and all that nonsense--"

She interrupted him, deeply flushed. Indeed, no. She wanted to work. She was young and strong, and surely a pair of willing hands--that wasabsurd about the uniform. She had no silly ideas. There was so much todo in the world, and she wanted to help. Some people could give money, but she couldn't. She could only offer service. And, partly throughearnestness and partly through excitement, she ended in a sort ofnervous sob, and, going to the window, stood with her back to him. 

He followed her, and, because they were old neighbors, she did notresent it when he put his hand on her shoulder. 

"I don't know--of course, if you feel like that about it, " he said, "we'll see what can be done. It's hard work, and a good many times itseems futile. They die, you know, in spite of all we can do. And thereare many things that are worse than death--"

His voice trailed off. When he had started out in his profession, hehad had some such ideal of service as this girl beside him. For justa moment, as he stood there close to her, he saw things again with theeyes of his young faith: to relieve pain, to straighten the crooked, to hurt that he might heal, --not to show the other men what he coulddo, --that had been his early creed. He sighed a little as he turnedaway. 

"I'll speak to the superintendent about you, " he said. "Perhaps you'dlike me to show you around a little. "

"When? To-day?"

He had meant in a month, or a year. It was quite a minute before hereplied:--

"Yes, to-day, if you say. I'm operating at four. How about threeo'clock?"

She held out both hands, and he took them, smiling. 

"You are the kindest person I ever met. "

"And--perhaps you'd better not say you are applying until we find out ifthere is a vacancy. "

"May I tell one person?"

"Mother?"

"No. We--we have a roomer now. He is very much interested. I should liketo tell him. "

He dropped her hands and looked at her in mock severity. 

"Much interested! Is he in love with you?"

"Mercy, no!"

"I don't believe it. I'm jealous. You know, I've always been more thanhalf in love with you myself!"

Play for him--the same victorious instinct that had made him touch MissHarrison's fingers as she gave him the instrument. And Sidney knew howit was meant; she smiled into his eyes and drew down her veil briskly. 

"Then we'll say at three, " she said calmly, and took an orderly andunflurried departure. 

But the little seed of tenderness had taken root. Sidney, passing in thelast week or two from girlhood to womanhood, --outgrowing Joe, had sheonly known it, as she had outgrown the Street, --had come that day intoher first contact with a man of the world. True, there was K. Le Moyne. But K. Was now of the Street, of that small world of one dimension thatshe was leaving behind her. 

She sent him a note at noon, with word to Tillie at Mrs. McKee's to putit under his plate:--

DEAR MR. LE MOYNE, --I am so excited I can hardly write. Dr. Wilson, thesurgeon, is going to take me through the hospital this afternoon. Wishme luck. SIDNEY PAGE. 

K. Read it, and, perhaps because the day was hot and his butter softand the other "mealers" irritable with the heat, he ate little or noluncheon. Before he went out into the sun, he read the note again. To his jealous eyes came a vision of that excursion to the hospital. Sidney, all vibrant eagerness, luminous of eye, quick of bosom; andWilson, sardonically smiling, amused and interested in spite of himself. He drew a long breath, and thrust the note in his pocket. 

The little house across the way sat square in the sun. The shades of hiswindows had been lowered against the heat. K. Le Moyne made an impulsivemovement toward it and checked himself. 

As he went down the Street, Wilson's car came around the corner. LeMoyne moved quietly into the shadow of the church and watched the car goby. 

CHAPTER V

Sidney and K. Le Moyne sat under a tree and talked. In Sidney's laplay a small pasteboard box, punched with many holes. It was the day ofreleasing Reginald, but she had not yet been able to bring herself tothe point of separation. Now and then a furry nose protruded from one ofthe apertures and sniffed the welcome scent of pine and buttonball, redand white clover, the thousand spicy odors of field and woodland. 

"And so, " said K. Le Moyne, "you liked it all? It didn't startle you?"

"Well, in one way, of course--you see, I didn't know it was quite likethat: all order and peace and quiet, and white beds and whispers, ontop, --you know what I mean, --and the misery there just the same. Haveyou ever gone through a hospital?"

K. Le Moyne was stretched out on the grass, his arms under his head. Forthis excursion to the end of the street-car line he had donned a pairof white flannel trousers and a belted Norfolk coat. Sidney had beendivided between pride in his appearance and fear that the Street woulddeem him overdressed. 

At her question he closed his eyes, shutting out the peaceful arch andthe bit of blue heaven overhead. He did not reply at once. 

"Good gracious, I believe he's asleep!" said Sidney to the pasteboardbox. 

But he opened his eyes and smiled at her. 

"I've been around hospitals a little. I suppose now there is no questionabout your going?"

"The superintendent said I was young, but that any protegee of Dr. Wilson's would certainly be given a chance. "

"It is hard work, night and day. "

"Do you think I am afraid of work?"

"And--Joe?"

Sidney colored vigorously and sat erect. 

"He is very silly. He's taken all sorts of idiotic notions in his head. "

"Such as--"

"Well, he HATES the hospital, of course. As if, even if I meant to marryhim, it wouldn't be years before he can be ready. "

"Do you think you are quite fair to Joe?"

"I haven't promised to marry him. "

"But he thinks you mean to. If you have quite made up your mind not to, better tell him, don't you think? What--what are these idiotic notions?"

Sidney considered, poking a slim finger into the little holes in thebox. 

"You can see how stupid he is, and--and young. For one thing, he'sjealous of you!"

"I see. Of course that is silly, although your attitude toward hissuspicion is hardly flattering to me. "

He smiled up at her. 

"I told him that I had asked you to bring me here to-day. He wasfurious. And that wasn't all. "

"No?"

"He said I was flirting desperately with Dr. Wilson. You see, the daywe went through the hospital, it was hot, and we went to Henderson's forsoda-water. And, of course, Joe was there. It was really dramatic. "

K. Le Moyne was daily gaining the ability to see things from the angleof the Street. A month ago he could have seen no situation in twopeople, a man and a girl, drinking soda-water together, even with a boylover on the next stool. Now he could view things through Joe's tragiceyes. And there as more than that. All day he had noticed how inevitablythe conversation turned to the young surgeon. Did they start withReginald, with the condition of the morning-glory vines, with theproposition of taking up the quaint paving-stones and macadamizing theStreet, they ended with the younger Wilson. 

Sidney's active young brain, turned inward for the first time in herlife, was still on herself. 

"Mother is plaintively resigned--and Aunt Harriet has been a trump. She's going to keep her room. It's really up to you. "

"To me?"

"To your staying on. Mother trusts you absolutely. I hope you noticedthat you got one of the apostle spoons with the custard she sent upto you the other night. And she didn't object to this trip to-day. Ofcourse, as she said herself, it isn't as if you were young, or at allwild. "

In spite of himself, K. Was rather startled. He felt old enough, Godknew, but he had always thought of it as an age of the spirit. How olddid this child think he was?

"I have promised to stay on, in the capacity of watch-dog, burglar-alarm, and occasional recipient of an apostle spoon in a dish ofcustard. Lightning-conductor, too--your mother says she isn't afraid ofstorms if there is a man in the house. I'll stay, of course. "

The thought of his age weighed on him. He rose to his feet and threwback his fine shoulders. 

"Aunt Harriet and your mother and Christine and her husband-to-be, whatever his name is--we'll be a happy family. But, I warn you, if Iever hear of Christine's husband getting an apostle spoon--"

She smiled up at him. "You are looking very grand to-day. But you havegrass stains on your white trousers. Perhaps Katie can take them out. "

Quite suddenly K. Felt that she thought him too old for such frivolityof dress. It put him on his mettle. 

"How old do you think I am, Miss Sidney?"

She considered, giving him, after her kindly way, the benefit of thedoubt. 

"Not over forty, I'm sure. "

"I'm almost thirty. It is middle age, of course, but it is notsenility. "

She was genuinely surprised, almost disturbed. 

"Perhaps we'd better not tell mother, " she said. "You don't mind beingthought older?"

"Not at all. "

Clearly the subject of his years did not interest her vitally, for sheharked back to the grass stains. 

"I'm afraid you're not saving, as you promised. Those are new clothes, aren't they?"

"No, indeed. Bought years ago in England--the coat in London, thetrousers in Bath, on a motor tour. Cost something like twelve shillings. Awfully cheap. They wear them for cricket. "

That was a wrong move, of course. Sidney must hear about England; andshe marveled politely, in view of his poverty, about his being there. Poor Le Moyne floundered in a sea of mendacity, rose to a truth here andthere, clutched at luncheon, and achieved safety at last. 

"To think, " said Sidney, "that you have really been across the ocean! Inever knew but one person who had been abroad. It is Dr. Max Wilson. "

Back again to Dr. Max! Le Moyne, unpacking sandwiches from a basket, wasaroused by a sheer resentment to an indiscretion. 

"You like this Wilson chap pretty well, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You talk about him rather a lot. "

This was sheer recklessness, of course. He expected fury, annihilation. He did not look up, but busied himself with the luncheon. When thesilence grew oppressive, he ventured to glance toward her. She wasleaning forward, her chin cupped in her palms, staring out over thevalley that stretched at their feet. 

"Don't speak to me for a minute or two, " she said. "I'm thinking overwhat you have just said. "

Manlike, having raised the issue, K. Would have given much to evade it. Not that he had owned himself in love with Sidney. Love was not forhim. But into his loneliness and despair the girl had came like a ray oflight. She typified that youth and hope that he had felt slipping awayfrom him. Through her clear eyes he was beginning to see a new world. Lose her he must, and that he knew; but not this way. 

Down through the valley ran a shallow river, making noisy pretensions toboth depth and fury. He remembered just such a river in the Tyrol, withthis same Wilson on a rock, holding the hand of a pretty Austrian girl, while he snapped the shutter of a camera. He had that picture somewherenow; but the girl was dead, and, of the three, Wilson was the only onewho had met life and vanquished it. 

"I've known him all my life, " Sidney said at last. "You're perfectlyright about one thing: I talk about him and I think about him. I'm beingcandid, because what's the use of being friends if we're not frank?I admire him--you'd have to see him in the hospital, with every onedeferring to him and all that, to understand. And when you think ofa manlike that, who holds life and death in his hands, of course yourather thrill. I--I honestly believe that's all there is to it. "

"If that's the whole thing, that's hardly a mad passion. " He tried tosmile; succeeded faintly. 

"Well, of course, there's this, too. I know he'll never look at me. I'll be one of forty nurses; indeed, for three months I'll be only aprobationer. He'll probably never even remember I'm in the hospital atall. "

"I see. Then, if you thought he was in love with you, things would bedifferent?"

"If I thought Dr. Max Wilson was in love with me, " said Sidney solemnly, "I'd go out of my head with joy. "

One of the new qualities that K. Le Moyne was cultivating was of livingeach day for itself. Having no past and no future, each day was worthexactly what it brought. He was to look back to this day with mingledfeelings: sheer gladness at being out in the open with Sidney; thememory of the shock with which he realized that she was, unknown toherself, already in the throes of a romantic attachment for Wilson; and, long, long after, when he had gone down to the depths with her andsaved her by his steady hand, with something of mirth for the untowardhappening that closed the day. 

Sidney fell into the river. 

They had released Reginald, released him with the tribute of ashamefaced tear on Sidney's part, and a handful of chestnuts from K. Thelittle squirrel had squeaked his gladness, and, tail erect, had dartedinto the grass. 

"Ungrateful little beast!" said Sidney, and dried her eyes. "Do yousuppose he'll ever think of the nuts again, or find them?"

"He'll be all right, " K. Replied. "The little beggar can take care ofhimself, if only--"

"If only what?"

"If only he isn't too friendly. He's apt to crawl into the pockets ofany one who happens around. "

She was alarmed at that. To make up for his indiscretion, K. Suggested adescent to the river. She accepted eagerly, and he helped her down. Thatwas another memory that outlasted the day--her small warm hand in his;the time she slipped and he caught her; the pain in her eyes at one ofhis thoughtless remarks. 

"I'm going to be pretty lonely, " he said, when she had paused in thedescent and was taking a stone out of her low shoe. "Reginald gone, andyou going! I shall hate to come home at night. " And then, seeing herwince: "I've been whining all day. For Heaven's sake, don't look likethat. If there's one sort of man I detest more than another, it's a manwho is sorry for himself. Do you suppose your mother would object ifwe stayed, out here at the hotel for supper? I've ordered a moon, orange-yellow and extra size. "

"I should hate to have anything ordered and wasted. "

"Then we'll stay. "

"It's fearfully extravagant. "

"I'll be thrifty as to moons while you are in the hospital. "

So it was settled. And, as it happened, Sidney had to stay, anyhow. For, having perched herself out in the river on a sugar-loaf rock, she slid, slowly but with a dreadful inevitability, into the water. K. Happenedto be looking in another direction. So it occurred that at one moment, Sidney sat on a rock, fluffy white from head to feet, entrancinglypretty, and knowing it, and the next she was standing neck deep inwater, much too startled to scream, and trying to be dignified under therather trying circumstances. K. Had not looked around. The splash hadbeen a gentle one. 

"If you will be good enough, " said Sidney, with her chin well up, "togive me your hand or a pole or something--because if the river rises aninch I shall drown. "

To his undying credit, K. Le Moyne did not laugh when he turned and sawher. He went out on the sugar-loaf rock, and lifted her bodily up itsslippery sides. He had prodigious strength, in spite of his leanness. 

"Well!" said Sidney, when they were both on the rock, carefullybalanced. 

"Are you cold?"

"Not a bit. But horribly unhappy. I must look a sight. " Then, remembering her manners, as the Street had it, she said primly:--

"Thank you for saving me. "

"There wasn't any danger, really, unless--unless the river had risen. "

And then, suddenly, he burst into delighted laughter, the first, perhaps, for months. He shook with it, struggled at the sight of herinjured face to restrain it, achieved finally a degree of sobriety byfixing his eyes on the river-bank. 

"When you have quite finished, " said Sidney severely, "perhaps you willtake me to the hotel. I dare say I shall have to be washed and ironed. "

He drew her cautiously to her feet. Her wet skirts clung to her; hershoes were sodden and heavy. She clung to him frantically, her eyes onthe river below. With the touch of her hands the man's mirth died. He held her very carefully, very tenderly, as one holds somethinginfinitely precious. 

CHAPTER VI

The same day Dr. Max operated at the hospital. It was a Wilson day, theyoung surgeon having six cases. One of the innovations Dr. Max hadmade was to change the hour for major operations from early morning tomid-afternoon. He could do as well later in the day, --his nerves weresteady, and uncounted numbers of cigarettes did not make his handshake, --and he hated to get up early. 

The staff had fallen into the way of attending Wilson's operations. Histechnique was good; but technique alone never gets a surgeon anywhere. Wilson was getting results. Even the most jealous of that most jealousof professions, surgery, had to admit that he got results. 

Operations were over for the afternoon. The last case had beenwheeled out of the elevator. The pit of the operating-room wasin disorder--towels everywhere, tables of instruments, steamingsterilizers. Orderlies were going about, carrying out linens, emptyingpans. At a table two nurses were cleaning instruments and puttingthem away in their glass cases. Irrigators were being emptied, spongesrecounted and checked off on written lists. 

In the midst of the confusion, Wilson stood giving last orders to theinterne at his elbow. As he talked he scoured his hands and arms with asmall brush; bits of lather flew off on to the tiled floor. His speechwas incisive, vigorous. At the hospital they said his nerves were iron;there was no let-down after the day's work. The internes worshiped andfeared him. He was just, but without mercy. To be able to work likethat, so certainly, with so sure a touch, and to look like a Greek god!Wilson's only rival, a gynecologist named O'Hara, got results, too; buthe sweated and swore through his operations, was not too careful as toasepsis, and looked like a gorilla. 

The day had been a hard one. The operating room nurses were fagged. Twoor three probationers had been sent to help cleanup, and a senior nurse. Wilson's eyes caught the nurse's eyes as she passed him. 

"Here, too, Miss Harrison!" he said gayly. "Have they set you on mytrail?"

With the eyes of the room on her, the girl answered primly:--

"I'm to be in your office in the mornings, Dr. Wilson, and anywhere I amneeded in the afternoons. "

"And your vacation?"

"I shall take it when Miss Simpson comes back. "

Although he went on at once with his conversation with the interne, hestill heard the click of her heels about the room. He had not lost thefact that she had flushed when he spoke to her. The mischief that waslatent in him came to the surface. When he had rinsed his hands, hefollowed her, carrying the towel to where she stood talking to thesuperintendent of the training school. 

"Thanks very much, Miss Gregg, " he said. "Everything went off nicely. "

"I was sorry about that catgut. We have no trouble with what we prepareourselves. But with so many operations--"

He was in a magnanimous mood. He smiled' at Miss Gregg, who was elderlyand gray, but visibly his creature. 

"That's all right. It's the first time, and of course it will be thelast. "

"The sponge list, doctor. "

He glanced over it, noting accurately sponges prepared, used, turned in. But he missed no gesture of the girl who stood beside Miss Gregg. 

"All right. " He returned the list. "That was a mighty pretty probationerI brought you yesterday. "

Two small frowning lines appeared between Miss Harrison's dark brows. He caught them, caught her somber eyes too, and was amused and ratherstimulated. 

"She is very young. "

"Prefer 'em young, " said Dr. Max. "Willing to learn at that age. You'llhave to watch her, though. You'll have all the internes buzzing around, neglecting business. "

Miss Gregg rather fluttered. She was divided between her disapprovalof internes at all times and of young probationers generally, and herallegiance to the brilliant surgeon whose word was rapidly becoming lawin the hospital. When an emergency of the cleaning up called her away, doubt still in her eyes, Wilson was left alone with Miss Harrison. 

"Tired?" He adopted the gentle, almost tender tone that made most womenhis slaves. 

"A little. It is warm. "

"What are you going to do this evening? Any lectures?"

"Lectures are over for the summer. I shall go to prayers, and after thatto the roof for air. "

There was a note of bitterness in her voice. Under the eyes of the othernurses, she was carefully contained. They might have been outlining themorning's work at his office. 

"The hand lotion, please. "

She brought it obediently and poured it into his cupped hands. Thesolutions of the operating-room played havoc with the skin: thesurgeons, and especially Wilson, soaked their hands plentifully with ahealing lotion. 

Over the bottle their eyes met again, and this time the girl smiledfaintly. 

"Can't you take a little ride to-night and cool off? I'll have the carwherever you say. A ride and some supper--how does it sound? You couldget away at seven--"

"Miss Gregg is coming!"

With an impassive face, the girl took the bottle away. The workersof the operating-room surged between them. An interne presented anorder-book; moppers had come in and waited to clean the tiled floor. There seemed no chance for Wilson to speak to Miss Harrison again. 

But he was clever with the guile of the pursuing male. Eyes of all onhim, he turned at the door of the wardrobe-room, where he would exchangehis white garments for street clothing, and spoke to her over the headsof a dozen nurses. 

"That patient's address that I had forgotten, Miss Harrison, is thecorner of the Park and Ellington Avenue. "

"Thank you. "

She played the game well, was quite calm. He admired her coolness. Certainly she was pretty, and certainly, too, she was interested inhim. The hurt to his pride of a few nights before was healed. He wentwhistling into the wardrobe-room. As he turned he caught the interne'seye, and there passed between them a glance of complete comprehension. The interne grinned. 

The room was not empty. His brother was there, listening to the commentsof O'Hara, his friendly rival. 

"Good work, boy!" said O'Hara, and clapped a hairy hand on his shoulder. "That last case was a wonder. I'm proud of you, and your brother here isindecently exalted. It was the Edwardes method, wasn't it? I saw it doneat his clinic in New York. "

"Glad you liked it. Yes. Edwardes was a pal at mine in Berlin. A greatsurgeon, too, poor old chap!"

"There aren't three men in the country with the nerve and the hand forit. "

O'Hara went out, glowing with his own magnanimity. Deep in his heartwas a gnawing of envy--not for himself, but for his work. These youngfellows with no family ties, who could run over to Europe and bring backanything new that was worth while, they had it all over the older men. Not that he would have changed things. God forbid!

Dr. Ed stood by and waited while his brother got into his streetclothes. He was rather silent. There were many times when he wished thattheir mother could have lived to see how he had carried out his promiseto "make a man of Max. " This was one of them. Not that he took anycredit for Max's brilliant career--but he would have liked her to knowthat things were going well. He had a picture of her over his officedesk. Sometimes he wondered what she would think of his own untidymethods compared with Max's extravagant order--of the bag, for instance, with the dog's collar in it, and other things. On these occasions healways determined to clear out the bag. 

"I guess I'll be getting along, " he said. "Will you be home to dinner?"

"I think not. I'll--I'm going to run out of town, and eat where it'scool. "

The Street was notoriously hot in summer. When Dr. Max was newly homefrom Europe, and Dr. Ed was selling a painfully acquired bond or twoto furnish the new offices downtown, the brothers had occasionally gonetogether, by way of the trolley, to the White Springs Hotel for supper. Those had been gala days for the older man. To hear names that he hadread with awe, and mispronounced, most of his life, roll off Max'stongue--"Old Steinmetz" and "that ass of a Heydenreich"; to hear themedical and surgical gossip of the Continent, new drugs, new technique, the small heart-burnings of the clinics, student scandal--had broughtinto his drab days a touch of color. But that was over now. Max had newfriends, new social obligations; his time was taken up. And pride wouldnot allow the older brother to show how he missed the early days. 

Forty-two he was, and; what with sleepless nights and twenty years ofhurried food, he looked fifty. Fifty, then, to Max's thirty. 

"There's a roast of beef. It's a pity to cook a roast for one. "

Wasteful, too, this cooking of food for two and only one to eat it. Aroast of beef meant a visit, in Dr. Ed's modest-paying clientele. Hestill paid the expenses of the house on the Street. 

"Sorry, old man; I've made another arrangement. "

They left the hospital together. Everywhere the younger man received thehomage of success. The elevator-man bowed and flung the doors open, with a smile; the pharmacy clerk, the doorkeeper, even the convalescentpatient who was polishing the great brass doorplate, tendered theirtribute. Dr. Ed looked neither to right nor left. 

At the machine they separated. But Dr. Ed stood for a moment with hishand on the car. 

"I was thinking, up there this afternoon, " he said slowly, "that I'm notsure I want Sidney Page to become a nurse. "

"Why?"

"There's a good deal in life that a girl need not know--not, at least, until her husband tells her. Sidney's been guarded, and it's bound to bea shock. "

"It's her own choice. "

"Exactly. A child reaches out for the fire. "

The motor had started. For the moment, at least, the younger Wilson hadno interest in Sidney Page. 

"She'll manage all right. Plenty of other girls have taken the trainingand come through without spoiling their zest for life. "

Already, as the car moved off, his mind was on his appointment for theevening. 

Sidney, after her involuntary bath in the river, had gone into temporaryeclipse at the White Springs Hotel. In the oven of the kitchen stove sather two small white shoes, stuffed with paper so that they might dryin shape. Back in a detached laundry, a sympathetic maid was ironingvarious soft white garments, and singing as she worked. 

Sidney sat in a rocking-chair in a hot bedroom. She was carefullyswathed in a sheet from neck to toes, except for her arms, and she wasbeing as philosophic as possible. After all, it was a good chance tothink things over. She had very little time to think, generally. 

She meant to give up Joe Drummond. She didn't want to hurt him. Well, there was that to think over and a matter of probation dresses to betalked over later with her Aunt Harriet. Also, there was a great deal ofadvice to K. Le Moyne, who was ridiculously extravagant, before trustingthe house to him. She folded her white arms and prepared to think overall these things. As a matter of fact, she went mentally, like an arrowto its mark, to the younger Wilson--to his straight figure in its whitecoat, to his dark eyes and heavy hair, to the cleft in his chin when hesmiled. 

"You know, I have always been more than half in love with you myself. .. "

Some one tapped lightly at the door. She was back again in the stuffyhotel room, clutching the sheet about her. 

"Yes?"

"It's Le Moyne. Are you all right?"

"Perfectly. How stupid it must be for you!"

"I'm doing very well. The maid will soon be ready. What shall I orderfor supper?"

"Anything. I'm starving. "

Whatever visions K. Le Moyne may have had of a chill or of a feverishcold were dispelled by that. 

"The moon has arrived, as per specifications. Shall we eat on theterrace?"

"I have never eaten on a terrace in my life. I'd love it. "

"I think your shoes have shrunk. "

"Flatterer!" She laughed. "Go away and order supper. And I can see freshlettuce. Shall we have a salad?"

K. Le Moyne assured her through the door that he would order a salad, and prepared to descend. 

But he stood for a moment in front of the closed door, for the meresound of her moving, beyond it. Things had gone very far with the Pages'roomer that day in the country; not so far as they were to go, but farenough to let him see on the brink of what misery he stood. 

He could not go away. He had promised her to stay: he was needed. Hethought he could have endured seeing her marry Joe, had she cared forthe boy. That way, at least, lay safety for her. The boy had fidelityand devotion written large over him. But this new complication--herromantic interest in Wilson, the surgeon's reciprocal interest in her, with what he knew of the man--made him quail. 

From the top of the narrow staircase to the foot, and he had liveda year's torment! At the foot, however, he was startled out of hisreverie. Joe Drummond stood there waiting for him, his blue eyesrecklessly alight. 

"You--you dog!" said Joe. 

There were people in the hotel parlor. Le Moyne took the frenzied boy bythe elbow and led him past the door to the empty porch. 

"Now, " he said, "if you will keep your voice down, I'll listen to whatyou have to say. "

"You know what I've got to say. "

This failing to draw from K. Le Moyne anything but his steady glance, Joe jerked his arm free, and clenched his fist. 

"What did you bring her out here for?"

"I do not know that I owe you any explanation, but I am willing togive you one. I brought her out here for a trolley ride and a picnicluncheon. Incidentally we brought the ground squirrel out and set himfree. "

He was sorry for the boy. Life not having been all beer and skittles tohim, he knew that Joe was suffering, and was marvelously patient withhim. 

"Where is she now?"

"She had the misfortune to fall in the river. She is upstairs. " And, seeing the light of unbelief in Joe's eyes: "If you care to make a tourof investigation, you will find that I am entirely truthful. In thelaundry a maid--"

"She is engaged to me"--doggedly. "Everybody in the neighborhood knowsit; and yet you bring her out here for a picnic! It's--it's damnedrotten treatment. "

His fist had unclenched. Before K. Le Moyne's eyes his own fell. He feltsuddenly young and futile; his just rage turned to blustering in hisears. 

"Now, be honest with yourself. Is there really an engagement?"

"Yes, " doggedly. 

"Even in that case, isn't it rather arrogant to say that--that the younglady in question can accept no ordinary friendly attentions from anotherman?"

Utter astonishment left Joe almost speechless. The Street, of course, regarded an engagement as a setting aside of the affianced couple, anisolation of two, than which marriage itself was not more a solitude adeux. After a moment:--

"I don't know where you came from, " he said, "but around here decent mencut out when a girl's engaged. "

"I see!"

"What's more, what do we know about you? Who are you, anyhow? I'velooked you up. Even at your office they don't know anything. You may beall right, but how do I know it? And, even if you are, renting a room inthe Page house doesn't entitle you to interfere with the family. You gether into trouble and I'll kill you!"

It took courage, that speech, with K. Le Moyne towering five inchesabove him and growing a little white about the lips. 

"Are you going to say all these things to Sidney?"

"Does she allow you to call her Sidney?"

"Are you?"

"I am. And I am going to find out why you were upstairs just now. "

Perhaps never in his twenty-two years had young Drummond been so near athrashing. Fury that he was ashamed of shook Le Moyne. For very fear ofhimself, he thrust his hands in the pockets of his Norfolk coat. 

"Very well, " he said. "You go to her with just one of these uglyinsinuations, and I'll take mighty good care that you are sorry for it. I don't care to threaten. You're younger than I am, and lighter. Butif you are going to behave like a bad child, you deserve a licking, andI'll give it to you. "

An overflow from the parlor poured out on the porch. Le Moyne had gothimself in hand somewhat. He was still angry, but the look in Joe's eyesstartled him. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. 

"You're wrong, old man, " he said. "You're insulting the girl you carefor by the things you are thinking. And, if it's any comfort to you, Ihave no intention of interfering in any way. You can count me out. It'sbetween you and her. " Joe picked his straw hat from a chair and stoodturning it in his hands. 

"Even if you don't care for her, how do I know she isn't crazy aboutyou?"

"My word of honor, she isn't. "

"She sends you notes to McKees'. "

"Just to clear the air, I'll show it to you. It's no breach ofconfidence. It's about the hospital. "

Into the breast pocket of his coat he dived and brought up a wallet. The wallet had had a name on it in gilt letters that had been carefullyscraped off. But Joe did not wait to see the note. 

"Oh, damn the hospital!" he said--and went swiftly down the steps andinto the gathering twilight of the June night. 

It was only when he reached the street-car, and sat huddled in a corner, that he remembered something. 

Only about the hospital--but Le Moyne had kept the note, treasured it!Joe was not subtle, not even clever; but he was a lover, and he knew theways of love. The Pages' roomer was in love with Sidney whether he knewit or not. 

CHAPTER VII

Carlotta Harrison pleaded a headache, and was excused from theoperating-room and from prayers. 

"I'm sorry about the vacation, " Miss Gregg said kindly, "but in a day ortwo I can let you off. Go out now and get a little air. "

The girl managed to dissemble the triumph in her eyes. 

"Thank you, " she said languidly, and turned away. Then: "About thevacation, I am not in a hurry. If Miss Simpson needs a few days tostraighten things out, I can stay on with Dr. Wilson. "

Young women on the eve of a vacation were not usually so reasonable. Miss Gregg was grateful. 

"She will probably need a week. Thank you. I wish more of the girlswere as thoughtful, with the house full and operations all day and everyday. "

Outside the door of the anaesthetizing-room Miss Harrison's languorvanished. She sped along corridors and up the stairs, not waiting forthe deliberate elevator. Inside of her room, she closed and bolted thedoor, and, standing before her mirror, gazed long at her dark eyes andbright hair. Then she proceeded briskly with her dressing. 

Carlotta Harrison was not a child. Though she was only three years olderthan Sidney, her experience of life was as of three to Sidney's one. The product of a curious marriage, --when Tommy Harrison of Harrison'sMinstrels, touring Spain with his troupe, had met the pretty daughter ofa Spanish shopkeeper and eloped with her, --she had certain qualities ofboth, a Yankee shrewdness and capacity that made her a capable nurse, complicated by occasional outcroppings of southern Europe, furiousbursts of temper, slow and smouldering vindictiveness. A passionatecreature, in reality, smothered under hereditary Massachusetts caution. 

She was well aware of the risks of the evening's adventure. The onlydread she had was of the discovery of her escapade by the hospitalauthorities. Lines were sharply drawn. Nurses were forbidden more thanthe exchange of professional conversation with the staff. In thatworld of her choosing, of hard work and little play, of service andself-denial and vigorous rules of conduct, discovery meant dismissal. 

She put on a soft black dress, open at the throat, and with a wide whitecollar and cuffs of some sheer material. Her yellow hair was drawn highunder her low black hat. From her Spanish mother she had learned toplease the man, not herself. She guessed that Dr. Max would wish her tobe inconspicuous, and she dressed accordingly. Then, being a cautiousperson, she disarranged her bed slightly and thumped a hollow intoher pillow. The nurses' rooms were subject to inspection, and she hadpleaded a headache. 

She was exactly on time. Dr. Max, driving up to the corner five minuteslate, found her there, quite matter-of-fact but exceedingly handsome, and acknowledged the evening's adventure much to his taste. 

"A little air first, and then supper--how's that?"

"Air first, please. I'm very tired. "

He turned the car toward the suburbs, and then, bending toward her, smiled into her eyes. 

"Well, this is life!"

"I'm cool for the first time to-day. "

After that they spoke very little. Even Wilson's superb nerves hadfelt the strain of the afternoon, and under the girl's dark eyes werepurplish shadows. She leaned back, weary but luxuriously content. 

"Not uneasy, are you?"

"Not particularly. I'm too comfortable. But I hope we're not seen. "

"Even if we are, why not? You are going with me to a case. I've drivenMiss Simpson about a lot. "

It was almost eight when he turned the car into the drive of the WhiteSprings Hotel. The six-to-eight supper was almost over. One or two motorparties were preparing for the moonlight drive back to the city. Allaround was virgin country, sweet with early summer odors of new-cutgrass, of blossoming trees and warm earth. On the grass terrace over thevalley, where ran Sidney's unlucky river, was a magnolia full of creamyblossoms among waxed leaves. Its silhouette against the sky was quaintlyheart-shaped. 

Under her mask of languor, Carlotta's heart was beating wildly. What anadventure! What a night! Let him lose his head a little; she could keephers. If she were skillful and played things right, who could tell? Tomarry him, to leave behind the drudgery of the hospital, to feel safe asshe had not felt for years, that was a stroke to play for!

The magnolia was just beside her. She reached up and, breaking off oneof the heavy-scented flowers, placed it in the bosom of her black dress. 

Sidney and K. Le Moyne were dining together. The novelty of theexperience had made her eyes shine like stars. She saw only the magnoliatree shaped like a heart, the terrace edged with low shrubbery, andbeyond the faint gleam that was the river. For her the dish-washingclatter of the kitchen was stilled, the noises from the bar were lost inthe ripple of the river; the scent of the grass killed the odor of stalebeer that wafted out through the open windows. The unshaded glare of thelights behind her in the house was eclipsed by the crescent edge of therising moon. Dinner was over. Sidney was experiencing the rare treat ofafter-dinner coffee. 

Le Moyne, grave and contained, sat across from her. To give so muchpleasure, and so easily! How young she was, and radiant! No wonder theboy was mad about her. She fairly held out her arms to life. 

Ah, that was too bad! Another table was being brought; they were not tobe alone. But, what roused him in violent resentment only appealed toSidney's curiosity. "Two places!" she commented. "Lovers, of course. Orperhaps honeymooners. "

K. Tried to fall into her mood. 

"A box of candy against a good cigar, they are a stolid married couple. "

"How shall we know?"

"That's easy. If they loll back and watch the kitchen door, I win. Ifthey lean forward, elbows on the table, and talk, you get the candy. "

Sidney, who had been leaning forward, talking eagerly over the table, suddenly straightened and flushed. 

Carlotta Harrison came out alone. Although the tapping of her heels wasdulled by the grass, although she had exchanged her cap for the blackhat, Sidney knew her at once. A sort of thrill ran over her. It was thepretty nurse from Dr. Wilson's office. Was it possible--but ofcourse not! The book of rules stated explicitly that such things wereforbidden. 

"Don't turn around, " she said swiftly. "It is the Miss Harrison I toldyou about. She is looking at us. "

Carlotta's eyes were blinded for a moment by the glare of the houselights. She dropped into her chair, with a flash of resentment at theproximity of the other table. She languidly surveyed its two occupants. Then she sat up, her eyes on Le Moyne's grave profile turned toward thevalley. 

Lucky for her that Wilson had stopped in the bar, that Sidney'sinstinctive good manners forbade her staring, that only the edge of thesummer moon shone through the trees. She went white and clutched theedge of the table, with her eyes closed. That gave her quick brain achance. It was madness, June madness. She was always seeing him even inher dreams. This man was older, much older. She looked again. 

She had not been mistaken. Here, and after all these months! K. LeMoyne, quite unconscious of her presence, looked down into the valley. 

Wilson appeared on the wooden porch above the terrace, and stood, hiseyes searching the half light for her. If he came down to her, the manat the next table might turn, would see her--

She rose and went swiftly back toward the hotel. All the gayety wasgone out of the evening for her, but she forced a lightness she did notfeel:--

"It is so dark and depressing out there--it makes me sad. "

"Surely you do not want to dine in the house?"

"Do you mind?"

"Just as you wish. This is your evening. "

But he was not pleased. The prospect of the glaring lights and soiledlinen of the dining-room jarred on his aesthetic sense. He wanted asetting for himself, for the girl. Environment was vital to him. Butwhen, in the full light of the moon, he saw the purplish shadows underher eyes, he forgot his resentment. She had had a hard day. She wastired. His easy sympathies were roused. He leaned over and ran his andcaressingly along her bare forearm. 

"Your wish is my law--to-night, " he said softly. 

After all, the evening was a disappointment to him. The spontaneity hadgone out of it, for some reason. The girl who had thrilled to his glancethose two mornings in his office, whose somber eyes had met his fire forfire, across the operating-room, was not playing up. She sat back in herchair, eating little, starting at every step. Her eyes, which by everyrule of the game should have been gazing into his, were fixed on theoilcloth-covered passage outside the door. 

"I think, after all, you are frightened!"

"Terribly. "

"A little danger adds to the zest of things. You know what Nietzschesays about that. "

"I am not fond of Nietzsche. " Then, with an effort: "What does he say?"

"Two things are wanted by the true man--danger and play. Therefore heseeketh woman as the most dangerous of toys. "

"Women are dangerous only when you think of them as toys. When a manfinds that a woman can reason, --do anything but feel, --he regards heras a menace. But the reasoning woman is really less dangerous than theother sort. "

This was more like the real thing. To talk careful abstractions likethis, with beneath each abstraction its concealed personal application, to talk of woman and look in her eyes, to discuss new philosophies withtheir freedoms, to discard old creeds and old moralities--that washis game. Wilson became content, interested again. The girl wasnimble-minded. She challenged his philosophy and gave him a chance todefend it. With the conviction, as their meal went on, that Le Moyne andhis companion must surely have gone, she gained ease. 

It was only by wild driving that she got back to the hospital by teno'clock. 

Wilson left her at the corner, well content with himself. He had had therest he needed in congenial company. The girl stimulated his interest. She was mental, but not too mental. And he approved of his own attitude. He had been discreet. Even if she talked, there was nothing to tell. Buthe felt confident that she would not talk. 

As he drove up the Street, he glanced across at the Page house. Sidneywas there on the doorstep, talking to a tall man who stood below andlooked up at her. Wilson settled his tie, in the darkness. Sidney was amighty pretty girl. The June night was in his blood. He was sorry he hadnot kissed Carlotta good-night. He rather thought, now he looked back, she had expected it. 

As he got out of his car at the curb, a young man who had been standingin the shadow of the tree-box moved quickly away. 

Wilson smiled after him in the darkness. 

"That you, Joe?" he called. 

But the boy went on. 

CHAPTER VIII

Sidney entered the hospital as a probationer early in August. Christinewas to be married in September to Palmer Howe, and, with Harriet and K. In the house, she felt that she could safely leave her mother. 

The balcony outside the parlor was already under way. On the nightbefore she went away, Sidney took chairs out there and sat with hermother until the dew drove Anna to the lamp in the sewing-room and her"Daily Thoughts" reading. 

Sidney sat alone and viewed her world from this new and pleasantangle. She could see the garden and the whitewashed fence with itsmorning-glories, and at the same time, by turning her head, view theWilson house across the Street. She looked mostly at the Wilson house. 

K. Le Moyne was upstairs in his room. She could hear him tramping up anddown, and catch, occasionally, the bitter-sweet odor of his old brierpipe. 

All the small loose ends of her life were gathered up--except Joe. Shewould have liked to get that clear, too. She wanted him to know how shefelt about it all: that she liked him as much as ever, that she did notwant to hurt him. But she wanted to make it clear, too, that she knewnow that she would never marry him. She thought she would never marry;but, if she did, it would be a man doing a man's work in the world. Hereyes turned wistfully to the house across the Street. 

K. 's lamp still burned overhead, but his restless tramping about hadceased. He must be reading--he read a great deal. She really ought to goto bed. A neighborhood cat came stealthily across the Street, and staredup at the little balcony with green-glowing eyes. 

"Come on, Bill Taft, " she said. "Reginald is gone, so you are welcome. Come on. "

Joe Drummond, passing the house for the fourth time that evening, heardher voice, and hesitated uncertainly on the pavement. 

"That you, Sid?" he called softly. 

"Joe! Come in. "

"It's late; I'd better get home. "

The misery in his voice hurt her. 

"I'll not keep you long. I want to talk to you. "

He came slowly toward her. 

"Well?" he said hoarsely. 

"You're not very kind to me, Joe. "

"My God!" said poor Joe. "Kind to you! Isn't the kindest thing I can doto keep out of your way?"

"Not if you are hating me all the time. "

"I don't hate you. "

"Then why haven't you been to see me? If I have done anything--" Hervoice was a-tingle with virtue and outraged friendship. 

"You haven't done anything but--show me where I get off. "

He sat down on the edge of the balcony and stared out blankly. 

"If that's the way you feel about it--"

"I'm not blaming you. I was a fool to think you'd ever care about me. Idon't know that I feel so bad--about the thing. I've been around seeingsome other girls, and I notice they're glad to see me, and treat meright, too. " There was boyish bravado in his voice. "But what makes mesick is to have everyone saying you've jilted me. "

"Good gracious! Why, Joe, I never promised. "

"Well, we look at it in different ways; that's all. I took it for apromise. "

Then suddenly all his carefully conserved indifference fled. He bentforward quickly and, catching her hand, held it against his lips. 

"I'm crazy about you, Sidney. That's the truth. I wish I could die!"

The cat, finding no active antagonism, sprang up on the balcony andrubbed against the boy's quivering shoulders; a breath of air strokedthe morning-glory vine like the touch of a friendly hand. Sidney, facing for the first time the enigma of love and despair sat, ratherfrightened, in her chair. 

"You don't mean that!"

"I mean it, all right. If it wasn't for the folks, I'd jump in theriver. I lied when I said I'd been to see other girls. What do I wantwith other girls? I want you!"

"I'm not worth all that. "

"No girl's worth what I've been going through, " he retorted bitterly. "But that doesn't help any. I don't eat; I don't sleep--I'm afraidsometimes of the way I feel. When I saw you at the White Springs withthat roomer chap--"

"Ah! You were there!"

"If I'd had a gun I'd have killed him. I thought--" So far, out of sheerpity, she had left her hand in his. Now she drew it away. 

"This is wild, silly talk. You'll be sorry to-morrow. "

"It's the truth, " doggedly. 

But he made a clutch at his self-respect. He was acting like a crazyboy, and he was a man, all of twenty-two!

"When are you going to the hospital?"

"To-morrow. "

"Is that Wilson's hospital?"

"Yes. "

Alas for his resolve! The red haze of jealousy came again. "You'll beseeing him every day, I suppose. "

"I dare say. I shall also be seeing twenty or thirty other doctors, anda hundred or so men patients, not to mention visitors. Joe, you're notrational. "

"No, " he said heavily, "I'm not. If it's got to be someone, Sidney, I'drather have it the roomer upstairs than Wilson. There's a lot of talkabout Wilson. "

"It isn't necessary to malign my friends. " He rose. 

"I thought perhaps, since you are going away, you would let me keepReginald. He'd be something to remember you by. "

"One would think I was about to die! I set Reginald free that day in thecountry. I'm sorry, Joe. You'll come to see me now and then, won't you?"

"If I do, do you think you may change your mind?"

"I'm afraid not. "

"I've got to fight this out alone, and the less I see of you thebetter. " But his next words belied his intention. "And Wilson had betterlookout. I'll be watching. If I see him playing any of his tricks aroundyou--well, he'd better look out!"

That, as it turned out, was Joe's farewell. He had reached thebreaking-point. He gave her a long look, blinked, and walked rapidly outto the Street. Some of the dignity of his retreat was lost by the factthat the cat followed him, close at his heels. 

Sidney was hurt, greatly troubled. If this was love, she did not wantit--this strange compound of suspicion and despair, injured pride andthreats. Lovers in fiction were of two classes--the accepted ones, wholoved and trusted, and the rejected ones, who took themselves away indespair, but at least took themselves away. The thought of a futurewith Joe always around a corner, watching her, obsessed her. She feltaggrieved, insulted. She even shed a tear or two, very surreptitiously;and then, being human and much upset, and the cat startling her by itssudden return and selfish advances, she shooed it off the veranda andset an imaginary dog after it. Whereupon, feeling somewhat better, shewent in and locked the balcony window and proceeded upstairs. 

Le Moyne's light was still going. The rest of the household slept. Shepaused outside the door. 

"Are you sleepy?"--very softly. 

There was a movement inside, the sound of a book put down. Then: "No, indeed. "

"I may not see you in the morning. I leave to-morrow. "

"Just a minute. "

From the sounds, she judged that he was putting on his shabby graycoat. The next moment he had opened the door and stepped out into thecorridor. 

"I believe you had forgotten!"

"I? Certainly not. I started downstairs a while ago, but you had avisitor. "

"Only Joe Drummond. "

He gazed down at her quizzically. 

"And--is Joe more reasonable?"

"He will be. He knows now that I--that I shall not marry him. "

"Poor chap! He'll buck up, of course. But it's a little hard just now. "

"I believe you think I should have married him. "

"I am only putting myself in his place and realizing--When do youleave?"

"Just after breakfast. "

"I am going very early. Perhaps--"

He hesitated. Then, hurriedly:--

"I got a little present for you--nothing much, but your mother was quitewilling. In fact, we bought it together. "

He went back into his room, and returned with a small box. 

"With all sorts of good luck, " he said, and placed it in her hands. 

"How dear of you! And may I look now?"

"I wish you would. Because, if you would rather have something else--"

She opened the box with excited fingers. Ticking away on its satin bedwas a small gold watch. 

"You'll need it, you see, " he explained nervously, "It wasn'textravagant under the circumstances. Your mother's watch, which you hadintended to take, had no second-hand. You'll need a second-hand to takepulses, you know. "

"A watch, " said Sidney, eyes on it. "A dear little watch, to pin on andnot put in a pocket. Why, you're the best person!"

"I was afraid you might think it presumptuous, " he said. "I haven't anyright, of course. I thought of flowers--but they fade and what have you?You said that, you know, about Joe's roses. And then, your mother saidyou wouldn't be offended--"

"Don't apologize for making me so happy!" she cried. "It's wonderful, really. And the little hand is for pulses! How many queer things youknow!"

After that she must pin it on, and slip in to stand before his mirrorand inspect the result. It gave Le Moyne a queer thrill to see her therein the room among his books and his pipes. It make him a little sick, too, in view of to-morrow and the thousand-odd to-morrows when she wouldnot be there. 

"I've kept you up shamefully, '" she said at last, "and you get up soearly. I shall write you a note from the hospital, delivering a littlelecture on extravagance--because how can I now, with this joy shining onme? And about how to keep Katie in order about your socks, and all sortsof things. And--and now, good-night. "

She had moved to the door, and he followed her, stooping a little topass under the low chandelier. 

"Good-night, " said Sidney. 

"Good-bye--and God bless you. "

She went out, and he closed the door softly behind her. 

