LIFE AT HIGH TIDE

Harper's Novelettes

Edited By

William Dean Howells and Henry Mills Alden

CONTENTS:

THE IMMEDIATE JEWEL . . . . . . . . MARGARET DELAND

"AND ANGELS CAME . . . . . . . . . . . ANNE O'HAGAN

KEEPERS OF A CHARGE . . . . . . . . GRACE ELLERY CHANNING

A WORKING BASIS . . . . . . . . . . . . ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH

THE GLASS DOOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . MARY TRACY EARLE

ELIZABETH AND DAVIE . . . . . . . . MURIEL CAMPBELL DYAR

BARNEY DOON, BRAGGART . . . . . . PHILIP VERRILL MIGHELS

THE REPARATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . EMERY POTTLE

THE YEARLY TRIBUTE . . . . . . . . . ROSINA HUBLEY EMMET

A MATTER OF RIVALRY . . . . . . . . OCTAVE THANET

PREFACE

 There is a tide in the affairs of men Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. 

Thus the poet--and poetry, of the old order at least, always waitingupon great events, has found in the high-tide flotations of masterfulheroes to fortune themes most flatteringly responsive to its own hightension. 

The writer of fiction has no such afflatus, no such high pitch oflife, as to outward circumstance, in his representation of it, asthe poet has; and therefore his may seem to the academic critic thelesser art--but it is nearer to the realities of common human existence. He deals with plain men and women, and the un-majestic moments of theirlives. 

"Life at High Tide"--the title selected for this little volume ofshort stories, and having a real significance for each of them, whichthe reader may find out for himself--does not reflect the poet'smeaning, and, least of all, its easy optimism. In every one of thesestories is presented a critical moment in one individual life--sometimes, as in "The Glass Door" and in "Elizabeth and Davie, "in two lives; but it leads not to or away from fortune--it simplydiscloses character; also, in situations like those so vividlydepicted in "Keepers of a Charge" and "A Yearly Tribute, " the tensestrain of modern circumstance. In all these real instances there areluminous points of idealism--of an idealism implicit but translucent. 

The authors here represented have won exceptional distinction asshort-story writers, and the examples given of their work not only aretypical of the best periodical fiction of a very recent period--allof them having been published within five years--but illustratethe distinctive features, as unprecedented in quality as they arediversified in character, which mark the extreme advance in thisfield of literature. 

H. M. A. 

THE IMMEDIATE JEWEL

BY MARGARET DELAND

 "_Good name, in man and woman, dear my lord, Is_ the immediate jewel of their souls. " --_Othello_. 

I

When James Graham, carpenter, enlisted, it was with the assurance thatif he lost his life his grateful country would provide for his widow. He did lose it, and Mrs. Graham received, in exchange for a husbandand his small earnings, the sum of $12 a month. But when you own yourown very little house, with a dooryard for chickens (and such straydogs and cats as quarter themselves upon you), and enough grass for acow, and a friendly neighbor to remember your potato-barrel, why, youcan get along--somehow. In Lizzie Graham's case nobody knew just how, because she was not one of the confidential kind. But certainly therewere days in winter when the house was chilly, and months when freshmeat was unknown, and years when a new dress was not thought of. Thisstate of things is not remarkable, taken in connection with an incomeof $144 a year, and a New England village where people all do theirown work, so that a woman has no chance to hire out. 

All the same, Mrs. Graham was not an object of charity. Had she beenthat, she would have been promptly sent to the Poor Farm. No sentimentalconsideration of a grateful country would have moved Jonesville tophilanthropy; it sent its paupers to the Poor Farm with prompt commonsense. 

When Jonesville's old school-teacher, Mr. Nathaniel May, came wanderingback from the great world, quite penniless, almost blind, and with afaint mist across his pleasant mind, Jonesville saw nothing for himbut the Poor Farm. . . . Nathaniel had been away from home for many years;rumors came back, occasionally, that he was going to make his fortuneby some patent, and Jonesville said that if he did it would be a goodthing for the town, for Nathaniel wasn't one to forget his friends. "He'll give us a library, " said Jonesville, grinning; "Nat was a greatun for books. " However, Jonesville was still without its library, when, one August day, the stage dropped a gentle, forlorn figure at the doorof Dyer's Hotel. 

"I'm Nat May, " he said; "well, it's good to get home!"

He brought with him, as the sum of his possessions, a dilapidatedleather hand-bag full of strange wheels and little reflectors, andsmall, scratched lenses; the poor clothes upon his back; andtwenty-four cents in his pocket. He walked hesitatingly, with onehand outstretched to feel his way, for he was nearly blind; but herecognized old friends by their voices, and was full of simple joyat meeting them. 

"I have a very wonderful invention, " he said, in his eager voice, hisblind eyes wide and luminous; "and very valuable. But I have not beenfinancially successful, so far. I shall be, of course. But in thecity no one seemed willing to wait for payment for my board, so theauthorities advised me to come home; and, in fact, assisted me to doso. But when I finish my invention, I shall have ample means. "

Jonesville, lounging on the porch of Dyer's Hotel, grinned, and said, "That's all right, Nat; you'll be a rich man one of these days!" Andthen it tapped its forehead significantly, and whispered, "Too bad!"and added (with ill-concealed pleasure at finding new misfortune totalk about) that the Selectmen had told Mr. Dean, the superintendent, that he could call at Dyer's Hotel--to which Nathaniel, peacefullyand pennilessly, had drifted--and take him out to the Farm. 

"Sam Dyer says he'll keep him till next week, " Mrs. Butterfield toldLizzie Graham; "but, course, he can't just let him set down at thehotel for the rest of his natural life. And Nat May would do it, you know. "

"I believe he would, " Lizzie Graham admitted; "he was always kind ofsimple that way, willin' to take and willin' to give. Don't you mindhow he used to be always sharin' anything he had? James used to sayNat never knowed his own things belonged to him. "

"Folks like that don't never get rich, " Mrs. Butterfield said; "butthere! you like 'em. "

The two women were walking down a stony hillside, each with a lard-pailfull of blueberries. It was a hot August afternoon; a northwest wind, harsh and dry, tore fiercely across the scrub-pines and twinklingbirches of the sun-baked pastures. Lizzie Graham held on to hersun-bonnet, and stopped in a scrap of shade under a meagre oak toget breath. 

"My! I don't like wind, " she said, laughing. 

"Let's set down a while, " Mrs. Butterfield suggested. 

"I'd just as leaves, " Lizzie said, and took off her blue sunbonnet andfanned herself. She was a pretty woman still, though she was nearlyfifty; her hair was russet red, and blew about her forehead in littlecurls; her eyes, brown like a brook in shady places, and kind. It wasa mild face, but not weak. Below them the valley shimmered in theheat; the grass was hot and brittle underfoot; popples bent and twistedin a scorching wind, and a soft, dark glitter of movement ran throughthe pines on the opposite hillside. 

"The Farm ain't got a mite of shade round it, " Lizzie said; "just setsthere at the crossroads and bakes. "

"You was always great for trees, " Mrs. Butterfield said; "your houseis too dark for my taste. If I was you, I'd cut down that biggestellum. "

"Cut it down! Well, I suppose you'll laugh, but them trees are realkind o' friends. There! I knowed you'd laugh; but I wouldn't cut downa tree any more 'an I'd--I don't know what!"

"They do darken. "

"Some. But only in summer; and then you want 'em to. And the Poor Farmain't got a scrap of shade!--I wonder if he feels it, bein' sent there?"

"I ain't seen, him, but Josh, told me he was terrible broke up over it. Told me he just set and wrung his hands when Hiram Wells told him he'dgot to go. Josh said it was real pitiful. But what can you do? He's'bout blind; and he ain't just right, either. "

"How ain't he just right?"

"Well, you know, Nathaniel was always one of the dreamin' kind; a realgood man, but he wa'n't like folks. "

Lizzie nodded. 

"And if you remember, he was all the time inventin' things. Well, nowhe's got set that he can invent a machine so as you can see the dead. I mean spirits. Well, of course he's crazy. Josh says he's crazy as abluefish. But what's troublin' him now is that he can't finish hismachine. He says that if he goes to the Farm, what with him bein'blindish and not able to do for himself, that his glasses andwheels--and dear knows what all that he's got for ghost-seein'--willget all smashed up. An' I guess he's 'bout right. They're terriblecrowded, Mis' Dean says. Nat allows that if he could stay at Dyer's, or some place, a couple of months, where he could work, quiet, he'dmake so much money that he'd pay his board ten times over. Crazy. Butthen, I can't help bein' sorry for him. Some folks don't mind thetroubles of crazy folks, but I don't know why they ain't as hard tobear as sensible folks' troubles. "

"Harder maybe, " Lizzie said. 

"Josh said he just set and wrung his hands together, and he says toHiram Wells, he says, 'Gimme a month--and I'll finish it. For thesake, ' he says, 'of the blessed dead. ' Gave you goose-flesh, Joshsaid. "

"You can see that he believes in his machine. "

"Oh, he's just as sure as he's alive!"

"But why can't he finish it at the Farm? I guess Mis' Dean would givehim a closet to keep it in. "

"Closet? Mercy! He's got it all spread out on a table in his room atthe hotel. Them loafers go up and look at it, and bust right outlaughin'. Josh says it's all little wheels and lookin'-glasses, andthey got to be balanced just so. Mis' Dean ain't got a spot he couldhave for ten minutes at a time. "

They were silent for a few minutes, and then Lizzie Graham said: "Doeshe feel bad at bein' a pauper? The Mays was always respectable. OldMis' May was real proud. "

Mrs. Butterfield ruminated: "Well, he don't like it, course. But hesaid (you know he's crazy)--'I am nothin', ' he says, 'and my pride isless than nothin'. But for the sake of the poor Dead, grant me time, 'he says. Ain't it pitiful? Almost makes you feel like lettin' himwait. But what's the use?"

Lizzie Graham nodded. "But there's people would pay money for one ofthem machines--if it worked. "

"That's what he said; he said he'd make a pile of money. But he didn'tcare about that, except then he could pay board to Dyer, if Dyer'd lethim stay. "

"An' won't he?"

"No; and I don't see as he has any call to, any more 'an you or me. "

Lizzie Graham plucked at the dry grass at her side. "That's so. 'Tain't one person's chore more 'an another's. But--there! If thiswa'n't Jonesville, I believe I'd let him stay with me till he finishesup his machine. "

"Why, Lizzie Graham!" cried Mrs. Butterfield, "what you talkin' about?You couldn't do it--you. You ain't got to spare, in the first place. And anyway, him an unmarried man, and you a widow woman! Besides, he'll never finish it. "

Lizzie's face reddened angrily. "Guess I could have a visitor as wellas anybody. "

"Oh, I didn't mean you wouldn't be a good provider, " Mrs. Butterfieldsaid, turning red herself. "I meant folks would talk. "

"Folks could find something better to talk about, " Lizzie said;"Jonesville is just nothin' but a nest o' real mean, lyin' gossip!"

"Well, that's so, " Mrs. Butterfield agreed, placidly. 

Lizzie Graham put on her sunbonnet. "Better be gettin' along, " shesaid. 

Mrs. Butterfield rose ponderously. "And they'd say you was aspiritualist, too; they'd say you took him to get his ghost-machinemade. "

"That's just what I would do, " the other answered, sharply. "I ain't amite of a spiritualist, and I don't believe in ghosts; but I believein bein' kind. "

"I believe in keepin' a good name, " Mrs. Butterfield said, dryly. 

They went on down the windy pasture slope in silence; the mulleincandles blossomed shoulder-high, and from underfoot came the warm, aromatic scent of sweet-fern. Once they stopped for some moreblueberries, with a desultory word about the heat; then they pickedtheir way around juniper-bushes, and over great knees of granite, hotand slippery, and through low, sweet thickets of bay. At the foot ofthe hill the shadows were stretching across the road, and the wind wasflagging. 

"My, ain't the shade good?" Lizzie said, when they stopped under hergreat elm; "I couldn't bear to live where there wa'n't trees. "

"There's always shade on one side or another of the Poor Farm, anyway, " Mrs. Butterfield said, "'cept at noon. And then he could setindoors. It won't be anything so bad, Lizzie. Now don't you get toworryin' 'bout him;--I know you, Lizzie Graham!" she ended, her eyestwinkling. 

Lizzie took off her sunbonnet again and fanned herself; she looked ather old neighbor anxiously. 

"Say, now, Mis' Butterfield, honest: do you think folks would talk?"

"If you took Nat in and kep' him? Course they would! You know theywould; you know this here town. And no wonder they'd talk. You're anice-appearin' woman, Lizzie, yet. No; I ain't one to flatter; you_be_. And ain't he a man? and a likely man, too, for all he'scrazy. Course they'd talk! Now, Lizzie, don't you get to figgerin' onthis. It's just like you! How many cats have you got on your handsnow? I bet you're feedin' that lame dog yet. "

Mrs. Graham laughed, but would not say. 

"Nat will get along at the Farm real good, after he gets used to it, "Mrs. Butterfield went on, coaxingly; "Dean ain't hard. And Mis' Dean'smany a time told me what a good table they set. "

"'Tain't the victuals that would trouble Nat May. "

"Well, Lizzie, now you promise me you won't think anything more abouthim visitin' you?" Mrs. Butterfield looked at her anxiously. 

"I guess Jonesville knows me, after I've lived here all my life!"Lizzie said, evasively. 

"Knows you?" Mrs. Butterfield said; "what's that got to do with it?You know Jonesville; that's more to the point. "

"It's a mean place!" Lizzie said, angrily. 

"I'm not sayin' it ain't, " Mrs. Butterfield agreed. "Well, Lizzie, you're good, but you ain't real sensible, " she ended, affectionately. 

Lizzie laughed, and swung her gate shut. She stood leaning on it aminute, looking after Mrs. Butterfield laboriously climbing the hill, until the road between its walls of rusty hazel-bushes and its fringeof joepye-weed and goldenrod turned to the left and the stout, kindlyfigure disappeared. The great elm moved softly overhead, and Lizzieglanced up through its branches, all hung with feathery twigs, at thedeep August sky. 

"Jonesville's never talked about _me_!" she said to herself, proudly. "I mayn't be wealthy, but I got a good name. Course itwouldn't do to take Nat; but my! ain't it a poor planet where youcan't do a kind act?"

II

Nathaniel May sat in his darkness, brooding over his machine. Since ithad been definitely arranged that he was to go to the Poor Farm, hedid not care how soon he went; there was no need, he told Dyer, tokeep him for the few days which had been promised. 

"I had thought, " he said, patiently, "that some one would take me inand help me finish my machine--for the certain profit that I couldpromise them. But nobody seems to believe in me, " he ended. 

"Oh, folks believe in you, all right, Mr. May, " Dyer told him; "butthey don't believe in your machine. See?"

Nathaniel's face darkened. "Blind--blind!" he said. 

"How did it come on you?" Dyer asked, sympathetically. 

"I was not speaking of myself, " Nathaniel told him, hopelessly. 

There was really no doubt that the poor, gentle mind had staggeredunder the weight of hope; but it was hardly more than a deepening ofold vagueness, an intensity of absorbed thought upon unpracticalthings. The line between sanity and insanity is sometimes a very faintone; no one can quite dare to say just when it has been crossed. Butthis mild creature had crossed it somewhere in the beginning of hiscertainty that he was going to give the world the means of seeing theunseen. That this great gift should be flung into oblivion, all forthe want, as he believed, of a little time, broke his poor heart. WhenLizzie Graham came to see him, she found him sitting in his twilight, his elbows on his knees, his head in his long, thin hands. On onehollow cheek there was a glistening wet streak. He put up a forlornlytrembling hand and wiped it away when he heard her voice. 

"Yes; yes, I do recognize it, ma'am, " he said; "I can tell voicesbetter than I used to be able to tell faces. You are Jim Graham'swife? Yes; yes, Lizzie Graham. Have you heard about me, Lizzie? I amnot going to finish my machine. I am to be sent to the Farm. "

"Yes, I heard, " she said. 