CHAPTER IX

Sidney never forgot her early impressions of the hospital, although theywere chaotic enough at first. There were uniformed young womencoming and going, efficient, cool-eyed, low of voice. There weremedicine-closets with orderly rows of labeled bottles, linen-rooms withgreat stacks of sheets and towels, long vistas of shining floors andlines of beds. There were brisk internes with duck clothes and brassbuttons, who eyed her with friendly, patronizing glances. There werebandages and dressings, and great white screens behind which were playedlittle or big dramas, baths or deaths, as the case might be. And overall brooded the mysterious authority of the superintendent of thetraining-school, dubbed the Head, for short. 

Twelve hours a day, from seven to seven, with the off-duty intermission, Sidney labored at tasks which revolted her soul. She swept anddusted the wards, cleaned closets, folded sheets and towels, rolledbandages--did everything but nurse the sick, which was what she had cometo do. 

At night she did not go home. She sat on the edge of her narrow whitebed and soaked her aching feet in hot water and witch hazel, andpracticed taking pulses on her own slender wrist, with K. 's littlewatch. 

Out of all the long, hot days, two periods stood out clearly, to bewaited for and cherished. One was when, early in the afternoon, withthe ward in spotless order, the shades drawn against the August sun, thetables covered with their red covers, and the only sound the drone ofthe bandage-machine as Sidney steadily turned it, Dr. Max passed thedoor on his way to the surgical ward beyond, and gave her a cheerygreeting. At these times Sidney's heart beat almost in time with theticking of the little watch. 

The other hour was at twilight, when, work over for the day, the nightnurse, with her rubber-soled shoes and tired eyes and jangling keys, having reported and received the night orders, the nurses gathered intheir small parlor for prayers. It was months before Sidney got over theexaltation of that twilight hour, and never did it cease to bring herhealing and peace. In a way, it crystallized for her what the day's workmeant: charity and its sister, service, the promise of rest and peace. Into the little parlor filed the nurses, and knelt, folding their tiredhands. 

"The Lord is my shepherd, " read the Head out of her worn Bible; "I shallnot want. "

And the nurses: "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadethme beside the still waters. "

And so on through the psalm to the assurance at the end, "And I willdwell in the house of the Lord forever. " Now and then there was a deathbehind one of the white screens. It caused little change in the routineof the ward. A nurse stayed behind the screen, and her work was done bythe others. When everything was over, the time was recorded exactly onthe record, and the body was taken away. 

At first it seemed to Sidney that she could not stand this nearness todeath. She thought the nurses hard because they took it quietly. Thenshe found that it was only stoicism, resignation, that they had learned. These things must be, and the work must go on. Their philosophy madethem no less tender. Some such patient detachment must be that of theangels who keep the Great Record. 

On her first Sunday half-holiday she was free in the morning, and wentto church with her mother, going back to the hospital after the service. So it was two weeks before she saw Le Moyne again. Even then, it wasonly for a short time. Christine and Palmer Howe came in to see her, andto inspect the balcony, now finished. 

But Sidney and Le Moyne had a few words together first. 

There was a change in Sidney. Le Moyne was quick to see it. She wasa trifle subdued, with a puzzled look in her blue eyes. Her mouth wastender, as always, but he thought it drooped. There was a new atmosphereof wistfulness about the girl that made his heart ache. 

They were alone in the little parlor with its brown lamp and blue silkshade, and its small nude Eve--which Anna kept because it had been agift from her husband, but retired behind a photograph of the minister, so that only the head and a bare arm holding the apple appeared abovethe reverend gentleman. 

K. Never smoked in the parlor, but by sheer force of habit he held thepipe in his teeth. 

"And how have things been going?" asked Sidney practically. 

"Your steward has little to report. Aunt Harriet, who left you her love, has had the complete order for the Lorenz trousseau. She and I havepicked out a stunning design for the wedding dress. I thought I'd askyou about the veil. We're rather in a quandary. Do you like this newfashion of draping the veil from behind the coiffure in the back--"

Sidney had been sitting on the edge of her chair, staring. 

"There, " she said--"I knew it! This house is fatal! They're making anold woman of you already. " Her tone was tragic. 

"Miss Lorenz likes the new method, but my personal preference is for theold way, with the bride's face covered. "

He sucked calmly at his dead pipe. 

"Katie has a new prescription--recipe--for bread. It has more bread andfewer air-holes. One cake of yeast--"

Sidney sprang to her feet. 

"It's perfectly terrible!" she cried. "Because you rent a room inthis house is no reason why you should give up your personality andyour--intelligence. Not but that it's good for you. But Katie hasmade bread without masculine assistance for a good many years, and ifChristine can't decide about her own veil she'd better not get married. Mother says you water the flowers every evening, and lock up the housebefore you go to bed. I--I never meant you to adopt the family!"

K. Removed his pipe and gazed earnestly into the bowl. 

"Bill Taft has had kittens under the porch, " he said. "And thegroceryman has been sending short weight. We've bought scales now, andweigh everything. "

"You are evading the question. "

"Dear child, I am doing these things because I like to do them. For--forsome time I've been floating, and now I've got a home. Every time Ilock up the windows at night, or cut a picture out of a magazine as asuggestion to your Aunt Harriet, it's an anchor to windward. "

Sidney gazed helplessly at his imperturbable face. He seemed older thanshe had recalled him: the hair over his ears was almost white. And yet, he was just thirty. That was Palmer Howe's age, and Palmer seemed like aboy. But he held himself more erect than he had in the first days of hisoccupancy of the second-floor front. 

"And now, " he said cheerfully, "what about yourself? You've lost a lotof illusions, of course, but perhaps you've gained ideals. That's astep. "

"Life, " observed Sidney, with the wisdom of two weeks out in the world, "life is a terrible thing, K. We think we've got it, and--it's got us. "

"Undoubtedly. "

"When I think of how simple I used to think it all was! One grew up andgot married, and--and perhaps had children. And when one got veryold, one died. Lately, I've been seeing that life really consists ofexceptions--children who don't grow up, and grown-ups who die beforethey are old. And"--this took an effort, but she looked at himsquarely--"and people who have children, but are not married. It allrather hurts. "

"All knowledge that is worth while hurts in the getting. "

Sidney got up and wandered around the room, touching its little familiarobjects with tender hands. K. Watched her. There was this curiouselement in his love for her, that when he was with her it took on theguise of friendship and deceived even himself. It was only in the lonelyhours that it took on truth, became a hopeless yearning for the touch ofher hand or a glance from her clear eyes. 

Sidney, having picked up the minister's picture, replaced it absently, so that Eve stood revealed in all her pre-apple innocence. 

"There is something else, " she said absently. "I cannot talk it overwith mother. There is a girl in the ward--"

"A patient?"

"Yes. She is quite pretty. She has had typhoid, but she is a littlebetter. She's--not a good person. "

"I see. "

"At first I couldn't bear to go near her. I shivered when I had tostraighten her bed. I--I'm being very frank, but I've got to talk thisout with someone. I worried a lot about it, because, although at first Ihated her, now I don't. I rather like her. "

She looked at K. Defiantly, but there was no disapproval in his eyes. 

"Yes. "

"Well, this is the question. She's getting better. She'll be able togo out soon. Don't you think something ought to be done to keep herfrom--going back?"

There was a shadow in K. 's eyes now. She was so young to face all this;and yet, since face it she must, how much better to have her do itsquarely. 

"Does she want to change her mode of life?"

"I don't know, of course. There are some things one doesn't discuss. Shecares a great deal for some man. The other day I propped her up in bedand gave her a newspaper, and after a while I found the paper on thefloor, and she was crying. The other patients avoid her, and it wassome time before I noticed it. The next day she told me that the manwas going to marry some one else. 'He wouldn't marry me, of course, ' shesaid; 'but he might have told me. '"

Le Moyne did his best, that afternoon in the little parlor, to provideSidney with a philosophy to carry her through her training. He told herthat certain responsibilities were hers, but that she could not reformthe world. Broad charity, tenderness, and healing were her province. 

"Help them all you can, " he finished, feeling inadequate and hopelesslydidactic. "Cure them; send them out with a smile; and--leave the rest tothe Almighty. "

Sidney was resigned, but not content. Newly facing the evil of theworld, she was a rampant reformer at once. Only the arrival of Christineand her fiance saved his philosophy from complete rout. He had time fora question between the ring of the bell and Katie's deliberate progressfrom the kitchen to the front door. 

"How about the surgeon, young Wilson? Do you ever see him?" His tone wascarefully casual. 

"Almost every day. He stops at the door of the ward and speaks to me. Itmakes me quite distinguished, for a probationer. Usually, you know, thestaff never even see the probationers. "

"And--the glamour persists?" He smiled down at her. 

"I think he is very wonderful, " said Sidney valiantly. 

Christine Lorenz, while not large, seemed to fill the little room. Hervoice, which was frequent and penetrating, her smile, which was wideand showed very white teeth that were a trifle large for beauty, herall-embracing good nature, dominated the entire lower floor. K. , who hadmet her before, retired into silence and a corner. Young Howe smoked acigarette in the hall. 

"You poor thing!" said Christine, and put her cheek against Sidney's. "Why, you're positively thin! Palmer gives you a month to tire of itall; but I said--"

"I take that back, " Palmer spoke indolently from the corridor. "Thereis the look of willing martyrdom in her face. Where is Reginald? I'vebrought some nuts for him. "

"Reginald is back in the woods again. "

"Now, look here, " he said solemnly. "When we arranged about these rooms, there were certain properties that went with them--the lady next doorwho plays Paderewski's 'Minuet' six hours a day, and K. Here, andReginald. If you must take something to the woods, why not the minuetperson?"

Howe was a good-looking man, thin, smooth-shaven, aggressively welldressed. This Sunday afternoon, in a cutaway coat and high hat, withan English malacca stick, he was just a little out of the picture. TheStreet said that he was "wild, " and that to get into the Country Clubset Christine was losing more than she was gaining. 

Christine had stepped out on the balcony, and was speaking to K. Justinside. 

"It's rather a queer way to live, of course, " she said. "But Palmer is apauper, practically. We are going to take our meals at home for a while. You see, certain things that we want we can't have if we take a house--acar, for instance. We'll need one for running out to the Country Club todinner. Of course, unless father gives me one for a wedding present, itwill be a cheap one. And we're getting the Rosenfeld boy to drive it. He's crazy about machinery, and he'll come for practically nothing. "

K. Had never known a married couple to take two rooms and go to thebride's mother's for meals in order to keep a car. He looked faintlydazed. Also, certain sophistries of his former world about a cheapchauffeur being costly in the end rose in his mind and were carefullysuppressed. 

"You'll find a car a great comfort, I'm sure, " he said politely. 

Christine considered K. Rather distinguished. She liked his graying hairand steady eyes, and insisted on considering his shabbiness a pose. Shewas conscious that she made a pretty picture in the French window, andpreened herself like a bright bird. 

"You'll come out with us now and then, I hope. "

"Thank you. "

"Isn't it odd to think that we are going to be practically one family!"

"Odd, but very pleasant. "

He caught the flash of Christine's smile, and smiled back. Christine wasglad she had decided to take the rooms, glad that K. Lived there. Thisthing of marriage being the end of all things was absurd. A marriedwoman should have men friends; they kept her up. She would take him tothe Country Club. The women would be mad to know him. How clean-cut hisprofile was!

Across the Street, the Rosenfeld boy had stopped by Dr. Wilson's car, and was eyeing it with the cool, appraising glance of the streetboy whose sole knowledge of machinery has been acquired from theclothes-washer at home. Joe Drummond, eyes carefully ahead, went up theStreet. Tillie, at Mrs. McKee's, stood in the doorway and fanned herselfwith her apron. Max Wilson came out of the house and got into his car. For a minute, perhaps, all the actors, save Carlotta and Dr. Ed, were onthe stage. It was that bete noir of the playwright, an ensemble; K. LeMoyne and Sidney, Palmer Howe, Christine, Tillie, the younger Wilson, Joe, even young Rosenfeld, all within speaking distance, almost touchingdistance, gathered within and about the little house on a side streetwhich K. At first grimly and now tenderly called "home. "

CHAPTER X

On Monday morning, shortly after the McKee prolonged breakfast was over, a small man of perhaps fifty, with iron-gray hair and a sparse goatee, made his way along the Street. He moved with the air of one having adefinite destination but a by no means definite reception. 

As he walked along he eyed with a professional glance the ailanthus andmaple trees which, with an occasional poplar, lined the Street. At thedoor of Mrs. McKee's boarding-house he stopped. Owing to a slight changein the grade of the street, the McKee house had no stoop, but one flatdoorstep. Thus it was possible to ring the doorbell from the pavement, and this the stranger did. It gave him a curious appearance of beingready to cut and run if things were unfavorable. 

For a moment things were indeed unfavorable. Mrs. McKee herself openedthe door. She recognized him at once, but no smile met the nervous onethat formed itself on the stranger's face. 

"Oh, it's you, is it?"

"It's me, Mrs. McKee. "

"Well?"

He made a conciliatory effort. 

"I was thinking, as I came along, " he said, "that you and the neighborshad better get after these here caterpillars. Look at them maples, now. "

"If you want to see Tillie, she's busy. "

"I only want to say how-d 'ye-do. I'm just on my way through town. "

"I'll say it for you. "

A certain doggedness took the place of his tentative smile. 

"I'll say it to myself, I guess. I don't want any unpleasantness, butI've come a good ways to see her and I'll hang around until I do. "

Mrs. McKee knew herself routed, and retreated to the kitchen. 

"You're wanted out front, " she said. 

"Who is it?"

"Never mind. Only, my advice to you is, don't be a fool. "

Tillie went suddenly pale. The hands with which she tied a white apronover her gingham one were shaking. 

Her visitor had accepted the open door as permission to enter and wasstanding in the hall. 

He went rather white himself when he saw Tillie coming toward him downthe hall. He knew that for Tillie this visit would mean that he wasfree--and he was not free. Sheer terror of his errand filled him. 

"Well, here I am, Tillie. "

"All dressed up and highly perfumed!" said poor Tillie, with thequestion in her eyes. "You're quite a stranger, Mr. Schwitter. "

"I was passing through, and I just thought I'd call around and tellyou--My God, Tillie, I'm glad to see you!"

She made no reply, but opened the door into the cool and, shaded littleparlor. He followed her in and closed the door behind him. 

"I couldn't help it. I know I promised. "

"Then she--?"

"She's still living. Playing with paper dolls--that's the latest. "

Tillie sat down suddenly on one of the stiff chairs. Her lips were aswhite as her face. 

"I thought, when I saw you--"

"I was afraid you'd think that. "

Neither spoke for a moment. Tillie's hands twisted nervously in her lap. Mr. Schwitter's eyes were fixed on the window, which looked back on theMcKee yard. 

"That spiraea back there's not looking very good. If you'll save thecigar butts around here and put them in water, and spray it, you'll killthe lice. "

Tillie found speech at last. 

"I don't know why you come around bothering me, " she said dully. "I'vebeen getting along all right; now you come and upset everything. "

Mr. Schwitter rose and took a step toward her. 

"Well, I'll tell you why I came. Look at me. I ain't getting anyyounger, am I? Time's going on, and I'm wanting you all the time. And what am I getting? What've I got out of life, anyhow? I'm lonely, Tillie!"

"What's that got to do with me?"

"You're lonely, too, ain't you?"

"Me? I haven't got time to be. And, anyhow, there's always a crowdhere. "

"You can be lonely in a crowd, and I guess--is there any one around hereyou like better than me?"

"Oh, what's the use!" cried poor Tillie. "We can talk our heads off andnot get anywhere. You've got a wife living, and, unless you intend to doaway with her, I guess that's all there is to it. "

"Is that all, Tillie? Haven't you got a right to be happy?"

She was quick of wit, and she read his tone as well as his words. 

"You get out of here--and get out quick!"

She had jumped to her feet; but he only looked at her with understandingeyes. 

"I know, " he said. "That's the way I thought of it at first. Maybe I'vejust got used to the idea, but it doesn't seem so bad to me now. Hereare you, drudging for other people when you ought to have a place allyour own--and not gettin' younger any more than I am. Here's both of uslonely. I'd be a good husband to you, Till--because, whatever it'd be inlaw, I'd be your husband before God. "

Tillie cowered against the door, her eyes on his. Here before her, embodied in this man, stood all that she had wanted and never had. Hemeant a home, tenderness, children, perhaps. He turned away from thelook in her eyes and stared out of the front window. 

"Them poplars out there ought to be taken away, " he said heavily. "They're hell on sewers. "

Tillie found her voice at last:--

"I couldn't do it, Mr. Schwitter. I guess I'm a coward. Maybe I'll besorry. "

"Perhaps, if you got used to the idea--"

"What's that to do with the right and wrong of it?"

"Maybe I'm queer. It don't seem like wrongdoing to me. It seems tome that the Lord would make an exception of us if He knew thecircumstances. Perhaps, after you get used to the idea--What I thoughtwas like this. I've got a little farm about seven miles from the citylimits, and the tenant on it says that nearly every Sunday somebodymotors out from town and wants a chicken-and-waffle supper. There ain'tmuch in the nursery business anymore. These landscape fellows buy theirstuff direct, and the middleman's out. I've got a good orchard, andthere's a spring, so I could put running water in the house. I'd be goodto you, Tillie, --I swear it. It'd be just the same as marriage. Nobodyneed know it. "

"You'd know it. You wouldn't respect me. "

"Don't a man respect a woman that's got courage enough to give upeverything for him?"

Tillie was crying softly into her apron. He put a work-hardened hand onher head. 

"It isn't as if I'd run around after women, " he said. "You're the onlyone, since Maggie--" He drew a long breath. "I'll give you time to thinkit over. Suppose I stop in to-morrow morning. It doesn't commit you toanything to talk it over. "

There had been no passion in the interview, and there was none inthe touch of his hand. He was not young, and the tragic loneliness ofapproaching old age confronted him. He was trying to solve his problemand Tillie's, and what he had found was no solution, but a compromise. 

"To-morrow morning, then, " he said quietly, and went out the door. 

All that hot August morning Tillie worked in a daze. Mrs. McKee watchedher and said nothing. She interpreted the girl's white face and set lipsas the result of having had to dismiss Schwitter again, and looked fortime to bring peace, as it had done before. 

Le Moyne came late to his midday meal. For once, the mental anaesthesiaof endless figures had failed him. On his way home he had drawn hissmall savings from the bank, and mailed them, in cash and registered, toa back street in the slums of a distant city. He had done this before, and always with a feeling of exaltation, as if, for a time at least, the burden he carried was lightened. But to-day he experienced nocompensatory relief. Life was dull and stale to him, effort ineffectual. At thirty a man should look back with tenderness, forward with hope. K. Le Moyne dared not look back, and had no desire to look ahead into emptyyears. 

Although he ate little, the dining-room was empty when he finished. Usually he had some cheerful banter for Tillie, to which she respondedin kind. But, what with the heat and with heaviness of spirit, he didnot notice her depression until he rose. 

"Why, you're not sick, are you, Tillie?"

"Me? Oh, no. Low in my mind, I guess. "

"It's the heat. It's fearful. Look here. If I send you two tickets to aroof garden where there's a variety show, can't you take a friend and goto-night?"

"Thanks; I guess I'll not go out. "

Then, unexpectedly, she bent her head against a chair-back and fell tosilent crying. K. Let her cry for a moment. Then:--

"Now--tell me about it. "

"I'm just worried; that's all. "

"Let's see if we can't fix up the worries. Come, now, out with them!"

"I'm a wicked woman, Mr. Le Moyne. "

"Then I'm the person to tell it to. I--I'm pretty much a lost soulmyself. "

He put an arm over her shoulders and drew her up, facing him. 

"Suppose we go into the parlor and talk it out. I'll bet things are notas bad as you imagine. "

But when, in the parlor that had seen Mr. Schwitter's strange proposalof the morning, Tillie poured out her story, K. 's face grew grave. 

"The wicked part is that I want to go with him, " she finished. "I keepthinking about being out in the country, and him coming into supper, andeverything nice for him and me cleaned up and waiting--O my God! I'vealways been a good woman until now. "

"I--I understand a great deal better than you think I do. You're notwicked. The only thing is--"

"Go on. Hit me with it. "

"You might go on and be very happy. And as for the--for his wife, itwon't do her any harm. It's only--if there are children. "

"I know. I've thought of that. But I'm so crazy for children!"

"Exactly. So you should be. But when they come, and you cannot givethem a name--don't you see? I'm not preaching morality. God forbid thatI--But no happiness is built on a foundation of wrong. It's been triedbefore, Tillie, and it doesn't pan out. "

He was conscious of a feeling of failure when he left her at last. Shehad acquiesced in what he said, knew he was right, and even promisedto talk to him again before making a decision one way or the other. Butagainst his abstractions of conduct and morality there was pleading inTillie the hungry mother-heart; law and creed and early training werefighting against the strongest instinct of the race. It was a losingbattle. 

CHAPTER XI

The hot August days dragged on. Merciless sunlight beat in through theslatted shutters of ward windows. At night, from the roof to which thenurses retired after prayers for a breath of air, lower surroundingroofs were seen to be covered with sleepers. Children dozed precariouslyon the edge of eternity; men and women sprawled in the grotesquepostures of sleep. 

There was a sort of feverish irritability in the air. Even the nurses, stoically unmindful of bodily discomfort, spoke curtly or not at all. Miss Dana, in Sidney's ward, went down with a low fever, and for a dayor so Sidney and Miss Grange got along as best they could. Sidney workedlike two or more, performed marvels of bed-making, learned to givealcohol baths for fever with the maximum of result and the minimumof time, even made rounds with a member of the staff and came throughcreditably. 

Dr. Ed Wilson had sent a woman patient into the ward, and his visitswere the breath of life to the girl. 

"How're they treating you?" he asked her, one day, abruptly. 

"Very well. "

"Look at me squarely. You're pretty and you're young. Some of them willtry to take it out of you. That's human nature. Has anyone tried ityet?"

Sidney looked distressed. 

"Positively, no. It's been hot, and of course it's troublesome to tellme everything. I--I think they're all very kind. "

He reached out a square, competent hand, and put it over hers. 

"We miss you in the Street, " he said. "It's all sort of dead there sinceyou left. Joe Drummond doesn't moon up and down any more, for one thing. What was wrong between you and Joe, Sidney?"

"I didn't want to marry him; that's all. "

"That's considerable. The boy's taking it hard. "

Then, seeing her face:--

"But you're right, of course. Don't marry anyone unless you can't livewithout him. That's been my motto, and here I am, still single. "

He went out and down the corridor. He had known Sidney all his life. During the lonely times when Max was at college and in Europe, he hadwatched her grow from a child to a young girl. He did not suspect fora moment that in that secret heart of hers he sat newly enthroned, ina glow of white light, as Max's brother; that the mere thought thathe lived in Max's house (it was, of course Max's house to her), sat atMax's breakfast table, could see him whenever he wished, made the touchof his hand on hers a benediction and a caress. 

Sidney finished folding linen and went back to the ward. It was Fridayand a visiting day. Almost every bed had its visitor beside it; butSidney, running an eye over the ward, found the girl of whom she hadspoken to Le Moyne quite alone. She was propped up in bed, reading; butat each new step in the corridor hope would spring into her eyes and dieagain. 

"Want anything, Grace?"

"Me? I'm all right. If these people would only get out and let me readin peace--Say, sit down and talk to me, won't you? It beats the mischiefthe way your friends forget you when you're laid up in a place likethis. "

"People can't always come at visiting hours. Besides, it's hot. "

"A girl I knew was sick here last year, and it wasn't too hot for me totrot in twice a week with a bunch of flowers for her. Do you think she'sbeen here once? She hasn't. "

Then, suddenly:--

"You know that man I told you about the other day?"

Sidney nodded. The girl's anxious eyes were on her. 

"It was a shock to me, that's all. I didn't want you to think I'd breakmy heart over any fellow. All I meant was, I wished he'd let me know. "

Her eyes searched Sidney's. They looked unnaturally large and somber inher face. Her hair had been cut short, and her nightgown, open at theneck, showed her thin throat and prominent clavicles. 

"You're from the city, aren't you, Miss Page?"

"Yes. "

"You told me the street, but I've forgotten it. "

Sidney repeated the name of the Street, and slipped a fresh pillow underthe girl's head. 

"The evening paper says there's a girl going to be married on yourstreet. "

"Really! Oh, I think I know. A friend of mine is going to be married. Was the name Lorenz?"

"The girl's name was Lorenz. I--I don't remember the man's name. "

"She is going to marry a Mr. Howe, " said Sidney briskly. "Now, how doyou feel? More comfy?"

"Fine! I suppose you'll be going to that wedding?"

"If I ever get time to have a dress made, I'll surely go. "

Toward six o'clock the next morning, the night nurse was making out herreports. On one record, which said at the top, "Grace Irving, age 19, "and an address which, to the initiated, told all her story, the nightnurse wrote:--

"Did not sleep at all during night. Face set and eyes staring, butcomplains of no pain. Refused milk at eleven and three. "

Carlotta Harrison, back from her vacation, reported for duty the nextmorning, and was assigned to E ward, which was Sidney's. She gave Sidneya curt little nod, and proceeded to change the entire routine with thethoroughness of a Central American revolutionary president. Sidney, whohad yet to learn that with some people authority can only assert itselfby change, found herself confused, at sea, half resentful. 

Once she ventured a protest:--

"I've been taught to do it that way, Miss Harrison. If my method iswrong, show me what you want, and I'll do my best. "

"I am not responsible for what you have been taught. And you will notspeak back when you are spoken to. "

Small as the incident was, it marked a change in Sidney's positionin the ward. She got the worst off-duty of the day, or none. Smallhumiliations were hers: late meals, disagreeable duties, endless andoften unnecessary tasks. Even Miss Grange, now reduced to second place, remonstrated with her senior. 

"I think a certain amount of severity is good for a probationer, " shesaid, "but you are brutal, Miss Harrison. "

"She's stupid. "

"She's not at all stupid. She's going to be one of the best nurses inthe house. "

"Report me, then. Tell the Head I'm abusing Dr. Wilson's petprobationer, that I don't always say 'please' when I ask her to change abed or take a temperature. "

Miss Grange was not lacking in keenness. She died not go to the Head, which is unethical under any circumstances; but gradually there spreadthrough the training-school a story that Carlotta Harrison was jealousof the new Page girl, Dr. Wilson's protegee. Things were still highlyunpleasant in the ward, but they grew much better when Sidney was offduty. She was asked to join a small class that was studying French atnight. As ignorant of the cause of her popularity as of the reason ofher persecution, she went steadily on her way. 

And she was gaining every day. Her mind was forming. She was learningto think for herself. For the first time, she was facing problems anddemanding an answer. Why must there be Grace Irvings in the world? Whymust the healthy babies of the obstetric ward go out to the slums andcome back, in months or years, crippled for the great fight by thehandicap of their environment, rickety, tuberculous, twisted? Why needthe huge mills feed the hospitals daily with injured men?

And there were other things that she thought of. Every night, on herknees in the nurses' parlor at prayers, she promised, if she wereaccepted as a nurse, to try never to become calloused, never to regardher patients as "cases, " never to allow the cleanliness and routine ofher ward to delay a cup of water to the thirsty, or her arms to a sickchild. 

On the whole, the world was good, she found. And, of all the good thingsin it, the best was service. True, there were hot days and restlessnights, weary feet, and now and then a heartache. There was MissHarrison, too. But to offset these there was the sound of Dr. Max's stepin the corridor, and his smiling nod from the door; there was a "Godbless you" now and then for the comfort she gave; there were wonderfulnights on the roof under the stars, until K. 's little watch warned herto bed. 

While Sidney watched the stars from her hospital roof, while all aroundher the slum children, on other roofs, fought for the very breath oflife, others who knew and loved her watched the stars, too. K. Washaving his own troubles in those days. Late at night, when Anna andHarriet had retired, he sat on the balcony and thought of many things. Anna Page was not well. He had noticed that her lips were rather blue, and had called in Dr. Ed. It was valvular heart disease. Anna was not tobe told, or Sidney. It was Harriet's ruling. 

"Sidney can't help any, " said Harriet, "and for Heaven's sake let herhave her chance. Anna may live for years. You know her as well as I do. If you tell her anything at all, she'll have Sidney here, waiting on herhand and foot. "

And Le Moyne, fearful of urging too much because his own heart wascrying out to have the girl back, assented. 

Then, K. Was anxious about Joe. The boy did not seem to get over thething the way he should. Now and then Le Moyne, resuming his old habitof wearying himself into sleep, would walk out into the country. On onesuch night he had overtaken Joe, tramping along with his head down. 

Joe had not wanted his company, had plainly sulked. But Le Moyne hadpersisted. 

"I'll not talk, " he said; "but, since we're going the same way, we mightas well walk together. "

But after a time Joe had talked, after all. It was not much at first--afeverish complaint about the heat, and that if there was trouble inMexico he thought he'd go. 

"Wait until fall, if you're thinking of it, " K. Advised. "This is tepidcompared with what you'll get down there. "

"I've got to get away from here. "

K. Nodded understandingly. Since the scene at the White Springs Hotel, both knew that no explanation was necessary. 

"It isn't so much that I mind her turning me down, " Joe said, after asilence. "A girl can't marry all the men who want her. But I don'tlike this hospital idea. I don't understand it. She didn't have to go. Sometimes"--he turned bloodshot eyes on Le Moyne--"I think she wentbecause she was crazy about somebody there. "

"She went because she wanted to be useful. "

"She could be useful at home. "

For almost twenty minutes they tramped on without speech. They had madea circle, and the lights of the city were close again. K. Stopped andput a kindly hand on Joe's shoulder. 

"A man's got to stand up under a thing like this, you know. I mean, itmustn't be a knockout. Keeping busy is a darned good method. "

Joe shook himself free, but without resentment. "I'll tell you what'seating me up, " he exploded. "It's Max Wilson. Don't talk to me about hergoing to the hospital to be useful. She's crazy about him, and he's ascrooked as a dog's hind leg. "

"Perhaps. But it's always up to the girl. You know that. "

He felt immeasurably old beside Joe's boyish blustering--old and ratherhelpless. 

"I'm watching him. Some of these days I'll get something on him. Thenshe'll know what to think of her hero!"

"That's not quite square, is it?"

"He's not square. "

Joe had left him then, wheeling abruptly off into the shadows. K. Hadgone home alone, rather uneasy. There seemed to be mischief in the veryair. 

CHAPTER XII

Tillie was gone. 

Oddly enough, the last person to see her before she left was HarrietKennedy. On the third day after Mr. Schwitter's visit, Harriet's coloredmaid had announced a visitor. 

Harriet's business instinct had been good. She had taken expensive roomsin a good location, and furnished them with the assistance of a decorstore. Then she arranged with a New York house to sell her models oncommission. 

Her short excursion to New York had marked for Harriet the beginning ofa new heaven and a new earth. Here, at last, she found people speakingher own language. She ventured a suggestion to a manufacturer, and foundit greeted, not, after the manner of the Street, with scorn, but withapproval and some surprise. 

"About once in ten years, " said Mr. Arthurs, "we have a woman from outof town bring us a suggestion that is both novel and practical. When wefind people like that, we watch them. They climb, madame, --climb. "

Harriet's climbing was not so rapid as to make her dizzy; but businesswas coming. The first time she made a price of seventy-five dollarsfor an evening gown, she went out immediately after and took a drink ofwater. Her throat was parched. 

She began to learn little quips of the feminine mind: that a woman whocan pay seventy-five will pay double that sum; that it is not consideredgood form to show surprise at a dressmaker's prices, no matter how highthey may be; that long mirrors and artificial light help sales--no womanover thirty but was grateful for her pink-and-gray room with its softlights. And Harriet herself conformed to the picture. She took a lessonfrom the New York modistes, and wore trailing black gowns. She strappedher thin figure into the best corset she could get, and had her blackhair marcelled and dressed high. And, because she was a lady by birthand instinct, the result was not incongruous, but refined and ratherimpressive. 

She took her business home with her at night, lay awake scheming, andwakened at dawn to find fresh color combinations in the early sky. Shewakened early because she kept her head tied up in a towel, so that herhair need be done only three times a week. That and the corset were thepenalties she paid. Her high-heeled shoes were a torment, too; but inthe work-room she kicked them off. 

To this new Harriet, then, came Tillie in her distress. Tillie wasrather overwhelmed at first. The Street had always considered Harriet"proud. " But Tillie's urgency was great, her methods direct. 

"Why, Tillie!" said Harriet. 

"Yes'm. "

"Will you sit down?"

Tillie sat. She was not daunted now. While she worked at the fingers ofher silk gloves, what Harriet took for nervousness was pure abstraction. 

"It's very nice of you to come to see me. Do you like my rooms?"

Tillie surveyed the rooms, and Harriet caught her first full view of herface. 

"Is there anything wrong? Have you left Mrs. McKee?"

"I think so. I came to talk to you about it. "

It was Harriet's turn to be overwhelmed. 

"She's very fond of you. If you have had any words--"

"It's not that. I'm just leaving. I'd like to talk to you, if you don'tmind. "

"Certainly. "

Tillie hitched her chair closer. 

"I'm up against something, and I can't seem to make up my mind. Lastnight I said to myself, 'I've got to talk to some woman who's notmarried, like me, and not as young as she used to be. There's no usegoing to Mrs. McKee: she's a widow, and wouldn't understand. '"

Harriet's voice was a trifle sharp as she replied. She never lied abouther age, but she preferred to forget it. 

"I wish you'd tell me what you're getting at. "

"It ain't the sort of thing to come to too sudden. But it's like this. You and I can pretend all we like, Miss Harriet; but we're not gettingall out of life that the Lord meant us to have. You've got them waxfigures instead of children, and I have mealers. "

A little spot of color came into Harriet's cheek. But she wasinterested. Regardless of the corset, she bent forward. 

"Maybe that's true. Go on. "

"I'm almost forty. Ten years more at the most, and I'm through. I'mslowing up. Can't get around the tables as I used to. Why, yesterday Iput sugar into Mr. Le Moyne's coffee--well, never mind about that. NowI've got a chance to get a home, with a good man to look after me--Ilike him pretty well, and he thinks a lot of me. "

"Mercy sake, Tillie! You are going to get married?"

"No'm, " said Tillie; "that's it. " And sat silent for a moment. 

The gray curtains with their pink cording swung gently in the openwindows. From the work-room came the distant hum of a sewing-machine andthe sound of voices. Harriet sat with her hands in her lap and listenedwhile Tillie poured out her story. The gates were down now. She told itall, consistently and with unconscious pathos: her little room under theroof at Mrs. McKee's, and the house in the country; her loneliness, and the loneliness of the man; even the faint stirrings of potentialmotherhood, her empty arms, her advancing age--all this she knit intothe fabric of her story and laid at Harriet's feet, as the ancients puttheir questions to their gods. 

Harriet was deeply moved. Too much that Tillie poured out to her foundan echo in her own breast. What was this thing she was striving for buta substitute for the real things of life--love and tenderness, children, a home of her own? Quite suddenly she loathed the gray carpet on thefloor, the pink chairs, the shaded lamps. Tillie was no longer thewaitress at a cheap boarding-house. She loomed large, potential, courageous, a woman who held life in her hands. 

"Why don't you go to Mrs. Rosenfeld? She's your aunt, isn't she?"

"She thinks any woman's a fool to take up with a man. "

"You're giving me a terrible responsibility, Tillie, if you're asking myadvice. "

"No'm. I'm asking what you'd do if it happened to you. Suppose you hadno people that cared anything about you, nobody to disgrace, and allyour life nobody had really cared anything about you. And then a chancelike this came along. What would you do?"

"I don't know, " said poor Harriet. "It seems to me--I'm afraid I'd betempted. It does seem as if a woman had the right to be happy, evenif--"

Her own words frightened her. It was as if some hidden self, and notshe, had spoken. She hastened to point out the other side of the matter, the insecurity of it, the disgrace. Like K. , she insisted that no rightcan be built out of a wrong. Tillie sat and smoothed her gloves. Atlast, when Harriet paused in sheer panic, the girl rose. 

"I know how you feel, and I don't want you to take the responsibility ofadvising me, " she said quietly. "I guess my mind was made up anyhow. Butbefore I did it I just wanted to be sure that a decent woman would thinkthe way I do about it. "

And so, for a time, Tillie went out of the life of the Street as shewent out of Harriet's handsome rooms, quietly, unobtrusively, with calmpurpose in her eyes. 

There were other changes in the Street. The Lorenz house was beingpainted for Christine's wedding. Johnny Rosenfeld, not perhaps of theStreet itself, but certainly pertaining to it, was learning to drivePalmer Howe's new car, in mingled agony and bliss. He walked along theStreet, not "right foot, left foot, " but "brake foot, clutch foot, " andtook to calling off the vintage of passing cars. "So-and-So 1910, "he would say, with contempt in his voice. He spent more than he couldafford on a large streamer, meant to be fastened across the rear of theautomobile, which said, "Excuse our dust, " and was inconsolable whenPalmer refused to let him use it. 

K. Had yielded to Anna's insistence, and was boarding as well asrooming at the Page house. The Street, rather snobbish to its occasionalfloating population, was accepting and liking him. It found him tender, infinitely human. And in return he found that this seemingly empty eddyinto which he had drifted was teeming with life. He busied himself withsmall things, and found his outlook gradually less tinged with despair. When he found himself inclined to rail, he organized a baseballclub, and sent down to everlasting defeat the Linburgs, consisting ofcash-boys from Linden and Hofburg's department store. 

The Rosenfelds adored him, with the single exception of the head ofthe family. The elder Rosenfeld having been "sent up, " it was K. Whodiscovered that by having him consigned to the workhouse his familywould receive from the county some sixty-five cents a day for his labor. As this was exactly sixty-five cents a day more than he was worth tothem free, Mrs. Rosenfeld voiced the pious hope that he be kept thereforever. 

K. Made no further attempt to avoid Max Wilson. Some day they would meetface to face. He hoped, when it happened, they two might be alone; thatwas all. Even had he not been bound by his promise to Sidney, flightwould have been foolish. The world was a small place, and, one way andanother, he had known many people. Wherever he went, there would be thesame chance. 

And he did not deceive himself. Other things being equal, --the eddyand all that it meant--, he would not willingly take himself out of hissmall share of Sidney's life. 

She was never to know what she meant to him, of course. He had scourgedhis heart until it no longer shone in his eyes when he looked at her. But he was very human--not at all meek. There were plenty of days whenhis philosophy lay in the dust and savage dogs of jealousy tore at it;more than one evening when he threw himself face downward on the bedand lay without moving for hours. And of these periods of despair he wasalways heartily ashamed the next day. 

The meeting with Max Wilson took place early in September, and underbetter circumstances than he could have hoped for. 

Sidney had come home for her weekly visit, and her mother's conditionhad alarmed her for the first time. When Le Moyne came home at sixo'clock, he found her waiting for him in the hall. 

"I am just a little frightened, K. , " she said. "Do you think mother islooking quite well?"

"She has felt the heat, of course. The summer--I often think--"

"Her lips are blue!"

"It's probably nothing serious. "

"She says you've had Dr. Ed over to see her. "

She put her hands on his arm and looked up at him with appeal andsomething of terror in her face. 

Thus cornered, he had to acknowledge that Anna had been out of sorts. 

"I shall come home, of course. It's tragic and absurd that I should becaring for other people, when my own mother--"

She dropped her head on his arm, and he saw that she was crying. If hemade a gesture to draw her to him, she never knew it. After a moment shelooked up. 

"I'm much braver than this in the hospital. But when it's one's own!"

K. Was sorely tempted to tell her the truth and bring her back to thelittle house: to their old evenings together, to seeing the youngerWilson, not as the white god of the operating-room and the hospital, butas the dandy of the Street and the neighbor of her childhood--back evento Joe. 

But, with Anna's precarious health and Harriet's increasing engrossmentin her business, he felt it more and more necessary that Sidney go onwith her training. A profession was a safeguard. And there was anotherpoint: it had been decided that Anna was not to know her condition. Ifshe was not worried she might live for years. There was no surer way tomake her suspect it than by bringing Sidney home. 

Sidney sent Katie to ask Dr. Ed to come over after dinner. With thesunset Anna seemed better. She insisted on coming downstairs, andeven sat with them on the balcony until the stars came out, talkingof Christine's trousseau, and, rather fretfully, of what she would dowithout the parlors. 

"You shall have your own boudoir upstairs, " said Sidney valiantly. "Katie can carry your tray up there. We are going to make thesewing-room into your private sitting-room, and I shall nail themachine-top down. "

This pleased her. When K. Insisted on carrying her upstairs, she went ina flutter. 

"He is so strong, Sidney!" she said, when he had placed her on her bed. "How can a clerk, bending over a ledger, be so muscular? When I havecallers, will it be all right for Katie to show them upstairs?"

She dropped asleep before the doctor came; and when, at something aftereight, the door of the Wilson house slammed and a figure crossed thestreet, it was not Ed at all, but the surgeon. 

Sidney had been talking rather more frankly than usual. Lately therehad been a reserve about her. K. , listening intently that night, readbetween words a story of small persecutions and jealousies. But the girlminimized them, after her way. 

"It's always hard for probationers, " she said. "I often think MissHarrison is trying my mettle. "

"Harrison!"

"Carlotta Harrison. And now that Miss Gregg has said she will acceptme, it's really all over. The other nurses are wonderful--so kind and sohelpful. I hope I shall look well in my cap. "

Carlotta Harrison was in Sidney's hospital! A thousand contingenciesflashed through his mind. Sidney might grow to like her and bring her tothe house. Sidney might insist on the thing she always spoke of--that hevisit the hospital; and he would meet her, face to face. He could havedepended on a man to keep his secret. This girl with her somber eyes andher threat to pay him out for what had happened to her--she meant dangerof a sort that no man could fight. 

"Soon, " said Sidney, through the warm darkness, "I shall have a cap, and be always forgetting it and putting my hat on over it--the new onesalways do. One of the girls slept in hers the other night! They aretulle, you know, and quite stiff, and it was the most erratic-lookingthing the next day!"

It was then that the door across the street closed. Sidney did nothear it, but K. Bent forward. There was a part of his brain alwaysautomatically on watch. 

"I shall get my operating-room training, too, " she went on. "That isthe real romance of the hospital. A--a surgeon is a sort of hero ina hospital. You wouldn't think that, would you? There was a lot ofexcitement to-day. Even the probationers' table was talking about it. Dr. Max Wilson did the Edwardes operation. "

The figure across the Street was lighting a cigarette. Perhaps, afterall--

"Something tremendously difficult--I don't know what. It's going intothe medical journals. A Dr. Edwardes invented it, or whatever theycall it. They took a picture of the operating-room for the article. The photographer had to put on operating clothes and wrap the camera insterilized towels. It was the most thrilling thing, they say--"

Her voice died away as her eyes followed K. 's. Max, cigarette inhand, was coming across, under the ailanthus tree. He hesitated on thepavement, his eyes searching the shadowy balcony. 

"Sidney?"

"Here! Right back here!"

There was vibrant gladness in her tone. He came slowly toward them. 

"My brother is not at home, so I came over. How select you are, withyour balcony!"

"Can you see the step?"

"Coming, with bells on. "

K. Had risen and pushed back his chair. His mind was working quickly. Here in the darkness he could hold the situation for a moment. If hecould get Sidney into the house, the rest would not matter. Luckily, thebalcony was very dark. 

"Is any one ill?"

"Mother is not well. This is Mr. Le Moyne, and he knows who you are verywell, indeed. "

The two men shook hands. 

"I've heard a lot of Mr. Le Moyne. Didn't the Street beat the Linburgsthe other day? And I believe the Rosenfelds are in receipt of sixty-fivecents a day and considerable peace and quiet through you, Mr. Le Moyne. You're the most popular man on the Street. "

"I've always heard that about YOU. Sidney, if Dr. Wilson is here to seeyour mother--"

"Going, " said Sidney. "And Dr. Wilson is a very great person, K. , so bepolite to him. "

Max had roused at the sound of Le Moyne's voice, not to suspicion, of course, but to memory. Without any apparent reason, he was back inBerlin, tramping the country roads, and beside him--

"Wonderful night!"

"Great, " he replied. "The mind's a curious thing, isn't it. In theinstant since Miss Page went through that window I've been to Berlin andback! Will you have a cigarette?"

"Thanks; I have my pipe here. "

K. Struck a match with his steady hands. Now that the thing had come, hewas glad to face it. In the flare, his quiet profile glowed against thenight. Then he flung the match over the rail. 

"Perhaps my voice took you back to Berlin. "

Max stared; then he rose. Blackness had descended on them again, exceptfor the dull glow of K. 's old pipe. 

"For God's sake!"

"Sh! The neighbors next door have a bad habit of sitting just inside thecurtains. "

"But--you!"

"Sit down. Sidney will be back in a moment. I'll talk to you, if you'llsit still. Can you hear me plainly?"

After a moment--"Yes. "

"I've been here--in the city, I mean--for a year. Name's Le Moyne. Don'tforget it--Le Moyne. I've got a position in the gas office, clerical. Iget fifteen dollars a week. I have reason to think I'm going to be movedup. That will be twenty, maybe twenty-two. "

Wilson stirred, but he found no adequate words. Only a part of what K. Said got to him. For a moment he was back in a famous clinic, and thisman across from him--it was not believable!

"It's not hard work, and it's safe. If I make a mistake there's no lifehanging on it. Once I made a blunder, a month or two ago. It was a bigone. It cost me three dollars out of my own pocket. But--that's all itcost. "

Wilson's voice showed that he was more than incredulous; he wasprofoundly moved. 

"We thought you were dead. There were all sorts of stories. When a yearwent by--the Titanic had gone down, and nobody knew but what you were onit--we gave up. I--in June we put up a tablet for you at the college. Iwent down for the--for the services. "

"Let it stay, " said K. Quietly. "I'm dead as far as the college goes, anyhow. I'll never go back. I'm Le Moyne now. And, for Heaven's sake, don't be sorry for me. I'm more contented than I've been for a longtime. "

The wonder in Wilson's voice was giving way to irritation. 

"But--when you had everything! Why, good Heavens, man, I did youroperation to-day, and I've been blowing about it ever since. "

"I had everything for a while. Then I lost the essential. When thathappened I gave up. All a man in our profession has is a certain method, knowledge--call it what you like, --and faith in himself. I lost myself-confidence; that's all. Certain things happened; kept on happening. So I gave it up. That's all. It's not dramatic. For about a year I wasdamned sorry for myself. I've stopped whining now. "

"If every surgeon gave up because he lost cases--I've just told you Idid your operation to-day. There was just a chance for the man, and Itook my courage in my hands and tried it. The poor devil's dead. "

K. Rose rather wearily and emptied his pipe over the balcony rail. 

"That's not the same. That's the chance he and you took. What happenedto me was--different. "

Pipe in hand, he stood staring out at the ailanthus tree with its crownof stars. Instead of the Street with its quiet houses, he saw the menhe had known and worked with and taught, his friends who spoke hislanguage, who had loved him, many of them, gathered about a bronzetablet set in a wall of the old college; he saw their earnest faces andgrave eyes. He heard--

He heard the soft rustle of Sidney's dress as she came into the littleroom behind them. 

CHAPTER XIII

A few days after Wilson's recognition of K. , two most exciting thingshappened to Sidney. One was that Christine asked her to be maid of honorat her wedding. The other was more wonderful. She was accepted, andgiven her cap. 

Because she could not get home that night, and because the little househad no telephone, she wrote the news to her mother and sent a note to LeMoyne:

DEAR K. , --I am accepted, and IT is on my head at this minute. I am asconscious of it as if it were a halo, and as if I had done something todeserve it, instead of just hoping that someday I shall. I am writingthis on the bureau, so that when I lift my eyes I may see It. I amafraid just now I am thinking more of the cap than of what it means. ItIS becoming!

Very soon I shall slip down and show it to the ward. I have promised. I shall go to the door when the night nurse is busy somewhere, andturn all around and let them see it, without saying a word. They love alittle excitement like that. 

You have been very good to me, dear K. It is you who have made possiblethis happiness of mine to-night. I am promising myself to be very good, and not so vain, and to love my enemies--, although I have none now. Miss Harrison has just congratulated me most kindly, and I am sure poorJoe has both forgiven and forgotten. 

Off to my first lecture!

SIDNEY. 

K. Found the note on the hall table when he got home that night, andcarried it upstairs to read. Whatever faint hope he might have had thather youth would prevent her acceptance he knew now was over. With theletter in his hand, he sat by his table and looked ahead into the emptyyears. Not quite empty, of course. She would be coming home. 

But more and more the life of the hospital would engross her. Hesurmised, too, very shrewdly, that, had he ever had a hope that shemight come to care for him, his very presence in the little housemilitated against him. There was none of the illusion of separation;he was always there, like Katie. When she opened the door, she called"Mother" from the hall. If Anna did not answer, she called him, in muchthe same voice. 

He had built a wall of philosophy that had withstood even Wilson'srecognition and protest. But enduring philosophy comes only with time;and he was young. Now and then all his defenses crumbled before apassion that, when he dared to face it, shook him by its very strength. And that day all his stoicism went down before Sidney's letter. Its veryfrankness and affection hurt--not that he did not want her affection;but he craved so much more. He threw himself face down on the bed, withthe paper crushed in his hand. 

Sidney's letter was not the only one he received that day. When, inresponse to Katie's summons, he rose heavily and prepared for dinner, hefound an unopened envelope on the table. It was from Max Wilson:--

DEAR LE MOYNE, --I have been going around in a sort of haze all day. Thefact that I only heard your voice and scarcely saw you last night hasmade the whole thing even more unreal. 

I have a feeling of delicacy about trying to see you again so soon. I'mbound to respect your seclusion. But there are some things that have gotto be discussed. 

You said last night that things were "different" with you. I know aboutthat. You'd had one or two unlucky accidents. Do you know any man in ourprofession who has not? And, for fear you think I do not know what I amtalking about, the thing was threshed out at the State Society when thequestion of the tablet came up. Old Barnes got up and said: "Gentlemen, all of us live more or less in glass houses. Let him who is withoutguilt among us throw the first stone!" By George! You should have heardthem!

I didn't sleep last night. I took my little car and drove around thecountry roads, and the farther I went the more outrageous your positionbecame. I'm not going to write any rot about the world needing men likeyou, although it's true enough. But our profession does. You working ina gas office, while old O'Hara bungles and hacks, and I struggle alongon what I learned from you!

It takes courage to step down from the pinnacle you stood on. So it'snot cowardice that has set you down here. It's wrong conception. AndI've thought of two things. The first, and best, is for you to go back. No one has taken your place, because no one could do the work. But ifthat's out of the question, --and only you know that, for only you knowthe facts, --the next best thing is this, and in all humility I make thesuggestion. 

Take the State exams under your present name, and when you've got yourcertificate, come in with me. This isn't magnanimity. I'll be getting adamn sight more than I give. 

Think it over, old man. 

M. W. 

It is a curious fact that a man who is absolutely untrustworthy aboutwomen is often the soul of honor to other men. The younger Wilson, taking his pleasures lightly and not too discriminatingly, was making anoffer that meant his ultimate eclipse, and doing it cheerfully, with hiseyes open. 

K. Was moved. It was like Max to make such an offer, like him to make itas if he were asking a favor and not conferring one. But the offer lefthim untempted. He had weighed himself in the balance, and found himselfwanting. No tablet on the college wall could change that. And when, late that night, Wilson found him on the balcony and added appeal toargument, the situation remained unchanged. He realized its hopelessnesswhen K. Lapsed into whimsical humor. 

"I'm not absolutely useless where I am, you know, Max, " he said. "I'veraised three tomato plants and a family of kittens this summer, helpedto plan a trousseau, assisted in selecting wall-paper for the room justinside, --did you notice it?--and developed a boy pitcher with a ballthat twists around the bat like a Colles fracture around a splint!"

"If you're going to be humorous--"

"My dear fellow, " said K. Quietly, "if I had no sense of humor, I shouldgo upstairs to-night, turn on the gas, and make a stertorous entranceinto eternity. By the way, that's something I forgot!"

"Eternity?" "No. Among my other activities, I wired the parlor forelectric light. The bride-to-be expects some electroliers as weddinggifts, and--"

Wilson rose and flung his cigarette into the grass. 

"I wish to God I understood you!" he said irritably. 

K. Rose with him, and all the suppressed feeling of the interview wascrowded into his last few words. 

"I'm not as ungrateful as you think, Max, " he said. "I--you've helpeda lot. Don't worry about me. I'm as well off as I deserve to be, andbetter. Good-night. "

"Good-night. "

Wilson's unexpected magnanimity put K. In a curious position--left him, as it were, with a divided allegiance. Sidney's frank infatuation forthe young surgeon was growing. He was quick to see it. And where beforehe might have felt justified in going to the length of warning her, nowhis hands were tied. 

Max was interested in her. K. Could see that, too. More than once he hadtaken Sidney back to the hospital in his car. Le Moyne, handicapped atevery turn, found himself facing two alternatives, one but little betterthan the other. The affair might run a legitimate course, ending inmarriage--a year of happiness for her, and then what marriage withMax, as he knew him, would inevitably mean: wanderings away, remorsefulreturns to her, infidelities, misery. Or, it might be less serious butalmost equally unhappy for her. Max might throw caution to the winds, pursue her for a time, --K. Had seen him do this, --and then, growingtired, change to some new attraction. In either case, he could only waitand watch, eating his heart out during the long evenings when Anna readher "Daily Thoughts" upstairs and he sat alone with his pipe on thebalcony. 

Sidney went on night duty shortly after her acceptance. All of herorderly young life had been divided into two parts: day, when oneplayed or worked, and night, when one slept. Now she was compelled toa readjustment: one worked in the night and slept in the day. Thingsseemed unnatural, chaotic. At the end of her first night report Sidneyadded what she could remember of a little verse of Stevenson's. Sheadded it to the end of her general report, which was to the effect thateverything had been quiet during the night except the neighborhood. 

 "And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?"

The day assistant happened on the report, and was quite scandalized. 

"If the night nurses are to spend their time making up poetry, " shesaid crossly, "we'd better change this hospital into a young ladies'seminary. If she wants to complain about the noise in the street, sheshould do so in proper form. "

"I don't think she made it up, " said the Head, trying not to smile. "I've heard something like it somewhere, and, what with the heat and thenoise of traffic, I don't see how any of them get any sleep. "

But, because discipline must be observed, she wrote on the slip theassistant carried around: "Please submit night reports in prose. "

Sidney did not sleep much. She tumbled into her low bed at nine o'clockin the morning, those days, with her splendid hair neatly braided downher back and her prayers said, and immediately her active young mindfilled with images--Christine's wedding, Dr. Max passing the door of herold ward and she not there, Joe--even Tillie, whose story was now thesensation of the Street. A few months before she would not have caredto think of Tillie. She would have retired her into the land ofthings-one-must-forget. But the Street's conventions were not holdingSidney's thoughts now. She puzzled over Tillie a great deal, and overGrace and her kind. 

On her first night on duty, a girl had been brought in from the Avenue. She had taken a poison--nobody knew just what. When the internes hadtried to find out, she had only said: "What's the use?"

And she had died. 

Sidney kept asking herself, "Why?" those mornings when she could not getto sleep. People were kind--men were kind, really, --and yet, for somereason or other, those things had to be. Why?

After a time Sidney would doze fitfully. But by three o'clock she wasalways up and dressing. After a time the strain told on her. Lack ofsleep wrote hollows around her eyes and killed some of her bright color. Between three and four o'clock in the morning she was overwhelmed onduty by a perfect madness of sleep. There was a penalty for sleeping onduty. The old night watchman had a way of slipping up on one nodding. The night nurses wished they might fasten a bell on him!

Luckily, at four came early-morning temperatures; that roused her. Andafter that came the clatter of early milk-wagons and the rose hues ofdawn over the roofs. Twice in the night, once at supper and again towarddawn, she drank strong black coffee. But after a week or two her nerveswere stretched taut as a string. 

Her station was in a small room close to her three wards. But she satvery little, as a matter of fact. Her responsibility was heavy on her;she made frequent rounds. The late summer nights were fitful, feverish;the darkened wards stretched away like caverns from the dim light nearthe door. And from out of these caverns came petulant voices, uneasymovements, the banging of a cup on a bedside, which was the signal ofthirst. 

The older nurses saved themselves when they could. To them, perhaps justa little weary with time and much service, the banging cup meant not somuch thirst as annoyance. They visited Sidney sometimes and cautionedher. 

"Don't jump like that, child; they're not parched, you know. "

"But if you have a fever and are thirsty--"

"Thirsty nothing! They get lonely. All they want is to see somebody. "

"Then, " Sidney would say, rising resolutely, "they are going to see me. "

Gradually the older girls saw that she would not save herself. Theyliked her very much, and they, too, had started in with willing feetand tender hands; but the thousand and one demands of their servicehad drained them dry. They were efficient, cool-headed, quick-thinkingmachines, doing their best, of course, but differing from Sidney in thattheir service was of the mind, while hers was of the heart. To them, pain was a thing to be recorded on a report; to Sidney, it was writtenon the tablets of her soul. 

Carlotta Harrison went on night duty at the same time--her last nightservice, as it was Sidney's first. She accepted it stoically. She hadcharge of the three wards on the floor just below Sidney, and of theward into which all emergency cases were taken. It was a difficultservice, perhaps the most difficult in the house. Scarcely a night wentby without its patrol or ambulance case. Ordinarily, the emergency wardhad its own night nurse. But the house was full to overflowing. Belatedvacations and illness had depleted the training-school. Carlotta, givendouble duty, merely shrugged her shoulders. 

"I've always had things pretty hard here, " she commented briefly. "When I go out, I'll either be competent enough to run a whole hospitalsinglehanded, or I'll be carried out feet first. "

Sidney was glad to have her so near. She knew her better than she knewthe other nurses. Small emergencies were constantly arising and findingher at a loss. Once at least every night, Miss Harrison would hear asoft hiss from the back staircase that connected the two floors, and, going out, would see Sidney's flushed face and slightly crooked capbending over the stair-rail. 

"I'm dreadfully sorry to bother you, " she would say, "but So-and-Sowon't have a fever bath"; or, "I've a woman here who refuses hermedicine. " Then would follow rapid questions and equally rapid answers. Much as Carlotta disliked and feared the girl overhead, it neveroccurred to her to refuse her assistance. Perhaps the angels who keepthe great record will put that to her credit. 

Sidney saw her first death shortly after she went on night duty. It wasthe most terrible experience of all her life; and yet, as death goes, itwas quiet enough. So gradual was it that Sidney, with K. 's little watchin hand, was not sure exactly when it happened. The light was very dimbehind the little screen. One moment the sheet was quivering slightlyunder the struggle for breath, the next it was still. That was all. Butto the girl it was catastrophe. That life, so potential, so tremendous athing, could end so ignominiously, that the long battle should terminatealways in this capitulation--it seemed to her that she could not standit. Added to all her other new problems of living was this one of dying. 

She made mistakes, of course, which the kindly nurses forgot toreport--basins left about, errors on her records. She rinsed herthermometer in hot water one night, and startled an interne by sendinghim word that Mary McGuire's temperature was a hundred and ten degrees. She let a delirious patient escape from the ward another night and goairily down the fire-escape before she discovered what had happened!Then she distinguished herself by flying down the iron staircase andbringing the runaway back single-handed. 

For Christine's wedding the Street threw off its drab attire and assumeda wedding garment. In the beginning it was incredulous about some of thedetails. 

"An awning from the house door to the curbstone, and a policeman!"reported Mrs. Rosenfeld, who was finding steady employment at the Lorenzhouse. "And another awning at the church, with a red carpet!"

Mr. Rosenfeld had arrived home and was making up arrears of rest andrecreation. 

"Huh!" he said. "Suppose it don't rain. What then?" His Jewish fatherspoke in him. 

"And another policeman at the church!" said Mrs. Rosenfeld triumphantly. 

"Why do they ask 'em if they don't trust 'em?"

But the mention of the policemen had been unfortunate. It recalled tohim many things that were better forgotten. He rose and scowled at hiswife. 

"You tell Johnny something for me, " he snarled. "You tell him when hesees his father walking down street, and he sittin' up there alone onthat automobile, I want him to stop and pick me up when I hail him. Mewalking, while my son swells around in a car! And another thing. " Heturned savagely at the door. "You let me hear of him road-housin', andI'll kill him!"

The wedding was to be at five o'clock. This, in itself, defied alltraditions of the Street, which was either married in the very earlymorning at the Catholic church or at eight o'clock in the evening atthe Presbyterian. There was something reckless about five o'clock. TheStreet felt the dash of it. It had a queer feeling that perhaps such amarriage was not quite legal. 

The question of what to wear became, for the men, an earnest one. Dr. Edresurrected an old black frock-coat and had a "V" of black cambric setin the vest. Mr. Jenkins, the grocer, rented a cutaway, and bought anew Panama to wear with it. The deaf-and-dumb book agent who boarded atMcKees', and who, by reason of his affliction, was calmly ignorant ofthe excitement around him, wore a borrowed dress-suit, and consideredhimself to the end of his days the only properly attired man in thechurch. 

The younger Wilson was to be one of the ushers. When the newspapers cameout with the published list and this was discovered, as well as thatSidney was the maid of honor, there was a distinct quiver through thehospital training-school. A probationer was authorized to find outparticulars. It was the day of the wedding then, and Sidney, who hadnot been to bed at all, was sitting in a sunny window in the DormitoryAnnex, drying her hair. 

The probationer was distinctly uneasy. 

"I--I just wonder, " she said, "if you would let some of the girls comein to see you when you're dressed?"

"Why, of course I will. "

"It's awfully thrilling, isn't it? And--isn't Dr. Wilson going to be anusher?"

Sidney colored. "I believe so. "

"Are you going to walk down the aisle with him?"

"I don't know. They had a rehearsal last night, but of course I was notthere. I--I think I walk alone. "

The probationer had been instructed to find out other things; so she setto work with a fan at Sidney's hair. 

"You've known Dr. Wilson a long time, haven't you?"

"Ages. "

"He's awfully good-looking, isn't he?"

Sidney considered. She was not ignorant of the methods of the school. Ifthis girl was pumping her--

"I'll have to think that over, " she said, with a glint of mischief inher eyes. "When you know a person terribly well, you hardly know whetherhe's good-looking or not. "

"I suppose, " said the probationer, running the long strands of Sidney'shair through her fingers, "that when you are at home you see him often. "

Sidney got off the window-sill, and, taking the probationer smilingly bythe shoulders, faced her toward the door. 

"You go back to the girls, " she said, "and tell them to come in and seeme when I am dressed, and tell them this: I don't know whether I am towalk down the aisle with Dr. Wilson, but I hope I am. I see him veryoften. I like him very much. I hope he likes me. And I think he'shandsome. "

She shoved the probationer out into the hall and locked the door behindher. 

That message in its entirety reached Carlotta Harrison. Her smoulderingeyes flamed. The audacity of it startled her. Sidney must be very sureof herself. 

She, too, had not slept during the day. When the probationer whohad brought her the report had gone out, she lay in her long whitenight-gown, hands clasped under her head, and stared at the vault-likeceiling of her little room. 

She saw there Sidney in her white dress going down the aisle of thechurch; she saw the group around the altar; and, as surely as she laythere, she knew that Max Wilson's eyes would be, not on the bride, buton the girl who stood beside her. 

The curious thing was that Carlotta felt that she could stop the weddingif she wanted to. She'd happened on a bit of information--many a weddinghad been stopped for less. It rather obsessed her to think of stoppingthe wedding, so that Sidney and Max would not walk down the aisletogether. 

There came, at last, an hour before the wedding, a lull in the feverishactivities of the previous month. Everything was ready. In the Lorenzkitchen, piles of plates, negro waiters, ice-cream freezers, and Mrs. Rosenfeld stood in orderly array. In the attic, in the center of asheet, before a toilet-table which had been carried upstairs for herbenefit, sat, on this her day of days, the bride. All the second storyhad been prepared for guests and presents. 

Florists were still busy in the room below. Bridesmaids were clusteredon the little staircase, bending over at each new ring of the bell andcalling reports to Christine through the closed door:--

"Another wooden box, Christine. It looks like more plates. What will youever do with them all?"

"Good Heavens! Here's another of the neighbors who wants to see how youlook. Do say you can't have any visitors now. "

Christine sat alone in the center of her sheet. The bridesmaids had beensternly forbidden to come into her room. 

"I haven't had a chance to think for a month, " she said. "And I've gotsome things I've got to think out. "

But, when Sidney came, she sent for her. Sidney found her sitting on astiff chair, in her wedding gown, with her veil spread out on a smallstand. 

"Close the door, " said Christine. And, after Sidney had kissed her:--

"I've a good mind not to do it. "

"You're tired and nervous, that's all. "

"I am, of course. But that isn't what's wrong with me. Throw that veilsome place and sit down. "

Christine was undoubtedly rouged, a very delicate touch. Sidney thoughtbrides should be rather pale. But under her eyes were lines that Sidneyhad never seen there before. 

"I'm not going to be foolish, Sidney. I'll go through with it, ofcourse. It would put mamma in her grave if I made a scene now. "

She suddenly turned on Sidney. 

"Palmer gave his bachelor dinner at the Country Club last night. Theyall drank more than they should. Somebody called father up to-day andsaid that Palmer had emptied a bottle of wine into the piano. He hasn'tbeen here to-day. "

"He'll be along. And as for the other--perhaps it wasn't Palmer who didit. "

"That's not it, Sidney. I'm frightened. "

Three months before, perhaps, Sidney could not have comforted her; butthree months had made a change in Sidney. The complacent sophistriesof her girlhood no longer answered for truth. She put her arms aroundChristine's shoulders. 

"A man who drinks is a broken reed, " said Christine. "That's what I'mgoing to marry and lean on the rest of my life--a broken reed. And thatisn't all!"

She got up quickly, and, trailing her long satin train across the floor, bolted the door. Then from inside her corsage she brought out and heldto Sidney a letter. "Special delivery. Read it. "

It was very short; Sidney read it at a glance:--

Ask your future husband if he knows a girl at 213 ---- Avenue. 

Three months before, the Avenue would have meant nothing to Sidney. Nowshe knew. Christine, more sophisticated, had always known. 

"You see, " she said. "That's what I'm up against. "

Quite suddenly Sidney knew who the girl at 213 ---- Avenue was. Thepaper she held in her hand was hospital paper with the heading torn off. The whole sordid story lay before her: Grace Irving, with her thin faceand cropped hair, and the newspaper on the floor of the ward beside her!

One of the bridesmaids thumped violently on the door outside. 

"Another electric lamp, " she called excitedly through the door. "AndPalmer is downstairs. "

"You see, " Christine said drearily. "I have received another electriclamp, and Palmer is downstairs! I've got to go through with it, Isuppose. The only difference between me and other brides is that I knowwhat I'm getting. Most of them do not. "

"You're going on with it?"

"It's too late to do anything else. I am not going to give thisneighborhood anything to talk about. "

She picked up her veil and set the coronet on her head. Sidney stoodwith the letter in her hands. One of K. 's answers to her hot questionhad been this:--

"There is no sense in looking back unless it helps us to look ahead. What your little girl of the ward has been is not so important as whatshe is going to be. "

"Even granting this to be true, " she said to Christine slowly, --"and itmay only be malicious after all, Christine, --it's surely over and donewith. It's not Palmer's past that concerns you now; it's his future withyou, isn't it?"

Christine had finally adjusted her veil. A band of duchesse lace roselike a coronet from her soft hair, and from it, sweeping to the end ofher train, fell fold after fold of soft tulle. She arranged the coronetcarefully with small pearl-topped pins. Then she rose and put her handson Sidney's shoulders. 

"The simple truth is, " she said quietly, "that I might hold Palmer ifI cared--terribly. I don't. And I'm afraid he knows it. It's my pridethat's hurt, nothing else. "

And thus did Christine Lorenz go down to her wedding. 

Sidney stood for a moment, her eyes on the letter she held. Already, inher new philosophy, she had learned many strange things. One of them wasthis: that women like Grace Irving did not betray their lovers; that thecode of the underworld was "death to the squealer"; that one played thegame, and won or lost, and if he lost, took his medicine. If not Grace, then who? Somebody else in the hospital who knew her story, of course. But who? And again--why?

Before going downstairs, Sidney placed the letter in a saucer and setfire to it with a match. Some of the radiance had died out of her eyes. 

The Street voted the wedding a great success. The alley, however, wasrather confused by certain things. For instance, it regarded the awningas essentially for the carriage guests, and showed a tendency to duckin under the side when no one was looking. Mrs. Rosenfeld absolutelyrefused to take the usher's arm which was offered her, and said sheguessed she was able to walk up alone. 

Johnny Rosenfeld came, as befitted his position, in a completechauffeur's outfit of leather cap and leggings, with the shield that washis State license pinned over his heart. 

The Street came decorously, albeit with a degree of uncertainty as tosupper. Should they put something on the stove before they left, in caseonly ice cream and cake were served at the house? Or was it just as wellto trust to luck, and, if the Lorenz supper proved inadequate, to sitdown to a cold snack when they got home?

To K. , sitting in the back of the church between Harriet and Anna, thewedding was Sidney--Sidney only. He watched her first steps down theaisle, saw her chin go up as she gained poise and confidence, watchedthe swinging of her young figure in its gauzy white as she passed himand went forward past the long rows of craning necks. Afterward he couldnot remember the wedding party at all. The service for him was Sidney, rather awed and very serious, beside the altar. It was Sidney who camedown the aisle to the triumphant strains of the wedding march, Sidneywith Max beside her!

On his right sat Harriet, having reached the first pinnacle of hernew career. The wedding gowns were successful. They were more thanthat--they were triumphant. Sitting there, she cast comprehensive eyesover the church, filled with potential brides. 

To Harriet, then, that October afternoon was a future of endless laceand chiffon, the joy of creation, triumph eclipsing triumph. But toAnna, watching the ceremony with blurred eyes and ineffectual bluishlips, was coming her hour. Sitting back in the pew, with her handsfolded over her prayer-book, she said a little prayer for her straightyoung daughter, facing out from the altar with clear, unafraid eyes. 

As Sidney and Max drew near the door, Joe Drummond, who had beenstanding at the back of the church, turned quickly and went out. Hestumbled, rather, as if he could not see. 

CHAPTER XIV

The supper at the White Springs Hotel had not been the last supperCarlotta Harrison and Max Wilson had taken together. Carlotta hadselected for her vacation a small town within easy motoring distance ofthe city, and two or three times during her two weeks off duty Wilsonhad gone out to see her. He liked being with her. She stimulated him. For once that he could see Sidney, he saw Carlotta twice. 

She had kept the affair well in hand. She was playing for high stakes. She knew quite well the kind of man with whom she was dealing--that hewould pay as little as possible. But she knew, too, that, let him want athing enough, he would pay any price for it, even marriage. 

She was very skillful. The very ardor in her face was in her favor. Behind her hot eyes lurked cold calculation. She would put the thingthrough, and show those puling nurses, with their pious eyes and eveningprayers, a thing or two. 

During that entire vacation he never saw her in anything more elaboratethan the simplest of white dresses modestly open at the throat, sleevesrolled up to show her satiny arms. There were no other boarders at thelittle farmhouse. She sat for hours in the summer evenings in the squareyard filled with apple trees that bordered the highway, carefullyposed over a book, but with her keen eyes always on the road. She readBrowning, Emerson, Swinburne. Once he found her with a book that shehastily concealed. He insisted on seeing it, and secured it. It was abook on brain surgery. Confronted with it, she blushed and dropped hereyes. 

His delighted vanity found in it the most insidious of compliments, asshe had intended. 

"I feel such an idiot when I am with you, " she said. "I wanted to know alittle more about the things you do. "

That put their relationship on a new and advanced basis. Thereafterhe occasionally talked surgery instead of sentiment. He found herresponsive, intelligent. His work, a sealed book to his women before, lay open to her. 

Now and then their professional discussions ended in somethingdifferent. The two lines of their interest converged. 

"Gad!" he said one day. "I look forward to these evenings. I can talkshop with you without either shocking or nauseating you. You are themost intelligent woman I know--and one of the prettiest. "

He had stopped the machine on the crest of a hill for the ostensiblepurpose of admiring the view. 

"As long as you talk shop, " she said, "I feel that there is nothingwrong in our being together; but when you say the other thing--"

"Is it wrong to tell a pretty woman you admire her?"

"Under our circumstances, yes. "

He twisted himself around in the seat and sat looking at her. 

"The loveliest mouth in the world!" he said, and kissed her suddenly. 

She had expected it for at least a week, but her surprise was well done. Well done also was her silence during the homeward ride. 

No, she was not angry, she said. It was only that he had set herthinking. When she got out of the car, she bade him good-night andgood-bye. He only laughed. 

"Don't you trust me?" he said, leaning out to her. 

She raised her dark eyes. 

"It is not that. I do not trust myself. "

After that nothing could have kept him away, and she knew it. 

"Man demands both danger and play; therefore he selects woman as themost dangerous of toys. " A spice of danger had entered into theirrelationship. It had become infinitely piquant. 

He motored out to the farm the next day, to be told that Miss Harrisonhad gone for a long walk and had not said when she would be back. Thatpleased him. Evidently she was frightened. Every man likes to think thathe is a bit of a devil. Dr. Max settled his tie, and, leaving hiscar outside the whitewashed fence, departed blithely on foot in thedirection Carlotta had taken. 

She knew her man, of course. He found her, face down, under a tree, looking pale and worn and bearing all the evidence of a severe mentalstruggle. She rose in confusion when she heard his step, and retreated afoot or two, with her hands out before her. 

"How dare you?" she cried. "How dare you follow me! I--I have got tohave a little time alone. I have got to think things out. "

He knew it was play-acting, but rather liked it; and, because he wasquite as skillful as she was, he struck a match on the trunk of the treeand lighted a cigarette before he answered. 

"I was afraid of this, " he said, playing up. "You take it entirely toohard. I am not really a villain, Carlotta. "

It was the first time he had used her name. 

"Sit down and let us talk things over. "

She sat down at a safe distance, and looked across the little clearingto him with the somber eyes that were her great asset. 

"You can afford to be very calm, " she said, "because this is only playto you; I know it. I've known it all along. I'm a good listener andnot--unattractive. But what is play for you is not necessarily play forme. I am going away from here. "

For the first time, he found himself believing in her sincerity. Why, the girl was white. He didn't want to hurt her. If she cried--he was atthe mercy of any woman who cried. 

"Give up your training?"

"What else can I do? This sort of thing cannot go on, Dr. Max. "

She did cry then--real tears; and he went over beside her and took herin his arms. 

"Don't do that, " he said. "Please don't do that. You make me feel likea scoundrel, and I've only been taking a little bit of happiness. That'sall. I swear it. "

She lifted her head from his shoulder. 

"You mean you are happy with me?"

"Very, very happy, " said Dr. Max, and kissed her again on the lips. 

The one element Carlotta had left out of her calculations was herself. She had known the man, had taken the situation at its proper value. Butshe had left out this important factor in the equation, --that factorwhich in every relationship between man and woman determines theequation, --the woman. 

Into her calculating ambition had come a new and destroying element. Shewho, like K. In his little room on the Street, had put aside love andthe things thereof, found that it would not be put aside. By the end ofher short vacation Carlotta Harrison was wildly in love with the youngerWilson. 

They continued to meet, not as often as before, but once a week, perhaps. The meetings were full of danger now; and if for the girl theylost by this quality, they gained attraction for the man. She was shrewdenough to realize her own situation. The thing had gone wrong. Shecared, and he did not. It was all a game now, not hers. 

All women are intuitive; women in love are dangerously so. As well asshe knew that his passion for her was not the real thing, so also sherealized that there was growing up in his heart something akin to thereal thing for Sidney Page. Suspicion became certainty after a talkthey had over the supper table at a country road-house the day afterChristine's wedding. 

"How was the wedding--tiresome?" she asked. 

"Thrilling! There's always something thrilling to me in a man tyinghimself up for life to one woman. It's--it's so reckless. "

Her eyes narrowed. "That's not exactly the Law and the Prophets, is it?"

"It's the truth. To think of selecting out of all the world one woman, and electing to spend the rest of one's days with her! Although--"

His eyes looked past Carlotta into distance. 

"Sidney Page was one of the bridesmaids, " he said irrelevantly. "She waslovelier than the bride. "

"Pretty, but stupid, " said Carlotta. "I like her. I've really tried toteach her things, but--you know--" She shrugged her shoulders. 

Dr. Max was learning wisdom. If there was a twinkle in his eye, heveiled it discreetly. But, once again in the machine, he bent over andput his cheek against hers. 

"You little cat! You're jealous, " he said exultantly. 

Nevertheless, although he might smile, the image of Sidney lay veryclose to his heart those autumn days. And Carlotta knew it. 

Sidney came off night duty the middle of November. The night duty hadbeen a time of comparative peace to Carlotta. There were no eveningswhen Dr. Max could bring Sidney back to the hospital in his car. 

Sidney's half-days at home were occasions for agonies of jealousy onCarlotta's part. On such an occasion, a month after the wedding, shecould not contain herself. She pleaded her old excuse of headache, andtook the trolley to a point near the end of the Street. After twilightfell, she slowly walked the length of the Street. Christine and Palmerhad not returned from their wedding journey. The November evening wasnot cold, and on the little balcony sat Sidney and Dr. Max. K. Wasthere, too, had she only known it, sitting back in the shadow and sayinglittle, his steady eyes on Sidney's profile. 

But this Carlotta did not know. She went on down the Street in a frenzyof jealous anger. 

After that two ideas ran concurrent in Carlotta's mind: one was to getSidney out of the way, the other was to make Wilson propose to her. Inher heart she knew that on the first depended the second. 

A week later she made the same frantic excursion, but with a differentresult. Sidney was not in sight, or Wilson. But standing on the woodendoorstep of the little house was Le Moyne. The ailanthus trees werebare at that time, throwing gaunt arms upward to the November sky. Thestreet-lamp, which in the summer left the doorstep in the shadow, nowshone through the branches and threw into strong relief Le Moyne's tallfigure and set face. Carlotta saw him too late to retreat. But hedid not see her. She went on, startled, her busy brain scheming anew. Another element had entered into her plotting. It was the first timeshe had known that K. Lived in the Page house. It gave her a sense ofuncertainty and deadly fear. 

She made her first friendly overture of many days to Sidney thefollowing day. They met in the locker-room in the basement where thestreet clothing for the ward patients was kept. Here, rolled in bundlesand ticketed, side by side lay the heterogeneous garments in whichthe patients had met accident or illness. Rags and tidiness, filth andcleanliness, lay almost touching. 

Far away on the other side of the white-washed basement, men wereunloading gleaming cans of milk. Floods of sunlight came down thecellar-way, touching their white coats and turning the cans to silver. Everywhere was the religion of the hospital, which is order. 

Sidney, harking back from recent slights to the staircase conversationof her night duty, smiled at Carlotta cheerfully. 

"A miracle is happening, " she said. "Grace Irving is going out to-day. When one remembers how ill she was and how we thought she could notlive, it's rather a triumph, isn't it?"

"Are those her clothes?"

Sidney examined with some dismay the elaborate negligee garments in herhand. 

"She can't go out in those; I shall have to lend her something. " Alittle of the light died out of her face. "She's had a hard fight, andshe has won, " she said. "But when I think of what she's probably goingback to--"

Carlotta shrugged her shoulders. 

"It's all in the day's work, " she observed indifferently. "You can takethem up into the kitchen and give them steady work paring potatoes, orput them in the laundry ironing. In the end it's the same thing. Theyall go back. "

She drew a package from the locker and looked at it ruefully. 

"Well, what do you know about this? Here's a woman who came in in anightgown and pair of slippers. And now she wants to go out in half anhour!"

She turned, on her way out of the locker-room, and shot a quick glanceat Sidney. 

"I happened to be on your street the other night, " she said. "You liveacross the street from Wilsons', don't you?"

"Yes. "

"I thought so; I had heard you speak of the house. Your--your brotherwas standing on the steps. "

Sidney laughed. 

"I have no brother. That's a roomer, a Mr. Le Moyne. It isn't reallyright to call him a roomer; he's one of the family now. "

"Le Moyne!"

He had even taken another name. It had hit him hard, for sure. 

K. 's name had struck an always responsive chord in Sidney. The two girlswent toward the elevator together. With a very little encouragement, Sidney talked of K. She was pleased at Miss Harrison's friendly tone, glad that things were all right between them again. At her floor, sheput a timid hand on the girl's arm. 

"I was afraid I had offended you or displeased you, " she said. "I'm soglad it isn't so. "

Carlotta shivered under her hand. 

Things were not going any too well with K. True, he had received hispromotion at the office, and with this present affluence of twenty-twodollars a week he was able to do several things. Mrs. Rosenfeld nowwashed and ironed one day a week at the little house, so that Katiemight have more time to look after Anna. He had increased also theamount of money that he periodically sent East. 

So far, well enough. The thing that rankled and filled him with a senseof failure was Max Wilson's attitude. It was not unfriendly; it was, indeed, consistently respectful, almost reverential. But he clearlyconsidered Le Moyne's position absurd. 

There was no true comradeship between the two men; but there wasbeginning to be constant association, and lately a certain amount offriction. They thought differently about almost everything. 

Wilson began to bring all his problems to Le Moyne. There were longconsultations in that small upper room. Perhaps more than one man orwoman who did not know of K. 's existence owed his life to him that fall. 

Under K. 's direction, Max did marvels. Cases began to come in to himfrom the surrounding towns. To his own daring was added a new andremarkable technique. But Le Moyne, who had found resignation if notcontent, was once again in touch with the work he loved. There weretimes when, having thrashed a case out together and outlined the nextday's work for Max, he would walk for hours into the night out over thehills, fighting his battle. The longing was on him to be in the thickof things again. The thought of the gas office and its deadly roundsickened him. 

It was on one of his long walks that K. Found Tillie. 

It was December then, gray and raw, with a wet snow that changed torain as it fell. The country roads were ankle-deep with mud, the waysidepaths thick with sodden leaves. The dreariness of the countryside thatSaturday afternoon suited his mood. He had ridden to the end of thestreet-car line, and started his walk from there. As was his custom, hewore no overcoat, but a short sweater under his coat. Somewhere alongthe road he had picked up a mongrel dog, and, as if in sheer desire forhuman society, it trotted companionably at his heels. 

Seven miles from the end of the car line he found a road-house, andstopped in for a glass of Scotch. He was chilled through. The dogwent in with him, and stood looking up into his face. It was as if hesubmitted, but wondered why this indoors, with the scents of the roadahead and the trails of rabbits over the fields. 

The house was set in a valley at the foot of two hills. Through the mistof the December afternoon, it had loomed pleasantly before him. The doorwas ajar, and he stepped into a little hall covered with ingrain carpet. To the right was the dining-room, the table covered with a white cloth, and in its exact center an uncompromising bunch of dried flowers. To theleft, the typical parlor of such places. It might have been the parlorof the White Springs Hotel in duplicate, plush self-rocker and all. Overeverything was silence and a pervading smell of fresh varnish. The housewas aggressive with new paint--the sagging old floors shone with it, thedoors gleamed. 

"Hello!" called K. 

There were slow footsteps upstairs, the closing of a bureau drawer, the rustle of a woman's dress coming down the stairs. K. , standinguncertainly on a carpet oasis that was the center of the parlor varnish, stripped off his sweater. 

"Not very busy here this afternoon!" he said to the unseen female on thestaircase. Then he saw her. It was Tillie. She put a hand against thedoorframe to steady herself. Tillie surely, but a new Tillie! With herhair loosened around her face, a fresh blue chintz dress open at thethroat, a black velvet bow on her breast, here was a Tillie fuller, infinitely more attractive, than he had remembered her. But she did notsmile at him. There was something about her eyes not unlike the dog'sexpression, submissive, but questioning. 

"Well, you've found me, Mr. Le Moyne. " And, when he held out his hand, smiling: "I just had to do it, Mr. K. "

"And how's everything going? You look mighty fine and--happy, Tillie. "

"I'm all right. Mr. Schwitter's gone to the postoffice. He'll be back atfive. Will you have a cup of tea, or will you have something else?"

The instinct of the Street was still strong in Tillie. The Street didnot approve of "something else. "

"Scotch-and-soda, " said Le Moyne. "And shall I buy a ticket for you topunch?"

But she only smiled faintly. He was sorry he had made the blunder. Evidently the Street and all that pertained was a sore subject. 

So this was Tillie's new home! It was for this that she had exchangedthe virginal integrity of her life at Mrs. McKee's--for this wind-sweptlittle house, tidily ugly, infinitely lonely. There were two crayonenlargements over the mantel. One was Schwitter, evidently. Theother was the paper-doll wife. K. Wondered what curious instinct ofself-abnegation had caused Tillie to leave the wife there undisturbed. Back of its position of honor he saw the girl's realization of her ownsituation. On a wooden shelf, exactly between the two pictures, wasanother vase of dried flowers. 

Tillie brought the Scotch, already mixed, in a tall glass. K. Wouldhave preferred to mix it himself, but the Scotch was good. He felt a newrespect for Mr. Schwitter. 

"You gave me a turn at first, " said Tillie. "But I am right glad to seeyou, Mr. Le Moyne. Now that the roads are bad, nobody comes very much. It's lonely. "

Until now, K. And Tillie, when they met, had met conversationally on thecommon ground of food. They no longer had that, and between them bothlay like a barrier their last conversation. 

"Are you happy, Tillie?" said K. Suddenly. 

"I expected you'd ask me that. I've been thinking what to say. "

Her reply set him watching her face. More attractive it certainly was, but happy? There was a wistfulness about Tillie's mouth that set himwondering. 

"Is he good to you?"

"He's about the best man on earth. He's never said a cross word tome--even at first, when I was panicky and scared at every sound. "

Le Moyne nodded understandingly. 

"I burned a lot of victuals when I first came, running off and hidingwhen I heard people around the place. It used to seem to me that whatI'd done was written on my face. But he never said a word. "

"That's over now?"

"I don't run. I am still frightened. "

"Then it has been worth while?"

Tillie glanced up at the two pictures over the mantel. 

"Sometimes it is--when he comes in tired, and I've a chicken ready orsome fried ham and eggs for his supper, and I see him begin to lookrested. He lights his pipe, and many an evening he helps me with thedishes. He's happy; he's getting fat. "

"But you?" Le Moyne persisted. 

"I wouldn't go back to where I was, but I am not happy, Mr. Le Moyne. There's no use pretending. I want a baby. All along I've wanted a baby. He wants one. This place is his, and he'd like a boy to come into itwhen he's gone. But, my God! if I did have one; what would it be?"

K. 's eyes followed hers to the picture and the everlastings underneath. 

"And she--there isn't any prospect of her--?"

"No. "

There was no solution to Tillie's problem. Le Moyne, standing on thehearth and looking down at her, realized that, after all, Tillie mustwork out her own salvation. He could offer her no comfort. 

They talked far into the growing twilight of the afternoon. Tillie washungry for news of the Street: must know of Christine's wedding, ofHarriet, of Sidney in her hospital. And when he had told her all, shesat silent, rolling her handkerchief in her fingers. Then:--

"Take the four of us, " she said suddenly, --"Christine Lorenz and SidneyPage and Miss Harriet and me, --and which one would you have picked togo wrong like this? I guess, from the looks of things, most folks wouldhave thought it would be the Lorenz girl. They'd have picked HarrietKennedy for the hospital, and me for the dressmaking, and it would havebeen Sidney Page that got married and had an automobile. Well, that'slife. "

She looked up at K. Shrewdly. 

"There were some people out here lately. They didn't know me, and Iheard them talking. They said Sidney Page was going to marry Dr. MaxWilson. "

"Possibly. I believe there is no engagement yet. "

He had finished with his glass. Tillie rose to take it away. As shestood before him she looked up into his face. 

"If you like her as well as I think you do, Mr. Le Moyne, you won't lethim get her. "

"I am afraid that's not up to me, is it? What would I do with a wife, Tillie?"

"You'd be faithful to her. That's more than he would be. I guess, in thelong run, that would count more than money. "

That was what K. Took home with him after his encounter with Tillie. Hepondered it on his way back to the street-car, as he struggled againstthe wind. The weather had changed. Wagon-tracks along the road werefilled with water and had begun to freeze. The rain had turned to adriving sleet that cut his face. Halfway to the trolley line, the dogturned off into a by-road. K. Did not miss him. The dog stared afterhim, one foot raised. Once again his eyes were like Tillie's, as she hadwaved good-bye from the porch. 

His head sunk on his breast, K. Covered miles of road with his long, swinging pace, and fought his battle. Was Tillie right, after all, andhad he been wrong? Why should he efface himself, if it meant Sidney'sunhappiness? Why not accept Wilson's offer and start over again? Thenif things went well--the temptation was strong that stormy afternoon. Heput it from him at last, because of the conviction that whatever he didwould make no change in Sidney's ultimate decision. If she cared enoughfor Wilson, she would marry him. He felt that she cared enough. 

CHAPTER XV

Palmer and Christine returned from their wedding trip the day K. Discovered Tillie. Anna Page made much of the arrival, insisted ondinner for them that night at the little house, must help Christineunpack her trunks and arrange her wedding gifts about the apartment. Shewas brighter than she had been for days, more interested. The wonders ofthe trousseau filled her with admiration and a sort of jealous envy forSidney, who could have none of these things. In a pathetic sort of way, she mothered Christine in lieu of her own daughter. 

And it was her quick eye that discerned something wrong. Christine wasnot quite happy. Under her excitement was an undercurrent of reserve. Anna, rich in maternity if in nothing else, felt it, and in reply tosome speech of Christine's that struck her as hard, not quite fitting, she gave her a gentle admonishing. 

"Married life takes a little adjusting, my dear, " she said. "After wehave lived to ourselves for a number of years, it is not easy to livefor some one else. "

Christine straightened from the tea-table she was arranging. 

"That's true, of course. But why should the woman do all the adjusting?"

"Men are more set, " said poor Anna, who had never been set in anythingin her life. "It is harder for them to give in. And, of course, Palmeris older, and his habits--"

"The less said about Palmer's habits the better, " flashed Christine. "Iappear to have married a bunch of habits. "

She gave over her unpacking, and sat down listlessly by the fire, whileAnna moved about, busy with the small activities that delighted her. 

Six weeks of Palmer's society in unlimited amounts had bored Christineto distraction. She sat with folded hands and looked into a future thatseemed to include nothing but Palmer: Palmer asleep with his mouth open;Palmer shaving before breakfast, and irritable until he had had hiscoffee; Palmer yawning over the newspaper. 

And there was a darker side to the picture than that. There was a visionof Palmer slipping quietly into his room and falling into the heavysleep, not of drunkenness perhaps, but of drink. That had happenedtwice. She knew now that it would happen again and again, as long as helived. Drinking leads to other things. The letter she had received onher wedding day was burned into her brain. There would be that in thefuture too, probably. 

Christine was not without courage. She was making a brave clutchat happiness. But that afternoon of the first day at home she wasterrified. She was glad when Anna went and left her alone by her fire. 

But when she heard a step in the hall, she opened the door herself. Shehad determined to meet Palmer with a smile. Tears brought nothing;she had learned that already. Men liked smiling women and good cheer. "Daughters of joy, " they called girls like the one on the Avenue. So sheopened the door smiling. 

But it was K. In the hall. She waited while, with his back to her, heshook himself like a great dog. When he turned, she was watching him. 

"You!" said Le Moyne. "Why, welcome home. "

He smiled down at her, his kindly eyes lighting. 

"It's good to be home and to see you again. Won't you come in to myfire?"

"I'm wet. "

"All the more reason why you should come, " she cried gayly, and held thedoor wide. 

The little parlor was cheerful with fire and soft lamps, bright withsilver vases full of flowers. K. Stepped inside and took a criticalsurvey of the room. 

"Well!" he said. "Between us we have made a pretty good job of this, Iwith the paper and the wiring, and you with your pretty furnishings andyour pretty self. "

He glanced at her appreciatively. Christine saw his approval, and washappier than she had been for weeks. She put on the thousand little airsand graces that were a part of her--held her chin high, looked up athim with the little appealing glances that she had found were wasted onPalmer. She lighted the spirit-lamp to make tea, drew out the best chairfor him, and patted a cushion with her well-cared-for hands. 

"A big chair for a big man!" she said. "And see, here's a footstool. "

"I am ridiculously fond of being babied, " said K. , and quite basked inhis new atmosphere of well-being. This was better than his empty roomupstairs, than tramping along country roads, than his own thoughts. 

"And now, how is everything?" asked Christine from across the fire. "Dotell me all the scandal of the Street. "

"There has been no scandal since you went away, " said K. And, becauseeach was glad not to be left to his own thoughts, they laughed at thisbit of unconscious humor. 

"Seriously, " said Le Moyne, "we have been very quiet. I have had mysalary raised and am now rejoicing in twenty-two dollars a week. Iam still not accustomed to it. Just when I had all my ideas fixed forfifteen, I get twenty-two and have to reassemble them. I am disgustinglyrich. "

"It is very disagreeable when one's income becomes a burden, " saidChristine gravely. 