They were in the big, bare office of the hotel. The August sunshinelay dim upon the dingy window-panes; the walls, stained by years ofsmoke and grime, were hidden by yellowing advertisements of reapersand horse liniments; in the centre was a dirty iron stove. A poor, gaunt room, but a haven to Nathaniel May, awaiting the end of hope. 

"I heard, " Lizzie Graham said; she leaned forward and stroked hishand. "But maybe you can finish it at the Farm, Nathaniel?"

"No, " he said, sadly; "no; I know what it's like at the Farm. There isno room there for anything but bodies. No time for anything butDeath. "

"How long would it take you to put it together?" she asked; and Dyer, who was lounging across his counter, shook his head at her, warningly. 

"There ain't nothin' to it, Mrs. Graham, " he said, under his breath;"he's--" He tapped his forehead significantly. 

"Oh, man!" Nathaniel cried out, passionately, "you don't know what yousay! Are the souls of the departed 'nothing'? I have it in myhand--right here in my hand, Lizzie Graham--to give the world the giftof sight. And they won't give me a crust of bread and a roof over myhead till I can offer it to them!"

"Couldn't somebody put it together for you?" she asked, the tears inher eyes. "I would try, Nathaniel;--you could explain it to me; Icould come and see you every day, and you could tell me. "

His face brightened into a smile. "No, kind woman. Only I can do it. Ican't see very clearly, but there is a glimmer of light, enough to getit together. But it would take at least two months; at least twomonths. The doctor said the light would last, perhaps, three months. Then I shall be blind. But if I could give eyes to the blind worldbefore I go into the dark, what matter? What matter, I say?" he cried, brokenly. 

Lizzie was silent. Dyer shook his head, and tapped his forehead again;then he lounged out from behind his counter, and settled himself inone of the armchairs outside the office door. 

Nathaniel dropped his head upon his breast, and sunk back into hisdreams. The office was very still, except for two bluebottle fliesbutting against the ceiling and buzzing up and down the window-panes. A hot wind wandered in and flapped a mowing-machine poster on thewall; then dropped, and the room was still again, except that leafshadows moved across the square of sunshine on the bare boards by theopen door. When Lizzie got up to go, he did not hear her kind good-byuntil she repeated it, touching his shoulder with her friendly hand. Then he said, hastily, with a faint frown: "Good-by. Good-by. " Andsank again into his daze of disappointment. 

Lizzie wiped her eyes furtively before she went out upon the hotelporch; there Dyer, balancing comfortably on two legs of his chair, detained her with drawling gossip until Hiram Wells came up, and, lounging against a zinc-sheathed bar between two hitching-posts, addedhis opinion upon Nathaniel May's affairs. 

"Well, Lizzie, seen any ghosts?" he began. 

"I seen somebody that'll be a ghost pretty soon if you send him off tothe Farm, " Lizzie said, sharply. 

"Well, " Hiram said, "I don't see what's to be done--'less some nice, likely woman comes along and marries him. "

Dyer snickered. Lizzie turned very red, and started home down theelm-shaded street. When she reached her little gray house under itsbig tree, she went first into the cow-barn--a crumbling lean-to with asagging roof--to see if a sick dog which had found shelter there wascomfortable. It seemed to Lizzie that his bleared eyes should bewashed; and she did this before she went through her kitchen into ashed-room where she slept. There she sat down in hurried and frowningpreoccupation, resting her elbows on her knees and staring blankly atthe braided mat on the floor. As she sat there her face reddened; andonce she laughed, nervously. "An' me 'most fifty!" she said toherself. . . . 

The next morning she went to see Nathaniel again. 

He was up-stairs in a little hot room under the sloping eaves. He wasbending over, straining his poor eyes close to some small wheels andbands and reflectors arranged on a shaky table. He welcomed hereagerly, and with all the excitement of conviction plunged at onceinto an explanation of his principle. Then suddenly conviction brokeinto despair: "I am not to be allowed to finish it!" He gave a quicksob, like a child. He had forgotten Lizzie's presence. 

"Nathaniel, " she said, and paused; then began again: "Nathaniel--"

"Who is here? Oh yes: Lizzie Graham. Kind woman; kind woman. "

"Nathaniel, you know I ain't got means; I'm real poor, --"

"Are you?" he said, with instant concern. "I am sorry. If I could helpyou--if I had anything of my own--or if they will let me finish mymachine; then I shall have all the money I want, and I will help you;I will give you all you need. I will give to all who ask!" he said, joyfully; then again, abruptly: "But no; but no; I am not allowed tofinish it. "

"Nathaniel, what I was going to say was--I am real poor. I got James'spension, and our house out on the upper road;--do you mind it--a miteof a house, with a big elm right by the gate? And woods on the otherside of the road? Real shady and pleasant. And I got eight hens and acow;--well, she'll come in in September, and I'll have real good milkall winter. Maybe this time I could raise the calf, if it's a heifer. Generally I sell it; but if you--well, it might pay to raise it, if--we--" Lizzie stammered with embarrassment. 

Nathaniel had forgotten her again; his head had fallen forward on hisbreast, and he sighed heavily. 

"You see, I _am_ poor, " Lizzie said; "you wouldn't have comforts. "

Nathaniel was silent. 

Lizzie laughed, nervously. "Well? Seems queer; but--will you?"

Nathaniel, waking from his troubled dream, said, patiently: "What didyou say? I ask your pardon; I was not listening. "

"Why, " Lizzie said, her face very red, "I was just saying--if--if youdidn't mind getting married, Nathaniel, you could come and live with me?"

"Married?" he said, vacantly. "To whom?"

"Me, " she said. 

Nathaniel turned toward her in astonishment. "Married!" he repeated. 

"If you lived with me, you could finish the machine; there's an atticover my house; I guess it's big enough. Only, we'd _have_ to bemarried, I'm afraid. Jonesville is a mean place, Nathaniel. We'd haveto be married. But you could finish the machine. "

He stood up, trembling, the tears suddenly running down his face. _"Finish it?"_ he said, in a whisper. "Oh, you are not deceivingme? You would not deceive me?"

"I don't see why you couldn't finish it, " she told him, kindly. "But, Nathaniel, mind, I am poor. You wouldn't get as good victuals even asyou would at the Farm. And you'd have to marry me, or folks would talkabout me. But you could finish your machine. "

Nathaniel lifted his dim eyes to heaven. 

III

"Well, " said Mrs. Butterfield, "I suppose you know your own business. But my goodness sakes alive!"

"I just thought I'd tell you, " Lizzie said. 

"But, Lizzie Graham! you ain't got the means. "

"I can feed him. "

"There's his clothes; why, my land--"

"I told Hiram Wells that if the town would see to his clothes, I'd dothe rest. They'd have to clothe him if he went to the Farm. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Butterfield, "I never in all my born days--Lizzie, now _don't_. My goodness, --I--I ain't got no words! Why, hisvictuals--"

"He ain't hearty. Sam Dyer told me he wa'n't hearty. "

"Well, then, Sam Dyer had better feed him, 'stid o' puttin' it ontoyou!"

Lizzie was silent. Then she said, with a short sigh, "Course if Icould 'a' just taken him in an' kep' him--but you said folks wouldtalk--"

"Well, I guess so. Course they'd talk--you know this place. You'vealways been well thought of in Jonesville, but that would 'a' been theend of you, far as bein' respectable goes. "

"Well, you can't say this ain't respectable. "

"No; I can't say it ain't respectable; but I can say it's thefoolishest thing I ever heard of. An' wrong too; 'cause anythingfoolish is wrong. "

"Anything cruel is wrong, " Lizzie said, stubbornly. 

"Well, you was crazy to think of havin' him visit you. But it don'tfollow, 'cause he can't be visitin' you, that you got to go_marry_ him. "

"I got to do something, " Lizzie said, desperately; "I'd never have aminute's peace if he had to go to the Farm. "

"He'd be more comfortable there. "

"His stomach might be, " Lizzie admitted. 

"Well, then!" Mrs. Butterfield declared, triumphantly. "Now you justlet him go, Lizzie. You just be sensible. "

"I'm goin' to marry him. I'm goin' to take him round to Rev. Niles dayafter to-morrow; he said he'd marry us. "

Mrs. Butterfield gasped. "Well, if Rev. Niles does that!--There! Youknow he was a 'Piscopal; they'll do anything. What did he say when youtold him?"

"Oh, nothin' much; I asked him about him visitin' me, an' he said itwa'n't just customary. Said it was better to get married. Said we mustavoid the appearance of evil. "

"Well, I ain't sayin' he ain't right; but--" Then, in despair, sheturned to ridicule: "Folks'll say you're marryin' him 'cause youexpect he'll make money on his ghost-machine!"

"Well, you tell 'em I don't believe in ghosts. That'll settle_that_. "

"If folks knew you didn't believe in any hereafter, they'd say you wasa wicked woman!" cried Mrs. Butterfield, angrily;--"an' that foolmachine--"

"I never said I didn't believe in a hereafter. Course his machineain't sense. That's what makes it so pitiful. "

"He'll never finish it. "

"Course he won't. That's why I'm takin' him. "

"Well, my _sakes!_" said Mrs. Butterfield, helplessly. And then, angrily again, "Course if you set out to go your own way, I supposeyou don't expect no help from them as thinks you are all wrong?"

"I do not, " Lizzie said, steadily; and then a spark glinted in herleaf-brown eye: "Folks that have means, and yet would let that poorunfortunate be taken to the Farm--I wouldn't expect no help from 'em. "

"Well, Mis' Graham, you can't say I ain't warned you. "

"No, Mis' Butterfield, I can't, " Lizzie responded; and the two oldfriends parted stiffly. 

The word that Lizzie Graham--"poor as Job's turkey!"--was going tomarry Nathaniel May spread like grass fire through Jonesville. Mrs. Butterfield preserved a cold silence, for her distress was great. Tohear people snicker and say that Lizzie Graham must be "dyin' anxiousto get married"; that she must be "lottin' considerable on a goodghost-market"; that she "took a new way o' gettin' a hired man withoutpayin' no wages, "--these things stung her sore heart into actual angerat the friend she loved. But she did not show it. 

"Mis' Graham probably knows her own business, " she said, stiffly, toany one who spoke to her of the matter. Even to her own husband shewas non-committal. Josh sat out by the kitchen door, tilting backagainst the gray-shingled side of the house, his hands in his pockets, his feet tucked under him on the rung of his chair. He was in hisshirt-sleeves, and he had unbuttoned his baggy old waistcoat, for itwas a hot night. Mrs. Butterfield was on the kitchen door-step. Theycould look across a patch of grass at the great barn, connected withthe little house by a shed. Its doors were still open, and Josh couldsee the hay, put in that afternoon. The rick in the yard stood like askeleton against the fading yellow of the sky; some fowls wereroosting comfortably on the tongue. It was very peaceful; but Mrs. Butterfield's face was puckered with anxiety. "Yet I don't know as Ican do anything about it, " she said, her foot tapping the stone stepnervously; "she ain't got no call to be so foolish. "

"Well, " Josh said, removing his pipe from his lips and spittingthoughtfully, "seems Mis' Graham's bound to get some kind of ahusband!" Then he chuckled, and thrust his pipe back under his long, shaven upper lip. 

"Now look a-here, Josh Butterfield; you don't want to be talkin' thatway, " his wife said, bitterly. "Bad enough to have folks that don'tknow no better pokin' fun at her; but I ain't a-goin' to have you doit. "

"Well, I was only just sayin'--"

"Well, don't you say it; that's all. "

Josh poked a gnarled thumb down into the bowl of his pipe, reflectively. "You ain't got a match about you, have you, Emmy?" hesaid, coaxingly. 

Mrs. Butterfield rose and went into the kitchen to get the match; whenshe handed it to him, she said, sighing, "I'm just 'most sick overit. "

"You do seem consid'able shuck up, " Josh said, kindly. 

"Well, --I know Lizzie's just doin' it out of pure goodness; but she'll'most starve. "

"I don't see myself how she's calculatin' to run things, " Joshruminated; "course Jim's pension wa'n't much, but it was somethin'. And without it--"

"Without it?--land! Is the government goin' to stop pensions? There! Inever did like the President!"

"No; the government ain't goin' to stop it. Lizzie Graham's goin' tostop it. "

"What on airth you talkin' about?"

"Why, Emmy woman, don't ye know the United States government ain't nosuch fool as to go on payin' a woman for havin' a dead husband whenshe catches holt of a livin' one? Don't you know that?"

"Josh Butterfield!--you don't mean--"

"Why, that's true. Didn't you know that? Well, well! Why, a smartwidow woman could get consid'able of a income by sendin' husbands towars, if it wa'n't for that. Well, well; to think you didn't knowthat! Wonder if Lizzie does?"

"She don't!" Mrs. Butterfield said, excitedly; "course she don't. She's calculatin' on havin' that pension same as ever. Why, she_can't_ marry Nat. Goodness! I guess I'll just step down and tellher. Lucky you told me to-night; to-morrow it would 'a' been too late!"

IV

Lizzie Graham was sitting in the dark on her door-step; a cat hadcurled up comfortably in her lap; her elm was faintly murmurous with aconstant soft rustling and whispering of the lace of leaves around itsgreat boughs. Now and then a tree-toad spoke, or from the pasture pondbehind the house came the metallic twang of a bullfrog. But nothingelse broke the deep stillness of the summer night. Lizzie's elbow wason her knee, her chin in her hand; she was listening to the peace, andthinking--not anxiously, but seriously. After all, it was a greatundertaking: Nathaniel wasn't "hearty, " perhaps, --but when you don'taverage four eggs a day (for in November and December the hens do actlike they are possessed!); when sometimes your cow will be dry; whenyour neighbor is mad and won't remember the potato-barrel--the outlookfor one is not simple; for two it is sobering. 

"But I can do it, " Lizzie said to herself, and set her lips hardtogether. 

The gate clicked shut, and Mrs. Butterfield came in, running almost. "Look here, Lizzie Graham, --oh my! wait till I get my breath;--_Lizzie, you can't do it. _ Because--" And then, panting, she explained. "So, you see, you just can't, " she repeated. 

Lizzie said something under her breath, and stared with blankbewilderment at her informant. 

"Maybe Josh don't know?"

"Maybe he does know, " retorted Mrs. Butterfield. "Goodness! makes metremble to think if he hadn't told me to-night! Supposin' he hadn'tlet on about it till this time to-morrow?"

Lizzie put her hands over her face with an exclamation of dismay. 

"Oh, well, there!" Mrs. Butterfield said, comfortably; "I don'tbelieve Nat'll mind after he's been at the Farm a bit. Honest, Idon't, Lizzie. How comes it you didn't know yourself?"

"I'm sure I don't know; it ain't on my certificate, anyhow. Maybe it'son the voucher; but I ain't read that since I first went to sign it. Ijust go every three months and draw my money, and think no more aboutit. Maybe--if they knew at Washington--"

"Sho! they couldn't make a difference for one; and it's just what Joshsays--they ain't goin' to pay you for havin' a dead husband if you gota live one. Well, it wouldn't be sense, Lizzie. "

Lizzie shook her head. "Wait till I look at my paper--"

Mrs. Butterfield followed her into the house, and waited while shelighted a lamp and lifted a blue china vase off the shelf above thestove. "I keep it in here, " Lizzie said, shaking the paper out. Then, unfolding it on the kitchen table, the two women, the lamplightshining upon their excited faces, read the certificate together, aloud, with agitated voices:

"BUREAU OF PENSIONS

"It is hereby certified that in conformity with the laws of theUnited States--" and on through to the end. 

"It don't say a word about not marryin' again, " Lizzie declared. 

"Well, all the same, it's the law. Josh knows. "

Lizzie blew out the lamp, and they went back to the door-step. Mrs. Butterfield's hard feelings were all gone; her heart warmed toNathaniel; warmed even to the mangy dog that limped out from the barnand curled up on Lizzie's skirt. But when she went away, "comfortablein her mind, " as she told her husband, Lizzie Graham still sat in thedark under her elm, trying to get her wits together. 

"I know Josh is right, " she told herself; "he's a careful talker. Ican't do it!" But she winced, and drew in her breath; poor Nathaniel!

She had seen him that afternoon, and had told him, this time with noembarrassment (for he was as simple as a child about it), that she hadarranged with Mr. Niles to marry them. "An' you fetch your bag along, Nathaniel, and we'll put the machine together, evenin's, " she said. 