She was finding in Le Moyne something that she needed just then--asolidity, a sort of dependability, that had nothing to do withheaviness. She felt that here was a man she could trust, almost confidein. She liked his long hands, his shabby but well-cut clothes, his fineprofile with its strong chin. She left off her little affectations, --atribute to his own lack of them, --and sat back in her chair, watchingthe fire. 

When K. Chose, he could talk well. The Howes had been to Bermuda ontheir wedding trip. He knew Bermuda; that gave them a common ground. Christine relaxed under his steady voice. As for K. , he frankly enjoyedthe little visit--drew himself at last with regret out of his chair. 

"You've been very nice to ask me in, Mrs. Howe, " he said. "I hope youwill allow me to come again. But, of course, you are going to be verygay. "

It seemed to Christine she would never be gay again. She did notwant him to go away. The sound of his deep voice gave her a sense ofsecurity. She liked the clasp of the hand he held out to her, when atlast he made a move toward the door. 

"Tell Mr. Howe I am sorry he missed our little party, " said Le Moyne. "And--thank you. "

"Will you come again?" asked Christine rather wistfully. 

"Just as often as you ask me. "

As he closed the door behind him, there was a new light in Christine'seyes. Things were not right, but, after all, they were not hopeless. Onemight still have friends, big and strong, steady of eye and voice. WhenPalmer came home, the smile she gave him was not forced. 

The day's exertion had been bad for Anna. Le Moyne found her on thecouch in the transformed sewing-room, and gave her a quick glance ofapprehension. She was propped up high with pillows, with a bottle ofaromatic ammonia beside her. 

"Just--short of breath, " she panted. "I--I must get down. Sidney--iscoming home--to supper; and--the others--Palmer and--"

That was as far as she got. K. , watch in hand, found her pulse thin, stringy, irregular. He had been prepared for some such emergency, and hehurried into his room for amyl-nitrate. When he came back she was almostunconscious. There was no time even to call Katie. He broke the capsulein a towel, and held it over her face. After a time the spasm relaxed, but her condition remained alarming. 

Harriet, who had come home by that time, sat by the couch and held hersister's hand. Only once in the next hour or so did she speak. They hadsent for Dr. Ed, but he had not come yet. Harriet was too wretched tonotice the professional manner in which K. Set to work over Anna. 

"I've been a very hard sister to her, " she said. "If you can pull herthrough, I'll try to make up for it. "

Christine sat on the stairs outside, frightened and helpless. They hadsent for Sidney; but the little house had no telephone, and the messagewas slow in getting off. 

At six o'clock Dr. Ed came panting up the stairs and into the room. K. Stood back. 

"Well, this is sad, Harriet, " said Dr. Ed. "Why in the name of Heaven, when I wasn't around, didn't you get another doctor. If she had had someamyl-nitrate--"

"I gave her some nitrate of amyl, " said K. Quietly. "There was really notime to send for anybody. She almost went under at half-past five. "

Max had kept his word, and even Dr. Ed did not suspect K. 's secret. Hegave a quick glance at this tall young man who spoke so quietly of whathe had done for the sick woman, and went on with his work. 

Sidney arrived a little after six, and from that moment the confusion inthe sick-room was at an end. She moved Christine from the stairs, where Katie on her numerous errands must crawl over her; set Harriet towarming her mother's bed and getting it ready; opened windows, broughtorder and quiet. And then, with death in her eyes, she took up herposition beside her mother. This was no time for weeping; that wouldcome later. Once she turned to K. , standing watchfully beside her. 

"I think you have known this for a long time, " she said. And, when hedid not answer: "Why did you let me stay away from her? It would havebeen such a little time!"

"We were trying to do our best for both of you, " he replied. 

Anna was unconscious and sinking fast. One thought obsessed Sidney. She repeated it over and over. It came as a cry from the depths of thegirl's new experience. 

"She has had so little of life, " she said, over and over. "So little!Just this Street. She never knew anything else. "

And finally K. Took it up. 

"After all, Sidney, " he said, "the Street IS life: the world is onlymany streets. She had a great deal. She had love and content, and shehad you. "

Anna died a little after midnight, a quiet passing, so that only Sidneyand the two men knew when she went away. It was Harriet who collapsed. During all that long evening she had sat looking back over years ofsmall unkindnesses. The thorn of Anna's inefficiency had always rankledin her flesh. She had been hard, uncompromising, thwarted. And now itwas forever too late. 

K. Had watched Sidney carefully. Once he thought she was fainting, andwent to her. But she shook her head. 

"I am all right. Do you think you could get them all out of the room andlet me have her alone for just a few minutes?"

He cleared the room, and took up his vigil outside the door. And, as hestood there, he thought of what he had said to Sidney about the Street. It was a world of its own. Here in this very house were death andseparation; Harriet's starved life; Christine and Palmer beginning along and doubtful future together; himself, a failure, and an impostor. 

When he opened the door again, Sidney was standing by her mother's bed. He went to her, and she turned and put her head against his shoulderlike a tired child. 

"Take me away, K. , " she said pitifully. 

And, with his arm around her, he led her out of the room. 

Outside of her small immediate circle Anna's death was hardly felt. The little house went on much as before. Harriet carried back to herbusiness a heaviness of spirit that made it difficult to bear withthe small irritations of her day. Perhaps Anna's incapacity, which hadalways annoyed her, had been physical. She must have had her trouble alongtime. She remembered other women of the Street who had crept throughinefficient days, and had at last laid down their burdens and closedtheir mild eyes, to the lasting astonishment of their families. What didthey think about, these women, as they pottered about? Did they resentthe impatience that met their lagging movements, the indifferencethat would not see how they were failing? Hot tears fell on Harriet'sfashion-book as it lay on her knee. Not only for Anna--for Anna'sprototypes everywhere. 

On Sidney--and in less measure, of course, on K. --fell the real brunt ofthe disaster. Sidney kept up well until after the funeral, but went downthe next day with a low fever. 

"Overwork and grief, " Dr. Ed said, and sternly forbade the hospitalagain until Christmas. Morning and evening K. Stopped at her door andinquired for her, and morning and evening came Sidney's reply:--

"Much better. I'll surely be up to-morrow!"

But the days dragged on and she did not get about. 

Downstairs, Christine and Palmer had entered on the round of midwintergayeties. Palmer's "crowd" was a lively one. There were dinnersand dances, week-end excursions to country-houses. The Street grewaccustomed to seeing automobiles stop before the little house at allhours of the night. Johnny Rosenfeld, driving Palmer's car, took tofalling asleep at the wheel in broad daylight, and voiced his discontentto his mother. 

"You never know where you are with them guys, " he said briefly. "Westart out for half an hour's run in the evening, and get home with themilk-wagons. And the more some of them have had to drink, the more theywant to drive the machine. If I get a chance, I'm going to beat it whilethe wind's my way. "

But, talk as he might, in Johnny Rosenfeld's loyal heart there was nothought of desertion. Palmer had given him a man's job, and he wouldstick by it, no matter what came. 

There were some things that Johnny Rosenfeld did not tell his mother. There were evenings when the Howe car was filled, not with Christineand her friends, but with women of a different world; evenings when thedestination was not a country estate, but a road-house; evenings whenJohnny Rosenfeld, ousted from the driver's seat by some drunken youth, would hold tight to the swinging car and say such fragments of prayersas he could remember. Johnny Rosenfeld, who had started life with fewillusions, was in danger of losing such as he had. 

One such night Christine put in, lying wakefully in her bed, while theclock on the mantel tolled hour after hour into the night. Palmer didnot come home at all. He sent a note from the office in the morning:

"I hope you are not worried, darling. The car broke down near theCountry Club last night, and there was nothing to do but to spend thenight there. I would have sent you word, but I did not want to rouseyou. What do you say to the theater to-night and supper afterward?"

Christine was learning. She telephoned the Country Club that morning, and found that Palmer had not been there. But, although she knew nowthat he was deceiving her, as he always had deceived her, as probablyhe always would, she hesitated to confront him with what she knew. Sheshrank, as many a woman has shrunk before, from confronting him with hislie. 

But the second time it happened, she was roused. It was almost Christmasthen, and Sidney was well on the way to recovery, thinner and verywhite, but going slowly up and down the staircase on K. 's arm, andsitting with Harriet and K. At the dinner table. She was begging to beback on duty for Christmas, and K. Felt that he would have to give herup soon. 

At three o'clock one morning Sidney roused from a light sleep to hear arapping on her door. 

"Is that you, Aunt Harriet?" she called. 

"It's Christine. May I come in?"

Sidney unlocked her door. Christine slipped into the room. She carried acandle, and before she spoke she looked at Sidney's watch on the bedsidetable. 

"I hoped my clock was wrong, " she said. "I am sorry to waken you, Sidney, but I don't know what to do. "

"Are you ill?"

"No. Palmer has not come home. "

"What time is it?"

"After three o'clock. "

Sidney had lighted the gas and was throwing on her dressing-gown. 

"When he went out did he say--"

"He said nothing. We had been quarreling. Sidney, I am going home in themorning. "

"You don't mean that, do you?"

"Don't I look as if I mean it? How much of this sort of thing is a womansupposed to endure?"

"Perhaps he has been delayed. These things always seem terrible in themiddle of the night, but by morning--"

Christine whirled on her. 

"This isn't the first time. You remember the letter I got on my weddingday?"

"Yes. "

"He's gone back to her. "

"Christine! Oh, I am sure you're wrong. He's devoted to you. I don'tbelieve it!"

"Believe it or not, " said Christine doggedly, "that's exactly what hashappened. I got something out of that little rat of a Rosenfeld boy, andthe rest I know because I know Palmer. He's out with her to-night. "

The hospital had taught Sidney one thing: that it took many people tomake a world, and that out of these some were inevitably vicious. Butvice had remained for her a clear abstraction. There were such people, and because one was in the world for service one cared for them. Eventhe Saviour had been kind to the woman of the streets. 

But here abruptly Sidney found the great injustice of the world--thatbecause of this vice the good suffer more than the wicked. Her youngspirit rose in hot rebellion. 

"It isn't fair!" she cried. "It makes me hate all the men in the world. Palmer cares for you, and yet he can do a thing like this!"

Christine was pacing nervously up and down the room. Mere companionshiphad soothed her. She was now, on the surface at least, less excited thanSidney. 

"They are not all like Palmer, thank Heaven, " she said. "There aredecent men. My father is one, and your K. , here in the house, isanother. "

At four o'clock in the morning Palmer Howe came home. Christine methim in the lower hall. He was rather pale, but entirely sober. Sheconfronted him in her straight white gown and waited for him to speak. 

"I am sorry to be so late, Chris, " he said. "The fact is, I am all in. Iwas driving the car out Seven Mile Run. We blew out a tire and the thingturned over. "

Christine noticed then that his right arm was hanging inert by his side. 

CHAPTER XVI

Young Howe had been firmly resolved to give up all his bachelor habitswith his wedding day. In his indolent, rather selfish way, he was muchin love with his wife. 

But with the inevitable misunderstandings of the first months ofmarriage had come a desire to be appreciated once again at his facevalue. Grace had taken him, not for what he was, but for what he seemedto be. With Christine the veil was rent. She knew him now--all his smallindolences, his affectations, his weaknesses. Later on, like otherwomen since the world began, she would learn to dissemble, to affect tobelieve him what he was not. 

Grace had learned this lesson long ago. It was the ABC of her knowledge. And so, back to Grace six weeks after his wedding day came PalmerHowe, not with a suggestion to renew the old relationship, but forcomradeship. 

Christine sulked--he wanted good cheer; Christine was intolerant--hewanted tolerance; she disapproved of him and showed her disapproval--hewanted approval. He wanted life to be comfortable and cheerful, withoutrecriminations, a little work and much play, a drink when one wasthirsty. Distorted though it was, and founded on a wrong basis, perhaps, deep in his heart Palmer's only longing was for happiness; but thishappiness must be of an active sort--not content, which is passive, butenjoyment. 

"Come on out, " he said. "I've got a car now. No taxi working its headoff for us. Just a little run over the country roads, eh?"

It was the afternoon of the day before Christine's night visit toSidney. The office had been closed, owing to a death, and Palmer was inpossession of a holiday. 

"Come on, " he coaxed. "We'll go out to the Climbing Rose and havesupper. "

"I don't want to go. "

"That's not true, Grace, and you know it. "

"You and I are through. "

"It's your doing, not mine. The roads are frozen hard; an hour's runinto the country will bring your color back. "

"Much you care about that. Go and ride with your wife, " said the girl, and flung away from him. 

The last few weeks had filled out her thin figure, but she still boretraces of her illness. Her short hair was curled over her head. Shelooked curiously boyish, almost sexless. 

Because she saw him wince when she mentioned Christine, her ill temperincreased. She showed her teeth. 

"You get out of here, " she said suddenly. "I didn't ask you to comeback. I don't want you. "

"Good Heavens, Grace! You always knew I would have to marry some day. "

"I was sick; I nearly died. I didn't hear any reports of you hangingaround the hospital to learn how I was getting along. "

He laughed rather sheepishly. 

"I had to be careful. You know that as well as I do. I know half thestaff there. Besides, one of--" He hesitated over his wife's name. "Agirl I know very well was in the training-school. There would have beenthe devil to pay if I'd as much as called up. "

"You never told me you were going to get married. "

Cornered, he slipped an arm around her. But she shook him off. 

"I meant to tell you, honey; but you got sick. Anyhow, I--I hated totell you, honey. "

He had furnished the flat for her. There was a comfortable feeling ofcoming home about going there again. And, now that the worst minute oftheir meeting was over, he was visibly happier. But Grace continued tostand eyeing him somberly. 

"I've got something to tell you, " she said. "Don't have a fit, and don'tlaugh. If you do, I'll--I'll jump out of the window. I've got a place ina store. I'm going to be straight, Palmer. "

"Good for you!"

He meant it. She was a nice girl and he was fond of her. The other wasa dog's life. And he was not unselfish about it. She could not belong tohim. He did not want her to belong to any one else. 

"One of the nurses in the hospital, a Miss Page, has got me something todo at Lipton and Homburg's. I am going on for the January white sale. IfI make good they will keep me. "

He had put her aside without a qualm; and now he met her announcementwith approval. He meant to let her alone. They would have a holidaytogether, and then they would say good-bye. And she had not fooled him. She still cared. He was getting off well, all things considered. Shemight have raised a row. 

"Good work!" he said. "You'll be a lot happier. But that isn't anyreason why we shouldn't be friends, is it? Just friends; I mean that. I would like to feel that I can stop in now and then and say how do youdo. "

"I promised Miss Page. "

"Never mind Miss Page. "

The mention of Sidney's name brought up in his mind Christine as he hadleft her that morning. He scowled. Things were not going well at home. There was something wrong with Christine. She used to be a good sport, but she had never been the same since the day of the wedding. He thoughther attitude toward him was one of suspicion. It made him uncomfortable. But any attempt on his part to fathom it only met with cold silence. That had been her attitude that morning. 

"I'll tell you what we'll do, " he said. "We won't go to any of the oldplaces. I've found a new roadhouse in the country that's respectableenough to suit anybody. We'll go out to Schwitter's and get some dinner. I'll promise to get you back early. How's that?"

In the end she gave in. And on the way out he lived up to the letter oftheir agreement. The situation exhilarated him: Grace with her new airof virtue, her new aloofness; his comfortable car; Johnny Rosenfeld'sdiscreet back and alert ears. 

The adventure had all the thrill of a new conquest in it. He treated thegirl with deference, did not insist when she refused a cigarette, feltglowingly virtuous and exultant at the same time. 

When the car drew up before the Schwitter place, he slipped afive-dollar bill into Johnny Rosenfeld's not over-clean hand. 

"I don't mind the ears, " he said. "Just watch your tongue, lad. " AndJohnny stalled his engine in sheer surprise. 

"There's just enough of the Jew in me, " said Johnny, "to know how totalk a lot and say nothing, Mr. Howe. "

He crawled stiffly out of the car and prepared to crank it. 

"I'll just give her the 'once over' now and then, " he said. "She'llfreeze solid if I let her stand. "

Grace had gone up the narrow path to the house. She had the gift oflooking well in her clothes, and her small hat with its long quilland her motor-coat were chic and becoming. She never overdressed, asChristine was inclined to do. 

Fortunately for Palmer, Tillie did not see him. A heavy German maidwaited at the table in the dining-room, while Tillie baked waffles inthe kitchen. 

Johnny Rosenfeld, going around the side path to the kitchen door withvisions of hot coffee and a country supper for his frozen stomach, sawher through the window bending flushed over the stove, and hesitated. Then, without a word, he tiptoed back to the car again, and, crawlinginto the tonneau, covered himself with rugs. In his untutored mind werecertain great qualities, and loyalty to his employer was one. The fivedollars in his pocket had nothing whatever to do with it. 

At eighteen he had developed a philosophy of four words. It took theplace of the Golden Rule, the Ten Commandments, and the Catechism. Itwas: "Mind your own business. "

The discovery of Tillie's hiding-place interested but did not thrillhim. Tillie was his cousin. If she wanted to do the sort of thing shewas doing, that was her affair. Tillie and her middle-aged lover, PalmerHowe and Grace--the alley was not unfamiliar with such relationships. Itviewed them with tolerance until they were found out, when it raised itshands. 

True to his promise, Palmer wakened the sleeping boy before nineo'clock. Grace had eaten little and drunk nothing; but Howe was slightlystimulated. 

"Give her the 'once over, '" he told Johnny, "and then go back and crawlinto the rugs again. I'll drive in. "

Grace sat beside him. Their progress was slow and rough over thecountry roads, but when they reached the State road Howe threw open thethrottle. He drove well. The liquor was in his blood. He took chancesand got away with them, laughing at the girl's gasps of dismay. 

"Wait until I get beyond Simkinsville, " he said, "and I'll let her out. You're going to travel tonight, honey. "

The girl sat beside him with her eyes fixed ahead. He had been drinking, and the warmth of the liquor was in his voice. She was determined on onething. She was going to make him live up to the letter of his promise togo away at the house door; and more and more she realized that it wouldbe difficult. His mood was reckless, masterful. Instead of laughing whenshe drew back from a proffered caress, he turned surly. Obstinate linesthat she remembered appeared from his nostrils to the corners of hismouth. She was uneasy. 

Finally she hit on a plan to make him stop somewhere in her neighborhoodand let her get out of the car. She would not come back after that. 

There was another car going toward the city. Now it passed them, and asoften they passed it. It became a contest of wits. Palmer's car lost onthe hills, but gained on the long level stretches, which gleamed with acoating of thin ice. 

"I wish you'd let them get ahead, Palmer. It's silly and it's reckless. "

"I told you we'd travel to-night. "

He turned a little glance at her. What the deuce was the matter withwomen, anyhow? Were none of them cheerful any more? Here was Grace assober as Christine. He felt outraged, defrauded. 

His light car skidded and struck the big car heavily. On a smooth roadperhaps nothing more serious than broken mudguards would have been theresult. But on the ice the small car slewed around and slid over theedge of the bank. At the bottom of the declivity it turned over. 

Grace was flung clear of the wreckage. Howe freed himself and stooderect, with one arm hanging at his side. There was no sound at all fromthe boy under the tonneau. 

The big car had stopped. Down the bank plunged a heavy, gorilla-likefigure, long arms pushing aside the frozen branches of trees. When hereached the car, O'Hara found Grace sitting unhurt on the ground. In thewreck of the car the lamps had not been extinguished, and by their lighthe made out Howe, swaying dizzily. 

"Anybody underneath?"

"The chauffeur. He's dead, I think. He doesn't answer. "

The other members of O'Hara's party had crawled down the bank by thattime. With the aid of a jack, they got the car up. Johnny Rosenfeld laydoubled on his face underneath. When he came to and opened his eyes, Grace almost shrieked with relief. 

"I'm all right, " said Johnny Rosenfeld. And, when they offered himwhiskey: "Away with the fire-water. I am no drinker. I--I--" A spasm ofpain twisted his face. "I guess I'll get up. " With his arms he liftedhimself to a sitting position, and fell back again. 

"God!" he said. "I can't move my legs. "

CHAPTER XVII

By Christmas Day Sidney was back in the hospital, a little wan, butvaliantly determined to keep her life to its mark of service. She had atalk with K. The night before she left. 

Katie was out, and Sidney had put the dining-room in order. K. Sat bythe table and watched her as she moved about the room. 

The past few weeks had been very wonderful to him: to help her up anddown the stairs, to read to her in the evenings as she lay on the couchin the sewing-room; later, as she improved, to bring small dainties homefor her tray, and, having stood over Katie while she cooked them, tobear them in triumph to that upper room--he had not been so happy inyears. 

And now it was over. He drew a long breath. 

"I hope you don't feel as if you must stay on, " she said anxiously. "Notthat we don't want you--you know better than that. "

"There is no place else in the whole world that I want to go to, " hesaid simply. 

"I seem to be always relying on somebody's kindness to--to keep thingstogether. First, for years and years, it was Aunt Harriet; now it isyou. "

"Don't you realize that, instead of your being grateful to me, it isI who am undeniably grateful to you? This is home now. I have livedaround--in different places and in different ways. I would rather behere than anywhere else in the world. "

But he did not look at her. There was so much that was hopeless in hiseyes that he did not want her to see. She would be quite capable, hetold himself savagely, of marrying him out of sheer pity if she everguessed. And he was afraid--afraid, since he wanted her so much--that hewould be fool and weakling enough to take her even on those terms. So helooked away. 

Everything was ready for her return to the hospital. She had been outthat day to put flowers on the quiet grave where Anna lay with foldedhands; she had made her round of little visits on the Street; and nowher suit-case, packed, was in the hall. 

"In one way, it will be a little better for you than if Christine andPalmer were not in the house. You like Christine, don't you?"

"Very much. "

"She likes you, K. She depends on you, too, especially since that nightwhen you took care of Palmer's arm before we got Dr. Max. I often think, K. , what a good doctor you would have been. You knew so well what to dofor mother. "

She broke off. She still could not trust her voice about her mother. 

"Palmer's arm is going to be quite straight. Dr. Ed is so proud of Maxover it. It was a bad fracture. "

He had been waiting for that. Once at least, whenever they weretogether, she brought Max into the conversation. She was quiteunconscious of it. 

"You and Max are great friends. I knew you would like him. He isinteresting, don't you think?"

"Very, " said K. 

To save his life, he could not put any warmth into his voice. He wouldbe fair. It was not in human nature to expect more of him. 

"Those long talks you have, shut in your room--what in the world do youtalk about? Politics?"

"Occasionally. "

She was a little jealous of those evenings, when she sat alone, orwhen Harriet, sitting with her, made sketches under the lamp to theaccompaniment of a steady hum of masculine voices from across the hall. Not that she was ignored, of course. Max came in always, before he went, and, leaning over the back of a chair, would inform her of the absoluteblankness of life in the hospital without her. 

"I go every day because I must, " he would assure her gayly; "but, I tellyou, the snap is gone out of it. When there was a chance that every capwas YOUR cap, the mere progress along a corridor became thrilling. " Hehad a foreign trick of throwing out his hands, with a little shrug ofthe shoulders. "Cui bono?" he said--which, being translated, means:"What the devil's the use!"

And K. Would stand in the doorway, quietly smoking, or go back to hisroom and lock away in his trunk the great German books on surgery withwhich he and Max had been working out a case. 

So K. Sat by the dining-room table and listened to her talk of Max thatlast evening together. 

"I told Mrs. Rosenfeld to-day not to be too much discouraged aboutJohnny. I had seen Dr. Max do such wonderful things. Now that you aresuch friends, "--she eyed him wistfully, --"perhaps some day you will cometo one of his operations. Even if you didn't understand exactly, I knowit would thrill you. And--I'd like you to see me in my uniform, K. Younever have. "

She grew a little sad as the evening went on. She was going to miss K. Very much. While she was ill she had watched the clock for the time tolisten for him. She knew the way he slammed the front door. Palmer neverslammed the door. She knew too that, just after a bang that threatenedthe very glass in the transom, K. Would come to the foot of the stairsand call:--

"Ahoy, there!"

"Aye, aye, " she would answer--which was, he assured her, the properresponse. 

Whether he came up the stairs at once or took his way back to Katie haddepended on whether his tribute for the day was fruit or sweetbreads. 

Now that was all over. They were such good friends. He would miss her, too; but he would have Harriet and Christine and--Max. Back in a circleto Max, of course. 

She insisted, that last evening, on sitting up with him until midnightushered in Christmas Day. Christine and Palmer were out; Harriet, havingpresented Sidney with a blouse that had been left over in the shop fromthe autumn's business, had yawned herself to bed. 

When the bells announced midnight, Sidney roused with a start. Sherealized that neither of them had spoken, and that K. 's eyes werefixed on her. The little clock on the shelf took up the burden of thechurches, and struck the hour in quick staccato notes. 

Sidney rose and went over to K. , her black dress in soft folds abouther. 

"He is born, K. "

"He is born, dear. "

She stooped and kissed his cheek lightly. 

Christmas Day dawned thick and white. Sidney left the little house atsix, with the street light still burning through a mist of falling snow. 

The hospital wards and corridors were still lighted when she went onduty at seven o'clock. She had been assigned to the men's surgical ward, and went there at once. She had not seen Carlotta Harrison since hermother's death; but she found her on duty in the surgical ward. For thesecond time in four months, the two girls were working side by side. 

Sidney's recollection of her previous service under Carlotta made hernervous. But the older girl greeted her pleasantly. 

"We were all sorry to hear of your trouble, " she said. "I hope we shallget on nicely. "

Sidney surveyed the ward, full to overflowing. At the far end two cotshad been placed. 

"The ward is heavy, isn't it?"

"Very. I've been almost mad at dressing hour. There are three ofus--you, myself, and a probationer. "

The first light of the Christmas morning was coming through the windows. Carlotta put out the lights and turned in a business-like way to herrecords. 

"The probationer's name is Wardwell, " she said. "Perhaps you'd betterhelp her with the breakfasts. If there's any way to make a mistake, shemakes it. "

It was after eight when Sidney found Johnny Rosenfeld. 

"You here in the ward, Johnny!" she said. 

Suffering had refined the boy's features. His dark, heavily fringed eyeslooked at her from a pale face. But he smiled up at her cheerfully. 

"I was in a private room; but it cost thirty plunks a week, so I moved. Why pay rent?"

Sidney had not seen him since his accident. She had wished to go, but K. Had urged against it. She was not strong, and she had already sufferedmuch. And now the work of the ward pressed hard. She had only a moment. She stood beside him and stroked his hand. 

"I'm sorry, Johnny. "

He pretended to think that her sympathy was for his fall from the estateof a private patient to the free ward. 

"Oh, I'm all right, Miss Sidney, " he said. "Mr. Howe is paying sixdollars a week for me. The difference between me and the other fellowsaround here is that I get a napkin on my tray and they don't. "

Before his determined cheerfulness Sidney choked. 

"Six dollars a week for a napkin is going some. I wish you'd tell Mr. Howe to give ma the six dollars. She'll be needing it. I'm no bloatedaristocrat; I don't have to have a napkin. "

"Have they told you what the trouble is?"

"Back's broke. But don't let that worry you. Dr. Max Wilson is going tooperate on me. I'll be doing the tango yet. "

Sidney's eyes shone. Of course, Max could do it. What a thing it wasto be able to take this life-in-death of Johnny Rosenfeld's and make itlife again!

All sorts of men made up Sidney's world: the derelicts who wanderedthrough the ward in flapping slippers, listlessly carrying trays; theunshaven men in the beds, looking forward to another day of boredom, ifnot of pain; Palmer Howe with his broken arm; K. , tender and strong, butfilling no especial place in the world. Towering over them all was theyounger Wilson. He meant for her, that Christmas morning, all that theother men were not--to their weakness strength, courage, daring, power. 

Johnny Rosenfeld lay back on the pillows and watched her face. 

"When I was a kid, " he said, "and ran along the Street, calling Dr. Maxa dude, I never thought I'd lie here watching that door to see him comein. You have had trouble, too. Ain't it the hell of a world, anyhow? Itain't much of a Christmas to you, either. "

Sidney fed him his morning beef tea, and, because her eyes filled upwith tears now and then at his helplessness, she was not so skillful asshe might have been. When one spoonful had gone down his neck, he smiledup at her whimsically. 

"Run for your life. The dam's burst!" he said. 

As much as was possible, the hospital rested on that Christmas Day. Theinternes went about in fresh white ducks with sprays of mistletoe intheir buttonholes, doing few dressings. Over the upper floors, where thekitchens were located, spread toward noon the insidious odor of roastingturkeys. Every ward had its vase of holly. In the afternoon, serviceswere held in the chapel downstairs. 

Wheel-chairs made their slow progress along corridors and downelevators. Convalescents who were able to walk flapped along in carpetslippers. 

Gradually the chapel filled up. Outside the wide doors of the corridorthe wheel-chairs were arranged in a semicircle. Behind them, dressed forthe occasion, were the elevator-men, the orderlies, and Big John, whodrove the ambulance. 

On one side of the aisle, near the front, sat the nurses in rows, incrisp caps and fresh uniforms. On the other side had been reserved aplace for the staff. The internes stood back against the wall, ready torun out between rejoicings, as it were--for a cigarette or an ambulancecall, as the case might be. 

Over everything brooded the after-dinner peace of Christmas afternoon. 

The nurses sang, and Sidney sang with them, her fresh young voice risingabove the rest. Yellow winter sunlight came through the stained-glasswindows and shone on her lovely flushed face, her smooth kerchief, hercap, always just a little awry. 

Dr. Max, lounging against the wall, across the chapel, found his eyesstraying toward her constantly. How she stood out from the others! Whata zest for living and for happiness she had!

The Episcopal clergyman read the Epistle:

"Thou hast loved righteousness, and hated iniquity; therefore God, eventhy God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows. "

That was Sidney. She was good, and she had been anointed with the oil ofgladness. And he--

His brother was singing. His deep bass voice, not always true, boomedout above the sound of the small organ. Ed had been a good brother tohim; he had been a good son. 

Max's vagrant mind wandered away from the service to the picture of hismother over his brother's littered desk, to the Street, to K. , to thegirl who had refused to marry him because she did not trust him, toCarlotta last of all. He turned a little and ran his eyes along the lineof nurses. 

Ah, there she was. As if she were conscious of his scrutiny, she liftedher head and glanced toward him. Swift color flooded her face. 

The nurses sang:--

 "O holy Child of Bethlehem! Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born in us to-day. "

The wheel-chairs and convalescents quavered the familiar words. Dr. Ed'sheavy throat shook with earnestness. 

The Head, sitting a little apart with her hands folded in her lap andweary with the suffering of the world, closed her eyes and listened. 

The Christmas morning had brought Sidney half a dozen gifts. K. Sent hera silver thermometer case with her monogram, Christine a toilet mirror. But the gift of gifts, over which Sidney's eyes had glowed, was agreat box of roses marked in Dr. Max's copper-plate writing, "From aneighbor. "

Tucked in the soft folds of her kerchief was one of the roses thatafternoon. 

Services over, the nurses filed out. Max was waiting for Sidney in thecorridor. 

"Merry Christmas!" he said, and held out his hand. 

"Merry Christmas!" she said. "You see!"--she glanced down to the roseshe wore. "The others make the most splendid bit of color in the ward. "

"But they were for you!"

"They are not any the less mine because I am letting other people have achance to enjoy them. "

Under all his gayety he was curiously diffident with her. All the prettyspeeches he would have made to Carlotta under the circumstances diedbefore her frank glance. 

There were many things he wanted to say to her. He wanted to tell herthat he was sorry her mother had died; that the Street was empty withouther; that he looked forward to these daily meetings with her as a holyman to his hour before his saint. What he really said was to inquirepolitely whether she had had her Christmas dinner. 

Sidney eyed him, half amused, half hurt. 

"What have I done, Max? Is it bad for discipline for us to be goodfriends?"

"Damn discipline!" said the pride of the staff. 

Carlotta was watching them from the chapel. Something in her eyes rousedthe devil of mischief that always slumbered in him. 

"My car's been stalled in a snowdrift downtown since early this morning, and I have Ed's Peggy in a sleigh. Put on your things and come for aride. "

He hoped Carlotta could hear what he said; to be certain of it, hemaliciously raised his voice a trifle. 

"Just a little run, " he urged. "Put on your warmest things. "

Sidney protested. She was to be free that afternoon until six o'clock;but she had promised to go home. 

"K. Is alone. "

"K. Can sit with Christine. Ten to one, he's with her now. "

The temptation was very strong. She had been working hard all day. Theheavy odor of the hospital, mingled with the scent of pine and evergreenin the chapel; made her dizzy. The fresh outdoors called her. And, besides, if K. Were with Christine--

"It's forbidden, isn't it?"

"I believe it is. " He smiled at her. 

"And yet, you continue to tempt me and expect me to yield!"

"One of the most delightful things about temptation is yielding now andthen. "

After all, the situation seemed absurd. Here was her old friend andneighbor asking to take her out for a daylight ride. The swift rebellionof youth against authority surged up in Sidney. 

"Very well; I'll go. "

Carlotta had gone by that time--gone with hate in her heart and blackdespair. She knew very well what the issue would be. Sidney would drivewith him, and he would tell her how lovely she looked with the air onher face and the snow about her. The jerky motion of the little sleighwould throw them close together. How well she knew it all! He wouldtouch Sidney's hand daringly and smile in her eyes. That was his method:to play at love-making like an audacious boy, until quite suddenly thecloak dropped and the danger was there. 

The Christmas excitement had not died out in the ward when Carlotta wentback to it. On each bedside table was an orange, and beside it a pairof woolen gloves and a folded white handkerchief. There were sprays ofholly scattered about, too, and the after-dinner content of roast turkeyand ice-cream. 

The lame girl who played the violin limped down the corridor into theward. She was greeted with silence, that truest tribute, and with theinstant composing of the restless ward to peace. 

She was pretty in a young, pathetic way, and because to her Christmaswas a festival and meant hope and the promise of the young Lord, sheplayed cheerful things. 

The ward sat up, remembered that it was not the Sabbath, smiled acrossfrom bed to bed. 

The probationer, whose name was Wardwell, was a tall, lean girl with along, pointed nose. She kept up a running accompaniment of small talk tothe music. 

"Last Christmas, " she said plaintively, "we went out into the countryin a hay-wagon and had a real time. I don't know what I am here for, anyhow. I am a fool. "

"Undoubtedly, " said Carlotta. 

"Turkey and goose, mince pie and pumpkin pie, four kinds of cake; that'sthe sort of spread we have up in our part of the world. When I think ofwhat I sat down to to-day--!"

She had a profound respect for Carlotta, and her motto in the hospitaldiffered from Sidney's in that it was to placate her superiors, whileSidney's had been to care for her patients. 

Seeing Carlotta bored, she ventured a little gossip. She had idlyglued the label of a medicine bottle on the back of her hand, and wasscratching a skull and cross-bones on it. 

"I wonder if you have noticed something, " she said, eyes on the label. 

"I have noticed that the three-o'clock medicines are not given, " saidCarlotta sharply; and Miss Wardwell, still labeled and adorned, made therounds of the ward. 

When she came back she was sulky. 

"I'm no gossip, " she said, putting the tray on the table. "If you won'tsee, you won't. That Rosenfeld boy is crying. "

As it was not required that tears be recorded on the record, Carlottapaid no attention to this. 

"What won't I see?"

It required a little urging now. Miss Wardwell swelled with importanceand let her superior ask her twice. Then:--

"Dr. Wilson's crazy about Miss Page. "

A hand seemed to catch Carlotta's heart and hold it. 

"They're old friends. "

"Piffle! Being an old friend doesn't make you look at a girl as if youwanted to take a bite out of her. Mark my word, Miss Harrison, she'llnever finish her training; she'll marry him. I wish, " concluded theprobationer plaintively, "that some good-looking fellow like that wouldtake a fancy to me. I'd do him credit. I am as ugly as a mud fence, butI've got style. "

She was right, probably. She was long and sinuous, but she wore herlanky, ill-fitting clothes with a certain distinction. Harriet Kennedywould have dressed her in jade green to match her eyes, and with longjade earrings, and made her a fashion. 

Carlotta's lips were dry. The violinist had seen the tears on JohnnyRosenfeld's white cheeks, and had rushed into rollicking, joyous music. The ward echoed with it. "I'm twenty-one and she's eighteen, " hummed theward under its breath. Miss Wardwell's thin body swayed. 

"Lord, how I'd like to dance! If I ever get out of this charnel-house!"

The medicine-tray lay at Carlotta's elbow; beside it the box of labels. This crude girl was right--right. Carlotta knew it down to the depths ofher tortured brain. As inevitably as the night followed the day, she waslosing her game. She had lost already, unless--

If she could get Sidney out of the hospital, it would simplify things. She surmised shrewdly that on the Street their interests were wideapart. It was here that they met on common ground. 

The lame violin-player limped out of the ward; the shadows of theearly winter twilight settled down. At five o'clock Carlotta sent MissWardwell to first supper, to the surprise of that seldom surprisedperson. The ward lay still or shuffled abut quietly. Christmas was over, and there were no evening papers to look forward to. 

Carlotta gave the five-o'clock medicines. Then she sat down at the tablenear the door, with the tray in front of her. There are certain thoughtsthat are at first functions of the brain; after a long time the spinalcord takes them up and converts them into acts almost automatically. Perhaps because for the last month she had done the thing so often inher mind, its actual performance was almost without conscious thought. 

Carlotta took a bottle from her medicine cupboard, and, writing a newlabel for it, pasted it over the old one. Then she exchanged it for oneof the same size on the medicine tray. 

In the dining-room, at the probationers' table, Miss Wardwell wastalking. 

"Believe me, " she said, "me for the country and the simple life afterthis. They think I'm only a probationer and don't see anything, but I'vegot eyes in my head. Harrison is stark crazy over Dr. Wilson, and shethinks I don't see it. But never mind; I paid, her up to-day for a fewof the jolts she has given me. "

Throughout the dining-room busy and competent young women came and ate, hastily or leisurely as their opportunity was, and went on their wayagain. In their hands they held the keys, not always of life and deathperhaps, but of ease from pain, of tenderness, of smooth pillows, andcups of water to thirsty lips. In their eyes, as in Sidney's, burned thelight of service. 

But here and there one found women, like Carlotta and Miss Wardwell, who had mistaken their vocation, who railed against the monotony of thelife, its limitations, its endless sacrifices. They showed it in theireyes. 

Fifty or so against two--fifty who looked out on the world with thefearless glance of those who have seen life to its depths, and, with thebroad understanding of actual contact, still found it good. Fifty whowere learning or had learned not to draw aside their clean starchedskirts from the drab of the streets. And the fifty, who found the veryscum of the gutters not too filthy for tenderness and care, let Carlottaand, in lesser measure, the new probationer alone. They could not havevoiced their reasons. 

The supper-room was filled with their soft voices, the rustle of theirskirts, the gleam of their stiff white caps. 

When Carlotta came in, she greeted none of them. They did not like her, and she knew it. 

Before her, instead of the tidy supper-table, she was seeing themedicine-tray as she had left it. 

"I guess I've fixed her, " she said to herself. 

Her very soul was sick with fear of what she had done. 

CHAPTER XVIII

K. Saw Sidney for only a moment on Christmas Day. This was when the gaylittle sleigh had stopped in front of the house. 

Sidney had hurried radiantly in for a moment. Christine's parlor wasgay with firelight and noisy with chatter and with the clatter of hertea-cups. 

K. , lounging indolently in front of the fire, had turned to see Sidneyin the doorway, and leaped to his feet. 

"I can't come in, " she cried. "I am only here for a moment. I am outsleigh-riding with Dr. Wilson. It's perfectly delightful. "

"Ask him in for a cup of tea, " Christine called out. "Here's AuntHarriet and mother and even Palmer!"

Christine had aged during the last weeks, but she was putting up a bravefront. 

"I'll ask him. "

Sidney ran to the front door and called: "Will you come in for a cup oftea?"

"Tea! Good Heavens, no. Hurry. "

As Sidney turned back into the house, she met Palmer. He had come outin the hall, and had closed the door into the parlor behind him. His armwas still in splints, and swung suspended in a gay silk sling. 

The sound of laughter came through the door faintly. 

"How is he to-day?" He meant Johnny, of course. The boy's face wasalways with him. 

"Better in some ways, but of course--"

"When are they going to operate?"

"When he is a little stronger. Why don't you come into see him?"

"I can't. That's the truth. I can't face the poor youngster. "

"He doesn't seem to blame you; he says it's all in the game. "

"Sidney, does Christine know that I was not alone that night?"

"If she guesses, it is not because of anything the boy has said. He hastold nothing. "

Out of the firelight, away from the chatter and the laughter, Palmer'sface showed worn and haggard. He put his free hand on Sidney's shoulder. 

"I was thinking that perhaps if I went away--"

"That would be cowardly, wouldn't it?"

"If Christine would only say something and get it over with! She doesn'tsulk; I think she's really trying to be kind. But she hates me, Sidney. She turns pale every time I touch her hand. "

All the light had died out of Sidney's face. Life was terrible, afterall--overwhelming. One did wrong things, and other people suffered; orone was good, as her mother had been, and was left lonely, a widow, orlike Aunt Harriet. Life was a sham, too. Things were so different fromwhat they seemed to be: Christine beyond the door, pouring tea andlaughing with her heart in ashes; Palmer beside her, faultlessly dressedand wretched. The only one she thought really contented was K. He seemedto move so calmly in his little orbit. He was always so steady, sobalanced. If life held no heights for him, at least it held no depths. 

So Sidney thought, in her ignorance!

"There's only one thing, Palmer, " she said gravely. "Johnny Rosenfeldis going to have his chance. If anybody in the world can save him, MaxWilson can. "

The light of that speech was in her eyes when she went out to the sleighagain. K. Followed her out and tucked the robes in carefully about her. 

"Warm enough?"

"All right, thank you. "

"Don't go too far. Is there any chance of having you home for supper?"

"I think not. I am to go on duty at six again. "

If there was a shadow in K. 's eyes, she did not see it. He waved themoff smilingly from the pavement, and went rather heavily back into thehouse. 

"Just how many men are in love with you, Sidney?" asked Max, as Peggystarted up the Street. 

"No one that I know of, unless--"

"Exactly. Unless--"

"What I meant, " she said with dignity, "is that unless one counts veryyoung men, and that isn't really love. "

"We'll leave out Joe Drummond and myself--for, of course, I am veryyoung. Who is in love with you besides Le Moyne? Any of the internes atthe hospital?"

"Me! Le Moyne is not in love with me. "

There was such sincerity in her voice that Wilson was relieved. 

K. , older than himself and more grave, had always had an odd attractionfor women. He had been frankly bored by them, but the fact had remained. And Max more than suspected that now, at last, he had been caught. 

"Don't you really mean that you are in love with Le Moyne?"

"Please don't be absurd. I am not in love with anybody; I haven't timeto be in love. I have my profession now. "

"Bah! A woman's real profession is love. "

Sidney differed from this hotly. So warm did the argument become thatthey passed without seeing a middle-aged gentleman, short and ratherheavy set, struggling through a snowdrift on foot, and carrying in hishand a dilapidated leather bag. 

Dr. Ed hailed them. But the cutter slipped by and left him knee-deep, looking ruefully after them. 

"The young scamp!" he said. "So that's where Peggy is!"

Nevertheless, there was no anger in Dr. Ed's mind, only a vague andinarticulate regret. These things that came so easily to Max, theaffection of women, gay little irresponsibilities like the stealingof Peggy and the sleigh, had never been his. If there was any faintresentment, it was at himself. He had raised the boy wrong--he hadtaught him to be selfish. Holding the bag high out of the drifts, hemade his slow progress up the Street. 

At something after two o'clock that night, K. Put down his pipeand listened. He had not been able to sleep since midnight. In hisdressing-gown he had sat by the small fire, thinking. The content of hisfirst few months on the Street was rapidly giving way to unrest. Hewho had meant to cut himself off from life found himself again in closetouch with it; his eddy was deep with it. 

For the first time, he had begun to question the wisdom of what he haddone. Had it been cowardice, after all? It had taken courage, God knew, to give up everything and come away. In a way, it would have taken morecourage to have stayed. Had he been right or wrong?

And there was a new element. He had thought, at first, that he couldfight down this love for Sidney. But it was increasingly hard. Theinnocent touch of her hand on his arm, the moment when he had held herin his arms after her mother's death, the thousand small contacts of herreturns to the little house--all these set his blood on fire. And it wasfighting blood. 

Under his quiet exterior K. Fought many conflicts those winterdays--over his desk and ledger at the office, in his room alone, with Harriet planning fresh triumphs beyond the partition, even byChristine's fire, with Christine just across, sitting in silence andwatching his grave profile and steady eyes. 

He had a little picture of Sidney--a snap-shot that he had takenhimself. It showed Sidney minus a hand, which had been out of range whenthe camera had been snapped, and standing on a steep declivitywhich would have been quite a level had he held the camera straight. Nevertheless it was Sidney, her hair blowing about her, eyes lookingout, tender lips smiling. When she was not at home, it sat on K. 'sdresser, propped against his collar-box. When she was in the house, itlay under the pin-cushion. 

Two o'clock in the morning, then, and K. In his dressing-gown, with thepicture propped, not against the collar-box, but against his lamp, wherehe could see it. 

He sat forward in his chair, his hands folded around his knee, andlooked at it. He was trying to picture the Sidney of the photographin his old life--trying to find a place for her. But it was difficult. There had been few women in his old life. His mother had died many yearsbefore. There had been women who had cared for him, but he put themimpatiently out of his mind. 

Then the bell rang. 

Christine was moving about below. He could hear her quick steps. Almostbefore he had heaved his long legs out of the chair, she was tapping athis door outside. 

"It's Mrs. Rosenfeld. She says she wants to see you. "

He went down the stairs. Mrs. Rosenfeld was standing in the lower hall, a shawl about her shoulders. Her face was white and drawn above it. 

"I've had word to go to the hospital, " she said. "I thought maybe you'dgo with me. It seems as if I can't stand it alone. Oh, Johnny, Johnny!"

"Where's Palmer?" K. Demanded of Christine. 

"He's not in yet. "

"Are you afraid to stay in the house alone?"

"No; please go. "

He ran up the staircase to his room and flung on some clothing. In thelower hall, Mrs. Rosenfeld's sobs had become low moans; Christine stoodhelplessly over her. 

"I am terribly sorry, " she said--"terribly sorry! When I think whosefault all this is!"

Mrs. Rosenfeld put out a work-hardened hand and caught Christine'sfingers. 

"Never mind that, " she said. "You didn't do it. I guess you and Iunderstand each other. Only pray God you never have a child. "

K. Never forgot the scene in the small emergency ward to which Johnnyhad been taken. Under the white lights his boyish figure lookedstrangely long. There was a group around the bed--Max Wilson, two orthree internes, the night nurse on duty, and the Head. 

Sitting just inside the door on a straight chair was Sidney--such aSidney as he never had seen before, her face colorless, her eyes wideand unseeing, her hands clenched in her lap. When he stood beside her, she did not move or look up. The group around the bed had parted toadmit Mrs. Rosenfeld, and closed again. Only Sidney and K. Remained bythe door, isolated, alone. 

"You must not take it like that, dear. It's sad, of course. But, afterall, in that condition--"

It was her first knowledge that he was there. But she did not turn. 

"They say I poisoned him. " Her voice was dreary, inflectionless. 

"You--what?"

"They say I gave him the wrong medicine; that he's dying; that Imurdered him. " She shivered. 

K. Touched her hands. They were ice-cold. 

"Tell me about it. "

"There is nothing to tell. I came on duty at six o'clock and gave themedicines. When the night nurse came on at seven, everything was allright. The medicine-tray was just as it should be. Johnny was asleep. Iwent to say good-night to him and he--he was asleep. I didn't give himanything but what was on the tray, " she finished piteously. "I looked atthe label; I always look. "

By a shifting of the group around the bed, K. 's eyes looked for a momentdirectly into Carlotta's. Just for a moment; then the crowd closed upagain. It was well for Carlotta that it did. She looked as if she hadseen a ghost--closed her eyes, even reeled. 

"Miss Harrison is worn out, " Dr. Wilson said brusquely. "Get some one totake her place. "

But Carlotta rallied. After all, the presence of this man in this roomat such a time meant nothing. He was Sidney's friend, that was all. 

But her nerve was shaken. The thing had gone beyond her. She had notmeant to kill. It was the boy's weakened condition that was turning herrevenge into tragedy. 

"I am all right, " she pleaded across the bed to the Head. "Let me stay, please. He's from my ward. I--I am responsible. "

Wilson was at his wits' end. He had done everything he knew withoutresult. The boy, rousing for an instant, would lapse again into stupor. With a healthy man they could have tried more vigorous measures--couldhave forced him to his feet and walked him about, could have beaten himwith knotted towels dipped in ice-water. But the wrecked body on the bedcould stand no such heroic treatment. 

It was Le Moyne, after all, who saved Johnny Rosenfeld's life. For, whenstaff and nurses had exhausted all their resources, he stepped forwardwith a quiet word that brought the internes to their feet astonished. 

There was a new treatment for such cases--it had been tried abroad. Helooked at Max. 

Max had never heard of it. He threw out his hands. 

"Try it, for Heaven's sake, " he said. "I'm all in. "

The apparatus was not in the house--must be extemporized, indeed, atlast, of odds and ends from the operating-room. K. Did the work, hislong fingers deft and skillful--while Mrs. Rosenfeld knelt by the bedwith her face buried; while Sidney sat, dazed and bewildered, on herlittle chair inside the door; while night nurses tiptoed along thecorridor, and the night watchman stared incredulous from outside thedoor. 

When the two great rectangles that were the emergency ward windowshad turned from mirrors reflecting the room to gray rectangles in themorning light; Johnny Rosenfeld opened his eyes and spoke the firstwords that marked his return from the dark valley. 

"Gee, this is the life!" he said, and smiled into K. 's watchful face. 

When it was clear that the boy would live, K. Rose stiffly from thebedside and went over to Sidney's chair. 

"He's all right now, " he said--"as all right as he can be, poor lad!"

"You did it--you! How strange that you should know such a thing. How amI to thank you?"

The internes, talking among themselves, had wandered down to theirdining-room for early coffee. Wilson was giving a few last instructionsas to the boy's care. Quite unexpectedly, Sidney caught K. 's hand andheld it to her lips. The iron repression of the night, of months indeed, fell away before her simple caress. 

"My dear, my dear, " he said huskily. "Anything that I can do--foryou--at any time--"

It was after Sidney had crept like a broken thing to her room thatCarlotta Harrison and K. Came face to face. Johnny was quite consciousby that time, a little blue around the lips, but valiantly cheerful. 

"More things can happen to a fellow than I ever knew there was!" hesaid to his mother, and submitted rather sheepishly to her tears andcaresses. 

"You were always a good boy, Johnny, " she said. "Just you get wellenough to come home. I'll take care of you the rest of my life. We willget you a wheel-chair when you can be about, and I can take you out inthe park when I come from work. "

"I'll be passenger and you'll be chauffeur, ma. "

"Mr. Le Moyne is going to get your father sent up again. With sixty-fivecents a day and what I make, we'll get along. "

"You bet we will!"

"Oh, Johnny, if I could see you coming in the door again and yelling'mother' and 'supper' in one breath!"

The meeting between Carlotta and Le Moyne was very quiet. She had beenmaking a sort of subconscious impression on the retina of his mindduring all the night. It would be difficult to tell when he actuallyknew her. 

When the preparations for moving Johnny back to the big ward had beenmade, the other nurses left the room, and Carlotta and the boy weretogether. K. Stopped her on her way to the door. 

"Miss Harrison!"

"Yes, Dr. Edwardes. "

"I am not Dr. Edwardes here; my name is Le Moyne. "

"Ah!"

"I have not seen you since you left St. John's. "

"No; I--I rested for a few months. "

"I suppose they do not know that you were--that you have had anyprevious hospital experience. "

"No. Are you going to tell them?"

"I shall not tell them, of course. "

And thus, by simple mutual consent, it was arranged that each shouldrespect the other's confidence. 

Carlotta staggered to her room. There had been a time, just before dawn, when she had had one of those swift revelations that sometimes come atthe end of a long night. She had seen herself as she was. The boy wasvery low, hardly breathing. Her past stretched behind her, a series ofsmall revenges and passionate outbursts, swift yieldings, slow remorse. She dared not look ahead. She would have given every hope she had in theworld, just then, for Sidney's stainless past. 

She hated herself with that deadliest loathing that comes of completeself-revelation. 

And she carried to her room the knowledge that the night's struggle hadbeen in vain--that, although Johnny Rosenfeld would live, she had gainednothing by what he had suffered. The whole night had shown her thehopelessness of any stratagem to win Wilson from his new allegiance. Shehad surprised him in the hallway, watching Sidney's slender figureas she made her way up the stairs to her room. Never, in all his pastovertures to her, had she seen that look in his eyes. 

CHAPTER XIX

To Harriet Kennedy, Sidney's sentence of thirty days' suspension cameas a blow. K. Broke the news to her that evening before the time forSidney's arrival. 

The little household was sharing in Harriet's prosperity. Katie hada helper now, a little Austrian girl named Mimi. And Harriet hadestablished on the Street the innovation of after-dinner coffee. It wasover the after-dinner coffee that K. Made his announcement. 

"What do you mean by saying she is coming home for thirty days? Is thechild ill?"

"Not ill, although she is not quite well. The fact is, Harriet, "--forit was "Harriet" and "K. " by this time, --"there has been a sort ofsemi-accident up at the hospital. It hasn't resulted seriously, but--"

Harriet put down the apostle-spoon in her hand and stared across at him. 

"Then she has been suspended? What did she do? I don't believe she didanything!"

"There was a mistake about the medicine, and she was blamed; that'sall. "

"She'd better come home and stay home, " said Harriet shortly. "I hope itdoesn't get in the papers. This dressmaking business is a funny sort ofthing. One word against you or any of your family, and the crowd's offsomewhere else. "

"There's nothing against Sidney, " K. Reminded her. "Nothing in theworld. I saw the superintendent myself this afternoon. It seems it's amere matter of discipline. Somebody made a mistake, and they cannot letsuch a thing go by. But he believes, as I do, that it was not Sidney. "

However Harriet had hardened herself against the girl's arrival, all shehad meant to say fled when she saw Sidney's circled eyes and patheticmouth. 

"You child!" she said. "You poor little girl!" And took her corsetedbosom. 

For the time at least, Sidney's world had gone to pieces about her. Allher brave vaunt of service faded before her disgrace. 

When Christine would have seen her, she kept her door locked and askedfor just that one evening alone. But after Harriet had retired, andMimi, the Austrian, had crept out to the corner to mail a letter back toGratz, Sidney unbolted her door and listened in the little upper hall. Harriet, her head in a towel, her face carefully cold-creamed, had goneto bed; but K. 's light, as usual, was shining over the transom. Sidneytiptoed to the door. 

"K. !"

Almost immediately he opened the door. 

"May I come in and talk to you?"

He turned and took a quick survey of the room. The picture was againstthe collar-box. But he took the risk and held the door wide. 

Sidney came in and sat down by the fire. By being adroit he managed toslip the little picture over and under the box before she saw it. It isdoubtful if she would have realized its significance, had she seen it. 

"I've been thinking things over, " she said. "It seems to me I'd betternot go back. "

He had left the door carefully open. Men are always more conventionalthan women. 

"That would be foolish, wouldn't it, when you have done so well? And, besides, since you are not guilty, Sidney--"

"I didn't do it!" she cried passionately. "I know I didn't. But I'velost faith in myself. I can't keep on; that's all there is to it. Alllast night, in the emergency ward, I felt it going. I clutched at it. Ikept saying to myself: 'You didn't do it, you didn't do it'; and all thetime something inside of me was saying, 'Not now, perhaps; but sometimeyou may. '"

Poor K. , who had reasoned all this out for himself and had come to thesame impasse!

"To go on like this, feeling that one has life and death in one's hand, and then perhaps some day to make a mistake like that!" She looked up athim forlornly. "I am just not brave enough, K. "

"Wouldn't it be braver to keep on? Aren't you giving up very easily?"

Her world was in pieces about her, and she felt alone in a wide andempty place. And, because her nerves were drawn taut until they wereready to snap, Sidney turned on him shrewishly. 

"I think you are all afraid I will come back to stay. Nobody reallywants me anywhere--in all the world! Not at the hospital, not here, notanyplace. I am no use. "

"When you say that nobody wants you, " said K. , not very steadily, "I--Ithink you are making a mistake. "

"Who?" she demanded. "Christine? Aunt Harriet? Katie? The only personwho ever really wanted me was my mother, and I went away and left her!"

She scanned his face closely, and, reading there something she did notunderstand, she colored suddenly. 

"I believe you mean Joe Drummond. "

"No; I do not mean Joe Drummond. "

If he had found any encouragement in her face, he would have gone onrecklessly; but her blank eyes warned him. 

"If you mean Max Wilson, " said Sidney, "you are entirely wrong. He's notin love with me--not, that is, any more than he is in love with adozen girls. He likes to be with me--oh, I know that; but that doesn'tmean--anything else. Anyhow, after this disgrace--"

"There is no disgrace, child. "

"He'll think me careless, at the least. And his ideals are so high, K. "

"You say he likes to be with you. What about you?"

Sidney had been sitting in a low chair by the fire. She rose with asudden passionate movement. In the informality of the household, she, had visited K. In her dressing-gown and slippers; and now she stoodbefore him, a tragic young figure, clutching the folds of her gownacross her breast. 

"I worship him, K. , " she said tragically. "When I see him coming, I wantto get down and let him walk on me. I know his step in the hall. Iknow the very way he rings for the elevator. When I see him in theoperating-room, cool and calm while every one else is flustered andexcited, he--he looks like a god. "

Then, half ashamed of her outburst, she turned her back to him and stoodgazing at the small coal fire. It was as well for K. That she did notsee his face. For that one moment the despair that was in him shone inhis eyes. He glanced around the shabby little room, at the sagging bed, the collar-box, the pincushion, the old marble-topped bureau under whichReginald had formerly made his nest, at his untidy table, littered withpipes and books, at the image in the mirror of his own tall figure, stooped and weary. 

"It's real, all this?" he asked after a pause. "You're sure it's notjust--glamour, Sidney?"

"It's real--terribly real. " Her voice was muffled, and he knew then thatshe was crying. 

She was mightily ashamed of it. Tears, of course, except in the privacyof one's closet, were not ethical on the Street. 

"Perhaps he cares very much, too. "

"Give me a handkerchief, " said Sidney in a muffled tone, and the littlescene was broken into while K. Searched through a bureau drawer. Then:

"It's all over, anyhow, since this. If he'd really cared he'd have comeover to-night. When one is in trouble one needs friends. "

Back in a circle she came inevitably to her suspension. She would nevergo back, she said passionately. She was innocent, had been falselyaccused. If they could think such a thing about her, she didn't want tobe in their old hospital. 

K. Questioned her, alternately soothing and probing. 

"You are positive about it?"

"Absolutely. I have given him his medicines dozens of times. "

"You looked at the label?"

"I swear I did, K. "

"Who else had access to the medicine closet?"

"Carlotta Harrison carried the keys, of course. I was off duty from fourto six. When Carlotta left the ward, the probationer would have them. "

"Have you reason to think that either one of these girls would wish youharm?"

"None whatever, " began Sidney vehemently; and then, checkingherself, --"unless--but that's rather ridiculous. "

"What is ridiculous?"

"I've sometimes thought that Carlotta--but I am sure she is perfectlyfair with me. Even if she--if she--"

"Yes?"

"Even if she likes Dr. Wilson, I don't believe--Why, K. , she wouldn't!It would be murder. "

"Murder, of course, " said K. , "in intention, anyhow. Of course shedidn't do it. I'm only trying to find out whose mistake it was. "

Soon after that she said good-night and went out. She turned in thedoorway and smiled tremulously back at him. 

"You have done me a lot of good. You almost make me believe in myself. "

"That's because I believe in you. "

With a quick movement that was one of her charms, Sidney suddenly closedthe door and slipped back into the room. K. , hearing the door close, thought she had gone, and dropped heavily into a chair. 

"My best friend in all the world!" said Sidney suddenly from behind him, and, bending over, she kissed him on the cheek. 

The next instant the door had closed behind her, and K. Was left aloneto such wretchedness and bliss as the evening had brought him. 

On toward morning, Harriet, who slept but restlessly in her towel, wakened to the glare of his light over the transom. 

"K. !" she called pettishly from her door. "I wish you wouldn't go tosleep and let your light burn!"

K. , surmising the towel and cold cream, had the tact not to open hisdoor. 

"I am not asleep, Harriet, and I am sorry about the light. It's goingout now. "

Before he extinguished the light, he walked over to the old dresser andsurveyed himself in the glass. Two nights without sleep and much anxietyhad told on him. He looked old, haggard; infinitely tired. Mentally hecompared himself with Wilson, flushed with success, erect, triumphant, almost insolent. Nothing had more certainly told him the hopelessnessof his love for Sidney than her good-night kiss. He was her brother, herfriend. He would never be her lover. He drew a long breath and proceededto undress in the dark. 

Joe Drummond came to see Sidney the next day. She would have avoidedhim if she could, but Mimi had ushered him up to the sewing-room boudoirbefore she had time to escape. She had not seen the boy for two months, and the change in him startled her. He was thinner, rather hectic, scrupulously well dressed. 

"Why, Joe!" she said, and then: "Won't you sit down?"

He was still rather theatrical. He dramatized himself, as he had thatnight the June before when he had asked Sidney to marry him. He stoodjust inside the doorway. He offered no conventional greeting whatever;but, after surveying her briefly, her black gown, the lines around hereyes:--

"You're not going back to that place, of course?"

"I--I haven't decided. "

"Then somebody's got to decide for you. The thing for you to do is tostay right here, Sidney. People know you on the Street. Nobody herewould ever accuse you of trying to murder anybody. "

In spite of herself, Sidney smiled a little. 

"Nobody thinks I tried to murder him. It was a mistake about themedicines. I didn't do it, Joe. "

His love was purely selfish, for he brushed aside her protest as if shehad not spoken. 

"You give me the word and I'll go and get your things; I've got a car ofmy own now. "

"But, Joe, they have only done what they thought was right. Whoever madeit, there was a mistake. "

He stared at her incredulously. 

"You don't mean that you are going to stand for this sort of thing?Every time some fool makes a mistake, are they going to blame it onyou?"

"Please don't be theatrical. Come in and sit down. I can't talk to youif you explode like a rocket all the time. "

Her matter-of-fact tone had its effect. He advanced into the room, buthe still scorned a chair. 

"I guess you've been wondering why you haven't heard from me, " he said. "I've seen you more than you've seen me. "

Sidney looked uneasy. The idea of espionage is always repugnant, andto have a rejected lover always in the offing, as it were, wasdisconcerting. 

"I wish you would be just a little bit sensible, Joe. It's so silly ofyou, really. It's not because you care for me; it's really because youcare for yourself. "

"You can't look at me and say that, Sid. "

He ran his finger around his collar--an old gesture; but the collar wasvery loose. He was thin; his neck showed it. 

"I'm just eating my heart out for you, and that's the truth. And itisn't only that. Everywhere I go, people say, 'There's the fellow SidneyPage turned down when she went to the hospital. ' I've got so I keep offthe Street as much as I can. "

Sidney was half alarmed, half irritated. This wild, excited boy was notthe doggedly faithful youth she had always known. It seemed to herthat he was hardly sane--that underneath his quiet manner and carefullyrepressed voice there lurked something irrational, something she couldnot cope with. She looked up at him helplessly. 

"But what do you want me to do? You--you almost frighten me. If you'donly sit down--"

"I want you to come home. I'm not asking anything else now. I just wantyou to come back, so that things will be the way they used to be. Nowthat they have turned you out--"

"They've done nothing of the sort. I've told you that. "

"You're going back?"

"Absolutely. "

"Because you love the hospital, or because you love somebody connectedwith the hospital?"

Sidney was thoroughly angry by this time, angry and reckless. She hadcome through so much that every nerve was crying in passionate protest. 

"If it will make you understand things any better, " she cried, "I amgoing back for both reasons!"

She was sorry the next moment. But her words seemed, surprisinglyenough, to steady him. For the first time, he sat down. 

"Then, as far as I am concerned, it's all over, is it?"

"Yes, Joe. I told you that long ago. "

He seemed hardly to be listening. His thoughts had ranged far ahead. Suddenly:--

"You think Christine has her hands full with Palmer, don't you? Well, if you take Max Wilson, you're going to have more trouble than Christineever dreamed of. I can tell you some things about him now that will makeyou think twice. "

But Sidney had reached her limit. She went over and flung open the door. 

"Every word that you say shows me how right I am in not marrying you, Joe, " she said. "Real men do not say those things about each other underany circumstances. You're behaving like a bad boy. I don't want you tocome back until you have grown up. "

He was very white, but he picked up his hat and went to the door. 

"I guess I AM crazy, " he said. "I've been wanting to go away, but motherraises such a fuss--I'll not annoy you any more. "

He reached in his pocket and, pulling out a small box, held it towardher. The lid was punched full of holes. 

"Reginald, " he said solemnly. "I've had him all winter. Some boys caughthim in the park, and I brought him home. "

He left her standing there speechless with surprise, with the box in herhand, and ran down the stairs and out into the Street. At the foot ofthe steps he almost collided with Dr. Ed. 

"Back to see Sidney?" said Dr. Ed genially. "That's fine, Joe. I'm gladyou've made it up. "

The boy went blindly down the Street. 

CHAPTER XX

Winter relaxed its clutch slowly that year. March was bitterly cold;even April found the roads still frozen and the hedgerows clustered withice. But at mid-day there was spring in the air. In the courtyard of thehospital, convalescents sat on the benches and watched for robins. Thefountain, which had frozen out, was being repaired. Here and there onward window-sills tulips opened their gaudy petals to the sun. 

Harriet had gone abroad for a flying trip in March and came back ladenwith new ideas, model gowns, and fresh enthusiasm. She carried out andplanted flowers on her sister's grave, and went back to her work with afeeling of duty done. A combination of crocuses and snow on the groundhad given her an inspiration for a gown. She drew it in pencil on anenvelope on her way back in the street car. 

Grace Irving, having made good during the white sales, had been sent tothe spring cottons. She began to walk with her head higher. The day shesold Sidney material for a simple white gown, she was very happy. Oncea customer brought her a bunch of primroses. All day she kept them underthe counter in a glass of water, and at evening she took them to JohnnyRosenfeld, still lying prone in the hospital. 

On Sidney, on K. , and on Christine the winter had left its mark heavily. Christine, readjusting her life to new conditions, was graver, morethoughtful. She was alone most of the time now. Under K. 's guidance, shehad given up the "Duchess" and was reading real books. She was thinkingreal thoughts, too, for the first time in her life. 

Sidney, as tender as ever, had lost a little of the radiance from hereyes; her voice had deepened. Where she had been a pretty girl, shewas now lovely. She was back in the hospital again, this time in thechildren's ward. K. , going in one day to take Johnny Rosenfeld a basketof fruit, saw her there with a child in her arms, and a light in hereyes that he had never seen before. It hurt him, rather--things being asthey were with him. When he came out he looked straight ahead. 

With the opening of spring the little house at Hillfoot took on freshactivities. Tillie was house-cleaning with great thoroughness. Shescrubbed carpets, took down the clean curtains, and put them up againfreshly starched. It was as if she found in sheer activity and fatigue aremedy for her uneasiness. 

Business had not been very good. The impeccable character of the littlehouse had been against it. True, Mr. Schwitter had a little bar andserved the best liquors he could buy; but he discouraged rowdiness--hadbeen known to refuse to sell to boys under twenty-one and to men who hadalready overindulged. The word went about that Schwitter's was no placefor a good time. Even Tillie's chicken and waffles failed against thishandicap. 

By the middle of April the house-cleaning was done. One or two motorparties had come out, dined sedately and wined moderately, and had goneback to the city again. The next two weeks saw the weather clear. Theroads dried up, robins filled the trees with their noisy spring songs, and still business continued dull. 

By the first day of May, Tillie's uneasiness had become certainty. Onthat morning Mr. Schwitter, coming in from the early milking, found hersitting in the kitchen, her face buried in her apron. He put down themilk-pails and, going over to her, put a hand on her head. 

"I guess there's no mistake, then?"

"There's no mistake, " said poor Tillie into her apron. 

He bent down and kissed the back of her neck. Then, when she failed tobrighten, he tiptoed around the kitchen, poured the milk into pans, and rinsed the buckets, working methodically in his heavy way. Thetea-kettle had boiled dry. He filled that, too. Then:--

"Do you want to see a doctor?"

"I'd better see somebody, " she said, without looking up. "And--don'tthink I'm blaming you. I guess I don't really blame anybody. As far asthat goes, I've wanted a child right along. It isn't the trouble I amthinking of either. "

He nodded. Words were unnecessary between them. He made some teaclumsily and browned her a piece of toast. When he had put them on oneend of the kitchen table, he went over to her again. 

"I guess I'd ought to have thought of this before, but all I thought ofwas trying to get a little happiness out of life. And, "--he strokedher arm, --"as far as I am concerned, it's been worth while, Tillie. Nomatter what I've had to do, I've always looked forward to coming backhere to you in the evening. Maybe I don't say it enough, but I guess youknow I feel it all right. "

Without looking up, she placed her hand over his. 

"I guess we started wrong, " he went on. "You can't build happiness onwhat isn't right. You and I can manage well enough; but now that there'sgoing to be another, it looks different, somehow. "

After that morning Tillie took up her burden stoically. The hope ofmotherhood alternated with black fits of depression. She sang at herwork, to burst out into sudden tears. 

Other things were not going well. Schwitter had given up his nurserybusiness; but the motorists who came to Hillfoot did not come back. When, at last, he took the horse and buggy and drove about the countryfor orders, he was too late. Other nurserymen had been before him;shrubberies and orchards were already being set out. The second paymenton his mortgage would be due in July. By the middle of May they werefrankly up against it. Schwitter at last dared to put the situation intowords. 

"We're not making good, Til, " he said. "And I guess you know the reason. We are too decent; that's what's the matter with us. " There was no ironyin his words. 

With all her sophistication, Tillie was vastly ignorant of life. He hadto explain. 

"We'll have to keep a sort of hotel, " he said lamely. "Sell to everybodythat comes along, and--if parties want to stay over-night--"

Tillie's white face turned crimson. 

He attempted a compromise. "If it's bad weather, and they're married--"

"How are we to know if they are married or not?"

He admired her very much for it. He had always respected her. But thesituation was not less acute. There were two or three unfurnished roomson the second floor. He began to make tentative suggestions as to theirfurnishing. Once he got a catalogue from an installment house, and triedto hide it from her. Tillie's eyes blazed. She burned it in the kitchenstove. 

Schwitter himself was ashamed; but the idea obsessed him. Other peoplefattened on the frailties of human nature. Two miles away, on the otherroad, was a public house that had netted the owner ten thousand dollarsprofit the year before. They bought their beer from the same concern. He was not as young as he had been; there was the expense of keepinghis wife--he had never allowed her to go into the charity ward at theasylum. Now that there was going to be a child, there would be threepeople dependent upon him. He was past fifty, and not robust. 

One night, after Tillie was asleep, he slipped noiselessly into hisclothes and out to the barn, where he hitched up the horse with nervousfingers. 

Tillie never learned of that midnight excursion to the "Climbing Rose, "two miles away. Lights blazed in every window; a dozen automobiles wereparked before the barn. Somebody was playing a piano. From the bar camethe jingle of glasses and loud, cheerful conversation. 

When Schwitter turned the horse's head back toward Hillfoot, hismind was made up. He would furnish the upper rooms; he would bring abarkeeper from town--these people wanted mixed drinks; he could get asecond-hand piano somewhere. 

Tillie's rebellion was instant and complete. When she found himdetermined, she made the compromise that her condition necessitated. Shecould not leave him, but she would not stay in the rehabilitated littlehouse. When, a week after Schwitter's visit to the "Climbing Rose, " aninstallment van arrived from town with the new furniture, Tilliemoved out to what had been the harness-room of the old barn and thereestablished herself. 

"I am not leaving you, " she told him. "I don't even know that I amblaming you. But I am not going to have anything to do with it, andthat's flat. "

So it happened that K. , making a spring pilgrimage to see Tillie, stopped astounded in the road. The weather was warm, and he carriedhis Norfolk coat over his arm. The little house was bustling; a dozenautomobiles were parked in the barnyard. The bar was crowded, and abarkeeper in a white coat was mixing drinks with the casual indifferenceof his kind. There were tables under the trees on the lawn, and a newsign on the gate. 

Even Schwitter bore a new look of prosperity. Over his schooner of beerK. Gathered something of the story. 

"I'm not proud of it, Mr. Le Moyne. I've come to do a good many thingsthe last year or so that I never thought I would do. But one thing leadsto another. First I took Tillie away from her good position, and afterthat nothing went right. Then there were things coming on"--he looked atK. Anxiously--"that meant more expense. I would be glad if you wouldn'tsay anything about it at Mrs. McKee's. "

"I'll not speak of it, of course. "

It was then, when K. Asked for Tillie, that Mr. Schwitter's unhappinessbecame more apparent. 

"She wouldn't stand for it, " he said. "She moved out the day I furnishedthe rooms upstairs and got the piano. "

"Do you mean she has gone?"

"As far as the barn. She wouldn't stay in the house. I--I'll take youout there, if you would like to see her. "

K. Shrewdly surmised that Tillie would prefer to see him alone, underthe circumstances. 

"I guess I can find her, " he said, and rose from the little table. 

"If you--if you can say anything to help me out, sir, I'd appreciate it. Of course, she understands how I am driven. But--especially if you wouldtell her that the Street doesn't know--"

"I'll do all I can, " K. Promised, and followed the path to the barn. 

Tillie received him with a certain dignity. The little harness-roomwas very comfortable. A white iron bed in a corner, a flat table witha mirror above it, a rocking-chair, and a sewing-machine furnished theroom. 

"I wouldn't stand for it, " she said simply; "so here I am. Come in, Mr. Le Moyne. "

There being but one chair, she sat on the bed. The room was litteredwith small garments in the making. She made no attempt to conceal them;rather, she pointed to them with pride. 

"I am making them myself. I have a lot of time these days. He's got ahired girl at the house. It was hard enough to sew at first, with memaking two right sleeves almost every time. " Then, seeing his kindly eyeon her: "Well, it's happened, Mr. Le Moyne. What am I going to do? Whatam I going to be?"

"You're going to be a very good mother, Tillie. "

She was manifestly in need of cheering. K. , who also needed cheeringthat spring day, found his consolation in seeing her brighten under thesmall gossip of the Street. The deaf-and-dumb book agent had taken onlife insurance as a side issue, and was doing well; the grocery store atthe corner was going to be torn down, and over the new store therewere to be apartments; Reginald had been miraculously returned, and wasbuilding a new nest under his bureau; Harriet Kennedy had been to Paris, and had brought home six French words and a new figure. 

Outside the open door the big barn loomed cool and shadowy, full ofempty spaces where later the hay would be stored; anxious mother hensled their broods about; underneath in the horse stable the restlesshorses pawed in their stalls. From where he sat, Le Moyne could see onlythe round breasts of the two hills, the fresh green of the orchard thecows in a meadow beyond. 

Tillie followed his eyes. 

"I like it here, " she confessed. "I've had more time to think since Imoved out than I ever had in my life before. Them hills help. When thenoise is worst down at the house, I look at the hills there and--"

There were great thoughts in her mind--that the hills meant God, andthat in His good time perhaps it would all come right. But she wasinarticulate. "The hills help a lot, " she repeated. 

K. Rose. Tillie's work-basket lay near him. He picked up one of thelittle garments. In his big hands it looked small, absurd. 

"I--I want to tell you something, Tillie. Don't count on it too much;but Mrs. Schwitter has been failing rapidly for the last month or two. "

Tillie caught his arm. 

"You've seen her?"

"I was interested. I wanted to see things work out right for you. "

All the color had faded from Tillie's face. 

"You're very good to me, Mr. Le Moyne, " she said. "I don't wish the poorsoul any harm, but--oh, my God! if she's going, let it be before thenext four months are over. "

K. Had fallen into the habit, after his long walks, of dropping intoChristine's little parlor for a chat before he went upstairs. Thoseearly spring days found Harriet Kennedy busy late in the evenings, and, save for Christine and K. , the house was practically deserted. 

The breach between Palmer and Christine was steadily widening. She wastoo proud to ask him to spend more of his evenings with her. On thoseoccasions when he voluntarily stayed at home with her, he was sodiscontented that he drove her almost to distraction. Although she wasconvinced that he was seeing nothing of the girl who had been withhim the night of the accident, she did not trust him. Not that girl, perhaps, but there were others. There would always be others. 

Into Christine's little parlor, then, K. Turned, the evening after hehad seen Tillie. She was reading by the lamp, and the door into the hallstood open. 

"Come in, " she said, as he hesitated in the doorway. 

"I am frightfully dusty. "

"There's a brush in the drawer of the hat-rack--although I don't reallymind how you look. "

The little room always cheered K. Its warmth and light appealed to hisaesthetic sense; after the bareness of his bedroom, it spelled luxury. And perhaps, to be entirely frank, there was more than physical comfortand satisfaction in the evenings he spent in Christine's firelit parlor. He was entirely masculine, and her evident pleasure in his societygratified him. He had fallen into a way of thinking of himself as a sortof older brother to all the world because he was a sort of older brotherto Sidney. The evenings with her did something to reinstate him in hisown self-esteem. It was subtle, psychological, but also it was veryhuman. 

"Come and sit down, " said Christine. "Here's a chair, and here arecigarettes and there are matches. Now!"

But, for once, K. Declined the chair. He stood in front of the fireplaceand looked down at her, his head bent slightly to one side. 

"I wonder if you would like to do a very kind thing, " he saidunexpectedly. 

"Make you coffee?"

"Something much more trouble and not so pleasant. "

Christine glanced up at him. When she was with him, when his steady eyeslooked down at her, small affectations fell away. She was more genuinewith K. Than with anyone else, even herself. 

"Tell me what it is, or shall I promise first?"

"I want you to promise just one thing: to keep a secret. "

"Yours?"

Christine was not over-intelligent, perhaps, but she was shrewd. That LeMoyne's past held a secret she had felt from the beginning. She sat upwith eager curiosity. 

"No, not mine. Is it a promise?"

"Of course. "

"I've found Tillie, Christine. I want you to go out to see her. "

Christine's red lips parted. The Street did not go out to see women inTillie's situation. 

"But, K. !" she protested. 

"She needs another woman just now. She's going to have a child, Christine; and she has had no one to talk to but her hus--but Mr. Schwitter and myself. She is depressed and not very well. "

"But what shall I say to her? I'd really rather not go, K. Not, "she hastened to set herself right in his eyes--"not that I feel anyunwillingness to see her. I know you understand that. But--what in theworld shall I say to her?"

"Say what your own kind heart prompts. "

It had been rather a long time since Christine had been accusedof having a kind heart. Not that she was unkind, but in all herself-centered young life there had been little call on her sympathies. Her eyes clouded. 

"I wish I were as good as you think I am. "

There was a little silence between them. Then Le Moyne spoke briskly:--

"I'll tell you how to get there; perhaps I would better write it. "

He moved over to Christine's small writing-table and, seating himself, proceeded to write out the directions for reaching Hillfoot. 

Behind him, Christine had taken his place on the hearth-rug and stoodwatching his head in the light of the desk-lamp. "What a strong, quietface it is, " she thought. Why did she get the impression of such atremendous reserve power in this man who was a clerk, and a clerk only?Behind him she made a quick, unconscious gesture of appeal, both handsout for an instant. She dropped them guiltily as K. Rose with the paperin his hand. 

"I've drawn a sort of map of the roads, " he began. "You see, this--"

Christine was looking, not at the paper, but up at him. 

"I wonder if you know, K. , " she said, "what a lucky woman the woman willbe who marries you?"

He laughed good-humoredly. 

"I wonder how long I could hypnotize her into thinking that. "

He was still holding out the paper. 

"I've had time to do a little thinking lately, " she said, withoutbitterness. "Palmer is away so much now. I've been looking back, wondering if I ever thought that about him. I don't believe I ever did. I wonder--"

She checked herself abruptly and took the paper from his hand. 

"I'll go to see Tillie, of course, " she consented. "It is like you tohave found her. "

She sat down. Although she picked up the book that she had been readingwith the evident intention of discussing it, her thoughts were still onTillie, on Palmer, on herself. After a moment:--

"Has it ever occurred to you how terribly mixed up things are? Take thisStreet, for instance. Can you think of anybody on it that--that thingshave gone entirely right with?"

"It's a little world of its own, of course, " said K. , "and it has plentyof contact points with life. But wherever one finds people, many or few, one finds all the elements that make up life--joy and sorrow, birth anddeath, and even tragedy. That's rather trite, isn't it?"

Christine was still pursuing her thoughts. 

"Men are different, " she said. "To a certain extent they make their ownfates. But when you think of the women on the Street, --Tillie, Harriet Kennedy, Sidney Page, myself, even Mrs. Rosenfeld back in thealley, --somebody else moulds things for us, and all we can do is to sitback and suffer. I am beginning to think the world is a terrible place, K. Why do people so often marry the wrong people? Why can't a mancare for one woman and only one all his life? Why--why is it all socomplicated?"

"There are men who care for only one woman all their lives. "

"You're that sort, aren't you?"

"I don't want to put myself on any pinnacle. If I cared enough fora woman to marry her, I'd hope to--But we are being very tragic, Christine. "

"I feel tragic. There's going to be another mistake, K. , unless you stopit. "

He tried to leaven the conversation with a little fun. 

"If you're going to ask me to interfere between Mrs. McKee and thedeaf-and-dumb book and insurance agent, I shall do nothing of the sort. She can both speak and hear enough for both of them. "

"I mean Sidney and Max Wilson. He's mad about her, K. ; and, becauseshe's the sort she is, he'll probably be mad about her all his life, even if he marries her. But he'll not be true to her; I know the typenow. "

K. Leaned back with a flicker of pain in his eyes. 

"What can I do about it?"

Astute as he was, he did not suspect that Christine was using thismethod to fathom his feeling for Sidney. Perhaps she hardly knew itherself. 

"You might marry her yourself, K. "

But he had himself in hand by this time, and she learned nothing fromeither his voice or his eyes. 

"On twenty dollars a week? And without so much as asking her consent?"He dropped his light tone. "I'm not in a position to marry anybody. Evenif Sidney cared for me, which she doesn't, of course--"

"Then you don't intend to interfere? You're going to let the Street seeanother failure?"

"I think you can understand, " said K. Rather wearily, "that if I caredless, Christine, it would be easier to interfere. "

After all, Christine had known this, or surmised it, for weeks. But ithurt like a fresh stab in an old wound. It was K. Who spoke again aftera pause:--

"The deadly hard thing, of course, is to sit by and see things happeningthat one--that one would naturally try to prevent. "

"I don't believe that you have always been of those who only stand andwait, " said Christine. "Sometime, K. , when you know me better and likeme better, I want you to tell me about it, will you?"

"There's very little to tell. I held a trust. When I discovered that Iwas unfit to hold that trust any longer, I quit. That's all. "

His tone of finality closed the discussion. But Christine's eyes were onhim often that evening, puzzled, rather sad. 

They talked of books, of music--Christine played well in a dashing way. K. Had brought her soft, tender little things, and had stood over heruntil her noisy touch became gentle. She played for him a little, whilehe sat back in the big chair with his hand screening his eyes. 

When, at last, he rose and picked up his cap; it was nine o'clock. 

"I've taken your whole evening, " he said remorsefully. "Why don't youtell me I am a nuisance and send me off?"

Christine was still at the piano, her hands on the keys. She spokewithout looking at him:--

"You're never a nuisance, K. , and--"

"You'll go out to see Tillie, won't you?"

"Yes. But I'll not go under false pretenses. I am going quite franklybecause you want me to. "

Something in her tone caught his attention. 

"I forgot to tell you, " she went on. "Father has given Palmer fivethousand dollars. He's going to buy a share in a business. "

"That's fine. "

"Possibly. I don't believe much in Palmer's business ventures. "

Her flat tone still held him. Underneath it he divined strain andrepression. 

"I hate to go and leave you alone, " he said at last from the door. "Haveyou any idea when Palmer will be back?"

"Not the slightest. K. , will you come here a moment? Stand behind me; Idon't want to see you, and I want to tell you something. "

He did as she bade him, rather puzzled. 

"Here I am. "

"I think I am a fool for saying this. Perhaps I am spoiling the onlychance I have to get any happiness out of life. But I have got to sayit. It's stronger than I am. I was terribly unhappy, K. , and then youcame into my life, and I--now I listen for your step in the hall. Ican't be a hypocrite any longer, K. "

When he stood behind her, silent and not moving, she turned slowly aboutand faced him. He towered there in the little room, grave eyes on hers. 

"It's a long time since I have had a woman friend, Christine, " he saidsoberly. "Your friendship has meant a good deal. In a good manyways, I'd not care to look ahead if it were not for you. I value ourfriendship so much that I--"

"That you don't want me to spoil it, " she finished for him. "I knowyou don't care for me, K. , not the way I--But I wanted you to know. Itdoesn't hurt a good man to know such a thing. And it--isn't going tostop your coming here, is it?"

"Of course not, " said K. Heartily. "But to-morrow, when we are bothclear-headed, we will talk this over. You are mistaken about this thing, Christine; I am sure of that. Things have not been going well, and justbecause I am always around, and all that sort of thing, you think thingsthat aren't really so. I'm only a reaction, Christine. "

He tried to make her smile up at him. But just then she could not smile. 

If she had cried, things might have been different for every one; forperhaps K. Would have taken her in his arms. He was heart-hungry enough, those days, for anything. And perhaps, too, being intuitive, Christinefelt this. But she had no mind to force him into a situation against hiswill. 

"It is because you are good, " she said, and held out her hand. "Good-night. "

Le Moyne took it and bent over and kissed it lightly. There was inthe kiss all that he could not say of respect, of affection andunderstanding. 

"Good-night, Christine, " he said, and went into the hall and upstairs. 

The lamp was not lighted in his room, but the street light glowedthrough the windows. Once again the waving fronds of the ailanthus treeflung ghostly shadows on the walls. There was a faint sweet odor ofblossoms, so soon to become rank and heavy. 

Over the floor in a wild zigzag darted a strip of white paper whichdisappeared under the bureau. Reginald was building another nest. 

CHAPTER XXI

Sidney went into the operating-room late in the spring as the result ofa conversation between the younger Wilson and the Head. 

"When are you going to put my protegee into the operating-room?" askedWilson, meeting Miss Gregg in a corridor one bright, spring afternoon. 

"That usually comes in the second year, Dr. Wilson. "

He smiled down at her. "That isn't a rule, is it?"

"Not exactly. Miss Page is very young, and of course there are othergirls who have not yet had the experience. But, if you make therequest--"

"I am going to have some good cases soon. I'll not make a request, ofcourse; but, if you see fit, it would be good training for Miss Page. "

Miss Gregg went on, knowing perfectly that at his next operation Dr. Wilson would expect Sidney Page in the operating-room. The other doctorswere not so exigent. She would have liked to have all the staff old andsettled, like Dr. O'Hara or the older Wilson. These young men came inand tore things up. 

She sighed as she went on. There were so many things to go wrong. Thebutter had been bad--she must speak to the matron. The sterilizer inthe operating-room was out of order--that meant a quarrel with the chiefengineer. Requisitions were too heavy--that meant going around to thewards and suggesting to the head nurses that lead pencils and bandagesand adhesive plaster and safety-pins cost money. 

It was particularly inconvenient to move Sidney just then. CarlottaHarrison was off duty, ill. She had been ailing for a month, and now shewas down with a temperature. As the Head went toward Sidney's ward, her busy mind was playing her nurses in their wards like pieces on acheckerboard. 

Sidney went into the operating-room that afternoon. For her blueuniform, kerchief, and cap she exchanged the hideous operating-roomgarb: long, straight white gown with short sleeves and mob-cap, gray-white from many sterilizations. But the ugly costume seemed toemphasize her beauty, as the habit of a nun often brings out the placidsaintliness of her face. 

The relationship between Sidney and Max had reached that point thatoccurs in all relationships between men and women: when things musteither go forward or go back, but cannot remain as they are. Thecondition had existed for the last three months. It exasperated the man. 

As a matter of fact, Wilson could not go ahead. The situation withCarlotta had become tense, irritating. He felt that she stood readyto block any move he made. He would not go back, and he dared not goforward. 

If Sidney was puzzled, she kept it bravely to herself. In her littleroom at night, with the door carefully locked, she tried to think thingsout. There were a few treasures that she looked over regularly: a driedflower from the Christmas roses; a label that he had pasted playfullyon the back of her hand one day after the rush of surgical dressings wasover and which said "Rx, Take once and forever. "

There was another piece of paper over which Sidney spent much time. Itwas a page torn out of an order book, and it read: "Sigsbee may havelight diet; Rosenfeld massage. " Underneath was written, very small:

 "You are the most beautiful person in the world. "

Two reasons had prompted Wilson to request to have Sidney in theoperating-room. He wanted her with him, and he wanted her to see him atwork: the age-old instinct of the male to have his woman see him at hisbest. 

He was in high spirits that first day of Sidney's operating-roomexperience. For the time at least, Carlotta was out of the way. Hersomber eyes no longer watched him. Once he looked up from his work andglanced at Sidney where she stood at strained attention. 

"Feeling faint?" he said. 

She colored under the eyes that were turned on her. 

"No, Dr. Wilson. "

"A great many of them faint on the first day. We sometimes have themlying all over the floor. "

He challenged Miss Gregg with his eyes, and she reproved him with ashake of her head, as she might a bad boy. 

One way and another, he managed to turn the attention of theoperating-room to Sidney several times. It suited his whim, and it didmore than that: it gave him a chance to speak to her in his teasing way. 

Sidney came through the operation as if she had been through fire--tautas a string, rather pale, but undaunted. But when the last case had beentaken out, Max dropped his bantering manner. The internes were lookingover instruments; the nurses were busy on the hundred and one tasks ofclearing up; so he had a chance for a word with her alone. 

"I am proud of you, Sidney; you came through it like a soldier. "

"You made it very hard for me. "

A nurse was coming toward him; he had only a moment. 

"I shall leave a note in the mail-box, " he said quickly, and proceededwith the scrubbing of his hands which signified the end of the day'swork. 

The operations had lasted until late in the afternoon. The night nurseshad taken up their stations; prayers were over. The internes weregathered in the smoking-room, threshing over the day's work, as wastheir custom. When Sidney was free, she went to the office for the note. It was very brief:--

I have something I want to say to you, dear. I think you know what itis. I never see you alone at home any more. If you can get off for anhour, won't you take the trolley to the end of Division Street? I'll bethere with the car at eight-thirty, and I promise to have you back byten o'clock. 

MAX. 

The office was empty. No one saw her as she stood by the mail-box. Theticking of the office clock, the heavy rumble of a dray outside, theroll of the ambulance as it went out through the gateway, and in herhand the realization of what she had never confessed as a hope, even toherself! He, the great one, was going to stoop to her. It had been inhis eyes that afternoon; it was there, in his letter, now. 

It was eight by the office clock. To get out of her uniform and intostreet clothing, fifteen minutes; on the trolley, another fifteen. Shewould need to hurry. 

But she did not meet him, after all. Miss Wardwell met her in the upperhall. 

"Did you get my message?" she asked anxiously. 

"What message?"

"Miss Harrison wants to see you. She has been moved to a private room. "

Sidney glanced at K. 's little watch. 

"Must she see me to-night?"

"She has been waiting for hours--ever since you went to theoperating-room. "

Sidney sighed, but she went to Carlotta at once. The girl's conditionwas puzzling the staff. There was talk of "T. R. "--which is hospital for"typhoid restrictions. " But T. R. Has apathy, generally, and Carlottawas not apathetic. Sidney found her tossing restlessly on her high whitebed, and put her cool hand over Carlotta's hot one. 

"Did you send for me?"

"Hours ago. " Then, seeing her operating-room uniform: "You've beenTHERE, have you?"

"Is there anything I can do, Carlotta?"

Excitement had dyed Sidney's cheeks with color and made her eyesluminous. The girl in the bed eyed her, and then abruptly drew her handaway. 

"Were you going out?"

"Yes; but not right away. "

"I'll not keep you if you have an engagement. "

"The engagement will have to wait. I'm sorry you're ill. If you wouldlike me to stay with you tonight--"

Carlotta shook her head on her pillow. 

"Mercy, no!" she said irritably. "I'm only worn out. I need a rest. Areyou going home to-night?"

"No, " Sidney admitted, and flushed. 

Nothing escaped Carlotta's eyes--the younger girl's radiance, herconfusion, even her operating room uniform and what it signified. Howshe hated her, with her youth and freshness, her wide eyes, her soft redlips! And this engagement--she had the uncanny divination of fury. 

"I was going to ask you to do something for me, " she said shortly; "butI've changed my mind about it. Go on and keep your engagement. "

To end the interview, she turned over and lay with her face to the wall. Sidney stood waiting uncertainly. All her training had been to ignorethe irritability of the sick, and Carlotta was very ill; she could seethat. 