"Yes, kind woman, " he answered, joyously. "Oh, what a weight you havetaken from my soul!"

His half-blind eyes were luminous with belief. Lizzie had smiled, andshaken her head slightly, looking at the battered rubbish in thebag--the little, tarnished mirrors, one of them cracked; the two smalllenses, scratched and dim; the handful of rusty cogs and wheels. Withwhat passion he had dreamed that he would see that which it hath notentered into the heart of man to conceive! He began to talk, eagerly, of his invention; but reasonably, it seemed to Lizzie. Indeed, exceptfor the idea itself, there was nothing that betrayed the unbalancedmind. His gratitude, too, was sane enough; he had been planning how hecould he useful to her, how he was to do this or that sort of work forher--at least until his eyes gave out, he said, cheerfully. "But bythat time, kind woman, my invention will be perfected, and you shallhave no need to consider ways and means. "

Lizzie, smiling, had left him to his joy, and gone back to sit underher elm in the twilight, and think soberly of the economies which ahusband--such a husband--would necessitate. 

And then Mrs. Butterfield had come panting up to the gate; and now--

"I don't see as I can tell him!" she thought, desperately. To go andsay to Nathaniel, all eager and happy and full of hope as he was, "Youmust go to the Farm, "--would be like striking in the face some childthat is holding out its arms to you. Lizzie twisted her handstogether. "I just can't!" But, of course, she would have to. That wasall there was to it. If she married him, why, there would be two to goto the Farm instead of one. Oh, why wouldn't they give her her pensionif she married again! Her eyes smarted with tears; Nathaniel's painseemed to her unendurable. 

But all the same, the next morning, heavily, she set out to tell him. 

At Dyer's, Jonesville had gathered to see the sight; and as she cameup to the porch, there were nudgings and whisperings, and Hiram Wells, bolder than the rest, said, "Well, Mis' Graham, this is a fine day fora weddin'--"

Lizzie Graham, without turning her head, said, coldly, "There ain'tgoin' to be no weddin'. " Then she went on upstairs to Nathaniel'sroom. 

The idlers on the porch looked at each other and guffawed. "I knowedSam was foolin' us, " somebody said. 

But Sam defended himself. "I tell you I wa'n't foolin'. You ask Rev. Niles; she told me only yesterday he said he'd tie the knot. I ain'tfoolin'. She's changed her mind, that's all. "

"Lookin' for a handsomer man, " Hiram suggested;--"chance for yourself, Sam!"

Lizzie, hot-cheeked, heard the laughter, and went on up-stairs. Nathaniel was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hat on, his poorcoat buttoned to his chin; he was holding his precious bag, gripped intwo nervous hands, on his knee. When he heard her step, he drew a deepbreath. 

"Oh, kind woman!" he said; "I'd begun to fear you were not coming. "

"I am--a little late, " Lizzie said. "I--I was detained. "

"It does not matter, " he said, cheerfully; "I have had much food forthought while awaiting you. I have been thinking that this wonderfulinvention will be really your gift to humanity, not mine. Had I goneto the Farm, it would never have been. Now--!" His voice broke for joy. 

"Oh, well, I don't know 'bout that, " Lizzie said, nervously; "I guessyou could 'a' done it anywheres. "

"No, no; it would have been impossible. And think, Lizzie Graham, whatit will mean to the sorrowful world! See, " he explained, solemnly; "wepoor creatures have not been able to conceive that of which we havehad no experience; the unborn child cannot know the meaning of life. If the babe in the womb questioned, What is birth? what is living?could even its own mother tell it? Nay! So we, questioning: 'God, whatis death? what is immortality?' Not even God can tell us. The unbornsoul, carried in the womb of Time, has waited death to know the thingsof Eternity, just as the unborn babe waits birth to know the things oflife. But now, _now_, is coming to the world the gift of sight!"

There was a pause; Lizzie Graham swallowed once, and set her lips;then she said, "I am afraid, Nathaniel, that I--I can't marryyou--because--"

"Marry me?" he said, with a confused look. 

"We were to get married to-day, you know, Nathaniel?"

"Oh yes, " he said. 

"Yes; but--but I can't, Nathaniel. "

"Never mind, " he said. "Shall we go now, kind woman?" He rose, smiling, and stretched out one groping hand. Involuntarily she tookit; then stood still, and tried to speak. He turned patiently towardsher. "Must we wait longer?" he asked, gently. 

"Oh, Nathaniel, I--I don't know what to say, but--"

A startled look came into his face. "Is anything the matter?"

"_Oh!_" Lizzie said. "It just breaks my heart!"

His face turned suddenly gray; he sat down, trembling; the contents ofhis bag rattled, and something snapped--perhaps another mirror broke. He put one hand up to his head. 

"It's that pension, " Lizzie said, brokenly; "if I get married, I loseit. An' we wouldn't have a cent to live on. You--you see how it is, Nathaniel?"

He began to whisper to himself, not listening to her. There was a longpause, broken by his strange whispering. 

Lizzie Graham looked at him, and turned her eyes away, wincing withpain;--the tears were rolling slowly down his cheeks. She put herhand on his shoulder in a passion of pity; then, suddenly, fiercely, she gathered the poor bowed head against her soft breast. "I don'tcare! My name ain't worth as much as that! Let 'em talk. Nathaniel, are you willin' _not_ to get married?"

But she had to speak twice before he heard her. Then he said, lookingup at her out of his despair: "What? What did you say?"

"Nathaniel, " she explained, kneeling beside him and holding his handagainst her bosom, "if you were to come and live with me, and we werenot married--"

But he was not listening. A door opened down-stairs, and there was anoisy burst of laughter; then it closed, and the hot room was still. 

"Emily Butterfield will stand my friend, " she said, her lipstightening. Then, gently: "We won't get married; Nathaniel. You willjust come and visit me until--until the machine is finished. "

"You will let me come?" he said, with a gasp; "you will let me finishmy invention?" He got up, trembling, clutching his bag, and holdingout one hand to clasp hers. 

Lizzie Graham took it, and stood stock-still for one hard moment. . . . 

Then she led him down-stairs, out upon the porch, past the loafersgaping and nudging each other. 

"Goin' to be married, after all, Mis' Graham?" some one said. 

And Lizzie Graham turned and faced them. "No, " she said, calmly. 

Then they went out into the sunshine together. 

"AND ANGELS CAME--"

BY ANNE O'HAGAN

The full effulgence of cloudless midsummer enveloped the place. Thelawns, bright and soft, sloped for half a mile to the sweetbrierhedge. Among them wound the drive, now and again crossing the stonebridges of the small, curving lake which gave the estate its affectedname--Lakeholm. To the left of the house a coppice of bronze beechesshone with dark lustre; clumps of rhododendrons enlivened the greenwith splashes of color. Lombardy poplars, with their gibbetlikeerectness, bordered the roads and intersected them with mathematicalshadows; here and there rose a feathery elm or a maple ofwide-branched beauty. To the right, a shallow fall of terraces led tothe Italian garden, Mrs. Dinsmore's chief pride, now a glory ofmatched and patterned color and a dazzle of spray from marble basins. Beyond all the careful, exotic beauty of the place, the wide valleydipped away, alternate meadow and grove, until it met the silveryshiver of willows marking the course of the river. Beyond that again, the hills, solemn in unbroken green, rose to cloud-touched heights. 

Before the house Brockton's new automobile waited. He himself leanedagainst a stone pillar of the piazza, facing his hostess, who sat onthe edge of a chair in the tense attitude of protest against delay. She had scarcely recovered from her waking crossness yet, and foundherself more irritated than amused at the eccentricities of her guest. She was wondering with unusual asperity why a man with suchlack-lustre blue eyes dared to wear a tie of such brilliant contrast. He interrupted her musings. 

"Miss Harned seems mighty stand-offish these days. "

"Millicent is a little difficult, " admitted Millicent's cousin. 

"What do you suppose it is? She seemed all smooth enough in New Yorklast winter, and even in the spring after--But now--" He paused againwithout finishing his sentence. "And I had counted on your influenceto make her more approachable. "

"Oh, Millicent is having a struggle with her better nature, that isall, " laughed Mrs. Dinsmore. "It's hard living with her during theprocess, but she's adorable once her noble impulses have beenvanquished and she's comfortably like the rest of the world again. "

"I don't know what you mean, " said the downright Mr. Brockton. 

"No?" Mrs. Dinsmore was sure that the impertinence of her monosyllablewould be lost upon her elderly protege. "I'll make it clear to you, ifI can. Millicent, you know, has nothing--"

"With that figure and that face?" interrupted Brockton, with gallantenthusiasm. 

"I was speaking in your terms, Mr. Brockton, " said the lady, withsuave hauteur. "Of course all of us count my cousin's charm andaccomplishments, though we do not inventory them as possessions farabove rubies. But in the valuation of the 'change she has nothing. Oh, she may manage to extract five or six hundred a year from someinvestments of my uncle, and she has the old Harned place in NewHampshire. That might bring in as much as seven hundred dollars if theabandoned farm-fever were still on--"

"By ginger!" boasted Brockton, whose expletives lacked _ton_, "it's more than I had when I started. "

"So I remember your saying before. But I fear that my cousin is not afinancial genius. What I meant by her struggles with her better natureis that she sometimes tries to thwart us when we want to make thingseasy for her. Her better nature had a fearful tussle with her commonsense about five years ago, when Aunt Jessie asked her to go abroad;and it nearly overcame her frivolity and her vanity last winter when Imet her at the dock and insisted upon having her spend the winter withme, and our second cousin, Alicia Broome, offered to be responsiblefor her wardrobe. But, thanks be, " she added, laughing, "the world, the flesh, and the devil won. So cheer up, Mr. Brockton. It may happenagain. "

"Oh, I'm not hopeless by any manner of means. I want her pretty badly, and I'm used to getting what I want. I told her, out and out, when sheturned me down, back there in May, that if she were a young girl Iwouldn't urge her any more, after what she said about her feelings. But she wasn't, and I thought she could look at a proposition from aplain business point of view. "

"You told her that? You mentioned to her that she was no longer ayoung girl?" Mrs. Dinsmore's laugh rippled delightedly on the air. 

"I did. Oh, I'm used to bargaining, " he rejoined, proudly. "I alwayscould make the other fellow see what he'd lose by refusing my offers. And I got her to take the matter under consideration. I heardsomewhere that she was interested in some philanthropy. Well, moneycomes in handy in charity. " He grinned broadly at Mrs. Dinsmore. 

At that moment her protege was extremely distasteful to the lady. Butshe was a philosopher where marriage was concerned, and shewhole-heartedly hoped that her cousin Millicent would not dally toolong with her opportunity and allow the matrimonial prize to escape. She was sincerely fond of Millicent, and desired for her the bestthings in the world. She sometimes said so with touching earnestness. 

"She told me"--Mr. Brockton stumbled slightly--"that there wasn't anyone else. "

"There isn't. She has her train--she's enormously admired--but thereis no one in whom she is sentimentally interested. And Aunt Jessiesays it was so all the time they were in Europe. "

"Wasn't there ever?" he demanded. 

"My dear Mr. Brockton, Millicent is twenty-nine, as you reminded her, and she's a normal woman! Of course there have been some ones--hermusic-master at fourteen, I dare say, and an actor at sixteen, and ayoung curate at eighteen--oh, of course I'm jesting. But I suppose shewas somewhat like other girls. She was engaged at nineteen--and hemust have been quite twenty-three! No, I should dismiss all jealousyof her past if I were you. "

"Engaged?"

Mrs. Dinsmore wondered suddenly if she had been wise, after all, toadmit that widely known fact. 

"Oh yes, a bread-and-butter engagement. My uncle was notoriouslyinadequate in all practical affairs; he was a scholar and something ofa recluse and the most charming gentleman I ever saw, but a child inworldly matters, --a child! It ended, you see. "

"How did it end?"

"Oh, poor Will Hayter died. "

"Dead long?"

"Five or six years. "

"Well, I'm not afraid of dead men. " Brockton laughed in relief. Mrs. Dinsmore did not point out to him from her more subtle knowledge thatconstancy to the unchanging dead is sometimes easier than constancy tothe variable living. She was only too glad to have the inevitabledisclosure made lightly and the truth dismissed without frighteningoff the desirable suitor. "And certainly Miss Harned don't look as if, as if--"

"Any irremediable grief were gnawing at her damask cheeks?--"

"What's this about damask cheeks?" The question came along with aswirl of skirts from the great hall. "Cousin Anna, don't hate me forkeeping you so long. Mr. Brockton, I owe you a thousand apologies. "

Some of those who admitted Millicent Harned's charm declared that itlay in her voice. Always there sounded through its music the note ofeagerness, with eagerness's underlying hint of pathos. Her tones werelike her face, her motions, herself. Impulse, merriment, yearning, andthe shadow of melancholy dwelt in her eyes and shaped her lips tosensitive curves. She was tall, and her motions were of a spontaneousgrace, swifter and more changeful than most women's. 

"You have been a disgracefully long time, Millicent, " her cousinanswered her apology. "But"--she looked at the beautifully gownedfigure, the lovely, imaginative face, thereby, like a good showman, calling Mr. Brockton's attention to them--"we'll forgive you. "

"Oh, it wasn't primping that kept me. I stopped for a few minutes atthe schoolroom door. Poor Lena! She seemed to be feeling theresponsibilities of erudition terribly this morning. She showed me herbotany slides with such an air! Do you know what genus has the_rostellum_, Anna?"

"No, I don't, " said Anna, shortly. "And Lena's growing up a perfectyoung prig. I'll have to change governesses. Heaven knows what I'lldraw next time! The last one had charm, but no learning, and mightylittle intelligence. This one has no manner at all, and is ofencyclopaedic information. A daughter's a terrible responsibility. "

"Isn't she?" Millicent's tone was one of affectionate raillery as shegathered her draperies about her in the automobile. The notion ofAnna's responsibilities amused her; Anna was so untouched by them--assmooth-skinned, as slim and vivacious, as the forty-year-old mother oftwo boys entering college, a girl in the schoolroom and another in thenursery, as she had been as a _debutante_. 

"Oh, you may make fun, " said Anna, snapping open the frothy thing shecalled a sunshade, "but you don't know how I lie awake nights, shuddering lest Lena grow up a near-sighted girl with no color andserious views. "

Millicent only smiled as the great machine moved off. The sunshine, the rare and ordered beauty of the place, the fragrance of the softwinds, all lapped her in indolence. As they neared the gate that gaveupon the open road, a turn brought them in sight of the front of thehouse. It was very beautiful. She breathed deeply in the content ofthe sight--the delicate lines, the soft color, the perfection ofdetail. In the gardens were stained, mellow columns and balustradeswhich Anna had brought from the dismantled palace in the Italian hillswhere she had found them. Everywhere wealth made its subtlest, mostdelicate appeal to her eyes. 

"My house, " thought Millicent, as they shot out of the grounds, "shallbe different, but as beautiful. The Tudor style, I think, and for myout-of-door glory a vast rose-garden, --acres, if I please!" Then shecalled sternly to her straying imagination. She was picturing what shemight have as the wife of the man before her--the man whose firstproposal she had unhesitatingly refused, whose appearance at Lakeholmshe had regarded as proof of disloyalty on Anna's part--the man who atthe best represented to her only the artistic possibilities of riches. She dismissed her reverie with a frown and joined in the talk. 

"Do you know, " she confessed, "I forget where it is that we are going?"

"We're coming back to the Monroes' for luncheon, " Mrs. Dinsmorereminded her. "But Mr. Brockton is going to skim over most of theBerkshires first. I think you said you hadn't been in this part of thecountry before, Mr. Brockton?"

"No, " said Brockton, "I haven't had much chance to get acquainted withthe playgrounds of the country. I've been too busy earning a holiday. But I've earned it all right. " He turned to emphasize his boast with anod toward Millicent. She blushed. His very chauffeur must redden athis braggart air, she thought. The Tudor castle grew dim in her vision. 

"What do you think of the bubble, Miss Harned?" he went on. "Goes likea bird, don't she?"

"Indeed she does, " answered Millicent, characteristically makingimmediate atonement in voice and look for the mental criticism of themoment before. "It's really going like a bird. I don't suppose weshall ever have a sensation more like flying. "

"Not until our celestial pinions are adjusted, " said Anna. Brocktonlaughed, but Millicent went on:

"Seriously, the loveliest belief I ever lost was the one in the wingswith which my virtues should be at last rewarded. To breast the etheramong the whirling stars, --didn't you ever lie awake and think of thepossibility of that, Anna?"

"Never! I'm no poet in a state of suffocation, as I sometimes suspectyou of being. "

"As for heaven, " declared Brockton, "I don't take much stock in allthat. We're here--we know that--and we'd better make the most of it. For all we know, it's our last chance to have a good time. Better takeall that's coming to you here and now, Miss Harned, and not count muchon those wings of yours. "

Millicent smiled mechanically. Could any Elizabethan garden of delightcompensate for the misery of having each butterfly of fancy crushedbetween Lemuel Brockton's big hands in this fashion?

They were entering a village. Before them was the triangular greenwith the soldier's monument upon it. About it were the post-office, the stores, the small neat houses of the place. A white church, tall-steepled, green-shuttered, rose behind the monument, and with itdominated the square. A wagon or two toiled lazily along the road;before the stores a few dusty buggies were tied. The place seemeddrowsy to stagnation in the summer heat. Why, Millicent wondered, weretowns so crude and unlovely in the midst of a country so beautiful?

There was a sudden explosive sound, and, with a crunch and a jerkwhich almost threw them from their seats, the machine came to astandstill. Brockton and his chauffeur were out in an instant, the onepeering beneath, the other examining more closely. He emerged in amoment, and there was a jargon of explanation, unintelligible to thetwo women. All that Anna and Millicent understood was that theaccident was not serious; that they would be delayed only a fewminutes, and that Brockton was very angry with some one for themishap. The two men worked together. Anna looked at her cousin. 

"I'm dead sleepy, " she half whispered. "The wind in my face and thesun are too soporific for me. Let us not say a word to each other. "

"You read last night, " Millicent accused her. "But I don't feelparticularly conversational myself. "

She leaned back and surveyed the scene again. She could read the wordsgraved on the granite block beneath the bronze soldier:

"To the men of Warren who fought that their country might be whole andtheir fellows free this tribute of love is erected. "

And there followed the honor-roll of Warren's fallen. 

Millicent's sensitive lips quivered a little. Her ready imaginationpictured them coming to this very square, perhaps, --the men of Warren. Boys from the hill farms, men from the village shops, the blacksmithwho had worked in the light of yonder old forge, the carpenter who wasfather to the one now leisurely hammering a yellow L upon thatweather-stained house, --she saw them all. What had led them? What callhad sounded in their ears that they should leave their ploughshares inthe furrows, their tills, their anvils, and their benches? What betterthing had stirred with the primeval instinct for fight, with theunquenchable, restless longing for adventure, to send them forth? Sheread the words again--"that their country might be whole and theirfellows free. "

She moved impatiently. For now an old shadowy theory of hers--aninheritance from the theories of the recluse, her father--stirred froma long-drugged quiet: a theory that there was a disintegratingunpatriotism in the untouched, charmed life of riches she and herfellows sought. She felt the disturbing conviction that those commonmen--she could almost hear their blundering speech, see their uncouthyawns at the sights and sounds of beauty on which she fed hersoul--that those men had wells of life within them purer, sweeter, than she. She averted her eyes from the monument. 

"Honey!" called a voice, full-throated and loving--"honey, where are you?"

There was a play-tent on the little patch of yard before the browncottage to the left. The voice had come from the narrow piazza. Millicent shivered as she looked at it, with its gingerbreaddecorations already succumbing to the strain of the seasons. Theanswer came from the tent:

"Here I am, muvver. Did you want me?"

She came out--a child of five or six years. The round-eyed solemnityof babyhood had not left her yet. She brought her small doll familywith her, and a benevolent collie ambled beside her. Her motherwatched, tenderness beautifying her brown eyes: she was a young woman, no older than Millicent, but her face was more lined than Anna's; astrand of dark hair was blown across her cheek; there were fruitstains on her apron. All the marks of a busy household life were abouther, all the bounteous restfulness of a woman well beloved, and theanxieties of a loving woman. She gave the automobile a passing glance, but it had no interest for her. Her eyes came back to caress the youngthing which toiled up the steps to her, babbling of a morning's eventsin the tent. 

"Yes, sweetheart, that was very nice, " she said, in answer to somebreathless demand for sympathy. "And mother has brought you the breadand jam she promised you this morning. Will you eat it here, or in thetent?"

"Couldn't I come into the kitchen to eat it, where you are?"

"Why, yes, honey, if you want to. "

The door closed upon the vision of intimate love. Millicent saw Lenawalking sedately with the governess of no charm and encyclopaedicinformation. 

"Now we're all right, " called Brockton, loudly. "Upon my word, Mrs. Dinsmore, I think you were asleep! Miss Harned, you can't be asentertaining as I thought if your cousin falls asleep with you. "

"But think how soothing I must be; that's even better than to beentertaining. "

"By ginger! I never found that out--that you were soothing, I mean. "It was evident that Mr. Brockton intended a compliment. Anna Dinsmoresaw the annoyed red whip out upon Millicent's cheeks. She interposed afew ready, irrelevant questions before the tide of Brockton'sflattery. 

They made their swift way through the hills, sometimes overlooking thewinding course of the river, sometimes skirting the great estates ofthe region, again whizzing noisily through an old village. Anna andBrockton sustained the weight of conversation. Millicent smiled invague sympathy with their laughter and Joined at random in the talk. Obstinately her mind had stayed behind her--with the men of Warren, with the round-faced child, and the woman to whose life love and notart gave all its beauty. 

They approached one of the larger old towns of the country--a placewith a bustling main street and elm-shaded thoroughfares branchingfrom it. Here were ample, well-kept lawns and houses of prosperousdignity. It seemed charming to Millicent with its air of unhurriedactivity or undrowsy repose. 

"What is this, Anna?" she asked. 

Anna told her. 

"Riverfield?" Millicent repeated the name, but in a strange voice. Anna stared a little. 

"Yes. Why? Do you know any one here?"

"No. " The word trickled slowly, unwillingly, from Millicent. 

"Lovely town, and there are some good places outside, " said Anna. "TheOstranders have one, and Jimson, the artist. But the native city, orwhatever you call it, is adorable. It has that air of rewarded virtuewhich makes one ashamed of one's life--"

"I wish"--Millicent still spoke remotely, as if out of a sleep--"Iwish, Mr. Brockton, that we might find a little library and museumthey have here. "

"Why, of course!"

"Are you going to compare it with the Vatican, Millicent?" asked Anna, flippantly. Millicent turned a distant, starry gaze upon her cousin. 

"No, " she said; and then, in a flash of sympathy and fright, Annaremembered that it had been for some little Berkshire town that WillHayter had built a library and museum just before his death, six yearsbefore--the town from which his family had originally come. Her memoryworked rapidly, constructing the story. The blood dyed her face at thethought of her obtuseness. Then she set her lips firmly. She had doneher best; if a wanton fate chose to interfere now and make Millicentslave to the phantom of her early, radiant love, she, Anna, could dono more!

"Here we are, I guess, " called Brockton. The machine shot into a broadstreet. A promenade between a double row of elms down its centre gaveit a spacious dignity. The modest courthouse stood on one side, asgreen-bowered as if Justice were a smiling goddess; a few churchesbroke the stretch of houses. And on the other side the library andmuseum stood. 

"Pretty little building, but plain, " commented Brockton, makingdisparaging note of its graceful severity. 

"It's exactly suited to the place; it epitomizes its spirit, " saidAnna, glibly. "It's austere without being forbidding--perfect Colonialadaptation of the Greek. "

Millicent made no architectural observation. Instead she said: "If youdon't mind, I should like to go in for a while. You could pick me uplater, perhaps on your way back to--Where is it we are lunching?"

Consternation looked out of Anna's eyes, bewilderment out ofBrockton's. But Millicent turned to them with such gentle command inher gaze that they could offer no protest. 

"Come back in half an hour, if you are ready, " she said. Upon Anna, whose baffled look followed her up the flagging between theclose-clipt lawns, there came the feeling that she was leaving hercousin alone with the beloved dead. 

"Now what--" began Brockton, in full-toned protest, --"what the--"

"That was the last thing Will Hayter did, "--Anna interrupted hisquestion. "And the first, so to speak. It was a fairly importantcommission. Jessup, the Trya Drop liniment man, came fromRiverfield--he has a mammoth place outside now. When he began to coinmoney faster than the mint, he gave lots of things to hisbirthplace--which has always blushed for him. It's prouder thatWhittier once spent Sunday with one of its citizens than that AlonzoJessup is its son. Well, he gave the library and museum, and thecommission went to Will Hayter. The Hayters came from here two orthree generations ago. It was just before his death, and Millicent hasbeen abroad almost ever since. So she had never seen it. "

Brockton gave a look of speechless chagrin at his hostess, which sheanswered haughtily:

"My dear Mr. Brockton, after all, I never undertook to be amarriage-broker!" Then she glanced at the chauffeur and forbore. 

Meantime Millicent sat in one of the square exhibition-halls. Thesweet air, with the scent of hay from the farther country faintlyimpregnating it, blew through the quiet. No one else shared the roomwith her. The even light soothed her eyes, the stillness calmed thefluttering apprehension in her breast which had presaged she knew notwhat fresh anguish of loss. There were pictures on the walls--one ortwo not despicable originals which Trya Drop Jessup had given, manycopies, and a few specimens of Riverfield's native talent. But she sawnone of them, any more than one sees the windows and the paintings ina great cathedral in the first fulness of reverence. To her this was asacred place. That grief had lost its poignancy, that youth and healthwith cruel insistence had reasserted their sway over her life, did notmean forgetfulness, unfaith. 

"Truly, truly, "--she almost breathed the words aloud, --"there has beenno other one. That was my love, young as we were. But I must fill upthe days--I must fill up the days. "

 * * * * *

Her eyes were fixed unseeingly upon a great canvas at the other end ofthe hall. Some Riverfield hand had portrayed a Riverfieldimagination's conception of the moment in the life of Christ when, thetemptations of Satan withstood, angels came to Him upon the mountain. In the lower distance the kingdoms of the world grew dim beneath theshadow that fell from the vanquished and retreating tempter, and fromthe opening heavens a dazzling cloud of angels streamed toward thesolitary Figure on the height. By and by Millicent's eyes took note ofit. She half smiled. There was daring at least!

Then the picture faded, and again the persistent figure of the childwhich had so filled her imagination came before her. But this time itwas toward herself that the rosy face was turned and limpid eyeslifted in unquestioning dependence. She was the mother; she stood onthe piazza, and by her side he stood, who had been so dear in himself, so infinitely dearer in the thought of all that should be; toward themthe child came; they were enveloped by breathless love for each otherand for that being, innocent, trusting, which their love had calledinto life. So, dimly, she had dreamed in the radiant days of old. Almost she could feel his hand upon her shoulder, hear his voice fullof tenderness that expressed itself only in tone, not in word, takingrefuge from too great feeling in jest. She closed her eyes against thevision that made her faint with anguish. 

Some one entered the room with a brisk little trot; Millicent openedher eyes and turned her head. A small woman, "old maid" from the topof her neat gray head to the toe of her list shoes, came forward. Sheheld a pad and pencil and wore the badge of authority in her manner. At sight of Millicent she paused, blinking behind her glasses. Millicent came slowly out of her trance; recognition dawned upon her. She rose. 

"Miss Hayter--Aunt Harriet!" she cried, advancing. 

"It is you, then!" chirped the elder lady. "My dear, who could haveexpected this?"

"Not I, for one!" She held both Miss Hayter's hands. "I had no ideayou were here. Surely you haven't given up your beloved Bostonschool?"

"Oh no. Only in the summer I come here for a month and substitute forthe regular curator while she is on her vacation. It"--she struggledagainst a constitutional distaste for self-revelation--"it seems likea little visit with Will, somehow. "

Millicent's throat throbbed with a strangled sob. No one had spokenhis name in so long! Her people had had no interest but to banish thememory of him from her heart; this quaint little aunt of his, who hadadored him and lived for him, was the first who had spoken of himin--she did not know how many years. She held tight to the old hands, her eyes clung to the withering face. "Say it again, " she whispered;"say his name. "

"Why, my dear, " cried the older woman, "is it still as hard as this?Come, sit down here with me. Of course I knew that you were not one ofthe changing kind, "--Millicent winced, --"but I'm sorry to think youshould suffer now as keenly as you do. "

"It is not just that, " said Millicent, shamefacedly. "Only, seeing youunexpectedly gave me a pang. And then, being in the place he built--"

The older woman patted her hand soothingly. "I understand, " she said. "I've always understood. When--when you didn't write after the veryfirst, I knew it was because you couldn't, not because you forgot. Youwere really made for each other, you two. I think I never saw two suchradiant, happy creatures in the world. Ah, well!" she wiped a suddendew from her glasses, "waiting's hard, my dear, but it ends, --itends. "

Millicent was hurt by the unbroken faith in her, by the unquestioningbelief she could not share. She looked wistfully upon the shining, tearful eyes. 

"It is very beautiful to think that, " she said, "but, dear AuntHarriet, you are mistaken about me. I am going to tell you everything. I--I loved your nephew. I shall not love any one else. It happened tocome to me in perfectness when I was young--love. But I live, I amwell, I am alive to pleasure and pain. How shall I fill up my life butwith the things that still matter to me?"

"You think of marrying, you mean?" Aunt Harriet's voice was dry andharsh. "Well--I am sure Will would wish your happiness, and I--itwould not be for me to object. Every day it is done, and very oftenrightly, I suppose; for money, for companionship, for the chance ofself-development, women marry without love. I--I could only wish youhappiness. "

"You--do not understand. "

"My dear, "--her voice softened again; something in the pallor and thequivering pain of the girl touched her, --"I do not mean to speakhardly to you. It seems to me like this: when it comes to piecing outa life that has been broken, as yours was--as mine was, my dear, asmine was--there are two ways of doing it. Either you keep your idealof perfect love, and lead your poor every-day life of odds and ends, like mine, filling your days with the best scraps of pleasure orusefulness you may, or you give up your ideal of perfect love andmarry, and have your home and your children and your rounded outwardlife. There is, maybe, no question of higher or lower. Each one of usdoes what her nature bids her. I had always thought of you as onewho--But it is not for me to judge. "

Her voice was gentle, and she did not look at Millicent. Her eyesseemed to pierce the canvas on the opposite wall and the hangings andthe stones behind it, and to see a far image of souls in the struggleof choice. The woman beside her sat silent, her thoughts with theidealists--the men who gave up the comfort of their firesides, thegain of their occupations, and followed whither the vision led; thewoman whose home was built upon love and who would see only infamy inhouses founded otherwise; the poor soul beside her, stronger incourage, more aspiring in thought, than she, with all her delicacies, her refinements of taste. The ideal had led them all--the ideal, as ithad once shone for her and for him whose spirit had informed andbeautified the spot where she sat and made her choice. 

"Aunt Harriet, " she said, and her face was like the sudden flashing ofstars between torn clouds, --"Aunt Harriet--" She could not utter thedecision in words. "May I come to see you--and learn something fromyou?"

Miss Hayter looked. There was no need to question. No knight ever rosefrom his accolade with a face more glorified than Millicent's when shesilently dedicated herself to the shining company of those who keepunsullied the early vision. 

As she passed out of the hall, her eyes fell again upon the paintingof the Temptation. She read the black and gilt legend below it--"AndAngels Came and Ministered Unto Him. " Then she laughed down upon theold-fashioned figure trotting by her side. "And angels came, " shesaid. 

Her rapt look frightened Anna when the automobile returned for her. Then the heart of that frivolous woman was stricken for a moment withwistfulness. 

"You seem very happy, " she faltered, "and--amused, is it? What are yousmiling over?"

"I am still thinking of angels. Would you ever have dreamed, Anna, that they sometimes wore list shoes, and sometimes ate bread and jam, and occasionally spoke with granite lips? They do. "

Brockton stirred uneasily, foreboding failure. And Anna sighed, mourning two lost visions. 