"Just remember that I am ready to do anything I can, Carlotta, " shesaid. "Nothing will--will be a trouble. "

She waited a moment, but, receiving no acknowledgement of her offer, sheturned slowly and went toward the door. 

"Sidney!"

She went back to the bed. 

"Yes. Don't sit up, Carlotta. What is it?"

"I'm frightened!"

"You're feverish and nervous. There's nothing to be frightened about. "

"If it's typhoid, I'm gone. "

"That's childish. Of course you're not gone, or anything like it. Besides, it's probably not typhoid. "

"I'm afraid to sleep. I doze for a little, and when I waken there arepeople in the room. They stand around the bed and talk about me. "

Sidney's precious minutes were flying; but Carlotta had gone into aparoxysm of terror, holding to Sidney's hand and begging not to be leftalone. 

"I'm too young to die, " she would whimper. And in the next breath: "Iwant to die--I don't want to live!"

The hands of the little watch pointed to eight-thirty when at last shelay quiet, with closed eyes. Sidney, tiptoeing to the door, was broughtup short by her name again, this time in a more normal voice:--

"Sidney. "

"Yes, dear. "

"Perhaps you are right and I'm going to get over this. "

"Certainly you are. Your nerves are playing tricks with you to-night. "

"I'll tell you now why I sent for you. "

"I'm listening. "

"If--if I get very bad, --you know what I mean, --will you promise to doexactly what I tell you?"

"I promise, absolutely. "

"My trunk key is in my pocket-book. There is a letter in the tray--justa name, no address on it. Promise to see that it is not delivered; thatit is destroyed without being read. "

Sidney promised promptly; and, because it was too late now for hermeeting with Wilson, for the next hour she devoted herself to makingCarlotta comfortable. So long as she was busy, a sort of exaltation ofservice upheld her. But when at last the night assistant came to sitwith the sick girl, and Sidney was free, all the life faded from herface. He had waited for her and she had not come. Would he understand?Would he ask her to meet him again? Perhaps, after all, his question hadnot been what she had thought. 

She went miserably to bed. K. 's little watch ticked under her pillow. Her stiff cap moved in the breeze as it swung from the corner of hermirror. Under her window passed and repassed the night life of thecity--taxicabs, stealthy painted women, tired office-cleaners trudginghome at midnight, a city patrol-wagon which rolled in through the gatesto the hospital's always open door. When she could not sleep, she got upand padded to the window in bare feet. The light from a passing machineshowed a youthful figure that looked like Joe Drummond. 

Life, that had always seemed so simple, was growing very complicatedfor Sidney: Joe and K. , Palmer and Christine, Johnny Rosenfeld, Carlotta--either lonely or tragic, all of them, or both. Life in theraw. 

Toward morning Carlotta wakened. The night assistant was still there. Ithad been a quiet night and she was asleep in her chair. To save her capshe had taken it off, and early streaks of silver showed in her hair. 

Carlotta roused her ruthlessly. 

"I want something from my trunk, " she said. 

The assistant wakened reluctantly, and looked at her watch. Almostmorning. She yawned and pinned on her cap. 

"For Heaven's sake, " she protested. "You don't want me to go to thetrunk-room at this hour!"

"I can go myself, " said Carlotta, and put her feet out of bed. 

"What is it you want?"

"A letter on the top tray. If I wait my temperature will go up and Ican't think. "

"Shall I mail it for you?"

"Bring it here, " said Carlotta shortly. "I want to destroy it. "

The young woman went without haste, to show that a night assistant maydo such things out of friendship, but not because she must. She stoppedat the desk where the night nurse in charge of the rooms on that floorwas filling out records. 

"Give me twelve private patients to look after instead of one nurse likeCarlotta Harrison!" she complained. "I've got to go to the trunk-roomfor her at this hour, and it next door to the mortuary!"

As the first rays of the summer sun came through the window, shadowingthe fire-escape like a lattice on the wall of the little gray-walledroom, Carlotta sat up in her bed and lighted the candle on the stand. The night assistant, who dreamed sometimes of fire, stood nervously by. 

"Why don't you let me do it?" she asked irritably. 

Carlotta did not reply at once. The candle was in her hand, and she wasstaring at the letter. 

"Because I want to do it myself, " she said at last, and thrust theenvelope into the flame. It burned slowly, at first a thin blue flametipped with yellow, then, eating its way with a small fine crackling, a widening, destroying blaze that left behind it black ash anddestruction. The acrid odor of burning filled the room. Not until it wasconsumed, and the black ash fell into the saucer of the candlestick, didCarlotta speak again. Then:--

"If every fool of a woman who wrote a letter burnt it, there would beless trouble in the world, " she said, and lay back among her pillows. 

The assistant said nothing. She was sleepy and irritated, and she hadcrushed her best cap by letting the lid of Carlotta's trunk fall on her. She went out of the room with disapproval in every line of her back. 

"She burned it, " she informed the night nurse at her desk. "A letter toa man--one of her suitors, I suppose. The name was K. Le Moyne. "

The deepening and broadening of Sidney's character had been verynoticeable in the last few months. She had gained in decision withoutbecoming hard; had learned to see things as they are, not through therose mist of early girlhood; and, far from being daunted, had developeda philosophy that had for its basis God in His heaven and all well withthe world. 

But her new theory of acceptance did not comprehend everything. She wasin a state of wild revolt, for instance, as to Johnny Rosenfeld, andmore remotely but not less deeply concerned over Grace Irving. Soonshe was to learn of Tillie's predicament, and to take up the cudgelsvaliantly for her. 

But her revolt was to be for herself too. On the day after her failureto keep her appointment with Wilson she had her half-holiday. No wordhad come from him, and when, after a restless night, she went to her newstation in the operating-room, it was to learn that he had been calledout of the city in consultation and would not operate that day. O'Harawould take advantage of the free afternoon to run in some odds and endsof cases. 

The operating-room made gauze that morning, and small packets oftampons: absorbent cotton covered with sterilized gauze, and fastenedtogether--twelve, by careful count, in each bundle. 

Miss Grange, who had been kind to Sidney in her probation months, taughther the method. 

"Used instead of sponges, " she explained. "If you noticed yesterday, they were counted before and after each operation. One of these missingis worse than a bank clerk out a dollar at the end of the day. There'sno closing up until it's found!"

Sidney eyed the small packet before her anxiously. 

"What a hideous responsibility!" she said. 

From that time on she handled the small gauze sponges almost reverently. 

The operating-room--all glass, white enamel, and shiningnickel-plate--first frightened, then thrilled her. It was as if, havingloved a great actor, she now trod the enchanted boards on which heachieved his triumphs. She was glad that it was her afternoon off, andthat she would not see some lesser star--O'Hara, to wit--usurping hisplace. 

But Max had not sent her any word. That hurt. He must have known thatshe had been delayed. 

The operating-room was a hive of industry, and tongues kept pace withfingers. The hospital was a world, like the Street. The nurses had comefrom many places, and, like cloistered nuns, seemed to have left theother world behind. A new President of the country was less real than anew interne. The country might wash its soiled linen in public; what wasthat compared with enough sheets and towels for the wards? Big buildingswere going up in the city. Ah! but the hospital took cognizance of that, gathering as it did a toll from each new story added. What news ofthe world came in through the great doors was translated at once intohospital terms. What the city forgot the hospital remembered. It tookup life where the town left it at its gates, and carried it on or sawit ended, as the case might be. So these young women knew the ending ofmany stories, the beginning of some; but of none did they know both thefirst and last, the beginning and the end. 

By many small kindnesses Sidney had made herself popular. And there wasmore to it than that. She never shirked. The other girls had the respectfor her of one honest worker for another. The episode that had causedher suspension seemed entirely forgotten. They showed her carefully whatshe was to do; and, because she must know the "why" of everything, theyexplained as best they could. 

It was while she was standing by the great sterilizer that she heard, through an open door, part of a conversation that sent her through theday with her world in revolt. 

The talkers were putting the anaesthetizing-room in readiness for theafternoon. Sidney, waiting for the time to open the sterilizer, wasbusy, for the first time in her hurried morning, with her own thoughts. Because she was very human, there was a little exultation in her mind. What would these girls say when they learned of how things stood betweenher and their hero--that, out of all his world of society and clubs andbeautiful women, he was going to choose her?

Not shameful, this: the honest pride of a woman in being chosen frommany. 

The voices were very clear. 

"Typhoid! Of course not. She's eating her heart out. "

"Do you think he has really broken with her?"

"Probably not. She knows it's coming; that's all. "

"Sometimes I have wondered--"

"So have others. She oughtn't to be here, of course. But among so manythere is bound to be one now and then who--who isn't quite--"

She hesitated, at a loss for a word. 

"Did you--did you ever think over that trouble with Miss Page about themedicines? That would have been easy, and like her. "

"She hates Miss Page, of course, but I hardly think--If that's true, itwas nearly murder. "

There were two voices, a young one, full of soft southern inflections, and an older voice, a trifle hard, as from disillusion. 

They were working as they talked. Sidney could hear the clatter ofbottles on the tray, the scraping of a moved table. 

"He was crazy about her last fall. "

"Miss Page?" (The younger voice, with a thrill in it. )

"Carlotta. Of course this is confidential. "

"Surely. "

"I saw her with him in his car one evening. And on her vacation lastsummer--"

The voices dropped to a whisper. Sidney, standing cold and white by thesterilizer, put out a hand to steady herself. So that was it! No wonderCarlotta had hated her. And those whispering voices! What were theysaying? How hateful life was, and men and women. Must there always besomething hideous in the background? Until now she had only seen life. Now she felt its hot breath on her cheek. 

She was steady enough in a moment, cool and calm, moving about her workwith ice-cold hands and slightly narrowed eyes. To a sort of physicalnausea was succeeding anger, a blind fury of injured pride. He had beenin love with Carlotta and had tired of her. He was bringing her hiswarmed-over emotions. She remembered the bitterness of her month'sexile, and its probable cause. Max had stood by her then. Well he might, if he suspected the truth. 

For just a moment she had an illuminating flash of Wilson as he reallywas, selfish and self-indulgent, just a trifle too carefully dressed, daring as to eye and speech, with a carefully calculated daring, franklypleasure-loving. She put her hands over her eyes. 

The voices in the next room had risen above their whisper. 

"Genius has privileges, of course, " said the older voice. "He is a verygreat surgeon. To-morrow he is to do the Edwardes operation again. I amglad I am to see him do it. "

Sidney still held her hands over her eyes. He WAS a great surgeon: inhis hands he held the keys of life and death. And perhaps he had nevercared for Carlotta: she might have thrown herself at him. He was a man, at the mercy of any scheming woman. 

She tried to summon his image to her aid. But a curious thing happened. She could not visualize him. Instead, there came, clear and distinct, apicture of K. Le Moyne in the hall of the little house, reaching one ofhis long arms to the chandelier over his head and looking up at her asshe stood on the stairs. 

CHAPTER XXII

"My God, Sidney, I'm asking you to marry me!"

"I--I know that. I am asking you something else, Max. "

"I have never been in love with her. "

His voice was sulky. He had drawn the car close to a bank, and they weresitting in the shade, on the grass. It was the Sunday afternoon afterSidney's experience in the operating-room. 

"You took her out, Max, didn't you?"

"A few times, yes. She seemed to have no friends. I was sorry for her. "

"That was all?"

"Absolutely. Good Heavens, you've put me through a catechism in the lastten minutes!"

"If my father were living, or even mother, I--one of them would havedone this for me, Max. I'm sorry I had to. I've been very wretched forseveral days. "

It was the first encouragement she had given him. There was no coquetryabout her aloofness. It was only that her faith in him had had a shockand was slow of reviving. 

"You are very, very lovely, Sidney. I wonder if you have any idea whatyou mean to me?"

"You meant a great deal to me, too, " she said frankly, "until a few daysago. I thought you were the greatest man I had ever known, and the best. And then--I think I'd better tell you what I overheard. I didn't try tohear. It just happened that way. "

He listened doggedly to her account of the hospital gossip, doggedly andwith a sinking sense of fear, not of the talk, but of Carlotta herself. Usually one might count on the woman's silence, her instinct forself-protection. But Carlotta was different. Damn the girl, anyhow! Shehad known from the start that the affair was a temporary one; he hadnever pretended anything else. 

There was silence for a moment after Sidney finished. Then:

"You are not a child any longer, Sidney. You have learned a great dealin this last year. One of the things you know is that almost every manhas small affairs, many of them sometimes, before he finds the womanhe wants to marry. When he finds her, the others are all off--there'snothing to them. It's the real thing then, instead of the sham. "

"Palmer was very much in love with Christine, and yet--"

"Palmer is a cad. "

"I don't want you to think I'm making terms. I'm not. But if this thingwent on, and I found out afterward that you--that there was anyone else, it would kill me. "

"Then you care, after all!"

There was something boyish in his triumph, in the very gesture withwhich he held out his arms, like a child who has escaped a whipping. Hestood up and, catching her hands, drew her to her feet. "You love me, dear. "

"I'm afraid I do, Max. "

"Then I'm yours, and only yours, if you want me, " he said, and took herin his arms. 

He was riotously happy, must hold her off for the joy of drawing her tohim again, must pull off her gloves and kiss her soft bare palms. 

"I love you, love you!" he cried, and bent down to bury his face in thewarm hollow of her neck. 

Sidney glowed under his caresses--was rather startled at his passion, alittle ashamed. 

"Tell me you love me a little bit. Say it. "

"I love you, " said Sidney, and flushed scarlet. 

But even in his arms, with the warm sunlight on his radiant face, withhis lips to her ear, whispering the divine absurdities of passion, inthe back of her obstinate little head was the thought that, while shehad given him her first embrace, he had held other women in his arms. Itmade her passive, prevented her complete surrender. 

And after a time he resented it. "You are only letting me love you, " hecomplained. "I don't believe you care, after all. "

He freed her, took a step back from her. 

"I am afraid I am jealous, " she said simply. "I keep thinking of--ofCarlotta. "

"Will it help any if I swear that that is off absolutely?"

"Don't be absurd. It is enough to have you say so. "

But he insisted on swearing, standing with one hand upraised, his eyeson her. The Sunday landscape was very still, save for the hum of busyinsect life. A mile or so away, at the foot of two hills, lay a whitefarmhouse with its barn and outbuildings. In a small room in the barna woman sat; and because it was Sunday, and she could not sew, she readher Bible. 

"--and that after this there will be only one woman for me, " finishedMax, and dropped his hand. He bent over and kissed Sidney on the lips. 

At the white farmhouse, a little man stood in the doorway and surveyedthe road with eyes shaded by a shirt-sleeved arm. Behind him, in adarkened room, a barkeeper was wiping the bar with a clean cloth. 

"I guess I'll go and get my coat on, Bill, " said the little man heavily. "They're starting to come now. I see a machine about a mile down theroad. "

Sidney broke the news of her engagement to K. Herself, the evening ofthe same day. The little house was quiet when she got out of the car atthe door. Harriet was asleep on the couch at the foot of her bed, and Christine's rooms were empty. She found Katie on the back porch, mountains of Sunday newspapers piled around her. 

"I'd about give you up, " said Katie. "I was thinking, rather than seeyour ice-cream that's left from dinner melt and go to waste, I'd take itaround to the Rosenfelds. "

"Please take it to them. I'd really rather they had it. "

She stood in front of Katie, drawing off her gloves. 

"Aunt Harriet's asleep. Is--is Mr. Le Moyne around?"

"You're gettin' prettier every day, Miss Sidney. Is that the blue suitMiss Harriet said she made for you? It's right stylish. I'd like to seethe back. "

Sidney obediently turned, and Katie admired. 

"When I think how things have turned out!" she reflected. "You in ahospital, doing God knows what for all sorts of people, and Miss Harrietmaking a suit like that and asking a hundred dollars for it, and thattony that a person doesn't dare to speak to her when she's in thedining-room. And your poor ma. .. Well, it's all in a lifetime! No; Mr. K. 's not here. He and Mrs. Howe are gallivanting around together. "

"Katie!"

"Well, that's what I call it. I'm not blind. Don't I hear her dressingup about four o'clock every afternoon, and, when she's all ready, sittin' in the parlor with the door open, and a book on her knee, as ifshe'd been reading all afternoon? If he doesn't stop, she's at the footof the stairs, calling up to him. 'K. , ' she says, 'K. , I'm waiting toask you something!' or, 'K. , wouldn't you like a cup of tea?' She'salways feedin' him tea and cake, so that when he comes to table he won'teat honest victuals. "

Sidney had paused with one glove half off. Katie's tone carriedconviction. Was life making another of its queer errors, and wereChristine and K. In love with each other? K. Had always been HERfriend, HER confidant. To give him up to Christine--she shook herselfimpatiently. What had come over her? Why not be glad that he had somesort of companionship?

She went upstairs to the room that had been her mother's, and took offher hat. She wanted to be alone, to realize what had happened toher. She did not belong to herself any more. It gave her an odd, lostfeeling. She was going to be married--not very soon, but ultimately. Ayear ago her half promise to Joe had gratified her sense of romance. Shewas loved, and she had thrilled to it. 

But this was different. Marriage, that had been but a vision then, loomed large, almost menacing. She had learned the law of compensation:that for every joy one pays in suffering. Women who married went downinto the valley of death for their children. One must love and be lovedvery tenderly to pay for that. The scale must balance. 

And there were other things. Women grew old, and age was not alwayslovely. This very maternity--was it not fatal to beauty? Visions ofchild-bearing women in the hospitals, with sagging breasts and relaxedbodies, came to her. That was a part of the price. 

Harriet was stirring, across the hall. Sidney could hear her movingabout with flat, inelastic steps. 

That was the alternative. One married, happily or not as the case mightbe, and took the risk. Or one stayed single, like Harriet, growing alittle hard, exchanging slimness for leanness and austerity of figure, flat-chested, thin-voiced. One blossomed and withered, then, or oneshriveled up without having flowered. All at once it seemed veryterrible to her. She felt as if she had been caught in an inexorablehand that had closed about her. 

Harriet found her a little later, face down on her mother's bed, cryingas if her heart would break. She scolded her roundly. 

"You've been overworking, " she said. "You've been getting thinner. Yourmeasurements for that suit showed it. I have never approved of thishospital training, and after last January--"

She could hardly credit her senses when Sidney, still swollen withweeping, told her of her engagement. 

"But I don't understand. If you care for him and he has asked you tomarry him, why on earth are you crying your eyes out?"

"I do care. I don't know why I cried. It just came over me, all at once, that I--It was just foolishness. I am very happy, Aunt Harriet. "

Harriet thought she understood. The girl needed her mother, and she, Harriet, was a hard, middle-aged woman and a poor substitute. She pattedSidney's moist hand. 

"I guess I understand, " she said. "I'll attend to your wedding things, Sidney. We'll show this street that even Christine Lorenz can beoutdone. " And, as an afterthought: "I hope Max Wilson will settle downnow. He's been none too steady. "

K. Had taken Christine to see Tillie that Sunday afternoon. Palmerhad the car out--had, indeed, not been home since the morning of theprevious day. He played golf every Saturday afternoon and Sunday at theCountry Club, and invariably spent the night there. So K. And Christinewalked from the end of the trolley line, saying little, but under K. 'skeen direction finding bright birds in the hedgerows, hidden fieldflowers, a dozen wonders of the country that Christine had never dreamedof. 

The interview with Tillie had been a disappointment to K. Christine, with the best and kindliest intentions, struck a wrong note. In herendeavor to cover the fact that everything in Tillie's world was wrong, she fell into the error of pretending that everything was right. 

Tillie, grotesque of figure and tragic-eyed, listened to her patiently, while K. Stood, uneasy and uncomfortable, in the wide door of thehay-barn and watched automobiles turning in from the road. WhenChristine rose to leave, she confessed her failure frankly. 

"I've meant well, Tillie, " she said. "I'm afraid I've said exactlywhat I shouldn't. I can only think that, no matter what is wrong, twowonderful pieces of luck have come to you. Your husband--that is, Mr. Schwitter--cares for you, --you admit that, --and you are going to have achild. "

Tillie's pale eyes filled. 

"I used to be a good woman, Mrs. Howe, " she said simply. "Now I'm not. When I look in that glass at myself, and call myself what I am, I'd givea good bit to be back on the Street again. "

She found opportunity for a word with K. While Christine went ahead ofhim out of the barn. 

"I've been wanting to speak to you, Mr. Le Moyne. " She lowered hervoice. "Joe Drummond's been coming out here pretty regular. Schwittersays he's drinking a little. He don't like him loafing around here: hesent him home last Sunday. What's come over the boy?"

"I'll talk to him. "

"The barkeeper says he carries a revolver around, and talks wild. Ithought maybe Sidney Page could do something with him. "

"I think he'd not like her to know. I'll do what I can. "

K. 's face was thoughtful as he followed Christine to the road. 

Christine was very silent, on the way back to the city. More than onceK. Found her eyes fixed on him, and it puzzled him. Poor Christine wasonly trying to fit him into the world she knew--a world whose men werestrong but seldom tender, who gave up their Sundays to golf, not tovisiting unhappy outcasts in the country. How masculine he was, andyet how gentle! It gave her a choking feeling in her throat. She tookadvantage of a steep bit of road to stop and stand a moment, her fingerson his shabby gray sleeve. 

It was late when they got home. Sidney was sitting on the low step, waiting for them. 

Wilson had come across at seven, impatient because he must see a casethat evening, and promising an early return. In the little hall he haddrawn her to him and kissed her, this time not on the lips, but on theforehead and on each of her white eyelids. 

"Little wife-to-be!" he had said, and was rather ashamed of his ownemotion. From across the Street, as he got into his car, he had wavedhis hand to her. 

Christine went to her room, and, with a long breath of content, K. Folded up his long length on the step below Sidney. 

"Well, dear ministering angel, " he said, "how goes the world?"

"Things have been happening, K. "

He sat erect and looked at her. Perhaps because she had a woman'sinstinct for making the most of a piece of news, perhaps--more likely, indeed--because she divined that the announcement would not be entirelyagreeable, she delayed it, played with it. 

"I have gone into the operating-room. "

"Fine!"

"The costume is ugly. I look hideous in it. "

"Doubtless. "

He smiled up at her. There was relief in his eyes, and still a question. 

"Is that all the news?"

"There is something else, K. "

It was a moment before he spoke. He sat looking ahead, his face set. Apparently he did not wish to hear her say it; for when, after a moment, he spoke, it was to forestall her, after all. 

"I think I know what it is, Sidney. "

"You expected it, didn't you?"

"I--it's not an entire surprise. "

"Aren't you going to wish me happiness?"

"If my wishing could bring anything good to you, you would haveeverything in the world. "

His voice was not entirely steady, but his eyes smiled into hers. 

"Am I--are we going to lose you soon?"

"I shall finish my training. I made that a condition. "

Then, in a burst of confidence:--

"I know so little, K. , and he knows so much! I am going to read andstudy, so that he can talk to me about his work. That's what marriageought to be, a sort of partnership. Don't you think so?"

K. Nodded. His mind refused to go forward to the unthinkable future. Instead, he was looking back--back to those days when he had hopedsometime to have a wife to talk to about his work, that beloved workthat was no longer his. And, finding it agonizing, as indeed all thoughtwas that summer night, he dwelt for a moment on that evening, a yearbefore, when in the same June moonlight, he had come up the Street andhad seen Sidney where she was now, with the tree shadows playing overher. 

Even that first evening he had been jealous. 

It had been Joe then. Now it was another and older man, daring, intelligent, unscrupulous. And this time he had lost her absolutely, lost her without a struggle to keep her. His only struggle had been withhimself, to remember that he had nothing to offer but failure. 

"Do you know, " said Sidney suddenly, "that it is almost a year sincethat night you came up the Street, and I was here on the steps?"

"That's a fact, isn't it!" He managed to get some surprise into hisvoice. 

"How Joe objected to your coming! Poor Joe!"

"Do you ever see him?"

"Hardly ever now. I think he hates me. "

"Why?"

"Because--well, you know, K. Why do men always hate a woman who justhappens not to love them?"

"I don't believe they do. It would be much better for them if theycould. As a matter of fact, there are poor devils who go through lifetrying to do that very thing, and failing. "

Sidney's eyes were on the tall house across. It was Dr. Ed's eveningoffice hour, and through the open window she could see a line of peoplewaiting their turn. They sat immobile, inert, doggedly patient, untilthe opening of the back office door promoted them all one chair towardthe consulting-room. 

"I shall be just across the Street, " she said at last. "Nearer than I amat the hospital. "

"You will be much farther away. You will be married. "

"But we will still be friends, K. ?"

Her voice was anxious, a little puzzled. She was often puzzled with him. 

"Of course. "

But, after another silence, he astounded her. She had fallen into theway of thinking of him as always belonging to the house, even, in asense, belonging to her. And now--

"Shall you mind very much if I tell you that I am thinking of goingaway?"

"K. !"

"My dear child, you do not need a roomer here any more. I have alwaysreceived infinitely more than I have paid for, even in the smallservices I have been able to render. Your Aunt Harriet is prosperous. You are away, and some day you are going to be married. Don't you see--Iam not needed?"

"That does not mean you are not wanted. "

"I shall not go far. I'll always be near enough, so that I can seeyou"--he changed this hastily--"so that we can still meet and talkthings over. Old friends ought to be like that, not too near, but to beturned on when needed, like a tap. "

"Where will you go?"

"The Rosenfelds are rather in straits. I thought of helping them to geta small house somewhere and of taking a room with them. It's largely amatter of furniture. If they could furnish it even plainly, it could bedone. I--haven't saved anything. "

"Do you ever think of yourself?" she cried. "Have you always gonethrough life helping people, K. ? Save anything! I should think not! Youspend it all on others. " She bent over and put her hand on his shoulder. "It will not be home without you, K. "

To save him, he could not have spoken just then. A riot of rebellionsurged up in him, that he must let this best thing in his life go outof it. To go empty of heart through the rest of his days, while his veryarms ached to hold her! And she was so near--just above, with her handon his shoulder, her wistful face so close that, without moving, hecould have brushed her hair. 

"You have not wished me happiness, K. Do you remember, when I was goingto the hospital and you gave me the little watch--do you remember whatyou said?"

"Yes"--huskily. 

"Will you say it again?"

"But that was good-bye. "

"Isn't this, in a way? You are going to leave us, and I--say it, K. "

"Good-bye, dear, and--God bless you. "

CHAPTER XXIII

The announcement of Sidney's engagement was not to be made for a year. Wilson, chafing under the delay, was obliged to admit to himself thatit was best. Many things could happen in a year. Carlotta would havefinished her training, and by that time would probably be reconciled tothe ending of their relationship. 

He intended to end that. He had meant every word of what he had sworn toSidney. He was genuinely in love, even unselfishly--as far as he couldbe unselfish. The secret was to be carefully kept also for Sidney'ssake. The hospital did not approve of engagements between nurses and thestaff. It was disorganizing, bad for discipline. 

Sidney was very happy all that summer. She glowed with pride when herlover put through a difficult piece of work; flushed and palpitated whenshe heard his praises sung; grew to know, by a sort of intuition, whenhe was in the house. She wore his ring on a fine chain around her neck, and grew prettier every day. 

Once or twice, however, when she was at home, away from the glamour, herearly fears obsessed her. Would he always love her? He was so handsomeand so gifted, and there were women who were mad about him. That was thegossip of the hospital. Suppose she married him and he tired of her? Inher humility she thought that perhaps only her youth, and such charm asshe had that belonged to youth, held him. And before her, always, shesaw the tragic women of the wards. 

K. Had postponed his leaving until fall. Sidney had been insistent, andHarriet had topped the argument in her businesslike way. "If you insiston being an idiot and adopting the Rosenfeld family, " she said, "waituntil September. The season for boarders doesn't begin until fall. "

So K. Waited for "the season, " and ate his heart out for Sidney in theinterval. 

Johnny Rosenfeld still lay in his ward, inert from the waist down. K. Was his most frequent visitor. As a matter of fact, he was watching theboy closely, at Max Wilson's request. 

"Tell me when I'm to do it, " said Wilson, "and when the time comes, for God's sake, stand by me. Come to the operation. He's got so muchconfidence that I'll help him that I don't dare to fail. "

So K. Came on visiting days, and, by special dispensation, on Saturdayafternoons. He was teaching the boy basket-making. Not that he knewanything about it himself; but, by means of a blind teacher, he keptjust one lesson ahead. The ward was intensely interested. It foundsomething absurd and rather touching in this tall, serious young manwith the surprisingly deft fingers, tying raffia knots. 

The first basket went, by Johnny's request, to Sidney Page. 

"I want her to have it, " he said. "She got corns on her fingers fromrubbing me when I came in first; and, besides--"

"Yes?" said K. He was tying a most complicated knot, and could not lookup. 

"I know something, " said Johnny. "I'm not going to get in wrong bytalking, but I know something. You give her the basket. "

K. Looked up then, and surprised Johnny's secret in his face. 

"Ah!" he said. 

"If I'd squealed she'd have finished me for good. They've got me, youknow. I'm not running in 2. 40 these days. "

"I'll not tell, or make it uncomfortable for you. What do you know?"

Johnny looked around. The ward was in the somnolence of mid-afternoon. The nearest patient, a man in a wheel-chair, was snoring heavily. 

"It was the dark-eyed one that changed the medicine on me, " he said. "The one with the heels that were always tapping around, waking me up. She did it; I saw her. "

After all, it was only what K. Had suspected before. But a sense ofimpending danger to Sidney obsessed him. If Carlotta would do that, whatwould she do when she learned of the engagement? And he had known herbefore. He believed she was totally unscrupulous. The odd coincidence oftheir paths crossing again troubled him. 

Carlotta Harrison was well again, and back on duty. Luckily for Sidney, her three months' service in the operating-room kept them apart. ForCarlotta was now not merely jealous. She found herself neglected, ignored. It ate her like a fever. 

But she did not yet suspect an engagement. It had been her theory thatWilson would not marry easily--that, in a sense, he would have to becoerced into marriage. Some clever woman would marry him some day, andno one would be more astonished than himself. She thought merely thatSidney was playing a game like her own, with different weapons. So sheplanned her battle, ignorant that she had lost already. 

Her method was simple enough. She stopped sulking, met Max with smiles, made no overtures toward a renewal of their relations. At first thisannoyed him. Later it piqued him. To desert a woman was justifiable, under certain circumstances. But to desert a woman, and have herapparently not even know it, was against the rules of the game. 

During a surgical dressing in a private room, one day, he allowed hisfingers to touch hers, as on that day a year before when she had takenMiss Simpson's place in his office. He was rewarded by the same slow, smouldering glance that had caught his attention before. So she was onlyacting indifference!

Then Carlotta made her second move. A new interne had come into thehouse, and was going through the process of learning that from a seniorat the medical school to a half-baked junior interne is a long stepback. He had to endure the good-humored contempt of the older men, thepatronizing instructions of nurses as to rules. 

Carlotta alone treated him with deference. His uneasy rounds inCarlotta's precinct took on the state and form of staff visitations. Sheflattered, cajoled, looked up to him. 

After a time it dawned on Wilson that this junior cub was getting moreattention than himself: that, wherever he happened to be, somewhere inthe offing would be Carlotta and the Lamb, the latter eyeing her withworship. Her indifference had only piqued him. The enthroning of asuccessor galled him. Between them, the Lamb suffered mightily--wassubject to frequent "bawling out, " as he termed it, in theoperating-room as he assisted the anaesthetist. He took his troubles toCarlotta, who soothed him in the corridor--in plain sight of her quarry, of course--by putting a sympathetic hand on his sleeve. 

Then, one day, Wilson was goaded to speech. 

"For the love of Heaven, Carlotta, " he said impatiently, "stop makinglove to that wretched boy. He wriggles like a worm if you look at him. "

"I like him. He is thoroughly genuine. I respect him, and--he respectsme. "

"It's rather a silly game, you know. "

"What game?"

"Do you think I don't understand?"

"Perhaps you do. I--I don't really care a lot about him, Max. But I'vebeen down-hearted. He cheers me up. "

Her attraction for him was almost gone--not quite. He felt rather sorryfor her. 

"I'm sorry. Then you are not angry with me?"

"Angry? No. " She lifted her eyes to his, and for once she was notacting. "I knew it would end, of course. I have lost a--a lover. Iexpected that. But I wanted to keep a friend. "

It was the right note. Why, after all, should he not be her friend? Hehad treated her cruelly, hideously. If she still desired his friendship, there was no disloyalty to Sidney in giving it. And Carlotta was verycareful. Not once again did she allow him to see what lay in her eyes. She told him of her worries. Her training was almost over. She hada chance to take up institutional work. She abhorred the thought ofprivate duty. What would he advise?

The Lamb was hovering near, hot eyes on them both. It was no place totalk. 

"Come to the office and we'll talk it over. "

"I don't like to go there; Miss Simpson is suspicious. "

The institution she spoke of was in another city. It occurred toWilson that if she took it the affair would have reached a graceful andlegitimate end. 

Also, the thought of another stolen evening alone with her was notunpleasant. It would be the last, he promised himself. After all, it wasowing to her. He had treated her badly. 

Sidney would be at a lecture that night. The evening loomed temptinglyfree. 

"Suppose you meet me at the old corner, " he said carelessly, eyes onthe Lamb, who was forgetting that he was only a junior interne and wasglaring ferociously. "We'll run out into the country and talk thingsover. "

She demurred, with her heart beating triumphantly. 

"What's the use of going back to that? It's over, isn't it?"

Her objection made him determined. When at last she had yielded, and hemade his way down to the smoking-room, it was with the feeling that hehad won a victory. 

K. Had been uneasy all that day; his ledgers irritated him. He had beensleeping badly since Sidney's announcement of her engagement. At fiveo'clock, when he left the office, he found Joe Drummond waiting outsideon the pavement. 

"Mother said you'd been up to see me a couple of times. I thought I'dcome around. "

K. Looked at his watch. 

"What do you say to a walk?"

"Not out in the country. I'm not as muscular as you are. I'll go abouttown for a half-hour or so. "

Thus forestalled, K. Found his subject hard to lead up to. But hereagain Joe met him more than halfway. 

"Well, go on, " he said, when they found themselves in the park; "I don'tsuppose you were paying a call. "

"No. "

"I guess I know what you are going to say. "

"I'm not going to preach, if you're expecting that. Ordinarily, if a maninsists on making a fool of himself, I let him alone. "

"Why make an exception of me?"

"One reason is that I happen to like you. The other reason is that, whether you admit it or not, you are acting like a young idiot, and areputting the responsibility on the shoulders of some one else. "

"She is responsible, isn't she?"

"Not in the least. How old are you, Joe?"

"Twenty-three, almost. "

"Exactly. You are a man, and you are acting like a bad boy. It's adisappointment to me. It's more than that to Sidney. "

"Much she cares! She's going to marry Wilson, isn't she?"

"There is no announcement of any engagement. "

"She is, and you know it. Well, she'll be happy--not! If I'd go to herto-night and tell her what I know, she'd never see him again. " The idea, thus born in his overwrought brain, obsessed him. He returned to itagain and again. Le Moyne was uneasy. He was not certain that the boy'sstatement had any basis in fact. His single determination was to saveSidney from any pain. 

When Joe suddenly announced his inclination to go out into the countryafter all, he suspected a ruse to get rid of him, and insisted on goingalong. Joe consented grudgingly. 

"Car's at Bailey's garage, " he said sullenly. "I don't know when I'llget back. "

"That won't matter. " K. 's tone was cheerful. "I'm not sleeping, anyhow. "

That passed unnoticed until they were on the highroad, with the carrunning smoothly between yellowing fields of wheat. Then:--

"So you've got it too!" he said. "We're a fine pair of fools. We'd bothbe better off if I sent the car over a bank. "

He gave the wheel a reckless twist, and Le Moyne called him to timesternly. 

They had supper at the White Springs Hotel--not on the terrace, but inthe little room where Carlotta and Wilson had taken their first mealtogether. K. Ordered beer for them both, and Joe submitted with badgrace. 

But the meal cheered and steadied him. K. Found him more amenable toreason, and, gaining his confidence, learned of his desire to leave thecity. 

"I'm stuck here, " he said. "I'm the only one, and mother yells bluemurder when I talk about it. I want to go to Cuba. My uncle owns a farmdown there. "

"Perhaps I can talk your mother over. I've been there. "

Joe was all interest. His dilated pupils became more normal, hisrestless hands grew quiet. K. 's even voice, the picture he drew oflife on the island, the stillness of the little hotel in its mid-weekdullness, seemed to quiet the boy's tortured nerves. He was nearerto peace than he had been for many days. But he smoked incessantly, lighting one cigarette from another. 

At ten o'clock he left K. And went for the car. He paused for a moment, rather sheepishly, by K. 's chair. 

"I'm feeling a lot better, " he said. "I haven't got the band around myhead. You talk to mother. "

That was the last K. Saw of Joe Drummond until the next day. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Carlotta dressed herself with unusual care--not in black this time, butin white. She coiled her yellow hair in a soft knot at the back of herhead, and she resorted to the faintest shading of rouge. She intended tobe gay, cheerful. The ride was to be a bright spot in Wilson's memory. He expected recriminations; she meant to make him happy. That was thesecret of the charm some women had for men. They went to such women toforget their troubles. She set the hour of their meeting at nine, whenthe late dusk of summer had fallen; and she met him then, smiling, afaintly perfumed white figure, slim and young, with a thrill in hervoice that was only half assumed. 

"It's very late, " he complained. "Surely you are not going to be back atten. "

"I have special permission to be out late. "

"Good!" And then, recollecting their new situation: "We have a lot totalk over. It will take time. "

At the White Springs Hotel they stopped to fill the gasolene tank of thecar. Joe Drummond saw Wilson there, in the sheet-iron garage alongsideof the road. The Wilson car was in the shadow. It did not occur to Joethat the white figure in the car was not Sidney. He went rather white, and stepped out of the zone of light. The influence of Le Moyne wasstill on him, however, and he went on quietly with what he was doing. But his hands shook as he filled the radiator. 

When Wilson's car had gone on, he went automatically about hispreparations for the return trip--lifted a seat cushion to investigatehis own store of gasolene, replacing carefully the revolver he alwayscarried under the seat and packed in waste to prevent its accidentaldischarge, lighted his lamps, examined a loose brake-band. 

His coolness gratified him. He had been an ass: Le Moyne was right. He'dget away--to Cuba if he could--and start over again. He would forget theStreet and let it forget him. 

The men in the garage were talking. 

"To Schwitter's, of course, " one of them grumbled. "We might as well goout of business. "

"There's no money in running a straight place. Schwitter and half adozen others are getting rich. "

"That was Wilson, the surgeon in town. He cut off my brother-in-law'sleg--charged him as much as if he had grown a new one for him. He usedto come here. Now he goes to Schwitter's, like the rest. Pretty girl hehad with him. You can bet on Wilson. "

So Max Wilson was taking Sidney to Schwitter's, making her the butt ofgarage talk! The smiles of the men were evil. Joe's hands grew cold, hishead hot. A red mist spread between him and the line of electric lights. He knew Schwitter's, and he knew Wilson. 

He flung himself into his car and threw the throttle open. The carjerked, stalled. 

"You can't start like that, son, " one of the men remonstrated. "You let'er in too fast. "

"You go to hell!" Joe snarled, and made a second ineffectual effort. 

Thus adjured, the men offered neither further advice nor assistance. Theminutes went by in useless cranking--fifteen. The red mist grew heavier. Every lamp was a danger signal. But when K. , growing uneasy, came outinto the yard, the engine had started at last. He was in time to see Joerun his car into the road and turn it viciously toward Schwitter's. 

Carlotta's nearness was having its calculated effect on Max Wilson. Hisspirits rose as the engine, marking perfect time, carried them along thequiet roads. 

Partly it was reaction--relief that she should be so reasonable, socomplaisant--and a sort of holiday spirit after the day's hard work. Oddly enough, and not so irrational as may appear, Sidney formed apart of the evening's happiness--that she loved him; that, back in thelecture-room, eyes and even mind on the lecturer, her heart was withhim. 

So, with Sidney the basis of his happiness, he made the most of hisevening's freedom. He sang a little in his clear tenor--even, once whenthey had slowed down at a crossing, bent over audaciously and kissedCarlotta's hand in the full glare of a passing train. 

"How reckless of you!"

"I like to be reckless, " he replied. 

His boyishness annoyed Carlotta. She did not want the situation to getout of hand. Moreover, what was so real for her was only too plainly alark for him. She began to doubt her power. 

The hopelessness of her situation was dawning on her. Even when thetouch of her beside him and the solitude of the country roads got inhis blood, and he bent toward her, she found no encouragement in hiswords:--"I am mad about you to-night. "

She took her courage in her hands:--"Then why give me up for some oneelse?"

"That's--different. "

"Why is it different? I am a woman. I--I love you, Max. No one else willever care as I do. "

"You are in love with the Lamb!"

"That was a trick. I'm sorry, Max. I don't care for anyone else in theworld. If you let me go I'll want to die. "

Then, as he was silent:--

"If you'll marry me, I'll be true to you all my life. I swear it. Therewill be nobody else, ever. "

The sense, if not the words, of what he had sworn to Sidney that Sundayafternoon under the trees, on this very road! Swift shame overtookhim, that he should be here, that he had allowed Carlotta to remain inignorance of how things really stood between them. 

"I'm sorry, Carlotta. It's impossible. I'm engaged to marry some oneelse. "

"Sidney Page?"--almost a whisper. 

"Yes. "

He was ashamed at the way she took the news. If she had stormed or wept, he would have known what to do. But she sat still, not speaking. 

"You must have expected it, sooner or later. "

Still she made no reply. He thought she might faint, and looked at heranxiously. Her profile, indistinct beside him, looked white and drawn. But Carlotta was not fainting. She was making a desperate plan. If theirescapade became known, it would end things between Sidney and him. Shewas sure of that. She needed time to think it out. It must become knownwithout any apparent move on her part. If, for instance, she became ill, and was away from the hospital all night, that might answer. The thingwould be investigated, and who knew--

The car turned in at Schwitter's road and drew up before the house. The narrow porch was filled with small tables, above which hung rows ofelectric lights enclosed in Japanese paper lanterns. Midweek, which hadfound the White Springs Hotel almost deserted, saw Schwitter's crowdedtables set out under the trees. Seeing the crowd, Wilson drove directlyto the yard and parked his machine. 

"No need of running any risk, " he explained to the still figure besidehim. "We can walk back and take a table under the trees, away from thoseinfernal lanterns. "

She reeled a little as he helped her out. 

"Not sick, are you?"

"I'm dizzy. I'm all right. "

She looked white. He felt a stab of pity for her. She leaned ratherheavily on him as they walked toward the house. The faint perfume thathad almost intoxicated him, earlier, vaguely irritated him now. 

At the rear of the house she shook off his arm and preceded him aroundthe building. She chose the end of the porch as the place in which todrop, and went down like a stone, falling back. 

There was a moderate excitement. The visitors at Schwitter's were toomuch engrossed with themselves to be much interested. She opened hereyes almost as soon as she fell--to forestall any tests; she wasshrewd enough to know that Wilson would detect her malingering veryquickly--and begged to be taken into the house. "I feel very ill, " shesaid, and her white face bore her out. 

Schwitter and Bill carried her in and up the stairs to one of the newlyfurnished rooms. The little man was twittering with anxiety. He had ahorror of knockout drops and the police. They laid her on the bed, herhat beside her; and Wilson, stripping down the long sleeve of her glove, felt her pulse. 

"There's a doctor in the next town, " said Schwitter. "I was going tosend for him, anyhow--my wife's not very well. "

"I'm a doctor. "

"Is it anything serious?"

"Nothing serious. "

He closed the door behind the relieved figure of the landlord, and, going back to Carlotta, stood looking down at her. 

"What did you mean by doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"You were no more faint than I am. "

She closed her eyes. 

"I don't remember. Everything went black. The lanterns--"

He crossed the room deliberately and went out, closing the door behindhim. He saw at once where he stood--in what danger. If she insistedthat she was ill and unable to go back, there would be a fuss. The storywould come out. Everything would be gone. Schwitter's, of all places!

At the foot of the stairs, Schwitter pulled himself together. After all, the girl was only ill. There was nothing for the police. He looked athis watch. The doctor ought to be here by this time. It was sooner thanthey had expected. Even the nurse had not come. Tillie was alone, outin the harness-room. He looked through the crowded rooms, at theoverflowing porch with its travesty of pleasure, and he hated the wholething with a desperate hatred. 

Another car. Would they never stop coming! But perhaps it was thedoctor. A young man edged his way into the hall and confronted him. 

"Two people just arrived here. A man and a woman--in white. Where arethey?"

It was trouble then, after all!

"Upstairs--first bedroom to the right. " His teeth chattered. Surely, asa man sowed he reaped. 

Joe went up the staircase. At the top, on the landing, he confrontedWilson. He fired at him without a word--saw him fling up his arms andfall back, striking first the wall, then the floor. 

The buzz of conversation on the porch suddenly ceased. Joe put hisrevolver in his pocket and went quietly down the stairs. The crowdparted to let him through. 

Carlotta, crouched in her room, listening, not daring to open the door, heard the sound of a car as it swung out into the road. 

CHAPTER XXV

On the evening of the shooting at Schwitter's, there had been a lateoperation at the hospital. Sidney, having duly transcribed her lecturenotes and said her prayers, was already asleep when she received theinsistent summons to the operating-room. She dressed again with flyingfingers. These night battles with death roused all her fighting blood. There were times when she felt as if, by sheer will, she could forcestrength, life itself, into failing bodies. Her sensitive nostrilsdilated, her brain worked like a machine. 

That night she received well-deserved praise. When the Lamb, telephoninghysterically, had failed to locate the younger Wilson, another staffsurgeon was called. His keen eyes watched Sidney--felt her capacity, herfiber, so to speak; and, when everything was over, he told her what wasin his mind. 

"Don't wear yourself out, girl, " he said gravely. "We need people likeyou. It was good work to-night--fine work. I wish we had more like you. "

By midnight the work was done, and the nurse in charge sent Sidney tobed. 

It was the Lamb who received the message about Wilson; and because hewas not very keen at the best, and because the news was so startling, herefused to credit his ears. 

"Who is this at the 'phone?"

"That doesn't matter. Le Moyne's my name. Get the message to Dr. EdWilson at once. We are starting to the city. "

"Tell me again. I mustn't make a mess of this. "

"Dr. Wilson, the surgeon, has been shot, " came slowly and distinctly. "Get the staff there and have a room ready. Get the operating-roomready, too. "

The Lamb wakened then, and roused the house. He was incoherent, rather, so that Dr. Ed got the impression that it was Le Moyne who had beenshot, and only learned the truth when he got to the hospital. 