KEEPERS OF A CHARGE

BY GRACE ELLERY CHANNING

The Doctor's brougham stood at the door; the Doctor's liveriedservants waited at the foot of the stairs; the Doctor himself in hisstudy was gathering together his paraphernalia for the day, and theDoctor's face was a study. 

He was tired; he was cross; he was feeling ill. His nervous hands wereunsteady; his movements were by jerks; his face was a knitted tangleof lines. He had rheumatism in both shoulders, and a headache, and apain in his chest. He had slept but little, and one of his patientshad had the happy idea of despatching a messenger for him in the deadhour of the night. The Doctor never went out nights, and she ought tohave known this, but her only son was ill and she was persuaded hecould not survive a dozen hours together without the Doctor's personalattendance. 

It never seemed to occur to any of his patients that his own life wasof the smallest consequence in the balance with theirs or that of anymember of their families. Occasionally, when his rheumatism wasexceptionally severe or his cough racking, this reflection embitteredthe Doctor. At other times--and this was generally--he accepted withphilosophy this integral selfishness of clients as a part of theirinevitable constitution. They were a set of people necessarilyimmersed and absorbed in their own woes, or in that extension of theirwoes which was still more passionately their own, and even moreunmercifully insisted upon in proportion to the decent veneer ofaltruism it possessed. 

Without being strictly a handsome man, the Doctor produced the effectof one. Nothing gives distinction like character, and this he had andto spare. He was not a popular physician, but a famous one; the daywas long past when his professional success depended upon anything sopersonal as appearance or manner. He could afford to be--and hefrequently was--as disagreeable as he felt; desperate sufferers couldnot afford to resent it, and their relatives, in the grim struggle fora precious life, swallowed without a protest the brusqueries andrebuffs of the man who held in, the hollow of his potent hand theirjewel of existence. 

He had his passionate detractors and his personal devotees, and theselast afflicted him far more than the first. Like the priest, thephysician cannot escape taking on superhuman proportions in the eyesof those to whom he has rendered back life, their own or a dearer, andthe Doctor (having long outlived the time when it flattered him) wasoften exasperated to the limits of endurance by the blind faith whichasked miracles of him as simply as cups of tea. The strain thesewomen--they were mostly women, of course--put upon him was beyondbelief, and he got but a mild pleasure out of the reflection that, being in their nature foolish, they could not help it. 

It was quite in keeping, therefore, that one of them should havebroken up his night's sleep. He knew those attacks of the boy's byheart; there was exactly one chance in one hundred that his presenceshould be necessary. He had sent a safe remedy, telephoned a severebut soothing message, and mentally prayed now for patience to meet theirrational, angered eyes of maternity, and to administer a reproofequally gentle and deterrent--gentle, for of course the woman's nerveshad to be allowed for; she had been nursing this boy for months. TheDoctor slipped into his long, fur-trimmed overcoat and reached for histall hat. 

"You may as well send those Symphony tickets to somebody, " he said, impatiently, to his wife; "I sha'n't be able to go. Ten to one I shallbe late to dinner, and I doubt if I get home to lunch at all. "

His wife, who was patiently holding his gloves and cigar-case, lookedat him with a sweet maternal anxiety as he tumbled together the paperson the table, but she only said, "Very well. " As he turned to take thegloves and cigar-case, she added, quickly, with a second anxiousglance:

"Do try to get a few minutes' rest somewhere. Any of our friends willbe so glad to give you a cup of tea--or a little music--and it alwaysrests you so. "

The Doctor took the things from her hands; he looked abstractedly athis wife, then stooped hurriedly and kissed her. 

"Don't worry about me; I shall be all right, " he said, as he hastenedfrom the room. It was characteristic of him that he forgot hisclinical thermometer, and was never known to have a prescription-pador pencil. 

One servant opened the house door for him, and another the carriagedoor; the Doctor stepped in quickly, growling out a direction andignoring the bows of his retainers. He kept his own for the benefit ofhis clients, he was wont cynically to say. He settled himself in theseat, and before the door was fairly closed had lighted a cigar andunfurled a medical journal. 

As the carriage whirled recklessly down the street and around corners, several feminine patients looked longingly after, as if virtue wentout from it, and several masculine ones raised their hats, but theDoctor, his eyes glued to the paper, saw none of them. 

Perhaps his most restful moments were these spent in his brougham. Itwas almost his only time for reading; he had found, moreover, thatthis served to keep his mind fresh from case to case, detaching itfrom one train of thought and bringing it with new concentration tothe next. These brief intervals belonged wholly to himself. His homewas never safe from invasion, and little time and less strengthremained to him for domestic joys. 

Life had not brought to him all that he was conscious might have beenwithin its gift. Professionally, indeed, he had reached great heights, but these only enabled a measure of the territory beyond, and if tohis patients he appeared as a species of demigod, to himself he wasmerely a "lucky" physician--his peculiar luck consisting in that sixthsense which put him so easily into his patients' skins and piercedthrough obscure maladies to possible sources. How he knew a great manythings puzzled them, but puzzled him still more. Simply at certaincrises he was aware that mysteries were momentarily revealed to him. Back of that he possessed, of course, the usual outfit of medicalknowledge, open to any one, but which had never yet made a greatphysician since the world with all its aches and pains began. For_that_ other things were needed: a coloring of the artistictemperament, a dash of the gambler's, a touch of femininity, as wellas the solid stratum of cool common sense at the bottom of all;_these_ eked out the modicum of scientific knowledge which is allmankind has yet wrested from secretive nature. The Doctor sometimesdescribed himself as a "good guesser. " Surgery might be an exactscience; few things in medicine were exact, and what was never exactwas the material upon which medicine must work. The great bulk of hisfraternity went through their studious, conscientious, hard-working, and not infrequently heroic lives under the contented conviction ofhaving to deal with two principal facts--disease and medicine--bothaccessible through study. To them the imponderable factor of thepatient represented such or such an aggregation of material--muscle, nerve, blood, brawn, bone, and tissue--which might be counted upon torespond to such and such a treatment in such and such a manner, withvery slight variation. The Doctor envied them their simplicity offaith. To him, on the contrary, the patient was a factor which couldnot be counted on, at all--a force about which he knew virtuallynothing, acting upon a mechanism about which he knew little more, andcapable of interactions, reactions, and counteractions innumerable, reversing and nullifying all past experience at a moment's notice--an_unforeseen_ moment always. 

He eyed this mystery, accordingly, with respect, lying in wait forhints from it, and frequently reversing in his turn patiently preparedplans of action, with a prompt speed impossible to a less supplemind, --impossible at all, quite often, to any process of consciousthought. To have these intuitions--that was his touch of femininity;to risk largely upon them was the gambler in him; his swiftappropriation of the subject's temperament betrayed the artist in hisown; while the hard common sense which drew the rein on all these wasa legitimate inheritance--both national and personal. So was hismanner--not often extremely courteous and quite often extremely rude. In this latter case his adorers called it "abstracted, " while hisenemies qualified it as "ill-bred. " But his voice, ordinarily abruptand harsh, could pass to exquisite intonations in the sick-room, andthere were moments when to anxious watchers therein, the man seemedmore than a man. 

The affinity between physician and artist is one of the most curiousand suggestive. Every one will recall the famous surgeon-etcher, andthe distinguished specialist in nerves and novels. The Doctor'sartistic passion was for music. Unfortunately, it was not materiallyportable, like a writing-pad, and there would have been somethingunseemly in the spectacle of a physician fiddling in his carriage, sohe nursed this love in seclusion. His violin was his one indulgence, and when he permitted himself to dream, it was of a life with music init. Sometimes he wished his wife were musical; more often hecongratulated himself that she was not. He was sincerely attached toher, owing--and, what was more significant, realizing that heowed--her much besides the promising twins; most of all, perhaps, thatshe consented to be his wife on his own terms. But she was distinctlynot musical. 

The Doctor laid down his paper and took up his mail, and adisagreeable expression came into his face. It was one of the pleasantfeatures of his professional career that his brother physiciansoccasionally vented their jealousy of him upon one of their jointpatients--stabbing him, so to speak, through _their_ lungs orheart, wherein he was most vulnerable. Just as he expected! They haddeliberately neglected his prescriptions, after calling him awinter-journey north to deliver them, and as deliberately allowed thevictim to die according to their treatment rather than permit him tolive according to the Doctor's. 

The look upon his face was ugly to behold; he flung open the door withunnecessary violence before the carriage had stopped, and his foot wason the pavement before the footman could descend. Then he braced hisrheumatic shoulders for the four steep flights of stairs; he could notjustly complain of the number, since he himself had sent the patientthere to be high and dry and quiet. On the way up he had one of hisnameless seizures of intuition, and in the dark upper hall his handfell sharply away from the knocker and his face set whitely. There hadbeen just one chance in a hundred that his presence was necessary;before the door opened he knew this had been the hundredth chance. 

The ghastly woman's face which met him added nothing to thatcertitude, yet he winced before it in every nerve. 

"You have come too late, " she articulated only. 

"_No_!" thundered the Doctor. He put her aside like a piece offurniture and strode into the darkened room beyond. 

It was more than an hour later when he emerged. The woman stoodexactly where he had left her. It was another, tall and young, whoturned from the window and looked at him with eyes that hurt. But hedid not wince this time. 

"It's all right!" he said, cheerfully. His voice quite sang withsweetness. He came and stood a moment by the window, breathing hard. His face was gray, but his eyes smiled, and there was something boyishin his aspect. He looked from one woman to the other sunnily. 

"Bless me--you ought never to let yourselves go like that! He'll pullthrough all right. "

The younger woman continued to look at him silently, but the elder, with a long quivering sigh, fainted. 

"Best thing she could possibly do, " said the Doctor, his fingers onher pulse. "Get her to bed as soon as you can, --and have theseprescriptions sent out. I'll come back later. He'll sleep hours now. "

He ran down-stairs, consulting his visiting-list as he ran, and jumpedinto the brougham, calling an address as he pulled the door to with aslam. This time, however, he did not take out his papers, but sat withan unlighted cigar between his lips, gazing intently at nothing. 

In the course of the next few hours he looked over an assortment ofailing babies, soothed as many distracted mothers, ordered to a gaywatering-place one young girl whom he was obliged to treat for chronicheadache--chronic heartache not being professionally recognizable, --administered the pathetically limited alleviations of his art to afailing cancer-patient (she happened to be a rich woman, going withthe fortitude of the poor down the road to the great Darkness), and so, looking in on various pneumonias and fevers, broken souls and bruisedbodies, by the way, brought up at last at the hospital to see howyesterday's operation was going on. It was going on in so very mixeda manner that he telephoned he should not return to lunch--prophesyinglong after the event. 

It was turning dusk when he started on his second round of visitshomeward, stopping on the outskirts to rebandage, in one of thetenements, a child's broken arm. He had not returned his footman'ssalutation that morning, but had carried in his subconsciousness allday this visit to the footman's child. In one manner or another thatinconvenient locality had been compassed in his circuit for the pastthree weeks. From it he passed to his daily ordeal, another richpatient, a nervous wreck, whose primary ailment--the lack of anythingto do--had passed into the advanced stages of an inability to doanything, with its sad Nemesis of melancholia--the registered protestof the dying soul. It was a case which took more out of the Doctorthan all his day's practice put together; he always came from it in amisery of doubts. 

The dusk was becoming the dark when he set his foot wearily on thecarriage step once more, and with his hand on the carriage door pausedsuddenly. He was sick of sickness, mortally tired of mortality! Forthe first time in the whole day he hesitated; an odd, irresolute lookcame into his face; he pulled out his watch, glanced, and changing hisfirst-given address for another, threw himself back on the cushionswith closed eyes. He did not open them again until the carriage, rolling through many streets, came to a halt under some quiet trees, before an apartment-house. There were yellow daffodils between whitecurtains--very white and high up. As he stepped out, the Doctorglanced involuntarily towards them, and a half-breath of reliefescaped him, instantly quenched in a nervous frown and jump as his armwas seized by a firm gloved hand. 

"Doctor, --this is really _providential_! You are the very personI wished to see!"

It was the younger of two heavily upholstered and matronly ladies whospoke, in a voice of many underscorings. The Doctor, who had removedhis hat with a purely mechanical motion, knew himself a prey, identified his captor, and eyed her with restrained bitterness. 

"Doctor, --it is about my Elsie;--she hasn't a particle of color, andshe complains of feeling languid all the time--"

"No wonder!--What do you expect?"--it was the Doctor's harshest tone. "She is loaded up with flesh, --she doesn't exercise, --you stuff her. Send her out with her hoop, --make her drink water, --stop stuffing her. What she, wants is thinning out. "

"_Elsie_!--Why, Doctor, the child eats _nothing_, --I have totempt her all the time;--and when she goes out she complains of feelingtired. "

"Let her complain, --and let her get tired;--it will do her good. Don'tfeed her in betweentimes, --and when you do feed her, give hermeat--something that will make red blood, --not slops, nor sweets, nordough. There's nothing in the world the matter with her. " He liftedhis hat and strode on up the stairs. 

Maternity, grieved and outraged, stared after him, speechless, thenturned for sympathy in the nearest feminine eye. 

"Really, dear, --I think that was almost _vulgar_, --as well asunkind, " murmured the other mother at her side. 

"_Vulgar_! _Unkind_! Well, it is the last time he will havethe opportunity to insult me! The idea! _Elsie_!--But it's notthe first time I have thought of changing physicians!" (This wastrue, --but she never did; the solid Elsie was her only one. ) "And suchdesperate haste;--he must have a _most critical_ case!" She castan indignant glance at the building, as if to make it an accessory tothe fact, and turning a kindling and interrogative glance upon hercompanion, encountered one of profound and scintillating significance. For a moment they contemplated their discovery breathlessly in eachother's eyes. 

"Did you ever!" exclaimed number one at last. "Oh, of course I hadheard things, --but I will do myself the justice to say I _never_believed a word of it before! _This_, of course, makes it plainenough;--this explains _all_!"

The two--good women, but wounded withal--coruscated subtle knowledgeall down the street. 

Meantime the Doctor climbed the stairs. He was perfectly consciousthat he had been, in fact, both unkind and rude, even though his mooddid not incline him to take measure of the extent of his delinquency. He knew equally that he should presently have to write a note ofapology--and that it would not do an atom of good, _Tant pis_. Herang at the door of the daffodil-room, and it was opened by the tallgirl whose eyes had hurt him that morning. They did not hurt him now, but enveloped him with a keen and soft regard that left no questionunanswered. In another moment she had put out a firm hand and drawnhim over the threshold in its clasp. 

"Don't speak, --don't try to say a word! There!" She had taken from himhis hat and gloves and pushed forward a low chair in front of thefire, all in one capable movement. "What is it? Tea? Coffee? A glassof wine?"

"_Music_!" answered the Doctor, raising two haggard eyes, withthe exhausted air of an animal taking shelter. 

The girl turned away her own and walked towards the piano, stopping onthe way, however, to push forward a little table set forth with asteaming tea-urn and cups, matches and a tray, and to lift to itsfarther edge a bowl of heavy-scented violets. Her every motion wasfull of ministry, as devoid of fuss. 

The room was low, broad, and large, and full of books, flowers, lowseats, and leaping firelight. A grand-piano, piled with music, dominated the whole. The girl seated herself before it and began toplay, with the beautiful, powerful touch of control. After the firstbars, the Doctor's head sank back upon the cushions of the chair andthe Doctor's hand stole mechanically to the matches. He smoked and sheplayed--quiet, large music, tranquilly filling the room: Bach fugues, German Lieder, fragments of weird northern harmonies, fragments ofBeethoven and Schubert, the Largo of Handel, --and all the time sheplayed she looked at the man who lay back in the chair, half turnedfrom her, the cigar drooping from his fingers. There was no sound inthe room but the music and light leaping of little flames in thefireplace, --no motion but theirs and the pulsing fingers on the keys. The girl played on and on, till the fire began to die, and with asudden sigh the Doctor held up his hand. Then she rose at once, andgoing forward, stood as simply at the side of the fireplace oppositehim. She was not beautiful, but, oh, she was beautiful with health andcalm vigor. 

The Doctor let his eyes rest on her. 

"If you knew, " he said, with a little, half-apologetic laugh. 

In her turn she held up one of her long hands. 

"But I do;--you forget I was there all the morning. And you pulled himthrough. As for the rest--" She stooped suddenly and began to piletogether the logs; the Doctor watched her, noting with a trained andsensitive eye the muscular ease and grace of the supple arms andshoulders--like music. "Of course"--she spoke lightly--"they will killyou some day, among them; but--it's worth while, isn't it?--and thereisn't much else that is, is there?" Still kneeling, she turned andlooked straight up at him. "Do you know what it was like thismorning--before you came?"

The Doctor shook his head. 

She hesitated a moment, smiling a little. "'Lord, _if Thou hadstbeen here_, our brother had not died!'" she quoted. 

The Doctor got up quickly from his chair. He knocked the ash from hiscigar and laid it down on the tray. "Well, " he said, lightly, "I mustbe off. " He squared his shoulders and held out his hand; its grip uponher own trembled very slightly, but he smiled sunnily. "I'll come backfor some more music some day. "

"Do, " the girl said. She had risen and was smiling too. 

The Doctor looked about the room wistfully. "Jolly place, --I don't getup very often, do I?"

"Not very. "

They smiled at each other again, then the girl, turning abruptly away, walked to the window and came back with a double handful of yellowflowers. 

"Will you carry these to your wife? They are the first of the year. "

She held the door open for him, and from the little landing watchedhim down the stairs. At their turn he glanced up for a moment, holdinghis hat raised silently. She waved him a mute acknowledgment, thengoing into the room again, closed the door. 

The firelight still leaped languidly on the hearth, and on thehalf-smoked cigar and pile of ashes in the tray. The girl stood amoment looking at these things and the chair, then walked quietly tothe piano and sat down before it. But she did not play again. 

Meantime the Doctor, an erect and urgent presence in the dusk, haddriven through dim streets and climbed again the four flights of themorning, to find the hush of heaven fallen on the house. 

"I knew _you_ could save him!" said the pale mother only, liftingblind eyes of worship from the couch. 

The Doctor laughed, poured her out with his own hands asleeping-draught, and sat patiently beside her till she slept, thenstole away, leaving injunctions with the nurse, established in hisabsence, to telephone if there came a crisis--"even, " after a moment'shesitation, "in the night. "

"Home!"--he gave the order briefly. There were black circles beneathhis eyes, making him look thinner than when he left the house thatmorning; he had no distinct reminiscence of lunch, and he was verytired; but his shoulders no longer ached, his headache was gone, andhis hands were perfectly steady. 

Odd bits of music hummed perversely through his head, mixingthemselves up with all things and rippling the air about him intotheir own large waves, bearing now and then upon them, like theinsistent iteration of an oratorio chorus, fantastic fragments--"IfThou hadst been here!--If Thou hadst been here!" His fingers achedtowards the responsive strings, and pulling out his watch, he made ahasty calculation. There should be good fifteen minutes, hedecided--toilet allowed for--and he hurried the coachman again andleaned forward, looking with bright, eager eyes into the night, andhumming to himself. 

One liveried servant opened the house door, another the carriage door, and a third relieved him of his hat and coat. Out of the warmth andbrightness his wife advanced to meet him, a child in either hand, their long curls brushed and tied with bright ribbons. Her face wasfilled with tender solicitude. 

"You must be worn out;--what a long day you have made! Would you likethe dinner sent in at once, or would you rather wait? Children, don'thang so on papa; he must be dreadfully tired. Oh, and there's a manbeen waiting over an hour; he simply _wouldn't go_; but you'lllet him come back to-morrow?--you won't try to see any one elsetonight?"

The Doctor hesitated a moment, letting all the warmth and brightnesssink into him, while his hands played with the soft hair of his littleson and daughter. He smiled at his wife, a bright, tired smile. 

"Robin, " he said, "run down to the carriage; there are some posiesthere for mamma--from Miss Graham, Louise, --you see I did get amoment's rest. "

"Yes, " said his wife. She continued to gaze compassionately at thetired man. After a moment she repeated gently, "And the dinner, dear--?"

"No, --don't wait for me; I'll not be long. Have it brought in at once, and--send the man into the office, please. "

He stooped and kissed the children, and turning away, went into hisoffice and closed the door behind him. 

A WORKING BASIS

BY ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH

Why she married him her friends wondered at the time. Those she madelater wondered more. Before long she caught herself wondering. Yes, she had seen it beforehand, more or less. But she had seen otherthings as well: he had developed unevenly, unexpectedly, if logically. There had been common tastes--which grew obsolete or secondary. As themomentum of what she believed and hoped of him ran down with themboth, he crystallized into the man he was, and no doubt virtually hadalways been. 

It was bad enough to have to ask for money, but to have it counted outto you, to be questioned about it like a child, was worse. 

"I don't understand, " she said in the first months of their marriage. "Are you afraid I won't be judicious, responsible? Mightn't you trybefore judging?"

"Judicious? Responsible?" He pinched her cheek. (Judith was five feetnine and sweetly sober of mien. ) "There are no feminines ordiminutives of those words, my dear. "

She stepped back. "But with more freedom I could manage better, Sam. "

"Manage?"--jocularly. "That _is_ your long suit, isn't it? Youfeel equal to managing all of us? Could even give me pointers on thebusiness, eh?"

"Why not?" she asked, quietly. 

Sam, feet apart, hands in pockets, looked her over with the smile onehas for a dignified kitten. "I won't trouble you, my dear. I managethis family. " With his pleasantries a lower note struck--and jangled. 

"But that isn't the point. I want--"

"Really? You always do. Don't bother to tell me what. If you got thisyou'd be wanting something else, so what's the use of the expensemerely to change the object?" He chuckled at her baffled silence. 

"I can't answer when you're like that. But--but, Sam! It isn't fair!"Still she supposed that relevant. 

However, money was not the chief thing. He could manage. Let it go. 

Having properly impressed her, nothing made Sam feel larger than tobring her a set of pearl-handled knives, --when she had wanted a dollarfor kitchen tins. His extravagances were not always generosities. Once, after she had turned her winter-before-last suit and patched newseats into the boy's flannel drawers, because "times were hard, " hebought a brace of blooded hunting-dogs. 

Next day she opened an account at a department store. 

With the promptness of the first of the month and the sureness ofdeath, the bill came. Sam had expressed himself unchecked before sheturned in the doorway. "If you will go over it, " she said, with allher rehearsal unable, after all, to imitate his nonchalance, "you willfind nothing unnecessary. I think there is nothing there for thedogs. "

But her cannon-ball affected him no more than a leaf an elephant; hedid not know he was hit. It was always so. 

In his cool way, however, Sam had all the cumulative jealousy of theprimitive male for his long primacy. Some weeks later, when Judithordered an overcoat for Sam junior sent home on approval, she foundthe store had been instructed to give her no credit. 

She got out, with burning face and heart, without the article. Herfirst impulse was to shrink from a blow. 

But at table that night she recounted her experience: "The verycourteous gentleman who informed me of your predicament happened to bea cousin of Mr. Banks, of Head and Banks. (They supply your grain, Ibelieve?) Mrs. Howe (isn't it R. E. Howe who is president of theNewcomb Club?) was at my elbow. The salesgirl has Sam junior'sSunday-school class. Doubtless it will interest them all to know youare in such straits you can't clothe your children. "

Ah? She had touched his vulnerable point? Instantly she was swept bycompunction, by impulses to make amends, to him, to their love. Theirlove! That delicate wild thing she kept in a warm, moist, shelteredplace, and forbore to look at for yellowing leaves. 

Like the battle of Blenheim, it was a famous victory, but what goodcame of it at last? The overcoat came home, to be sure, with cap andshoes besides. But she was too gallant to press her advantage. Besides, she still looked for him to take a hint. 

He did, after his own fashion. "You ought to see Judith here, " helaughed to a caller, "practising her kindergarten methods on me. " Hisimperturbability was at once a boast and a slight. 

"He doesn't mean it, " she apologized, later, protecting herself bydefending him. "You know how men are; the best of them a bit stupidabout some things. They don't mean to hurt you. You know it, but youcan't help crying. "

"Oh, I understand!" (That any one should sympathize with her! It wasnot so much her vanity that suffered as her precious regard for him, her pride in their marriage. ) "Nobody minds little things like thatagainst such devotion and constancy. Why, he talks of you all thetime, Judith; of your style, your housekeeping. You are his pet boast. He says you can do more with less than anybody he ever saw. " And thenJudith laughed. 

They were all articles of the creed she herself repeated--and doubtedmore and more. Faithful enough. He never came or went without thecustomary kiss. When he had typhoid fever, no one might be near himbut her, until her exhaustion could no longer be concealed, when hefretted about her--until he fretted himself back into high temperatureand had a relapse. 

So, run down as she was, she hid it, kept up, went on alone, adding tothe score of her inevitable day of reckoning, after the oldheroic-criminal woman-way. 

She had begun with ideas of their saving together for a purpose; but, not allowed to plan, she must use every opportunity to provide againstfuture stricture; besides, Sam's arbitrary and unregulated spendingmade her poor little economies both futile and unfair. 

"I know nothing about your business. How can I tell if I spend toomuch?"

"Make your mind easy; I'll keep you posted, " he laughed. _He_ wasnot bothering about dangerous ground. 

"Doubtless, "--dryly. "But if I spend too little?"

"Not you. "

He did mean it! He didn't care! The half-truth fanned the slow firegrowing within her into sudden flame. Judith turned, stammering overthe dammed rush of replies. 

"My dear, my dear!" he deprecated, amused. "How easily you lose yourtemper lately, every time there is a discussion of expenses! Whyexcite yourself?" Why, indeed? Anger put her at a disadvantage, andmaking her half wrong, half made him right. "I don't say Iparticularly blame you, but you see for yourself you don't keep yourbalance, and it's mistaken kindness to tempt any woman's naturalfeminine weakness for luxury and display. "

The retorts were so obvious they were hopeless. She stood looking athim. 

His eyebrows lifted; he shrugged his shoulders, went out, and forgot. 

Why any of it, indeed? There was no bridge of speech between alienminds. Their life was a continual game of cross-questions and sillyanswers. Their natures were antipodal; he had the faults that annoyedher most; his virtues were those least compensating. 

Was her dream of influencing the children a superstition too, then?

The children! They slipped the house whenever possible; avoided theirfather with an almost physical effect of dodging an expected blow;when with him, watched his mood to forestall with hasty attention ordivert with strained wit, with timorous hilarity when he provedcomplaisant. The possibilities for harm to them were numberless. Sheand Sam were losing the children, and the children were losingeverything. 

For years they had been a physical and mental outlet for her nature. That love had no question of reciprocity or merit. She had always beenwilling for them. Only it seemed to her all the rest of love shouldcome first. It occurred to her ironically how happy her marriage wouldhave been without her husband. 

What was his love worth? It was only taxation--taxation withoutrepresentation. Had either of them any real love left?

Suddenly she stood on the brink of black emptiness. To live withoutlove; her whole nature, every life-habit, changed! _Oh, no, no, no_! So the cold water sets the suicide struggling for shore. 

Dear, dear! This would not do. Her nerves were getting the best ofher; she was losing her own dignity and sweetness--was on the verge ofa breakdown. 

But to say so would be to invoke doctors, pointless questions, futiledrugs, and a period of acute affection from Sam--affection that tookthe form chiefly of expecting it of her. 

At times Judith thought of death as an escape, but she thought of noother as being any more in her own hands; like so many people, shequoted the Episcopal marriage-service as equal authority with theBible. She was too live to droop and break as some do. She had notmade herself the one armor that would have been effective--her ownshell. Friction that does not callous, forms a sore. Her love, herutmost self, ached like an exposed nerve. She had not dreamed one'swhole being could be so alive to suffering. She must be alone, to geta hand on herself and things again. 

At table one night she wanted them all to know she was going away, forseveral months perhaps, leaving her cousin Anne in charge. It was allarranged. 

The amazing innovation surprised Sam into speechlessness. 

Judith had had few vacations. There had always been the babies, ofcourse. And Sam's consent had always been so hard to get. His firstimpulse about everything was to refuse, contradict, begrudge. Thencertainly he mustn't be too easily convinced. After that he alwaysmoped through her preparations; counted and recounted the cost, and atthe last perhaps gave her a handsome new bag when her old one wasparticularly convenient, and he had supplied only half she had askedfor clothes; would hardly tell her good-by for desolate devotion;tracked her with letters full of loneliness, ailments, discomforts. When she had cut short her plans and hurried back, a bit quiet andunresponsive perhaps, "How truly gracious your unselfishness is, mydear!" he observed. "If it comes so hard to show me a littleconsideration, you would really better keep doing your own way. "

"I never do my own way. "

"No? Whose then? I fail to recognize the brand. "

"That's the trouble. I might as well stop trying. "

Now, she could not delay for, nor endure, the conventional comedy. 

Since he asked her no questions, she hastened to explain: "I want torest absolutely. Not even to write letters. You need not bother to, either. Anne will let me know if I am needed. And if I need anything, you will be sure to hear. "

"Oh, sure. " Sam was recovering. 

But he couldn't think she would really go, in that way at least. Hethought he knew one good reason why not. Yet, vaguely on guard againsther capacity for surprise, he did not risk the satire of asking herplans. To the last Judith hoped he would shame her a little byoffering the money; and against his utter disregard her indignationrose slowly, steadily, deepening, widening, drowning out every otherfeeling for him. 

When, after their final breakfast, he kissed her good-by as for themorning only, she took her jewelry and silver, mementos of hisself-indulgence in generosity, and pawned them, mailing him thetickets from the station where she piloted herself alone. 

She spent a month (in her rest-cure!), writing and destroying lettersto him. There was no alternation of moods now. Nor was she seeking asolution of the problem; there was only one. 

At last a letter seemed to do: "It cannot hurt you to read, as much asme to write. But it must come. I can see now it has always beencoming. Things cannot go on as they are. We are unable to improve themtogether. I will cast no blame. Perhaps some other woman would havecalled out a different side of you, or would have minded things less. It is enough that we do not belong together, because we are we andcannot change. We are not only ruining each other's happiness--that isalready irrevocable, --we are ruining each other, and the children, andtheir futures. It is a question of the least wrong. And I am notcoming back. 

"I want the children, all of them. But if you insist, you take Samjunior and I the girls--and the baby, of course, at least for thepresent. And you shall provide for us proportionately. There is no usepretending independence; I have given my strength and all theaccomplishments I had to you and them. And there is no sense in themock-heroics that I don't want your money. It isn't your money; it'sours, everything we have. I have borne your children, and saved andkept house and served and nursed for you and them. If you want todivide equally now, I will take that as my share forever. But we can'tescape the fact that we have been married and have the children. "

She could get an answer in two days. 

But it did not come in two days, nor two weeks, nor three; while sheburned herself out waiting. 

Moreover, her funds were running low. She had waves of the nausea ofdefeat, fevers of the desperation of the last stand. 

Then it occurred to her. Her armor had always been defensive. She hadnever stooped to neutralize his alkali with acid. But there was oneweapon of offence she occasionally used. She wrote: "I am drawing onyou to-day through your First National for a hundred and fifty. Youwill honor it, I think. And if I do not hear from you in a day or twoI shall have Judge Harwood call on you as my attorney. "

The answer came promptly enough:--"My dear child, I couldn't make outwhat had struck you, so I hoped you would just feel better afterblowing off steam and would get over your fit of nerves. Besides, Ihave nothing to say except to quote yourself: 'We can't escape thefact that we are married and have the children. ' I know you too wellto be afraid of your throwing off all obligations like that. It isimpossible to fancy you airing our privacies. " Bait? or a goad? Ohyes, he counted on her "womanly qualities"--but with no idea ofmasculine emulation! "If you need advice, think what either of ourmothers would say. " Her mother! Judith could hear her, "His doingwrong cannot make it right for you to, " with logic so unanswerable oneforgot to question its relevance. And his! Judith held her partlyaccountable; some women absolutely fostered tyranny. Their mothers, poor things! Occasionally their fathers were different, but sooccasionally that now the times were. "This sudden mood strikes me asvery remarkable. 'After all I have done--twelve years of grind to keepyou from the brunt of the world; and now. . . ! My dear child, do yourealize that there are husbands with violent tempers, husbands whodrink and gamble and worse?