"Where is he?" he demanded. He liked K. , and his heart was sore withinhim. 

"Not in yet, sir. A Mr. Le Moyne is bringing him. Staff's in theexecutive committee room, sir. "

"But--who has been shot? I thought you said--"

The Lamb turned pale at that, and braced himself. 

"I'm sorry--I thought you understood. I believe it's not--not serious. It's Dr. Max, sir. "

Dr. Ed, who was heavy and not very young, sat down on an office chair. Out of sheer habit he had brought the bag. He put it down on the floorbeside him, and moistened his lips. 

"Is he living?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I gathered that Mr. Le Moyne did not think it serious. "

He lied, and Dr. Ed knew he lied. 

The Lamb stood by the door, and Dr. Ed sat and waited. The officeclock said half after three. Outside the windows, the night world wentby--taxi-cabs full of roisterers, women who walked stealthily closeto the buildings, a truck carrying steel, so heavy that it shook thehospital as it rumbled by. 

Dr. Ed sat and waited. The bag with the dog-collar in it was on thefloor. He thought of many things, but mostly of the promise he had madehis mother. And, having forgotten the injured man's shortcomings, hewas remembering his good qualities--his cheerfulness, his courage, hisachievements. He remembered the day Max had done the Edwardes operation, and how proud he had been of him. He figured out how old he was--notthirty-one yet, and already, perhaps--There he stopped thinking. Coldbeads of sweat stood out on his forehead. 

"I think I hear them now, sir, " said the Lamb, and stood backrespectfully to let him pass out of the door. 

Carlotta stayed in the room during the consultation. No one seemed towonder why she was there, or to pay any attention to her. The staff wasstricken. They moved back to make room for Dr. Ed beside the bed, andthen closed in again. 

Carlotta waited, her hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. Surely they would operate; they wouldn't let him die like that!

When she saw the phalanx break up, and realized that they would notoperate, she went mad. She stood against the door, and accused them ofcowardice--taunted them. 

"Do you think he would let any of you die like that?" she cried. "Dielike a hurt dog, and none of you to lift a hand?"

It was Pfeiffer who drew her out of the room and tried to talk reasonand sanity to her. 

"It's hopeless, " he said. "If there was a chance, we'd operate, and youknow it. "

The staff went hopelessly down the stairs to the smoking-room, andsmoked. It was all they could do. The night assistant sent coffee downto them, and they drank it. Dr. Ed stayed in his brother's room, andsaid to his mother, under his breath, that he'd tried to do his best byMax, and that from now on it would be up to her. 

K. Had brought the injured man in. The country doctor had come, too, finding Tillie's trial not imminent. On the way in he had taken itfor granted that K. Was a medical man like himself, and had placed hishypodermic case at his disposal. 

When he missed him, --in the smoking-room, that was, --he asked for him. 

"I don't see the chap who came in with us, " he said. "Clever fellow. Like to know his name. "

The staff did not know. 

K. Sat alone on a bench in the hall. He wondered who would tell Sidney;he hoped they would be very gentle with her. He sat in the shadow, waiting. He did not want to go home and leave her to what she might haveto face. There was a chance she would ask for him. He wanted to be near, in that case. 

He sat in the shadow, on the bench. The night watchman went by twice andstared at him. At last he asked K. To mind the door until he got somecoffee. 

"One of the staff's been hurt, " he explained. "If I don't get somecoffee now, I won't get any. "

K. Promised to watch the door. 

A desperate thing had occurred to Carlotta. Somehow, she had not thoughtof it before. Now she wondered how she could have failed to think of it. If only she could find him and he would do it! She would go down on herknees--would tell him everything, if only he would consent. 

When she found him on his bench, however, she passed him by. She had aterrible fear that he might go away if she put the thing to him first. He clung hard to his new identity. 

So first she went to the staff and confronted them. They were men ofcourage, only declining to undertake what they considered hopeless work. The one man among them who might have done the thing with any chanceof success lay stricken. Not one among them but would have given of hisbest--only his best was not good enough. 

"It would be the Edwardes operation, wouldn't it?" demanded Carlotta. 

The staff was bewildered. There were no rules to cover such conduct onthe part of a nurse. One of them--Pfeiffer again, by chance--repliedrather heavily:--

"If any, it would be the Edwardes operation. "

"Would Dr. Edwardes himself be able to do anything?"

This was going a little far. 

"Possibly. One chance in a thousand, perhaps. But Edwardes is dead. Howdid this thing happen, Miss Harrison?"

She ignored his question. Her face was ghastly, save for the trace ofrouge; her eyes were red-rimmed. 

"Dr. Edwardes is sitting on a bench in the hall outside!" she announced. 

Her voice rang out. K. Heard her and raised his head. His attitude wasweary, resigned. The thing had come, then! He was to take up the oldburden. The girl had told. 

Dr. Ed had sent for Sidney. Max was still unconscious. Ed rememberedabout her when, tracing his brother's career from his babyhood to man'sestate and to what seemed now to be its ending, he had remembered thatMax was very fond of Sidney. He had hoped that Sidney would take him anddo for him what he, Ed, had failed to do. 

So Sidney was summoned. 

She thought it was another operation, and her spirit was just a littleweary. But her courage was indomitable. She forced her shoes on hertired feet, and bathed her face in cold water to rouse herself. 

The night watchman was in the hall. He was fond of Sidney; she alwayssmiled at him; and, on his morning rounds at six o'clock to waken thenurses, her voice was always amiable. So she found him in the hall, holding a cup of tepid coffee. He was old and bleary, unmistakably dirtytoo--but he had divined Sidney's romance. 

"Coffee! For me?" She was astonished. 

"Drink it. You haven't had much sleep. "

She took it obediently, but over the cup her eyes searched his. 

"There is something wrong, daddy. "

That was his name, among the nurses. He had had another name, but it waslost in the mists of years. 

"Get it down. "

So she finished it, not without anxiety that she might be needed. Butdaddy's attentions were for few, and not to be lightly received. 

"Can you stand a piece of bad news?"

Strangely, her first thought was of K. 

"There has been an accident. Dr. Wilson--"

"Which one?"

"Dr. Max--has been hurt. It ain't much, but I guess you'd like to knowit. "

"Where is he?"

"Downstairs, in Seventeen. "

So she went down alone to the room where Dr. Ed sat in a chair, withhis untidy bag beside him on the floor, and his eyes fixed on a straightfigure on the bed. When he saw Sidney, he got up and put his arms aroundher. His eyes told her the truth before he told her anything. She hardlylistened to what he said. The fact was all that concerned her--that herlover was dying there, so near that she could touch him with her hand, so far away that no voice, no caress of hers, could reach him. 

The why would come later. Now she could only stand, with Dr. Ed's armsabout her, and wait. 

"If they would only do something!" Sidney's voice sounded strange to herears. 

"There is nothing to do. "

But that, it seemed, was wrong. For suddenly Sidney's small world, whichhad always sedately revolved in one direction, began to move the otherway. 

The door opened, and the staff came in. But where before they hadmoved heavily, with drooped heads, now they came quickly, as men with apurpose. There was a tall man in a white coat with them. He ordered themabout like children, and they hastened to do his will. At first Sidneyonly knew that now, at last, they were going to do something--the tallman was going to do something. He stood with his back to Sidney, andgave orders. 

The heaviness of inactivity lifted. The room buzzed. The nurses stoodby, while the staff did nurses' work. The senior surgical interne, essaying assistance, was shoved aside by the senior surgical consultant, and stood by, aggrieved. 

It was the Lamb, after all, who brought the news to Sidney. The newactivity had caught Dr. Ed, and she was alone now, her face buriedagainst the back of a chair. 

"There'll be something doing now, Miss Page, " he offered. 

"What are they going to do?"

"Going after the bullet. Do you know who's going to do it?"

His voice echoed the subdued excitement of the room--excitement and newhope. 

"Did you ever hear of Edwardes, the surgeon?--the Edwardes operation, you know. Well, he's here. It sounds like a miracle. They found himsitting on a bench in the hall downstairs. "

Sidney raised her head, but she could not see the miraculously foundEdwardes. She could see the familiar faces of the staff, and that otherface on the pillow, and--she gave a little cry. There was K. ! How likehim to be there, to be wherever anyone was in trouble! Tears came to hereyes--the first tears she had shed. 

As if her eyes had called him, he looked up and saw her. He came towardher at once. The staff stood back to let him pass, and gazed after him. The wonder of what had happened was growing on them. 

K. Stood beside Sidney, and looked down at her. Just at first it seemedas if he found nothing to say. Then:

"There's just a chance, Sidney dear. Don't count too much on it. "

"I have got to count on it. If I don't, I shall die. "

If a shadow passed over his face, no one saw it. 

"I'll not ask you to go back to your room. If you will wait somewherenear, I'll see that you have immediate word. "

"I am going to the operating-room. "

"Not to the operating-room. Somewhere near. "

His steady voice controlled her hysteria. But she resented it. She wasnot herself, of course, what with strain and weariness. 

"I shall ask Dr. Edwardes. "

He was puzzled for a moment. Then he understood. After all, it was aswell. Whether she knew him as Le Moyne or as Edwardes mattered verylittle, after all. The thing that really mattered was that he must tryto save Wilson for her. If he failed--It ran through his mind that if hefailed she might hate him the rest of her life--not for himself, but forhis failure; that, whichever way things went, he must lose. 

"Dr. Edwardes says you are to stay away from the operation, but toremain near. He--he promises to call you if--things go wrong. "

She had to be content with that. 

Nothing about that night was real to Sidney. She sat in theanaesthetizing-room, and after a time she knew that she was not alone. There was somebody else. She realized dully that Carlotta was there, too, pacing up and down the little room. She was never sure, forinstance, whether she imagined it, or whether Carlotta really stoppedbefore her and surveyed her with burning eyes. 

"So you thought he was going to marry you!" said Carlotta--or the dream. "Well, you see he isn't. "

Sidney tried to answer, and failed--or that was the way the dream went. 

"If you had enough character, I'd think you did it. How do I know youdidn't follow us, and shoot him as he left the room?"

It must have been reality, after all; for Sidney's numbed mind graspedthe essential fact here, and held on to it. He had been out withCarlotta. He had promised--sworn that this should not happen. It hadhappened. It surprised her. It seemed as if nothing more could hurt her. 

In the movement to and from the operating room, the door stood open fora moment. A tall figure--how much it looked like K. !--straightened andheld out something in its hand. 

"The bullet!" said Carlotta in a whisper. 

Then more waiting, a stir of movement in the room beyond the closeddoor. Carlotta was standing, her face buried in her hands, against thedoor. Sidney suddenly felt sorry for her. She cared a great deal. Itmust be tragic to care like that! She herself was not caring much; shewas too numb. 

Beyond, across the courtyard, was the stable. Before the day of themotor ambulances, horses had waited there for their summons, eager asfire horses, heads lifted to the gong. When Sidney saw the outline ofthe stable roof, she knew that it was dawn. The city still slept, butthe torturing night was over. And in the gray dawn the staff, lookinggray too, and elderly and weary, came out through the closed door andtook their hushed way toward the elevator. They were talking amongthemselves. Sidney, straining her ears, gathered that they had seen amiracle, and that the wonder was still on them. 

Carlotta followed them out. 

Almost on their heels came K. He was in the white coat, and more andmore he looked like the man who had raised up from his work and held outsomething in his hand. Sidney's head was aching and confused. 

She sat there in her chair, looking small and childish. The dawn wasmorning now--horizontal rays of sunlight on the stable roof and acrossthe windowsill of the anaesthetizing-room, where a row of bottles sat ona clean towel. 

The tall man--or was it K. ?--looked at her, and then reached up andturned off the electric light. Why, it was K. , of course; and he wasputting out the hall light before he went upstairs. When the light wasout everything was gray. She could not see. She slid very quietly out ofher chair, and lay at his feet in a dead faint. 

K. Carried her to the elevator. He held her as he had held her that dayat the park when she fell in the river, very carefully, tenderly, as oneholds something infinitely precious. Not until he had placed her on herbed did she open her eyes. But she was conscious before that. She wasso tired, and to be carried like that, in strong arms, not knowing whereone was going, or caring--

The nurse he had summoned hustled out for aromatic ammonia. Sidney, lying among her pillows, looked up at K. 

"How is he?"

"A little better. There's a chance, dear. "

"I have been so mixed up. All the time I was sitting waiting, I keptthinking that it was you who were operating! Will he really get well?"

"It looks promising. "

"I should like to thank Dr. Edwardes. "

The nurse was a long time getting the ammonia. There was so much to talkabout: that Dr. Max had been out with Carlotta Harrison, and had beenshot by a jealous woman; the inexplicable return to life of the greatEdwardes; and--a fact the nurse herself was willing to vouch for, andthat thrilled the training-school to the core--that this very Edwardes, newly risen, as it were, and being a miracle himself as well asperforming one, this very Edwardes, carrying Sidney to her bed andputting her down, had kissed her on her white forehead. 

The training-school doubted this. How could he know Sidney Page? And, after all, the nurse had only seen it in the mirror, being occupiedat the time in seeing if her cap was straight. The school, therefore, accepted the miracle, but refused the kiss. 

The miracle was no miracle, of course. But something had happened to K. That savored of the marvelous. His faith in himself was coming back--notstrongly, with a rush, but with all humility. He had been loath totake up the burden; but, now that he had it, he breathed a sort ofinarticulate prayer to be able to carry it. 

And, since men have looked for signs since the beginning of time, he tooasked for a sign. Not, of course, that he put it that way, or that hewas making terms with Providence. It was like this: if Wilson got well, he'd keep on working. He'd feel that, perhaps, after all, this wasmeant. If Wilson died--Sidney held out her hand to him. 

"What should I do without you, K. ?" she asked wistfully. 

"All you have to do is to want me. "

His voice was not too steady, and he took her pulse in a mostbusinesslike way to distract her attention from it. 

"How very many things you know! You are quite professional aboutpulses. "

Even then he did not tell her. He was not sure, to be frank, that she'dbe interested. Now, with Wilson as he was, was no time to obtrude hisown story. There was time enough for that. 

"Will you drink some beef tea if I send it to you?"

"I'm not hungry. I will, of course. "

"And--will you try to sleep?"

"Sleep, while he--"

"I promise to tell you if there is any change. I shall stay with him. "

"I'll try to sleep. "

But, as he rose from the chair beside her low bed, she put out her handto him. 

"K. "

"Yes, dear. "

"He was out with Carlotta. He promised, and he broke his promise. "

"There may have been reasons. Suppose we wait until he can explain. "

"How can he explain?" And, when he hesitated: "I bring all my troublesto you, as if you had none. Somehow, I can't go to Aunt Harriet, and ofcourse mother--Carlotta cares a great deal for him. She said that I shothim. Does anyone really think that?"

"Of course not. Please stop thinking. "

"But who did, K. ? He had so many friends, and no enemies that I knewof. "

Her mind seemed to stagger about in a circle, making little excursions, but always coming back to the one thing. 

"Some drunken visitor to the road-house. "

He could have killed himself for the words the moment they were spoken. 

"They were at a road-house?"

"It is not just to judge anyone before you hear the story. "

She stirred restlessly. 

"What time is it?"

"Half-past six. "

"I must get up and go on duty. "

He was glad to be stern with her. He forbade her rising. When the nursecame in with the belated ammonia, she found K. Making an arbitraryruling, and Sidney looking up at him mutinously. 

"Miss Page is not to go on duty to-day. She is to stay in bed untilfurther orders. "

"Very well, Dr. Edwardes. "

The confusion in Sidney's mind cleared away suddenly. K. Was Dr. Edwardes! It was K. Who had performed the miracle operation--K. Whohad dared and perhaps won! Dear K. , with his steady eyes and his longsurgeon's fingers! Then, because she seemed to see ahead as well asback into the past in that flash that comes to the drowning and to thoserecovering from shock, and because she knew that now the little housewould no longer be home to K. , she turned her face into her pillow andcried. Her world had fallen indeed. Her lover was not true and mightbe dying; her friend would go away to his own world, which was not theStreet. 

K. Left her at last and went back to Seventeen, where Dr. Ed still satby the bed. Inaction was telling on him. If Max would only openhis eyes, so he could tell him what had been in his mind all theseyears--his pride in him and all that. 

With a sort of belated desire to make up for where he had failed, he putthe bag that had been Max's bete noir on the bedside table, and beganto clear it of rubbish--odd bits of dirty cotton, the tubing from a longdefunct stethoscope, glass from a broken bottle, a scrap of paper onwhich was a memorandum, in his illegible writing, to send Max a checkfor his graduating suit. When K. Came in, he had the old dog-collar inhis hand. 

"Belonged to an old collie of ours, " he said heavily. "Milkman ran overhim and killed him. Max chased the wagon and licked the driver with hisown whip. "

His face worked. 

"Poor old Bobby Burns!" he said. "We'd raised him from a pup. Got him ina grape-basket. "

The sick man opened his eyes. 

CHAPTER XXVI

Max had rallied well, and things looked bright for him. His patient didnot need him, but K. Was anxious to find Joe; so he telephoned thegas office and got a day off. The sordid little tragedy was easy toreconstruct, except that, like Joe, K. Did not believe in the innocenceof the excursion to Schwitter's. His spirit was heavy with theconviction that he had saved Wilson to make Sidney ultimately wretched. 

For the present, at least, K. 's revealed identity was safe. Hospitalskeep their secrets well. And it is doubtful if the Street wouldhave been greatly concerned even had it known. It had never heard ofEdwardes, of the Edwardes clinic or the Edwardes operation. Its medicalknowledge comprised the two Wilsons and the osteopath around the corner. When, as would happen soon, it learned of Max Wilson's injury, it wouldbe more concerned with his chances of recovery than with the manner ofit. That was as it should be. 

But Joe's affair with Sidney had been the talk of the neighborhood. Ifthe boy disappeared, a scandal would be inevitable. Twenty people hadseen him at Schwitter's and would know him again. 

To save Joe, then, was K. 's first care. 

At first it seemed as if the boy had frustrated him. He had not beenhome all night. Christine, waylaying K. In the little hall, told himthat. "Mrs. Drummond was here, " she said. "She is almost frantic. Shesays Joe has not been home all night. She says he looks up to you, andshe thought if you could find him and would talk to him--"

"Joe was with me last night. We had supper at the White Springs Hotel. Tell Mrs. Drummond he was in good spirits, and that she's not to worry. I feel sure she will hear from him to-day. Something went wrong with hiscar, perhaps, after he left me. "

He bathed and shaved hurriedly. Katie brought his coffee to his room, and he drank it standing. He was working out a theory about the boy. Beyond Schwitter's the highroad stretched, broad and inviting, acrossthe State. Either he would have gone that way, his little car eating upthe miles all that night, or--K. Would not formulate his fear of whatmight have happened, even to himself. 

As he went down the Street, he saw Mrs. McKee in her doorway, with alittle knot of people around her. The Street was getting the night'snews. 

He rented a car at a local garage, and drove himself out into thecountry. He was not minded to have any eyes on him that day. He wentto Schwitter's first. Schwitter himself was not in sight. Bill wasscrubbing the porch, and a farmhand was gathering bottles from the grassinto a box. The dead lanterns swung in the morning air, and from back onthe hill came the staccato sounds of a reaping-machine. 

"Where's Schwitter?"

"At the barn with the missus. Got a boy back there. "

Bill grinned. He recognized K. , and, mopping dry a part of the porch, shoved a chair on it. 

"Sit down. Well, how's the man who got his last night? Dead?"

"No. "

"County detectives were here bright and early. After the lady's husband. I guess we lose our license over this. "

"What does Schwitter say?"

"Oh, him!" Bill's tone was full of disgust. "He hopes we do. He hatesthe place. Only man I ever knew that hated money. That's what this houseis--money. "

"Bill, did you see the man who fired that shot last night?"

A sort of haze came over Bill's face, as if he had dropped a curtainbefore his eyes. But his reply came promptly:

"Surest thing in the world. Close to him as you are to me. Dark man, about thirty, small mustache--"

"Bill, you're lying, and I know it. Where is he?"

The barkeeper kept his head, but his color changed. 

"I don't know anything about him. " He thrust his mop into the pail. K. Rose. 

"Does Schwitter know?"

"He doesn't know nothing. He's been out at the barn all night. "

The farmhand had filled his box and disappeared around the corner of thehouse. K. Put his hand on Bill's shirt-sleeved arm. 

"We've got to get him away from here, Bill. "

"Get who away?"

"You know. The county men may come back to search the premises. "

"How do I know you aren't one of them?"

"I guess you know I'm not. He's a friend of mine. As a matter of fact, I followed him here; but I was too late. Did he take the revolver awaywith him?"

"I took it from him. It's under the bar. "

"Get it for me. "

In sheer relief, K. 's spirits rose. After all, it was a good world:Tillie with her baby in her arms; Wilson conscious and rallying; Joesafe, and, without the revolver, secure from his own remorse. Otherthings there were, too--the feel of Sidney's inert body in his arms, theway she had turned to him in trouble. It was not what he wanted, thislast, but it was worth while. The reaping-machine was in sight now; ithad stopped on the hillside. The men were drinking out of a bucket thatflashed in the sun. 

There was one thing wrong. What had come over Wilson, to do so recklessa thing? K. , who was a one-woman man, could not explain it. 

From inside the bar Bill took a careful survey of Le Moyne. He noted histall figure and shabby suit, the slight stoop, the hair graying over hisears. Barkeepers know men: that's a part of the job. After his survey hewent behind the bar and got the revolver from under an overturned pail. 

K. Thrust it into his pocket. 

"Now, " he said quietly, "where is he?"

"In my room--top of the house. "

K. Followed Bill up the stairs. He remembered the day when he had satwaiting in the parlor, and had heard Tillie's slow step coming down. And last night he himself had carried down Wilson's unconscious figure. Surely the wages of sin were wretchedness and misery. None of it paid. No one got away with it. 

The room under the eaves was stifling. An unmade bed stood in a corner. From nails in the rafters hung Bill's holiday wardrobe. A tin cup and acracked pitcher of spring water stood on the window-sill. 

Joe was sitting in the corner farthest from the window. When the doorswung open, he looked up. He showed no interest on seeing K. , who had tostoop to enter the low room. 

"Hello, Joe. "

"I thought you were the police. "

"Not much. Open that window, Bill. This place is stifling. "

"Is he dead?"

"No, indeed. "

"I wish I'd killed him!"

"Oh, no, you don't. You're damned glad you didn't, and so am I. "

"What will they do with me?"

"Nothing until they find you. I came to talk about that. They'd betternot find you. "

"Huh!"

"It's easier than it sounds. "

K. Sat down on the bed. 

"If I only had some money!" he said. "But never mind about that, Joe;I'll get some. "

Loud calls from below took Bill out of the room. As he closed the doorbehind him, K. 's voice took on a new tone: "Joe, why did you do it?"

"You know. "

"You saw him with somebody at the White Springs, and followed them?"

"Yes. "

"Do you know who was with him?"

"Yes, and so do you. Don't go into that. I did it, and I'll stand byit. "

"Has it occurred to you that you made a mistake?"

"Go and tell that to somebody who'll believe you!" he sneered. "Theycame here and took a room. I met him coming out of it. I'd do it againif I had a chance, and do it better. "

"It was not Sidney. "

"Aw, chuck it!"

"It's a fact. I got here not two minutes after you left. The girl wasstill there. It was some one else. Sidney was not out of the hospitallast night. She attended a lecture, and then an operation. "

Joe listened. It was undoubtedly a relief to him to know that it had notbeen Sidney; but if K. Expected any remorse, he did not get it. 

"If he is that sort, he deserves what he got, " said the boy grimly. 

And K. Had no reply. But Joe was glad to talk. The hours he had spentalone in the little room had been very bitter, and preceded by a timethat he shuddered to remember. K. Got it by degrees--his descent of thestaircase, leaving Wilson lying on the landing above; his resolve towalk back and surrender himself at Schwitter's, so that there could beno mistake as to who had committed the crime. 

"I intended to write a confession and then shoot myself, " he told K. "But the barkeeper got my gun out of my pocket. And--"

After a pause: "Does she know who did it?"

"Sidney? No. "

"Then, if he gets better, she'll marry him anyhow. "

"Possibly. That's not up to us, Joe. The thing we've got to do is tohush the thing up, and get you away. "

"I'd go to Cuba, but I haven't the money. "

K. Rose. "I think I can get it. "

He turned in the doorway. 

"Sidney need never know who did it. "

"I'm not ashamed of it. " But his face showed relief. 

There are times when some cataclysm tears down the walls of reservebetween men. That time had come for Joe, and to a lesser extent for K. The boy rose and followed him to the door. 

"Why don't you tell her the whole thing?--the whole filthy story?" heasked. "She'd never look at him again. You're crazy about her. I haven'tgot a chance. It would give you one. "

"I want her, God knows!" said K. "But not that way, boy. "

Schwitter had taken in five hundred dollars the previous day. 

"Five hundred gross, " the little man hastened to explain. "But you'reright, Mr. Le Moyne. And I guess it would please HER. It's going hardwith her, just now, that she hasn't any women friends about. It's in thesafe, in cash; I haven't had time to take it to the bank. " He seemedto apologize to himself for the unbusinesslike proceeding of lendingan entire day's gross receipts on no security. "It's better to get himaway, of course. It's good business. I have tried to have an orderlyplace. If they arrest him here--"

His voice trailed off. He had come a far way from the day he had walkeddown the Street, and eyed Its poplars with appraising eyes--a far way. Now he had a son, and the child's mother looked at him with tragic eyes. It was arranged that K. Should go back to town, returning late thatnight to pick up Joe at a lonely point on the road, and to drive him toa railroad station. But, as it happened, he went back that afternoon. 

He had told Schwitter he would be at the hospital, and the message foundhim there. Wilson was holding his own, conscious now and making a hardfight. The message from Schwitter was very brief:--

"Something has happened, and Tillie wants you. I don't like to troubleyou again, but she--wants you. "

K. Was rather gray of face by that time, having had no sleep and littlefood since the day before. But he got into the rented machine again--itsrental was running up; he tried to forget it--and turned it towardHillfoot. But first of all he drove back to the Street, and walkedwithout ringing into Mrs. McKee's. 

Neither a year's time nor Mrs. McKee's approaching change of state hadaltered the "mealing" house. The ticket-punch still lay on the hat-rackin the hall. Through the rusty screen of the back parlor window oneviewed the spiraea, still in need of spraying. Mrs. McKee herself was inthe pantry, placing one slice of tomato and three small lettuce leaveson each of an interminable succession of plates. 

K. , who was privileged, walked back. 

"I've got a car at the door, " he announced, "and there's nothing soextravagant as an empty seat in an automobile. Will you take a ride?"

Mrs. McKee agreed. Being of the class who believe a boudoir cap theideal headdress for a motor-car, she apologized for having none. 

"If I'd known you were coming I would have borrowed a cap, " she said. "Miss Tripp, third floor front, has a nice one. If you'll take me in mytoque--"

K. Said he'd take her in her toque, and waited with some anxiety, having not the faintest idea what a toque was. He was not without otheranxieties. What if the sight of Tillie's baby did not do all that heexpected? Good women could be most cruel. And Schwitter had been veryvague. But here K. Was more sure of himself: the little man's voice hadexpressed as exactly as words the sense of a bereavement that was not agrief. 

He was counting on Mrs. McKee's old fondness for the girl to bring themtogether. But, as they neared the house with its lanterns and tables, its whitewashed stones outlining the drive, its small upper windowbehind which Joe was waiting for night, his heart failed him, rather. Hehad a masculine dislike for meddling, and yet--Mrs. McKee had suddenlyseen the name in the wooden arch over the gate: "Schwitter's. "

"I'm not going in there, Mr. Le Moyne. "

"Tillie's not in the house. She's back in the barn. "

"In the barn!"

"She didn't approve of all that went on there, so she moved out. It'svery comfortable and clean; it smells of hay. You'd be surprised hownice it is. "

"The like of her!" snorted Mrs. McKee. "She's late with her conscience, I'm thinking. "

"Last night, " K. Remarked, hands on the wheel, but car stopped, "shehad a child there. It--it's rather like very old times, isn't it? Aman-child, Mrs. McKee, not in a manger, of course. "

"What do you want me to do?" Mrs. McKee's tone, which had been fierce atthe beginning, ended feebly. 

"I want you to go in and visit her, as you would any woman who'd had anew baby and needed a friend. Lie a little--" Mrs. McKee gasped. "Tellher the baby's pretty. Tell her you've been wanting to see her. " Histone was suddenly stern. "Lie a little, for your soul's sake. "

She wavered, and while she wavered he drove her in under the arch withthe shameful name, and back to the barn. But there he had the tact toremain in the car, and Mrs. McKee's peace with Tillie was made alone. When, five minutes later, she beckoned him from the door of the barn, her eyes were red. 

"Come in, Mr. K. , " she said. "The wife's dead, poor thing. They're goingto be married right away. "

The clergyman was coming along the path with Schwitter at his heels. K. Entered the barn. At the door to Tillie's room he uncovered his head. The child was asleep at her breast. 

The five thousand dollar check from Mr. Lorenz had saved Palmer Howe'scredit. On the strength of the deposit, he borrowed a thousand at thebank with which he meant to pay his bills, arrears at the University andCountry Clubs, a hundred dollars lost throwing aces with poker dice, andvarious small obligations of Christine's. 

The immediate result of the money was good. He drank nothing for a week, went into the details of the new venture with Christine's father, sat athome with Christine on her balcony in the evenings. With the knowledgethat he could pay his debts, he postponed the day. He liked the feelingof a bank account in four figures. 

The first evening or two Christine's pleasure in having him theregratified him. He felt kind, magnanimous, almost virtuous. On the thirdevening he was restless. It occurred to him that his wife was beginningto take his presence as a matter of course. He wanted cold bottled beer. When he found that the ice was out and the beer warm and flat, he wasfurious. 

Christine had been making a fight, although her heart was only halfin it. She was resolutely good-humored, ignored the past, dressed forPalmer in the things he liked. They still took their dinners at theLorenz house up the street. When she saw that the haphazard tableservice there irritated him, she coaxed her mother into getting abutler. 

The Street sniffed at the butler behind his stately back. Secretly andin its heart, it was proud of him. With a half-dozen automobiles, andChristine Howe putting on low neck in the evenings, and now a butler, not to mention Harriet Kennedy's Mimi, it ceased to pride itself onits commonplaceness, ignorant of the fact that in its very lack ofaffectation had lain its charm. 

On the night that Joe shot Max Wilson, Palmer was noticeably restless. He had seen Grace Irving that day for the first time but once sincethe motor accident. To do him justice, his dissipation of the past fewmonths had not included women. 

The girl had a strange fascination for him. Perhaps she typified thecare-free days before his marriage; perhaps the attraction was deeper, fundamental. He met her in the street the day before Max Wilson wasshot. The sight of her walking sedately along in her shop-girl's blackdress had been enough to set his pulses racing. When he saw that shemeant to pass him, he fell into step beside her. 

"I believe you were going to cut me!"

"I was in a hurry. "

"Still in the store?"

"Yes. " And, after a second's hesitation: "I'm keeping straight, too. "

"How are you getting along?"

"Pretty well. I've had my salary raised. "

"Do you have to walk as fast as this?"

"I said I was in a hurry. Once a week I get off a little early. I--"

He eyed her suspiciously. 

"Early! What for?"

"I go to the hospital. The Rosenfeld boy is still there, you know. "

"Oh!"

But a moment later he burst out irritably:--

"That was an accident, Grace. The boy took the chance when he engagedto drive the car. I'm sorry, of course. I dream of the littledevil sometimes, lying there. I'll tell you what I'll do, " he addedmagnanimously. "I'll stop in and talk to Wilson. He ought to have donesomething before this. "

"The boy's not strong enough yet. I don't think you can do anything forhim, unless--"

The monstrous injustice of the thing overcame her. Palmer and shewalking about, and the boy lying on his hot bed! She choked. 

"Well?"

"He worries about his mother. If you could give her some money, it wouldhelp. "

"Money! Good Heavens--I owe everybody. "

"You owe him too, don't you? He'll never walk again. "

"I can't give them ten dollars. I don't see that I'm under anyobligation, anyhow. I paid his board for two months in the hospital. "

When she did not acknowledge this generosity, --amounting to forty-eightdollars, --his irritation grew. Her silence was an accusation. Her mannergalled him, into the bargain. She was too calm in his presence, toocold. Where she had once palpitated visibly under his warm gaze, she wasnow self-possessed and quiet. Where it had pleased his pride to thinkthat he had given her up, he found that the shoe was on the other foot. 

At the entrance to a side street she stopped. 

"I turn off here. "

"May I come and see you sometime?"

"No, please. "

"That's flat, is it?"

"It is, Palmer. "

He swung around savagely and left her. 

The next day he drew the thousand dollars from the bank. A good manyof his debts he wanted to pay in cash; there was no use putting checksthrough, with incriminating indorsements. Also, he liked the idea ofcarrying a roll of money around. The big fellows at the clubs always hada wad and peeled off bills like skin off an onion. He took a couple ofdrinks to celebrate his approaching immunity from debt. 

He played auction bridge that afternoon in a private room at one of thehotels with the three men he had lunched with. Luck seemed to be withhim. He won eighty dollars, and thrust it loose in his trousers pocket. Money seemed to bring money! If he could carry the thousand around for aday or so, something pretty good might come of it. 

He had been drinking a little all afternoon. When the game was over, hebought drinks to celebrate his victory. The losers treated, too, to showthey were no pikers. Palmer was in high spirits. He offered to put upthe eighty and throw for it. The losers mentioned dinner and variousengagements. 

Palmer did not want to go home. Christine would greet him with raisedeyebrows. They would eat a stuffy Lorenz dinner, and in the eveningChristine would sit in the lamplight and drive him mad with soft music. He wanted lights, noise, the smiles of women. Luck was with him, and hewanted to be happy. 

At nine o'clock that night he found Grace. She had moved to a cheapapartment which she shared with two other girls from the store. Theothers were out. It was his lucky day, surely. 

His drunkenness was of the mind, mostly. His muscles were wellcontrolled. The lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth wereslightly accentuated, his eyes open a trifle wider than usual. Thatand a slight paleness of the nostrils were the only evidences of hiscondition. But Grace knew the signs. 

"You can't come in. "

"Of course I'm coming in. "

She retreated before him, her eyes watchful. Men in his condition wereapt to be as quick with a blow as with a caress. But, having gained hispoint, he was amiable. 

"Get your things on and come out. We can take in a roof-garden. "

"I've told you I'm not doing that sort of thing. "

He was ugly in a flash. 

"You've got somebody else on the string. "

"Honestly, no. There--there has never been anybody else, Palmer. "

He caught her suddenly and jerked her toward him. 

"You let me hear of anybody else, and I'll cut the guts out of him!"

He held her for a second, his face black and fierce. Then, slowly andinevitably, he drew her into his arms. He was drunk, and she knew it. But, in the queer loyalty of her class, he was the only man she hadcared for. She cared now. She took him for that moment, felt his hotkisses on her mouth, her throat, submitted while his rather brutalhands bruised her arms in fierce caresses. Then she put him from herresolutely. 

"Now you're going. "

"The hell I'm going!"

But he was less steady than he had been. The heat of the little flatbrought more blood to his head. He wavered as he stood just inside thedoor. 

"You must go back to your wife. "

"She doesn't want me. She's in love with a fellow at the house. "

"Palmer, hush!"

"Lemme come in and sit down, won't you?"

She let him pass her into the sitting-room. He dropped into a chair. 

"You've turned me down, and now Christine--she thinks I don't know. I'mno fool; I see a lot of things. I'm no good. I know that I've made hermiserable. But I made a merry little hell for you too, and you don'tkick about it. "

"You know that. "

She was watching him gravely. She had never seen him just like this. Nothing else, perhaps, could have shown her so well what a broken reedhe was. 

"I got you in wrong. You were a good girl before I knew you. You'rea good girl now. I'm not going to do you any harm, I swear it. I onlywanted to take you out for a good time. I've got money. Look here!" Hedrew out the roll of bills and showed it to her. Her eyes opened wide. She had never known him to have much money. 

"Lots more where that comes from. "

A new look flashed into her eyes, not cupidity, but purpose. 

She was instantly cunning. 

"Aren't you going to give me some of that?"

"What for?"

"I--I want some clothes. "

The very drunk have the intuition sometimes of savages or brute beasts. 

"You lie. "

"I want it for Johnny Rosenfeld. "

He thrust it back into his pocket, but his hand retained its grasp ofit. 

"That's it, " he complained. "Don't lemme be happy for a minute! Throw itall up to me!"

"You give me that for the Rosenfeld boy, and I'll go out with you. "

"If I give you all that, I won't have any money to go out with!"

But his eyes were wavering. She could see victory. 

"Take off enough for the evening. "

But he drew himself up. 

"I'm no piker, " he said largely. "Whole hog or nothing. Take it. "

He held it out to her, and from another pocket produced the eightydollars, in crushed and wrinkled notes. 

"It's my lucky day, " he said thickly. "Plenty more where this came from. Do anything for you. Give it to the little devil. I--" He yawned. "God, this place is hot!"

His head dropped back on his chair; he propped his sagging legs on astool. She knew him--knew that he would sleep almost all night. She would have to make up something to tell the other girls; but nomatter--she could attend to that later. 

She had never had a thousand dollars in her hands before. It seemedsmaller than that amount. Perhaps he had lied to her. She paused, inpinning on her hat, to count the bills. It was all there. 

CHAPTER XXVII

K. Spent all of the evening of that day with Wilson. He was not to gofor Joe until eleven o'clock. The injured man's vitality was standinghim in good stead. He had asked for Sidney and she was at his bedside. Dr. Ed had gone. 

"I'm going, Max. The office is full, they tell me, " he said, bendingover the bed. "I'll come in later, and if they'll make me a shakedown, I'll stay with you to-night. "

The answer was faint, broken but distinct. "Get some sleep. .. I've been apoor stick. .. Try to do better--" His roving eyes fell on the dog collaron the stand. He smiled, "Good old Bob!" he said, and put his hand overDr. Ed's, as it lay on the bed. 

K. Found Sidney in the room, not sitting, but standing by the window. The sick man was dozing. One shaded light burned in a far corner. Sheturned slowly and met his eyes. It seemed to K. That she looked athim as if she had never really seen him before, and he was right. Readjustments are always difficult. 

Sidney was trying to reconcile the K. She had known so well with thisnew K. , no longer obscure, although still shabby, whose height hadsuddenly become presence, whose quiet was the quiet of infinite power. 

She was suddenly shy of him, as he stood looking down at her. He saw thegleam of her engagement ring on her finger. It seemed almost defiant. Asthough she had meant by wearing it to emphasize her belief in her lover. 

They did not speak beyond their greeting, until he had gone over therecord. Then:--

"We can't talk here. I want to talk to you, K. "

He led the way into the corridor. It was very dim. Far away was thenight nurse's desk, with its lamp, its annunciator, its pile of records. The passage floor reflected the light on glistening boards. 

"I have been thinking until I am almost crazy, K. And now I know how ithappened. It was Joe. "

"The principal thing is, not how it happened, but that he is going toget well, Sidney. "

She stood looking down, twisting her ring around her finger. 

"Is Joe in any danger?"

"We are going to get him away to-night. He wants to go to Cuba. He'llget off safely, I think. "

"WE are going to get him away! YOU are, you mean. You shoulder all ourtroubles, K. , as if they were your own. "

"I?" He was genuinely surprised. "Oh, I see. You mean--but my part ingetting Joe off is practically nothing. As a matter of fact, Schwitterhas put up the money. My total capital in the world, after paying thetaxicab to-day, is seven dollars. "

"The taxicab?"

"By Jove, I was forgetting! Best news you ever heard of! Tillie marriedand has a baby--all in twenty-four hours! Boy--they named it Le Moyne. Squalled like a maniac when the water went on its head. I--I took Mrs. McKee out in a hired machine. That's what happened to my capital. " Hegrinned sheepishly. "She said she would have to go in her toque. I hadawful qualms. I thought it was a wrapper. "

"You, of course, " she said. "You find Max and save him--don't look likethat! You did, didn't you? And you get Joe away, borrowing money to sendhim. And as if that isn't enough, when you ought to have been gettingsome sleep, you are out taking a friend to Tillie, and being godfatherto the baby. "

He looked uncomfortable, almost guilty. 

"I had a day off. I--"

"When I look back and remember how all these months I've been talkingabout service, and you said nothing at all, and all the time you wereliving what I preached--I'm so ashamed, K. "

He would not allow that. It distressed him. She saw that, and tried tosmile. 

"When does Joe go?"

"To-night. I'm to take him across the country to the railroad. I waswondering--"

"Yes?"

"I'd better explain first what happened, and why it happened. Then ifyou are willing to send him a line, I think it would help. He saw a girlin white in the car and followed in his own machine. He thought it wasyou, of course. He didn't like the idea of your going to Schwitter's. Carlotta was taken ill. And Schwitter and--and Wilson took her upstairsto a room. "

"Do you believe that, K. ?"

"I do. He saw Max coming out and misunderstood. He fired at him then. "

"He did it for me. I feel very guilty, K. , as if it all comes back tome. I'll write to him, of course. Poor Joe!"

He watched her go down the hall toward the night nurse's desk. He wouldhave given everything just then for the right to call her back, to takeher in his arms and comfort her. She seemed so alone. He himself hadgone through loneliness and heartache, and the shadow was still on him. He waited until he saw her sit down at the desk and take up a pen. Thenhe went back into the quiet room. 

He stood by the bedside, looking down. Wilson was breathing quietly: hiscolor was coming up, as he rallied from the shock. In K. 's mind now wasjust one thought--to bring him through for Sidney, and then to go away. He might follow Joe to Cuba. There were chances there. He could dosanitation work, or he might try the Canal. 

The Street would go on working out its own salvation. He would haveto think of something for the Rosenfelds. And he was worried aboutChristine. But there again, perhaps it would be better if he went away. Christine's story would have to work itself out. His hands were tied. 

He was glad in a way that Sidney had asked no questions about him, hadaccepted his new identity so calmly. It had been overshadowed by thenight tragedy. It would have pleased him if she had shown more interest, of course. But he understood. It was enough, he told himself, that hehad helped her, that she counted on him. But more and more he knew inhis heart that it was not enough. "I'd better get away from here, " hetold himself savagely. 

And having taken the first step toward flight, as happens in such cases, he was suddenly panicky with fear, fear that he would get out of hand, and take her in his arms, whether or no; a temptation to run fromtemptation, to cut everything and go with Joe that night. But therehis sense of humor saved him. That would be a sight for the gods, twodefeated lovers flying together under the soft September moon. 

Some one entered the room. He thought it was Sidney and turned with thelight in his eyes that was only for her. It was Carlotta. 

She was not in uniform. She wore a dark skirt and white waist and herhigh heels tapped as she crossed the room. She came directly to him. 

"He is better, isn't he?"

"He is rallying. Of course it will be a day or two before we are quitesure. "

She stood looking down at Wilson's quiet figure. 

"I guess you know I've been crazy about him, " she said quietly. "Well, that's all over. He never really cared for me. I played his game andI--lost. I've been expelled from the school. "

Quite suddenly she dropped on her knees beside the bed, and put hercheek close to the sleeping man's hand. When after a moment she rose, she was controlled again, calm, very white. 

"Will you tell him, Dr. Edwardes, when he is conscious, that I came inand said good-bye?"

"I will, of course. Do you want to leave any other message?"

She hesitated, as if the thought tempted her. Then she shrugged hershoulders. 

"What would be the use? He doesn't want any message from me. "

She turned toward the door. But K. Could not let her go like that. Herface frightened him. It was too calm, too controlled. He followed heracross the room. 

"What are your plans?"

"I haven't any. I'm about through with my training, but I've lost mydiploma. "

"I don't like to see you going away like this. "

She avoided his eyes, but his kindly tone did what neither the Head northe Executive Committee had done that day. It shook her control. 

"What does it matter to you? You don't owe me anything. "

"Perhaps not. One way and another I've known you a long time. "

"You never knew anything very good. "

"I'll tell you where I live, and--"

"I know where you live. "

"Will you come to see me there? We may be able to think of something. "

"What is there to think of? This story will follow me wherever I go!I've tried twice for a diploma and failed. What's the use?"

But in the end he prevailed on her to promise not to leave the cityuntil she had seen him again. It was not until she had gone, a straightfigure with haunted eyes, that he reflected whimsically that once againhe had defeated his own plans for flight. 

In the corridor outside the door Carlotta hesitated. Why not go back?Why not tell him? He was kind; he was going to do something for her. But the old instinct of self-preservation prevailed. She went on to herroom. 

Sidney brought her letter to Joe back to K. She was flushed with theeffort and with a new excitement. 

"This is the letter, K. , and--I haven't been able to say what I wanted, exactly. You'll let him know, won't you, how I feel, and how I blamemyself?"

K. Promised gravely. 

"And the most remarkable thing has happened. What a day this has been!Somebody has sent Johnny Rosenfeld a lot of money. The ward nurse wantsyou to come back. "

The ward had settled for the night. The well-ordered beds of the daytimewere chaotic now, torn apart by tossing figures. The night was hot andan electric fan hummed in a far corner. Under its sporadic breezes, asit turned, the ward was trying to sleep. 

Johnny Rosenfeld was not asleep. An incredible thing had happened tohim. A fortune lay under his pillow. He was sure it was there, for eversince it came his hot hand had clutched it. 

He was quite sure that somehow or other K. Had had a hand in it. When hedisclaimed it, the boy was bewildered. 

"It'll buy the old lady what she wants for the house, anyhow, " hesaid. "But I hope nobody's took up a collection for me. I don't want nocharity. "

"Maybe Mr. Howe sent it. "

"You can bet your last match he didn't. "

In some unknown way the news had reached the ward that Johnny's friend, Mr. Le Moyne, was a great surgeon. Johnny had rejected it scornfully. 

"He works in the gas office, " he said, "I've seen him there. If he's asurgeon, what's he doing in the gas office. If he's a surgeon, what's hedoing teaching me raffia-work? Why isn't he on his job?"

But the story had seized on his imagination. 

"Say, Mr. Le Moyne. "

"Yes, Jack. "

He called him "Jack. " The boy liked it. It savored of man to man. Afterall, he was a man, or almost. Hadn't he driven a car? Didn't he have astate license?

"They've got a queer story about you here in the ward. "

"Not scandal, I trust, Jack!"