"I honored your draft. Do not try it again. And I advise you to use itto come home. We will have Dr. Hunter give you a tonic, and you willfind you have fewer morbid fancies occupied with your duties. I shalllook for you the end of the week. " Surely Sam was moved quite out ofhimself, that he had no lashes of laughter for her. But the next wasmore in character: "Bridget threatens to leave. She does not work wellunder Anne. The children are not manageable under her, either. LittleJudith is sallow and fretful. I suspect Anne gives her sweets betweenmeals. I saw a moth flying in my closet to-day. . . . "

Judith pushed the letter away, fidgeted, yet smiled. How well theyknew each other. And they used it only to sting and bully! Surely itcould be put to better purpose. Had she tried _everything_? HadSam fully understood? Sometimes she thought her early excuses had hurttoo much for her to admit their truth: much of his unkindness was notintentional, only stupid; slow sympathy, dull sensibility; he did notsuffer, nor comprehend, like a savage or a child. If the possibilityof separation was new to her, would not he never have thought of it atall? But now, might he not see? Was not his unwonted self-defenceitself admission of new enlightenment and approachability?

She sat long in the increasing dusk. Exhausted with struggle, loneliness was on her, crying need of the children, return to theconsideration of many things. Admitting that at times it was right tobreak everything, wrong not to, it was at least the last resort. Love, of course, was over irrevocably; but were there not some things worthsaving? Could not she and Sam find some working basis?

What had made their being together most intolerable to her was theirpersistence in the religion of a vanished god in whose emptyceremonies alone they could now take part together. Of the sacredimage nothing was left but the feet of clay. Freed of thatdesecration, she could cure or endure everything else; herobligations, moreover, would hardly conflict at all. 

Looking back at the pressures of nature, society, events, Sam'spersistence, she wondered at times if, from the beginning, she hadbeen any more responsible for her marriage than for the color of herhair. There were many such explanations for Sam, too. Not that theymade her like him any better, feel him any more akin. But it was truethat between the fatalities of heredity and environment that "slightparticular difference" that makes the self had but short tether foraction and reaction. Oh, she could be generous enough to him if he didnot have to be part of herself!

She got up, lit the gas, shutting out the stars, and wrote: "I amcoming back to make one more and one last effort. _Won't you_?"If he would only try!

Sam met her with the magnanimity of forgiveness, the consciousness ofkind forgetting. Her redeemed valuables were all in place. Everythingshould be the same, in spite of--And she put the back of her handagainst his lips!

When he dressed for dinner the salvage of the three balls, the spoilsof war, were piled in his bureau drawer. 

Still he hoped better for the roses by her plate. She had the maidcarry them out, explaining in her absence, "No gifts, please, Sam. Substitutes will not do any longer. "

Sam played with his fork, smiling, with lips only. How shockingly sheshowed suffering. Separation had made her appearance unfamiliar; hethought the change all recent. He took pains to compliment theimmediate improvement in the pastry, to give her the servants' moneyunreminded as soon as they were alone. 

How characteristic! Judith thought, wearily, letting the bills liewhere he laid them. 

"That's one of the things for us to settle, Sam, " she said, in her newfreedom and self-respect discarding the familiar little diplomacies bywhich she was used to soothe, prepare, manage, the lord of the hearth. "I am not going to ask for money in the future, nor depend on what youhappen to give. " The manner was a simple statement of fact. "You mustmake me an allowance through your bookkeeper. "

Sam was lounging through his cigar. "So that's it? Still?" He smiledconfidentially at the smoke, puffing it from his lower lip. "Asaccurately as I can recollect, my dear, I have told you seven thousandand three times that I am not on a salary, and don't know from monthto month what I will make. "

How unchanged everything was! Her determination stiffened. "But youknow what you have made. Base it on the year before. Or have a writtenstatement mailed me every month, and file my signature at the bank. "

Not quite unchanged; for Sam took the cigar from his mouth and turnedslowly to look at her. If he had taken her return for capitulation andhad met it according to his code, things were not fitting in. "Really, my dear! Really! What next? Evidently I have never done you justice;you have positive genius in the game--of monopoly; first thing, _I'll_ be begging from _you_. "

Well, why not, as fairly? and why should he think better of her thanof himself? But it was too old to go over again. For a breath shewaited to see her further way. She had not planned this as the issue, but the moment was obviously crucial, and offered what, ininternational politics already awry, would constitute a good technicalopportunity. If her mirage of regeneration, her hope of anunderstanding, perhaps even her love, had flung up any last afterglowin this home-coming, it was over now. Indeed, now it seemed an oldgrief, the present but confirmation concerning a lover ten years lostat sea. She saw the whole man now clearly, the balance of heraccusations and excuses; he had neither the modern spirit of equality, nor the medieval quixotism of honor and chivalry; appeal merelystirred the elemental tyranny of strength and masculinity, held as a"divine right"; weakness tempted an instinctive cruelty, halfunconscious, half defiant. 

It was Sam who spoke first, abruptly, not laughing. Sam who was neverangry, was angry now. "I never have understood you in some ways. How awoman like you can forever bring money between us! How you got taintedwith this modern female anarchy! You seem to forget that _I_ madethe money, it is _mine_. There is bound to be discussion; I neverknew any one so determined to have everything his own way. All thesame, " the defence rested its case, "it takes two to quarrel, and Iwon't. "

No, his defence was only admission of conscious weakness. He wasafraid--of the solution she had discarded. She did not go back to itnow. But now she saw the way, the only way, to accomplishreconstruction. 

Judith looked at him steadily. Her voice was deadly quiet. "I am sureI have made myself quite plain. We will never discuss this again. Youcan let me know in the morning which arrangement you choose. "

They faced each other with level eyes. 

And Sam's shifted. 

He never had real nerve, she realized; they didn't--that kind. How hadshe managed to love him so long?

Late that night he knocked at her door with a formal proposition:Would that do?--dumbly. She changed a point or two: _That_ woulddo, and signified good night. Sam, looking at her face, turned awayfrom it, hesitated, turned back, broke. Fear increased his admiration, and, to do him justice, the fear was not wholly for conventions andcomforts; the man had certain broad moralities and loyalties. A reflexmuscular action had set in to regain what he had lost. "Judith!Judith!" he begged. 

Her raised hand stopped him. "You are too late, Sam. "

"My dear, you mustn't get the idea that I don't love you still. "

"Love has nothing to do with it any more. Besides, it is never any useto talk of love without justice. "

He went out, dazed and aggrieved. He had always thought they got alongas well as most people. _He_ had not been cherishing grudges. 

Womanlike, having met the emergency gallantly, after it was all overJudith collapsed. The day of reckoning for which she had so long beenrunning up an account was on her. But the growing assurance ralliedher, that her going away and her coming back were equally means to hersuccess in failure. 

The reality of their marriage could not have been saved. But they hadthe children; and to the children was restored much of what theirfather had largely spoiled in the first place, and she nearlyforfeited in the second. For the fact was that Sam did better; thedespot is always a moral coward, and always something of the slave toa master. Moreover, her growing invulnerability to hurt through himset, in large measure, the attitude of the household; everybody wasmore comfortable. She discounted his opinions and complaints; but, inconsidering the welfare of the greatest number, she sacrificed aslittle as possible his individual comforts. His interests she studied. And for the rest, she let him go his way and went hers. 

Life is a perfect equation: if something is added or subtracted, something is subtracted or added, so long as there _is_ life. Judith got her poise again in time, as strong natures do after anydeath; with some fibres weakened past mending, gray, but calm. If hisside of her nature was stunted, she seemed to blossom all the morerichly in other ways. She loved her children in proportion as she hadsuffered and worked for them. After her domestic years, like so manywomen, she took fresh start, physically and mentally. Her executiveability found public outlet. She could admit friends again. Freedomfrom the corrosion of antagonism was happiness. Without the struggleto keep that love which must ask so much of its object, she could giveSam more of that altruism which asks nothing. 

THE GLASS DOOR

BY MARY TRACY EARLE

Charlotte and Emory Blake lived at the old Blake place, on the littleplateau at the foot of the Colton hill, in a vine-covered stonecottage. The place had belonged to old George Blake. When it came intoEmory's hands he sold it to Uncle Billy Kerr, and used the money for acourse in a school of pharmacy. Later, Charlotte, who was thenCharlotte Hastings, bought it, and, after her marriage, finishedpaying for it out of its own products, while her husband talkedpolitics or played chess in his drug-store. It was said that whenBlake was doing either of these things he was as likely as not to keepa customer standing a half-hour before waiting on him, --and this notso much out of interest in his discussion or his game as from completelack of interest in the business of selling drugs. 

North Pass correctly interpreted this general nonchalance of Blake'sas a sign that he was an unwilling partner in the matrimonial venturehe had undertaken. Indeed, it was known that the engagement had hungfire for years through no fault of Charlotte's, and everybody hadnoticed that such mildly loverlike enthusiasm for her society as Blakehad shown before he went to the school of pharmacy had disappearedfrom his manner when he returned. Charlotte had told people that theyshould marry as soon as he came home, yet the wedding did not come offfor two years. During this time it was noticed that although she heldher head high and was fertile in good reasons for the delay, hergirlish look left her, her features sharpened, and her speechdeveloped an acid reaction; it was at this time, too, that shebargained with Uncle Billy Kerr for the old Blake place, and alsoborrowed money from the old man to put up a new house. When people sawthe house going up it was generally supposed that she was preparingeither to rent it or to live in it as an old maid; but when it wascompleted, to the surprise of every one, Charlotte and Blake weremarried and moved in. 

The morning after the wedding Blake was in his drug-store playingchess as languidly as ever, but Charlotte spent her whole day plantinga vegetable-garden, in a mood of unreckoning exaltation such as rarelycomes to a woman of her nature, and never comes to her but once. Shehad felt no such blissful security when Blake and she were firstengaged. Blake was weak. She had felt it intensely even when herinfatuation for him was too fresh to permit her to reason, and a weakman while unmarried is peculiarly liable to changes of affection. But, on the other hand, a weak man once safely married is completely in thepower of his wife; during the last two years of their engagementcertain illusions regarding herself and Blake had fallen from hereyes; she had stated both those facts plainly to herself, and they hadhelped her to decide upon a course of action. There had been momentswhen she had despised herself for using her stronger will to coerceBlake into the fulfilment of his engagement, but on the morning afterthe wedding these moments were forgotten, and, as she hoed and rakedand planted in the brisk air and the bright spring sunshine, her wholeexistence seemed uplifted by the knowledge that she and Blake at lastbelonged unquestionably to each other; that every output of herstrength was for their common comfort, and would continue to be aslong as they both should live. 

As the first year of married life goes, Charlotte's first year wasfairly successful. She knew Blake's faults already, and had made upher mind to them, and if there was a frank indifference in his quietlanguor, she had made up her mind to that, too. He was never unkind, and there were times when some fresh evidence of her devotion to himwould touch him into an appreciation that was almost responsive. Andthere were other times when she would find him looking at her with anexpression which any other observer might have classed as pity, butwhich she counted as tenderness. On the whole, it seemed to her thattime was bringing them together, as she had counted that it would, andwith this hope her face lost its sharp outlines. 

Her first heavy chagrin was at the time of her baby's birth. WhenBlake came into the room to inquire for her, and she turned down thebed-cover to show him the little bundle at her side, a look of painand aversion flashed across his face, and he moved away, begging hernot to show the baby to him until it was older. On another day shetried to make him select a name for it, and he refused. 

"Call it anything you please, " he said at first, but she would not lethim go at that. 

"I've been thinking, " she suggested, with a hesitation that wasforeign to her, --"I've been thinking of calling her for yourmother--Dorcas. "

They were alone in the room, and he was sitting by her bed, butlooking away from her into the corner of the room, while she lookedanxiously at him. At her words he started, flashing a keen glance ather. "Why should we name her that?" he asked. 

There was something so sharply disturbed in his manner, and hisdistaste for the idea was so evident, that Charlotte flushed inextreme embarrassment. 

"I thought you might like to, " she explained. 

"Well, I wouldn't, --I--I don't think the name's pretty in itself, " hedeclared; adding, with a great effort to speak naturally, "I'd rathername her for you. "

Charlotte's lips came together so closely that all the unpleasantlines showed around them. "I certainly shall not name her for myself, "she said. "You must think of some other name. "

Blake got to his feet. "That's the only one I can think of, " he said. "If you don't like it, you can take some other. It's your affair, notmine. "

Charlotte's eyes flashed and then filled with tears, for she was veryweak. "If I were asking you to father some other man's child, youcouldn't act more as if you despised me, " she sobbed. 

He turned as he was leaving the room and gave her a long look full ofexasperation, repugnance, and despair. "You are quite mistaken, " hesaid. "I don't despise you. I despise myself. "

For half an hour Charlotte sobbed, her hands clenched at her sides, her tears flowing unchecked; then, quite suddenly, she was calm, and, drying her disfigured face, she began to take account of stock. Allthat she had before, she reasoned, she still had. The gains of a yearmight seem to be lost in the outbreak of a moment, yet they stillexisted as a solid foundation to build upon. There would be constraintat first, but the effort of daily patience would overcome it in time;moreover, there was the baby. Blake might refuse to look at her now, but as she grew and acquired the irresistible graces of a healthybabyhood he would be obliged to see and to yield to her. A man of hisnature could not live in the house with a child and not love it. Shetouched the small form at her side, as if to assure herself that thisally which she had so suffered for had not deserted her. Yes, she hadmore hope now than ever before, she told herself, and her eyes shonewith a passionate tenderness, though her lips were set in a hard line. Suddenly the line broke into a smile. 

"I'll name her Hope, " she said. 

When Hope was two months old she began her mission, and when she hadreached six months Blake was vying with Charlotte in his devotion toher. He even plucked up a little interest in his business; sometimeshe talked over his place with his wife, and the words which had passedbetween them over the naming of the child, though unforgotten, seemedso far in the past that Charlotte's courage strengthened with eachday. The sense of security which had marked the first months of hermarried life did not return, but she could feel herself making astrong fight against fate to hold what she had, and, if she were neverentirely certain of the issue, at least she fought with the obstinacywhich has no knowledge of yielding. Sometimes even her love for Blakeseemed to lose itself in this obstinacy, and her tenderness towardsher child seemed the only womanly sentiment left in her; but moreoften her love for her husband mounted high and unmixed above theother feelings as the tremendous, inexplicable passion of her life. 

Hope's attainment of six months was marked by an unusual display ofenergy on the part of Blake. The first cold weather of autumn hadcome, and when the house doors were closed, Charlotte was surprised tohear her husband declare that the sitting-room, where the baby wouldspend most of her time in winter, was poorly lighted, and needed tohave a glass door substituted for the wooden one which opened on tothe front porch. Still more to her surprise, the door was deliveredfrom an adjoining town the next day, and on the following morningBlake rose earlier than usual and hung it before going down to hisstore. It was the first time he had lifted his hand towards theimprovement of Charlotte's house. 

He whistled boyishly while he measured and fitted in the hinges, andwhen it came to holding the door while the hinges were screwed inplace, he called to Charlotte. She came, with lips as usual closedvery tight, but with cheeks flushed very pink, and when the work wasfinished she was so atremble that she had to sit down for a momentbefore she could put breakfast on the table. 

To give a reason for the delay, she kept looking at the door. "Theroom, is perfect now, " she said. 

Blake swung the new acquisition back and forth, and latched it once ortwice to make sure that it was perfectly adjusted. When he wassatisfied he glanced at his wife. 

"It will give our baby the sunlight, " he said, and their eyes met fora moment. 

All that day, whenever Charlotte could bring her work into thesitting-room, she sat facing the glass door. She was not exactlyhappy; she was too strangely excited for happiness; but she was keenlyawakened and alert. Every nerve in her seemed keyed up to its ultimatetension, and if the shadow of a cloud passed, even if a red leaf felloutside, she looked out expectantly through the door. 