"They say that you're a surgeon; that you operated on Dr. Wilson andsaved his life. They say that you're the king pin where you came from. "He eyed K. Wistfully. "I know it's a damn lie, but if it's true--"

"I used to be a surgeon. As a matter of fact I operated on Dr. Wilsonto-day. I--I am rather apologetic, Jack, because I didn't explain toyou sooner. For--various reasons--I gave up that--that line of business. To-day they rather forced my hand. "

"Don't you think you could do something for me, sir?"

When K. Did not reply at once, he launched into an explanation. 

"I've been lying here a good while. I didn't say much because I knew I'dhave to take a chance. Either I'd pull through or I wouldn't, and theodds were--well, I didn't say much. The old lady's had a lot of trouble. But now, with THIS under my pillow for her, I've got a right to ask. I'll take a chance, if you will. "

"It's only a chance, Jack. "

"I know that. But lie here and watch these soaks off the street. Old, alot of them, and gettin' well to go out and starve, and--My God! Mr. LeMoyne, they can walk, and I can't. "

K. Drew a long breath. He had started, and now he must go on. Faith inhimself or no faith, he must go on. Life, that had loosed its hold onhim for a time, had found him again. 

"I'll go over you carefully to-morrow, Jack. I'll tell you your chanceshonestly. "

"I have a thousand dollars. Whatever you charge--"

"I'll take it out of my board bill in the new house!"

At four o'clock that morning K. Got back from seeing Joe off. The triphad been without accident. 

Over Sidney's letter Joe had shed a shamefaced tear or two. And duringthe night ride, with K. Pushing the car to the utmost, he had felt thatthe boy, in keeping his hand in his pocket, had kept it on the letter. When the road was smooth and stretched ahead, a gray-white line into thenight, he tried to talk a little courage into the boy's sick heart. 

"You'll see new people, new life, " he said. "In a month from now you'llwonder why you ever hung around the Street. I have a feeling that you'regoing to make good down there. "

And once, when the time for parting was very near, --"No matter whathappens, keep on believing in yourself. I lost my faith in myself once. It was pretty close to hell. "

Joe's response showed his entire self-engrossment. 

"If he dies, I'm a murderer. "

"He's not going to die, " said K. Stoutly. 

At four o'clock in the morning he left the car at the garage and walkedaround to the little house. He had had no sleep for forty-five hours;his eyes were sunken in his head; the skin over his temples looked drawnand white. His clothes were wrinkled; the soft hat he habitually worewas white with the dust of the road. 

As he opened the hall door, Christine stirred in the room beyond. Shecame out fully dressed. 

"K. , are you sick?"

"Rather tired. Why in the world aren't you in bed?"

"Palmer has just come home in a terrible rage. He says he's been robbedof a thousand dollars. "

"Where?"

Christine shrugged her shoulders. 

"He doesn't know, or says he doesn't. I'm glad of it. He seemsthoroughly frightened. It may be a lesson. "

In the dim hall light he realized that her face was strained and set. She looked on the verge of hysteria. 

"Poor little woman, " he said. "I'm sorry, Christine. "

The tender words broke down the last barrier of her self-control. 

"Oh, K. ! Take me away. Take me away! I can't stand it any longer. "

She held her arms out to him, and because he was very tired and lonely, and because more than anything else in the world just then he needed awoman's arms, he drew her to him and held her close, his cheek to herhair. 

"Poor girl!" he said. "Poor Christine! Surely there must be somehappiness for us somewhere. "

But the next moment he let her go and stepped back. 

"I'm sorry. " Characteristically he took the blame. "I shouldn't havedone that--You know how it is with me. "

"Will it always be Sidney?"

"I'm afraid it will always be Sidney. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

Johnny Rosenfeld was dead. All of K. 's skill had not sufficed to savehim. The operation had been a marvel, but the boy's long-sapped strengthfailed at the last. 

K. , set of face, stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he wasgoing. He roused from the coma and smiled up at Le Moyne. 

"I've got a hunch that I can move my right foot, " he said. "Look andsee. "

K. Lifted the light covering. 

"You're right, old man. It's moving. "

"Brake foot, clutch foot, " said Johnny, and closed his eyes again. 

K. Had forbidden the white screens, that outward symbol of death. Timeenough for them later. So the ward had no suspicion, nor had the boy. 

The ward passed in review. It was Sunday, and from the chapel far belowcame the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again he did notopen his eyes. 

"You're some operator, Mr. Le Moyne. I'll put in a word for you wheneverI get a chance. "

"Yes, put in a word for me, " said K. Huskily. 

He felt that Johnny would be a good mediator--that whatever he, K. , haddone of omission or commission, Johnny's voice before the Tribunal wouldcount. 

The lame young violin-player came into the ward. She had cherished asecret and romantic affection for Max Wilson, and now he was in thehospital and ill. So she wore the sacrificial air of a young nun andplayed "The Holy City. "

Johnny was close on the edge of his long sleep by that time, and verycomfortable. 

"Tell her nix on the sob stuff, " he complained. "Ask her to play 'I'mtwenty-one and she's eighteen. '"

She was rather outraged, but on K. 's quick explanation she changed tothe staccato air. 

"Ask her if she'll come a little nearer; I can't hear her. "

So she moved to the foot of the bed, and to the gay little tune Johnnybegan his long sleep. But first he asked K. A question: "Are you sureI'm going to walk, Mr. Le Moyne?"

"I give you my solemn word, " said K. Huskily, "that you are going to bebetter than you have ever been in your life. "

It was K. Who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens tobe set around the bed, K. Who drew the coverings smooth and folded theboy's hands over his breast. 

The violin-player stood by uncertainly. 

"How very young he is! Was it an accident?"

"It was the result of a man's damnable folly, " said K. Grimly. "Somebodyalways pays. "

And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid. 

The immediate result of his death was that K. , who had gained some ofhis faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was besetby his old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself again powersof life and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been nocarelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that hehad taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk andbegged for it. 

The old doubts came back. 

And now came a question that demanded immediate answer. Wilson wouldbe out of commission for several months, probably. He was gaining, butslowly. And he wanted K. To take over his work. 

"Why not?" he demanded, half irritably. "The secret is out. Everybodyknows who you are. You're not thinking about going back to thatridiculous gas office, are you?"

"I had some thought of going to Cuba. "

"I'm damned if I understand you. You've done a marvelous thing; I liehere and listen to the staff singing your praises until I'm sick of yourname! And now, because a boy who wouldn't have lived anyhow--"

"That's not it, " K. Put in hastily. "I know all that. I guess I could doit and get away with it as well as the average. All that deters me--I'venever told you, have I, why I gave up before?"

Wilson was propped up in his bed. K. Was walking restlessly about theroom, as was his habit when troubled. 

"I've heard the gossip; that's all. "

"When you recognized me that night on the balcony, I told you I'd lostmy faith in myself, and you said the whole affair had been gone overat the State Society. As a matter of fact, the Society knew of only twocases. There had been three. "

"Even at that--"

"You know what I always felt about the profession, Max. We went intothat more than once in Berlin. Either one's best or nothing. I had donepretty well. When I left Lorch and built my own hospital, I hadn'ta doubt of myself. And because I was getting results I got a lot ofadvertising. Men began coming to the clinics. I found I was makingenough out of the patients who could pay to add a few free wards. I wantto tell you now, Wilson, that the opening of those free wards was thegreatest self-indulgence I ever permitted myself. I'd seen so muchcareless attention given the poor--well, never mind that. It was almostthree years ago that things began to go wrong. I lost a big case. "

"I know. All this doesn't influence me, Edwardes. "

"Wait a moment. We had a system in the operating-room as perfect as Icould devise it. I never finished an operation without having my firstassistant verify the clip and sponge count. But that first case diedbecause a sponge had been left in the operating field. You know howthose things go; you can't always see them, and one goes by the count, after reasonable caution. Then I lost another case in the same way--afree case. 

"As well as I could tell, the precautions had not been relaxed. I wasdoing from four to six cases a day. After the second one I almost wentcrazy. I made up my mind, if there was ever another, I'd give up and goaway. "

"There was another?"

"Not for several months. When the last case died, a free case again, Iperformed my own autopsy. I allowed only my first assistant in the room. He was almost as frenzied as I was. It was the same thing again. When Itold him I was going away, he offered to take the blame himself, tosay he had closed the incision. He tried to make me think he wasresponsible. I knew--better. "

"It's incredible. "

"Exactly; but it's true. The last patient was a laborer. He left afamily. I've sent them money from time to time. I used to sit and thinkabout the children he left, and what would become of them. The ironicpart of it was that, for all that had happened, I was busier all thetime. Men were sending me cases from all over the country. It was eitherstay and keep on working, with that chance, or--quit. I quit. " "But ifyou had stayed, and taken extra precautions--"

"We'd taken every precaution we knew. "

Neither of the men spoke for a time. K. Stood, his tall figure outlinedagainst the window. Far off, in the children's ward, children werelaughing; from near by a very young baby wailed a thin cry of protestagainst life; a bell rang constantly. K. 's mind was busy with thepast--with the day he decided to give up and go away, with the months ofwandering and homelessness, with the night he had come upon the Streetand had seen Sidney on the doorstep of the little house. 

"That's the worst, is it?" Max Wilson demanded at last. 

"That's enough. "

"It's extremely significant. You had an enemy somewhere--on yourstaff, probably. This profession of ours is a big one, but you know itsjealousies. Let a man get his shoulders above the crowd, and the packis after him. " He laughed a little. "Mixed figure, but you know what Imean. "

K. Shook his head. He had had that gift of the big man everywhere, inevery profession, of securing the loyalty of his followers. He wouldhave trusted every one of them with his life. 

"You're going to do it, of course. "

"Take up your work?"

"Yes. "

He stirred restlessly. To stay on, to be near Sidney, perhaps to standby as Wilson's best man when he was married--it turned him cold. But hedid not give a decided negative. The sick man was flushed and growingfretful; it would not do to irritate him. 

"Give me another day on it, " he said at last. And so the matter stood. 

Max's injury had been productive of good, in one way. It had brought thetwo brothers closer together. In the mornings Max was restless untilDr. Ed arrived. When he came, he brought books in the shabby bag--hisbeloved Burns, although he needed no book for that, the "PickwickPapers, " Renan's "Lives of the Disciples. " Very often Max world dozeoff; at the cessation of Dr. Ed's sonorous voice the sick man would stirfretfully and demand more. But because he listened to everything withoutdiscrimination, the older man came to the conclusion that it was thecompanionship that counted. It pleased him vastly. It reminded him ofMax's boyhood, when he had read to Max at night. For once in the lastdozen years, he needed him. 

"Go on, Ed. What in blazes makes you stop every five minutes?" Maxprotested, one day. 

Dr. Ed, who had only stopped to bite off the end of a stogie to hold inhis cheek, picked up his book in a hurry, and eyed the invalid over it. 

"Stop bullying. I'll read when I'm ready. Have you any idea what I'mreading?"

"Of course. "

"Well, I haven't. For ten minutes I've been reading across both pages!"

Max laughed, and suddenly put out his hand. Demonstrations of affectionwere so rare with him that for a moment Dr. Ed was puzzled. Then, rathersheepishly, he took it. 

"When I get out, " Max said, "we'll have to go out to the White Springsagain and have supper. "

That was all; but Ed understood. 

Morning and evening, Sidney went to Max's room. In the morning she onlysmiled at him from the doorway. In the evening she went to him afterprayers. She was allowed an hour with him then. 

The shooting had been a closed book between them. At first, when hebegan to recover, he tried to talk to her about it. But she refused tolisten. She was very gentle with him, but very firm. 

"I know how it happened, Max, " she said--"about Joe's mistake and allthat. The rest can wait until you are much better. "

If there had been any change in her manner to him, he would nothave submitted so easily, probably. But she was as tender as ever, unfailingly patient, prompt to come to him and slow to leave. After atime he began to dread reopening the subject. She seemed so effectuallyto have closed it. Carlotta was gone. And, after all, what good could hedo his cause by pleading it? The fact was there, and Sidney knew it. 

On the day when K. Had told Max his reason for giving up his work, Maxwas allowed out of bed for the first time. It was a great day. A box ofred roses came that day from the girl who had refused him a year or moreago. He viewed them with a carelessness that was half assumed. 

The news had traveled to the Street that he was to get up that day. Early that morning the doorkeeper had opened the door to a gentlemanwho did not speak, but who handed in a bunch of early chrysanthemums andproceeded to write, on a pad he drew from his pocket:--

"From Mrs. McKee's family and guests, with their congratulations on yourrecovery, and their hope that they will see you again soon. If theirends are clipped every day and they are placed in ammonia water, theywill last indefinitely. " Sidney spent her hour with Max that evening asusual. His big chair had been drawn close to a window, and she found himthere, looking out. She kissed him. But this time, instead of lettingher draw away, he put out his arms and caught her to him. 

"Are you glad?"

"Very glad, indeed, " she said soberly. 

"Then smile at me. You don't smile any more. You ought to smile; yourmouth--"

"I am almost always tired; that's all, Max. "

She eyed him bravely. 

"Aren't you going to let me make love to you at all? You get away beyondmy reach. "

"I was looking for the paper to read to you. "

A sudden suspicion flamed in his eyes. 

"Sidney. "

"Yes, dear. "

"You don't like me to touch you any more. Come here where I can seeyou. "

The fear of agitating him brought her quickly. For a moment he wasappeased. 

"That's more like it. How lovely you are, Sidney!" He lifted first onehand and then the other to his lips. "Are you ever going to forgive me?"

"If you mean about Carlotta, I forgave that long ago. "

He was almost boyishly relieved. What a wonder she was! So lovely, andso sane. Many a woman would have held that over him for years--not thathe had done anything really wrong on that nightmare excursion. But somany women are exigent about promises. 

"When are you going to marry me?"

"We needn't discuss that to-night, Max. "

"I want you so very much. I don't want to wait, dear. Let me tell Edthat you will marry me soon. Then, when I go away, I'll take you withme. "

"Can't we talk things over when you are stronger?"

Her tone caught his attention, and turned him a little white. He facedher to the window, so that the light fell full on her. 

"What things? What do you mean?"

He had forced her hand. She had meant to wait; but, with his keen eyeson her, she could not dissemble. 

"I am going to make you very unhappy for a little while. "

"Well?"

"I've had a lot of time to think. If you had really wanted me, Max--"

"My God, of course I want you!"

"It isn't that I am angry. I am not even jealous. I was at first. Itisn't that. It's hard to make you understand. I think you care for me--"

"I love you! I swear I never loved any other woman as I love you. "

Suddenly he remembered that he had also sworn to put Carlotta out of hislife. He knew that Sidney remembered, too; but she gave no sign. 

"Perhaps that's true. You might go on caring for me. Sometimes I thinkyou would. But there would always be other women, Max. You're like that. Perhaps you can't help it. "

"If you loved me you could do anything with me. " He was half sullen. 

By the way her color leaped, he knew he had struck fire. Allhis conjectures as to how Sidney would take the knowledge of hisentanglement with Carlotta had been founded on one major premise--thatshe loved him. The mere suspicion made him gasp. 

"But, good Heavens, Sidney, you do care for me, don't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't, Max; not enough. "

She tried to explain, rather pitifully. After one look at his face, shespoke to the window. 

"I'm so wretched about it. I thought I cared. To me you were the bestand greatest man that ever lived. I--when I said my prayers, I--But thatdoesn't matter. You were a sort of god to me. When the Lamb--that's oneof the internes, you know--nicknamed you the 'Little Tin God, ' I wasangry. You could never be anything little to me, or do anything thatwasn't big. Do you see?"

He groaned under his breath. 

"No man could live up to that, Sidney. "

"No. I see that now. But that's the way I cared. Now I know that Ididn't care for you, really, at all. I built up an idol and worshipedit. I always saw you through a sort of haze. You were operating, witheverybody standing by, saying how wonderful it was. Or you were comingto the wards, and everything was excitement, getting ready for you. Iblame myself terribly. But you see, don't you? It isn't that I think youare wicked. It's just that I never loved the real you, because I neverknew you. "

When he remained silent, she made an attempt to justify herself. 

"I'd known very few men, " she said. "I came into the hospital, and fora time life seemed very terrible. There were wickednesses I had neverheard of, and somebody always paying for them. I was always asking, Why?Why? Then you would come in, and a lot of them you cured and sent out. You gave them their chance, don't you see? Until I knew about Carlotta, you always meant that to me. You were like K. --always helping. "

The room was very silent. In the nurses' parlor, a few feet down thecorridor, the nurses were at prayers. 

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want, " read the Head, her voicecalm with the quiet of twilight and the end of the day. 

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside thestill waters. "

The nurses read the response a little slowly, as if they, too, wereweary. 

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death--"

The man in the chair stirred. He had come through the valley of theshadow, and for what? He was very bitter. He said to himself savagelythat they would better have let him die. "You say you never loved mebecause you never knew me. I'm not a rotter, Sidney. Isn't it possiblethat the man you, cared about, who--who did his best by people and allthat--is the real me?"

She gazed at him thoughtfully. He missed something out of her eyes, thesort of luminous, wistful look with which she had been wont to surveyhis greatness. Measured by this new glance, so clear, so appraising, hesank back into his chair. 

"The man who did his best is quite real. You have always done the bestin your work; you always will. But the other is a part of you too, Max. Even if I cared, I would not dare to run the risk. "

Under the window rang the sharp gong of a city patrol-wagon. It rumbledthrough the gates back to the courtyard, where its continued clamorsummoned white-coated orderlies. 

An operating-room case, probably. Sidney, chin lifted, listenedcarefully. If it was a case for her, the elevator would go up to theoperating-room. With a renewed sense of loss, Max saw that already shehad put him out of her mind. The call to service was to her a call tobattle. Her sensitive nostrils quivered; her young figure stood erect, alert. 

"It has gone up!"

She took a step toward the door, hesitated, came back, and put a lighthand on his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, dear Max. "

She had kissed him lightly on the cheek before he knew what she intendedto do. So passionless was the little caress that, perhaps more thananything else, it typified the change in their relation. 

When the door closed behind her, he saw that she had left her ringon the arm of his chair. He picked it up. It was still warm fromher finger. He held it to his lips with a quick gesture. In all hissuccessful young life he had never before felt the bitterness offailure. The very warmth of the little ring hurt. 

Why hadn't they let him die? He didn't want to live--he wouldn't live. Nobody cared for him! He would--

His eyes, lifted from the ring, fell on the red glow of the roses thathad come that morning. Even in the half light, they glowed with fierycolor. 

The ring was in his right hand. With the left he settled his collar andsoft silk tie. 

K. Saw Carlotta that evening for the last time. Katie brought word tohim, where he was helping Harriet close her trunk, --she was on her wayto Europe for the fall styles, --that he was wanted in the lower hall. 

"A lady!" she said, closing the door behind her by way of caution. "Anda good thing for her she's not from the alley. The way those people begoff you is a sin and a shame, and it's not at home you're going to be tothem from now on. "

So K. Had put on his coat and, without so much as a glance in Harriet'smirror, had gone down the stairs. Carlotta was in the lower hall. Shestood under the chandelier, and he saw at once the ravages that troublehad made in her. She was a dead white, and she looked ten years olderthan her age. 

"I came, you see, Dr. Edwardes. "

Now and then, when some one came to him for help, which was generallymoney, he used Christine's parlor, if she happened to be out. So now, finding the door ajar, and the room dark, he went in and turned on thelight. 

"Come in here; we can talk better. "

She did not sit down at first; but, observing that her standing kept himon his feet, she sat finally. Evidently she found it hard to speak. 

"You were to come, " K. Encouraged her, "to see if we couldn't plansomething for you. Now, I think I've got it. "

"If it's another hospital--and I don't want to stay here, in the city. "

"You like surgical work, don't you?"

"I don't care for anything else. "

"Before we settle this, I'd better tell you what I'm thinking of. You know, of course, that I closed my hospital. I--a series of thingshappened, and I decided I was in the wrong business. That wouldn't beimportant, except for what it leads to. They are trying to persuade meto go back, and--I'm trying to persuade myself that I'm fit to go back. You see, "--his tone was determinedly cheerful, "my faith in myself hasbeen pretty nearly gone. When one loses that, there isn't much left. "

"You had been very successful. " She did not look up. 

"Well, I had and I hadn't. I'm not going to worry you about that. Myoffer is this: We'll just try to forget about--about Schwitter's and allthe rest, and if I go back I'll take you on in the operating-room. "

"You sent me away once!"

"Well, I can ask you to come back, can't I?" He smiled at herencouragingly. 

"Are you sure you understand about Max Wilson and myself?"

"I understand. "

"Don't you think you are taking a risk?"

"Every one makes mistakes now and then, and loving women have mademistakes since the world began. Most people live in glass houses, MissHarrison. And don't make any mistake about this: people can always comeback. No depth is too low. All they need is the willpower. "

He smiled down at her. She had come armed with confession. But the offerhe made was too alluring. It meant reinstatement, another chance, whenshe had thought everything was over. After all, why should she damnherself? She would go back. She would work her finger-ends off for him. She would make it up to him in other ways. But she could not tell himand lose everything. 

"Come, " he said. "Shall we go back and start over again?"

He held out his hand. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Late September had come, with the Street, after its summer indolencetaking up the burden of the year. At eight-thirty and at one the schoolbell called the children. Little girls in pig-tails, carrying freshlysharpened pencils, went primly toward the school, gathering, cometfashion, a tail of unwilling brothers as they went. 

An occasional football hurtled through the air. Le Moyne had promisedthe baseball club a football outfit, rumor said, but would not coachthem himself this year. A story was going about that Mr. Le Moyneintended to go away. 

The Street had been furiously busy for a month. The cobblestones hadgone, and from curb to curb stretched smooth asphalt. The fascinationof writing on it with chalk still obsessed the children. Every few yardswas a hop-scotch diagram. Generally speaking, too, the Street had put upnew curtains, and even, here and there, had added a coat of paint. 

To this general excitement the strange case of Mr. Le Moyne had addedits quota. One day he was in the gas office, making out statements thatwere absolutely ridiculous. (What with no baking all last month, andevery Sunday spent in the country, nobody could have used that amount ofgas. They could come and take their old meter out!) And the next therewas the news that Mr. Le Moyne had been only taking a holiday in thegas office, --paying off old scores, the barytone at Mrs. McKee'shazarded!--and that he was really a very great surgeon and had saved Dr. Max Wilson. 

The Street, which was busy at the time deciding whether to leave the oldsidewalks or to put down cement ones, had one evening of mad excitementover the matter, --of K. , not the sidewalks, --and then had accepted thenew situation. 

But over the news of K. 's approaching departure it mourned. What wasthe matter with things, anyhow? Here was Christine's marriage, which hadpromised so well, --awnings and palms and everything, --turning out badly. True, Palmer Howe was doing better, but he would break out again. AndJohnny Rosenfeld was dead, so that his mother came on washing-days, and brought no cheery gossip; but bent over her tubs dry-eyed andsilent--even the approaching move to a larger house failed to thrillher. There was Tillie, too. But one did not speak of her. She wasmarried now, of course; but the Street did not tolerate such a reversalof the usual processes as Tillie had indulged in. It censured Mrs. McKeeseverely for having been, so to speak, and accessory after the fact. 

The Street made a resolve to keep K. , if possible. If he had shownany "high and mightiness, " as they called it, since the change in hisestate, it would have let him go without protest. But when a man is thereal thing, --so that the newspapers give a column to his having beenin the city almost two years, --and still goes about in the same shabbyclothes, with the same friendly greeting for every one, it demonstratesclearly, as the barytone put it, that "he's got no swelled head on him;that's sure. "

"Anybody can see by the way he drives that machine of Wilson's that he'sbeen used to a car--likely a foreign one. All the swells have foreigncars. " Still the barytone, who was almost as fond of conversation asof what he termed "vocal. " "And another thing. Do you notice the wayhe takes Dr. Ed around? Has him at every consultation. The old boy'stickled to death. "

A little later, K. , coming up the Street as he had that first day, heardthe barytone singing:--

 "Home is the hunter, home from the hill, And the sailor, home from sea. "

Home! Why, this WAS home. The Street seemed to stretch out its arms tohim. The ailanthus tree waved in the sunlight before the little house. Tree and house were old; September had touched them. Christine satsewing on the balcony. A boy with a piece of chalk was writing somethingon the new cement under the tree. He stood back, head on one side, whenhe had finished, and inspected his work. K. Caught him up from behind, and, swinging him around--

"Hey!" he said severely. "Don't you know better than to write all overthe street? What'll I do to you? Give you to a policeman?"

"Aw, lemme down, Mr. K. "

"You tell the boys that if I find this street scrawled over any more, the picnic's off. "

"Aw, Mr. K. !"

"I mean it. Go and spend some of that chalk energy of yours in school. "

He put the boy down. There was a certain tenderness in his hands, as inhis voice, when he dealt with children. All his severity did not concealit. "Get along with you, Bill. Last bell's rung. "

As the boy ran off, K. 's eye fell on what he had written on the cement. At a certain part of his career, the child of such a neighborhood as theStreet "cancels" names. It is a part of his birthright. He does it as hewhittles his school desk or tries to smoke the long dried fruit of theIndian cigar tree. So K. Read in chalk an the smooth street:--

 Max Wilson Marriage. Sidney Page Love. 

[Note: the a, l, s, and n of "Max Wilson" are crossed through, as arethe S, d, n, and a of "Sidney Page"]

The childish scrawl stared up at him impudently, a sacred thing profanedby the day. K. Stood and looked at it. The barytone was still singing;but now it was "I'm twenty-one, and she's eighteen. " It was a cheerfulair, as should be the air that had accompanied Johnny Rosenfeld to hislong sleep. The light was gone from K. 's face again. After all, theStreet meant for him not so much home as it meant Sidney. And now, before very long, that book of his life, like others, would have to beclosed. 

He turned and went heavily into the little house. 

Christine called to him from her little balcony:--

"I thought I heard your step outside. Have you time to come out?"

K. Went through the parlor and stood in the long window. His steady eyeslooked down at her. 

"I see very little of you now, " she complained. And, when he did notreply immediately: "Have you made any definite plans, K. ?"

"I shall do Max's work until he is able to take hold again. Afterthat--"

"You will go away?"

"I think so. I am getting a good many letters, one way and another. Isuppose, now I'm back in harness, I'll stay. My old place is closed. I'dgo back there--they want me. But it seems so futile, Christine, to leaveas I did, because I felt that I had no right to go on as things were;and now to crawl back on the strength of having had my hand forced, andto take up things again, not knowing that I've a bit more right to do itthan when I left!"

"I went to see Max yesterday. You know what he thinks about all that. "

He took an uneasy turn up and down the balcony. 

"But who?" he demanded. "Who would do such a thing? I tell you, Christine, it isn't possible. "

She did not pursue the subject. Her thoughts had flown ahead to thelittle house without K. , to days without his steps on the stairs or theheavy creak of his big chair overhead as he dropped into it. 

But perhaps it would be better if he went. She had her own life to live. She had no expectation of happiness, but, somehow or other, she mustbuild on the shaky foundation of her marriage a house of life, withresignation serving for content, perhaps with fear lurking always. Thatshe knew. But with no active misery. Misery implied affection, and herlove for Palmer was quite dead. 

"Sidney will be here this afternoon. "

"Good. " His tone was non-committal. 

"Has it occurred to you, K. , that Sidney is not very happy?"

He stopped in front of her. 

"She's had a great anxiety. "

"She has no anxiety now. Max is doing well. "

"Then what is it?"

"I'm not quite sure, but I think I know. She's lost faith in Max, andshe's not like me. I--I knew about Palmer before I married him. I got aletter. It's all rather hideous--I needn't go into it. I was afraid toback out; it was just before my wedding. But Sidney has more characterthan I have. Max isn't what she thought he was, and I doubt whethershe'll marry him. "

K. Glanced toward the street where Sidney's name and Max's lay open tothe sun and to the smiles of the Street. Christine might be right, butthat did not alter things for him. 

Christine's thoughts went back inevitably to herself; to Palmer, who wasdoing better just now; to K. , who was going away--went back with an acheto the night K. Had taken her in his arms and then put her away. Howwrong things were! What a mess life was!

"When you go away, " she said at last, "I want you to remember this. I'mgoing to do my best, K. You have taught me all I know. All my life I'llhave to overlook things; I know that. But, in his way, Palmer cares forme. He will always come back, and perhaps sometime--"

Her voice trailed off. Far ahead of her she saw the years stretchingout, marked, not by days and months, but by Palmer's wanderings away, his remorseful returns. 

"Do a little more than forgetting, " K. Said. "Try to care for him, Christine. You did once. And that's your strongest weapon. It's always awoman's strongest weapon. And it wins in the end. "

"I shall try, K. , " she answered obediently. 

But he turned away from the look in her eyes. 

Harriet was abroad. She had sent cards from Paris to her "trade. " It wasan innovation. The two or three people on the Street who received herengraved announcement that she was there, "buying new chic modelsfor the autumn and winter--afternoon frocks, evening gowns, receptiondresses, and wraps, from Poiret, Martial et Armand, and others, " leftthe envelopes casually on the parlor table, as if communications fromParis were quite to be expected. 

So K. Lunched alone, and ate little. After luncheon he fixed a brokenironing-stand for Katie, and in return she pressed a pair of trousersfor him. He had it in mind to ask Sidney to go out with him in Max'scar, and his most presentable suit was very shabby. 

"I'm thinking, " said Katie, when she brought the pressed garments upover her arm and passed them in through a discreet crack in the door, "that these pants will stand more walking than sitting, Mr. K. They'regetting mighty thin. "

"I'll take a duster along in case of accident, " he promised her; "andto-morrow I'll order a suit, Katie. "

"I'll believe it when I see it, " said Katie from the stairs. "Some foolof a woman from the alley will come in to-night and tell you she can'tpay her rent, and she'll take your suit away in her pocket-book--as likeas not to pay an installment on a piano. There's two new pianos in thealley since you came here. "

"I promise it, Katie. "

"Show it to me, " said Katie laconically. "And don't go to picking upanything you drop!"

Sidney came home at half-past two--came delicately flushed, as if shehad hurried, and with a tremulous smile that caught Katie's eye at once. 

"Bless the child!" she said. "There's no need to ask how he is to-day. You're all one smile. "

The smile set just a trifle. 

"Katie, some one has written my name out on the street, in chalk. It'swith Dr. Wilson's, and it looks so silly. Please go out and sweep itoff. "

"I'm about crazy with their old chalk. I'll do it after a while. "

"Please do it now. I don't want anyone to see it. Is--is Mr. K. Upstairs?"

But when she learned that K. Was upstairs, oddly enough, she did not goup at once. She stood in the lower hall and listened. Yes, he wasthere. She could hear him moving about. Her lips parted slightly as shelistened. 

Christine, looking in from her balcony, saw her there, and, seeingsomething in her face that she had never suspected, put her hand to herthroat. 

"Sidney!"

"Oh--hello, Chris. "

"Won't you come and sit with me?"

"I haven't much time--that is, I want to speak to K. "

"You can see him when he comes down. "

Sidney came slowly through the parlor. It occurred to her, all at once, that Christine must see a lot of K. , especially now. No doubt he wasin and out of the house often. And how pretty Christine was! She wasunhappy, too. All that seemed to be necessary to win K. 's attention wasto be unhappy enough. Well, surely, in that case--

"How is Max?"

"Still better. "

Sidney sat down on the edge of the railing; but she was careful, Christine saw, to face the staircase. There was silence on the balcony. Christine sewed; Sidney sat and swung her feet idly. 

"Dr. Ed says Max wants you to give up your training and marry him now. "

"I'm not going to marry him at all, Chris. "

Upstairs, K. 's door slammed. It was one of his failings that he alwaysslammed doors. Harriet used to be quite disagreeable about it. 

Sidney slid from the railing. 

"There he is now. "

Perhaps, in all her frivolous, selfish life, Christine had never had abigger moment than the one that followed. She could have said nothing, and, in the queer way that life goes, K. Might have gone away from theStreet as empty of heart as he had come to it. 

"Be very good to him, Sidney, " she said unsteadily. "He cares so much. "

CHAPTER XXX

K. Was being very dense. For so long had he considered Sidney asunattainable that now his masculine mind, a little weary with muchwretchedness, refused to move from its old attitude. 

"It was glamour, that was all, K. , " said Sidney bravely. 

"But, perhaps, " said K. , "it's just because of that miserable incidentwith Carlotta. That wasn't the right thing, of course, but Max has toldme the story. It was really quite innocent. She fainted in the yard, and--"

Sidney was exasperated. 

"Do you want me to marry him, K. ?"

K. Looked straight ahead. 

"I want you to be happy, dear. "

They were on the terrace of the White Springs Hotel again. K. Hadordered dinner, making a great to-do about getting the dishes they bothliked. But now that it was there, they were not eating. K. Had placedhis chair so that his profile was turned toward her. He had worn theduster religiously until nightfall, and then had discarded it. It hunglimp and dejected on the back of his chair. Past K. 's profile Sidneycould see the magnolia tree shaped like a heart. 

"It seems to me, " said Sidney suddenly, "that you are kind to every onebut me, K. "

He fairly stammered his astonishment:--

"Why, what on earth have I done?"

"You are trying to make me marry Max, aren't you?"

She was very properly ashamed of that, and, when he failed of reply outof sheer inability to think of one that would not say too much, she wenthastily to something else:

"It is hard for me to realize that you--that you lived a life of yourown, a busy life, doing useful things, before you came to us. I wish youwould tell me something about yourself. If we're to be friends when yougo away, "--she had to stop there, for the lump in her throat--"I'll wantto know how to think of you, --who your friends are, --all that. "

He made an effort. He was thinking, of course, that he would bevisualizing her, in the hospital, in the little house on its sidestreet, as she looked just then, her eyes like stars, her lips justparted, her hands folded before her on the table. 

"I shall be working, " he said at last. "So will you. "

"Does that mean you won't have time to think of me?"

"I'm afraid I'm stupider than usual to-night. You can think of me asnever forgetting you or the Street, working or playing. "

Playing! Of course he would not work all the time. And he was going backto his old friends, to people who had always known him, to girls--

He did his best then. He told her of the old family house, built by oneof his forebears who had been a king's man until Washington had put thecase for the colonies, and who had given himself and his oldest son thento the cause that he made his own. He told of old servants who had weptwhen he decided to close the house and go away. When she fell silent, hethought he was interesting her. He told her the family traditions thathad been the fairy tales of his childhood. He described the library, thechoice room of the house, full of family paintings in old gilt frames, and of his father's collection of books. Because it was home, he waxedwarm over it at last, although it had rather hurt him at first toremember. It brought back the other things that he wanted to forget. 

But a terrible thing was happening to Sidney. Side by side with thewonders he described so casually, she was placing the little house. Whatan exile it must have been for him! How hopelessly middle-class theymust have seemed! How idiotic of her to think, for one moment, that shecould ever belong in this new-old life of his!

What traditions had she? None, of course, save to be honest and goodand to do her best for the people around her. Her mother's people, theKennedys went back a long way, but they had always been poor. A libraryfull of paintings and books! She remembered the lamp with the blue-silkshade, the figure of Eve that used to stand behind the minister'sportrait, and the cherry bookcase with the Encyclopaedia in it and"Beacon Lights of History. " When K. , trying his best to interest her andto conceal his own heaviness of spirit, told her of his grandfather'sold carriage, she sat back in the shadow. 

"Fearful old thing, " said K. , --"regular cabriolet. I can remember yetthe family rows over it. But the old gentleman liked it--used to haveit repainted every year. Strangers in the city used to turn around andstare at it--thought it was advertising something!"

"When I was a child, " said Sidney quietly, "and a carriage drove up andstopped on the Street, I always knew some one had died!"

There was a strained note in her voice. K. , whose ear was attuned toevery note in her voice, looked at her quickly. "My great-grandfather, "said Sidney in the same tone, "sold chickens at market. He didn't do ithimself; but the fact's there, isn't it?"

K. Was puzzled. 

"What about it?" he said. 

But Sidney's agile mind had already traveled on. This K. She had neverknown, who had lived in a wonderful house, and all the rest of it--hemust have known numbers of lovely women, his own sort of women, who hadtraveled and knew all kinds of things: girls like the daughters of theExecutive Committee who came in from their country places in summerwith great armfuls of flowers, and hurried off, after consulting theirjeweled watches, to luncheon or tea or tennis. 

"Go on, " said Sidney dully. "Tell me about the women you have known, your friends, the ones you liked and the ones who liked you. "

K. Was rather apologetic. 

"I've always been so busy, " he confessed. "I know a lot, but I don'tthink they would interest you. They don't do anything, you know--theytravel around and have a good time. They're rather nice to look at, someof them. But when you've said that you've said it all. "

Nice to look at! Of course they would be, with nothing else to think ofin all the world but of how they looked. 

Suddenly Sidney felt very tired. She wanted to go back to the hospital, and turn the key in the door of her little room, and lie with her facedown on the bed. 

"Would you mind very much if I asked you to take me back?"

He did mind. He had a depressed feeling that the evening had failed. And his depression grew as he brought the car around. He understood, hethought. She was grieving about Max. After all, a girl couldn't care asshe had for a year and a half, and then give a man up because of anotherwoman, without a wrench. 

"Do you really want to go home, Sidney, or were you tired of sittingthere? In that case, we could drive around for an hour or two. I'll nottalk if you'd like to be quiet. " Being with K. Had become an agony, nowthat she realized how wrong Christine had been, and that their worlds, hers and K. 's, had only touched for a time. Soon they would be separatedby as wide a gulf as that which lay between the cherry bookcase--forinstance, --and a book-lined library hung with family portraits. But shewas not disposed to skimp as to agony. She would go through with it, every word a stab, if only she might sit beside K. A little longer, might feel the touch of his old gray coat against her arm. "I'd like toride, if you don't mind. "

K. Turned the automobile toward the country roads. He was rememberingacutely that other ride after Joe in his small car, the trouble hehad had to get a machine, the fear of he knew not what ahead, and hisarrival at last at the road-house, to find Max lying at the head of thestairs and Carlotta on her knees beside him. 

"K. " "Yes?"

"Was there anybody you cared about, --any girl, --when you left home?"

"I was not in love with anyone, if that's what you mean. "

"You knew Max before, didn't you?"

"Yes. You know that. "

"If you knew things about him that I should have known, why didn't youtell me?"

"I couldn't do that, could I? Anyhow--"

"Yes?"

"I thought everything would be all right. It seemed to me that the merefact of your caring for him--" That was shaky ground; he got off itquickly. "Schwitter has closed up. Do you want to stop there?"

"Not to-night, please. "

They were near the white house now. Schwitter's had closed up, indeed. The sign over the entrance was gone. The lanterns had been taken down, and in the dusk they could see Tillie rocking her baby on the porch. Asif to cover the last traces of his late infamy, Schwitter himself waswatering the worn places on the lawn with the garden can. 

The car went by. Above the low hum of the engine they could hearTillie's voice, flat and unmusical, but filled with the harmonies oflove as she sang to the child. 

When they had left the house far behind, K. Was suddenly aware thatSidney was crying. She sat with her head turned away, using herhandkerchief stealthily. He drew the car up beside the road, and in amasterful fashion turned her shoulders about until she faced him. 

"Now, tell me about it, " he said. 

"It's just silliness. I'm--I'm a little bit lonely. "

"Lonely!"

"Aunt Harriet's in Paris, and with Joe gone and everybody--"

"Aunt Harriet!"

He was properly dazed, for sure. If she had said she was lonelybecause the cherry bookcase was in Paris, he could not have been morebewildered. And Joe! "And with you going away and never coming back--"

"I'll come back, of course. How's this? I'll promise to come back whenyou graduate, and send you flowers. "

"I think, " said Sidney, "that I'll become an army nurse. "

"I hope you won't do that. "

"You won't know, K. You'll be back with your old friends. You'll haveforgotten the Street and all of us. "

"Do you really think that?"

"Girls who have been everywhere, and have lovely clothes, and who won'tknow a T bandage from a figure eight!"

"There will never be anybody in the world like you to me, dear. "

His voice was husky. 

"You are saying that to comfort me. "

"To comfort you! I--who have wanted you so long that it hurts even tothink about it! Ever since the night I came up the Street, and you weresitting there on the steps--oh, my dear, my dear, if you only cared alittle!"

Because he was afraid that he would get out of hand and take her in hisarms, --which would be idiotic, since, of course, she did not care forhim that way, --he gripped the steering-wheel. It gave him a curiousappearance of making a pathetic appeal to the wind-shield. 

"I have been trying to make you say that all evening!" said Sidney. "Ilove you so much that--K. , won't you take me in your arms?"

Take her in his arms! He almost crushed her. He held her to him andmuttered incoherencies until she gasped. It was as if he must make upfor long arrears of hopelessness. He held her off a bit to look at her, as if to be sure it was she and no changeling, and as if he wanted hereyes to corroborate her lips. There was no lack of confession in hereyes; they showed him a new heaven and a new earth. 

"It was you always, K. , " she confessed. "I just didn't realize it. Butnow, when you look back, don't you see it was?"

He looked back over the months when she had seemed as unattainable asthe stars, and he did not see it. He shook his head. 

"I never had even a hope. "

"Not when I came to you with everything? I brought you all my troubles, and you always helped. "

Her eyes filled. She bent down and kissed one of his hands. He was sohappy that the foolish little caress made his heart hammer in his ears. 

"I think, K. , that is how one can always tell when it is the right one, and will be the right one forever and ever. It is the person--one goesto in trouble. "

He had no words for that, only little caressing touches of her arm, herhand. Perhaps, without knowing it, he was formulating a sort of prayerthat, since there must be troubles, she would, always come to him and hewould always be able to help her. 

And Sidney, too, fell silent. She was recalling the day she becameengaged to Max, and the lost feeling she had had. She did not feel thesame at all now. She felt as if she had been wandering, and had comehome to the arms that were about her. She would be married, and take therisk that all women took, with her eyes open. She would go through thevalley of the shadow, as other women did; but K. Would be with her. Nothing else mattered. Looking into his steady eyes, she knew that shewas safe. She would never wither for him. 

Where before she had felt the clutch of inexorable destiny, the woman'sfate, now she felt only his arms about her, her cheek on his shabbycoat. 

"I shall love you all my life, " she said shakily. 

His arms tightened about her. 

The little house was dark when they got back to it. The Street, whichhad heard that Mr. Le Moyne approved of night air, was raising itswindows for the night and pinning cheesecloth bags over its curtains tokeep them clean. 

In the second-story front room at Mrs. McKee's, the barytone sleptheavily, and made divers unvocal sounds. He was hardening his throat, and so slept with a wet towel about it. 

Down on the doorstep, Mrs. McKee and Mr. Wagner sat and made love withthe aid of a lighted match and the pencil-pad. 

The car drew up at the little house, and Sidney got out. Then it droveaway, for K. Must take it to the garage and walk back. 

Sidney sat on the doorstep and waited. How lovely it all was! Howbeautiful life was! If one did one's best by life, it did its best too. How steady K. 's eyes were! She saw the flicker of the match across thestreet, and knew what it meant. Once she would have thought that thatwas funny; now it seemed very touching to her. 

Katie had heard the car, and now she came heavily along the hall. "Awoman left this for Mr. K. , " she said. "If you think it's a beggingletter, you'd better keep it until he's bought his new suit to-morrow. Almost any moment he's likely to bust out. "

But it was not a begging letter. K. Read it in the hall, with Sidney'sshining eyes on him. It began abruptly:--

"I'm going to Africa with one of my cousins. She is a medicalmissionary. Perhaps I can work things out there. It is a bad station onthe West Coast. I am not going because I feel any call to the work, butbecause I do not know what else to do. 

"You were kind to me the other day. I believe, if I had told you then, you would still have been kind. I tried to tell you, but I was soterribly afraid. 

"If I caused death, I did not mean to. You will think that no excuse, but it is true. In the hospital, when I changed the bottles on MissPage's medicine-tray, I did not care much what happened. But it wasdifferent with you. 

"You dismissed me, you remember. I had been careless about a spongecount. I made up my mind to get back at you. It seemed hopeless--youwere so secure. For two or three days I tried to think of some way tohurt you. I almost gave up. Then I found the way. 

"You remember the packets of gauze sponges we made and used in theoperating-room? There were twelve to each package. When we counted themas we got them out, we counted by packages. On the night before I left, I went to the operating-room and added one sponge every here and there. Out of every dozen packets, perhaps, I fixed one that had thirteen. Thenext day I went away. 

"Then I was terrified. What if somebody died? I had meant to give youtrouble, so you would have to do certain cases a second time. I swearthat was all. I was so frightened that I went down sick over it. WhenI got better, I heard you had lost a case and the cause was beingwhispered about. I almost died of terror. 

"I tried to get back into the hospital one night. I went up thefire-escape, but the windows were locked. Then I left the city. Icouldn't stand it. I was afraid to read a newspaper. 

"I am not going to sign this letter. You know who it is from. And I amnot going to ask your forgiveness, or anything of that sort. I don'texpect it. But one thing hurt me more than anything else, the othernight. You said you'd lost your faith in yourself. This is to tell youthat you need not. And you said something else--that any one can 'comeback. ' I wonder!"

K. Stood in the hall of the little house with the letter in his hand. Just beyond on the doorstep was Sidney, waiting for him. His arms werestill warm from the touch of her. Beyond lay the Street, and beyond thatlay the world and a man's work to do. Work, and faith to do it, a goodwoman's hand in the dark, a Providence that made things right in theend. 

"Are you coming, K. ?"

"Coming, " he said. And, when he was beside her, his long figure foldedto the short measure of the step, he stooped humbly and kissed the hemof her soft white dress. 

Across the Street, Mr. Wagner wrote something in the dark and thenlighted a match. 

"So K. Is in love with Sidney Page, after all!" he had written. "Sheis a sweet girl, and he is every inch a man. But, to my mind, a certainlady--"

Mrs. McKee flushed and blew out the match. 

Late September now on the Street, with Joe gone and his mother eyeingthe postman with pitiful eagerness; with Mrs. Rosenfeld moving heavilyabout the setting-up of the new furniture; and with Johnny drivingheavenly cars, brake and clutch legs well and Strong. Late September, with Max recovering and settling his tie for any pretty nurse whohappened along, but listening eagerly for Dr. Ed's square tread in thehall; with Tillie rocking her baby on the porch at Schwitter's, andCarlotta staring westward over rolling seas; with Christine taking upher burden and Grace laying hers down; with Joe's tragic young eyesgrowing quiet with the peace of the tropics. 

"The Lord is my shepherd, " she reads. "I shall not want. ". .. "Yea, thoughI walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. "

Sidney, on her knees in the little parlor, repeats the words with theothers. K. Has gone from the Street, and before long she will join him. With the vision of his steady eyes before her, she adds her own prayerto the others--that the touch of his arms about her may not make herforget the vow she has taken, of charity and its sister, service, of acup of water to the thirsty, of open arms to a tired child.