It was middle afternoon when, on looking up, she saw a young womancrossing the porch, leading a little child. Charlotte jumped to herfeet, then reseated herself and waited for the tap on the glass. Thevisitors were strangers to her, and though she could not have toldwhy, as she sat staring at them through the door, her mouth suddenlyset into the lines of indomitable obstinacy which had grown so deeparound it in the past three years. When she finally crossed the roomto open the door, she walked slowly and deliberately, as if she hadsome definite purpose in mind and meant to accomplish it. 

The woman on the outside was the first to speak. "Does Mr. Emory Blakelive here?" she asked. 

"He does. I am his wife. What can I do for you?" asked Charlotte. 

The woman gave a little cry and drew back. "Oh no!" she said, breathlessly. 

Charlotte stood, white and stiff and silent, while the other lookedabout her in a despairing helplessness. She was a frail-looking woman, worn with fatigue and the excited emotions with which timidity spursitself to action. She looked as if she longed to sit down somewhere, and as if perhaps she could have more courage seated, but Charlottemade no motion to invite her to enter. After a while the newcomerbrought her frightened eyes back to the set face in the doorway. 

"I am so sorry for you, " she said, timidly. "I am his wife. "

A shiver of resentment ran convulsively through Charlotte's muscles. "You can be sorry for yourself, " she said, roughly. 

"But he married me while he was at the school of pharmacy, " the othercried, weakly. "I was Nettie Trent. I clerked, and I boarded where hedid, and we fell in love and married. He told me about you. You areCharlotte Hastings, aren't you, that wanted to marry him before heleft home?"

Charlotte moved her dry lips soundlessly once or twice before shecould speak. Then her masterful spirit rose to a new task. She drewherself up and looked down gravely, almost compassionately, upon thewoman who had been Nettie Trent. 

"I was Charlotte Hastings before my marriage, " she said. "I am sorryto be the one to hurt you, but you have been cruelly treated. I wasmarried to Emory Blake before he left home for the school. "

The smaller woman gave a little gasp and stood silent, whileCharlotte, with the fire in her veins scorching her cheeks and eyesand almost smothering her breath, waited for her to offer someresistance, to assert her own claim, or to ask for proof of thestatement which denied it; but Nettie said nothing, and after a momenther gaze dropped from Charlotte's and she began to sob. Charlotte tookher by the hand and led her into the room. 

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Nettie sat with her face buriedin her hands. On one side her child tugged at her dress; on the other, little Hope slept in her cradle. Charlotte stood pale and tall, watching all three. 

At last Nettie looked up. "I suppose you think I ought to hatehim--now I've found out, " she said, "but I don't; I just can't. Whenwe were together he was so sweet to me. I don't think he meant to harmme. He must have thought it would come out all right somehow. "

"If I were in your place, " Charlotte said, slowly, "I should hate him. "

Nettie wiped her eyes and drew her child up into her arms. "But whathe did was almost as bad for you as it was for me, " she urged, "andyou don't hate him. "

Charlotte turned suddenly and walked to her own baby's cradle. "Oh, Idon't know, " she said, in a low voice. 

After a moment she came back and sat down. "I must ask you somequestions, " she said, gravely. "Is this your only child?"

The young woman nodded. Her lips were quivering. "Named Dorcas, " shesaid, brokenly, --"for his mother. "

Charlotte flushed and the lines about her lips deepened. "Doeshe--provide for you?" she asked. 

The other nodded once more. "He sends me money once in a while. Iwrote him not to worry when he didn't have it. I'm clerking again. "

Charlotte made no comment. She was thinking how strange it was thatthis other woman, who was a frail, poor-spirited thing, should beready to support herself and child out of love for Blake. InCharlotte's mind, which was pitilessly clear and active, there wasroom for a passing wonder at the mysterious power which so weak a mancould exert over women, even without his will. She was wondering, too, if her own passion for him would ever rise again. At present she wasfar from loving him; she felt only a bitter resentment, a desire topunish him by holding to him, and a towering obstinacy and pride whichrefused to be set at fault and put to shame. While she was boldlyexamining and analyzing herself she glanced at the clock to see howlong before he could possibly return; the time was ample, and shecontinued to sit silent. Presently her baby woke, and she rose andwent to it. 

As she lifted it from its cradle, Nettie started up and came towardsher. Hope hid her face against her mother's neck, but after an instantturned shyly to steal a glance at the stranger. 

Nettie sat down again, trembling. "Your baby is like him, " she said. 

"Very like him, " Charlotte answered, and as the baby nestled up to heragain, she dropped her cheek against it and tears came into hereyes--scalding tears that seemed to sear their way up from the depthsof her heart. 

Suddenly the other wife leaned forward, eagerly suspicious. "You haveno other children--_older_?" she asked. 

Charlotte looked round blankly, her eyes still wet. "_Other_children?" she echoed, but Nettie's sharpened face brought her toherself. She wiped her eyes on Hope's dress. "I lost--a child, " shesaid. 

"Oh, " Nettie murmured, "I'm sorry I asked you. It was older thanDorcas?"

Charlotte stood at bay, with her child strained close to her. Shenodded. 

"Oh!" Nettie murmured again, in a shaken voice. She looked atCharlotte in despairing envy. "What is this baby named?" she asked. 

"This one, " Charlotte answered, "we call Hope. "

She seated herself and began trotting the child to a slow measure. There were still a few questions which she wished to ask, but theother's simple acceptance of all she said inspired her with cooldeliberation. There was plenty of time, and she wished to make nomistake. She must be sure of her own safety, and after that she mustdo anything she could for the comfort of the other woman. It wouldprobably be very little. 

"How did you get here?" she inquired, finally. "You must have askedsomebody where Mr. Blake lived. "

"No, I didn't have to ask. He'd written me he was boarding with awoman that lived on his old place, " Nettie said, "and I knew wherethat was because he'd often told me all about where he grew up andjust the road he used to take from the station to the house, and Iremembered every word of it. I didn't like to go to him at his storefor fear there would be loafers around, so I came right to his house. I thought I wouldn't mind telling the woman that I was his wife, ifshe asked me any questions while I waited for him. "

"You were very wise, " Charlotte said, dryly. 

Nettie settled back in her chair, rocking her little girl, who hadgrown restless and impatient, and as she rocked she began to pour outher heart. "You must think queer of me to sit down here with you likethis and not to be in a rush to go, " she began, "but I feel like I'vegot to sit still and--and kind of get my breath before I can startout. I've been so afraid of it that it doesn't seem like I ought to besurprised, but I tell you it pretty near kills me now I know it forsure. " She paused and stroked a stray lock of hair away from herchild's eyes. "My baby's like him, too, " she said, irrelevantly. "Mybaby's just as like him as yours is. "

Charlotte glanced again at the clock. "How do your friends treat you?"she asked, abruptly. "Do they believe you were really married or not?"

A bright flush sprang over Nettie's face. "They believed it at first, of course, just the way I did, " she answered, quickly, "but latelythey've been suspecting something. It was what they said made me getuneasy. I don't distrust folks right quick myself. "

"And none of them tried to make inquiries for you?"--Charlotte put thequestion seriously, all her nerves tight strung. 

"Oh no, " Nettie said. "I don't have any family or any friends closeenough to me to take trouble like that. "

"And I presume you're glad now that they didn't, " Charlotte said. "Inyour place I'd rather find it out for myself. "

"Oh, I'd much rather, " Nettie answered. "I couldn't have stood havingother people find it out, and I'm not going to give anybody that knowsme a chance to find out now. You see, I've been afraid of this so longthat I've had time to make my plans and to save up money a little. Before I came here I gave up my place and told folks I was going tojoin Mr. Blake; so I'll not go back. I'll go to New York and get workthere. "

Charlotte looked at her keenly. "I suppose you're depending on Mr. Blake to help you?" she said. 

Again the color sprang into Nettie's face. "Oh no, ma'am, " sheanswered. "I couldn't let him help me now. I did wrong to live withhim, but I didn't know he was married, so I don't feel like one ofthat kind of women; but if I was to take money from him now, I--Ishouldn't feel that I was raising my child honest. "

Charlotte lifted her baby so that it hid her face. "For him to helpyou would only be right, " she said, from its shelter. "He owesyou--money, at least. "

The other shook her head. "I couldn't bear it, " she said, chokingly. "Oh, you can't understand--nobody could understand unless she'd beenthrough what I have, being left before my baby came, and having peopleask me close questions, and then, little by little, losing my ownfaith. You can't see why, but if I was to take money from him now, itwould make me feel my shame, and I don't want to, --I want to feelhonest. "

Charlotte lowered Hope to her knee. "Perhaps I can understand that--ina way, " she said, with twitching lips. 

Nettie looked into her face with a helpless, childish perception ofthe suffering shown in its drawn lines. "You're so good to me--Ibelieve you feel 'most as bad as I do, " she declared; "and if I wereyou, I wouldn't say a word to anybody about my having been here. Nobody knows it. I didn't have to ask my way. There aren't many womenwould treat me the way you do, and I won't stay here any longer makingyou feel bad. " She rose, still holding her heavy child in her arms. "There isn't anything more we've got to say to each other, is there?"she asked. 

"Wait a moment, " Charlotte said. She, too, rose, and as she stoodlooking at the other woman, so much smaller, so much weaker, soblindly trustful, and so patient, her heart, which had sunk in shame, rose suddenly in pity; at that moment if she had opened her lips thetruth would have escaped from them, but her stubborn will held herlips closed. 

Nettie eyed her with troubled uncertainty, but after a moment movedtowards the door. 

"Well, I must go, " she declared. 

"Wait a moment, " Charlotte said again. Her voice was so dry andstrange that after she had spoken she paused to moisten her lips. Herlimbs trembled, and in the glass door which she had opened against thewall she could see the ashen whiteness of her face. 

Nettie turned, and the two women confronted each other, each holdingher child. 

Charlotte put a hand up to her throat. "I have money I could giveyou, " she offered. "Not his, my own. "

The other shook her head. "Oh, I couldn't, " she exclaimed. "Anyway, Idon't need it. I've saved up a good deal. And you've done better thangive me money; you've been kind to me. " She put out her hand with alittle appealing gesture and took Charlotte's, which lay cold in it. 

"You'd better go, " Charlotte broke out. "You'll meet him coming homeif you wait any longer. Here; I'll tell you how to go a roundabout way. "

She walked out on to the piazza and led the way down the steps andround to the back of the house, where she stood giving short, sharpdirections, when across her hurried words came Blake's voice callingfrom the front:

"Charlotte! Charlotte! Where are you and Hope?"

For the first time since they had lived together Blake had come homebefore his hour. 

The two women looked at each other. Charlotte pointed to the pathwhich hid itself quickly in the shelter of an orchard. "Run, " shewhispered. "I'll keep him in the house. "

But Nettie stood as if paralyzed, her eyes widening and filling withtears. "Oh, you've been so good--mayn't I see him--mayn't I bid himgood-by?" she begged. 

Charlotte lifted her voice to answer Blake. "Yes, Emory; stay whereyou are; I'm bringing Hope, " she called. "Hurry!" she whispered to theother woman. "It won't do you any good to see him. Think of what he'sdone. Hurry, I say!"

Nettie put her hand up to her head. "I--I can't, " she murmured. Sheswayed a little, and before Charlotte could reach out to catch her shehad slipped to the ground. 

At the same moment Blake came out of the back door of the house. Foran instant he stared in bewilderment. Then he was at Nettie's side andhad lifted her in his arms. 

Charlotte saw his face as he kissed her. A moment later she wasindoors on her knees beside her bed, with her face buried in the coverand her hands clutching it. 

A cold wind swept through the house. Front and back the doors stoodopen. The sun was already low in the west and the evening promised tobe chill. Presently Charlotte rose. She closed the front doorcarefully, wrapped Hope in a cloak, and, with her child on her arm, passed out at the back. 

Blake had stretched his wife on the back porch and was bending overher. He looked up, and at sight of Charlotte's face he straightenedhimself. 

She paused an instant. "I'm starting to harness the horse, " she said. "You can catch the night train at Antioch if I drive fast. "

He stood silent, his face working. It was as if strength were beingborn in him to say something in his own defence. 

"She has plans, " Charlotte added. "You'd better pick up some of yourthings in the house. "

She passed on, and laying Hope in the bottom of the wagon, harnessedthe horse with swift, shaking hands. The sun was out of sight when shedrove back to the house. Nettie sat on the steps staring dazedlyaround her. Blake was not in sight. 

"Are you ready?" Charlotte called. 

He came out, carrying an old handbag. At the step he hesitated. 

She pointed to the back seat, where he was to sit with Nettie and thechild, and after an instant he helped them in. 

The ride was long and cold. Night fell, and the stars came out inremote, hostile legions. The children slept. Occasionally Nettie andBlake advised together in hushed voices. Charlotte whipped the horse. 

As they drew near to the end of their journey Blake leaned forward andtouched her arm. 

"What about the store?" he asked. 

Charlotte broke her long silence harshly. "Your stock will cover whatyou owe on it, I guess. "

At the station she stayed in the wagon. Blake took his wife and Dorcasinto the waiting-room and came back for his bag. Charlotte had itready for him, resting on the wheel. 

He did not offer to take it at first, but stood in the beam from thestation window, trying to speak. 

"Well?" she said. 

"I guess there's not much I can say, " he choked out. 

For a long time she made no answer. Then her breath came with anunexpected gasp. "It wasn't your fault--I made you do it. " For amoment more they were silent. Then she shifted the sleeping babytowards him. 

"Don't you want to kiss her?" she asked. 

He bent his face to the child with a sudden passionate tenderness. Ashe looked up, his wet eyes met Charlotte's, which were full of tears. 

She put out her hand to him. "I guess I've been hard on you, " she said. 

ELIZABETH AND DAVIE

BY MURIEL CAMPBELL DYAR

When the town doctor, coming out to Turkey Ridge, had given as hisverdict that Elizabeth's one chance of life--he could not say how slimthe chance in that plain room, having within it the pleasant noise ofbees and the spring sun on the floor--lay in her going to the greathospital in the city, it was Davie who fell to sobbing in his wornhands. 

"I'll jest die at home, Davie, " she said in her quiet voice. 

"You'll take the money put away for our buryin' an' go, dearie!" Daviecried out fiercely. His gaunt frame, stooped as a scholar's, shook sopitifully with his grief, she had not the heart to gainsay him, butafter she promised him it only shook the more. 

"Why, Davie, " she chided, brightly, "ain't I always been a-wantin' tosee the city streets with the hurryin' people, 'n' tall houses, 'n'churches with towers on 'em? They ain't many folks on th' Ridge'll hevsech a lettin'-out as mine. "

"If I only had 'nough saved to go too, " he mourned. 

She answered him simply: "An' who'd I hev to write to me, with yougoin' 'long? It'll seem terrible nice to hear from somebody. I alwaysdid love letters. Sence Cousin Tabby died I ain't had one. "

"You won't be afeard travellin' so far by yourself?" he asked then, awestruck. Davie had the diffidence of the untravelled. Few men everleft the small farming district of Turkey Ridge for a journey; but ifone did so, and the trip were long, he had thereafter a bolderbearing. 

"Afeard?" She gave a little trembling laugh which would have deceivedno one but a dull old man, now smitten suddenly by sorrow. "The ideeo' my bein' afeard! They ain't a mite o' danger o' gettin' run over erlost er nothin'--not a mite. "

Under the pretext of bending to hunt for a lost pin she hid the sadfear in her eyes--a fear of all the greater world which was beyondDavie, from whom she had not been parted since her marriage. 

But throughout the time of her preparation she went bravely. She wouldherself have put in order for leaving the house kept spotless evenwhile her disease had crept upon her, but the news of the doctor'swords had gone up through the group of farmhouses, huddled like timidsheep on the road, and the kindly neighbor women left their own work, very heavy in the spring-time, to take her household burdens. In acommunity where no great things ever came save two, and these twobirth and death, misfortune drew soul to soul. Because of hergathering weakness she yielded that others should do the tasks whichhad always hitherto been hers, but she could not be prevented from thepacking of the little leather trunk that had held her wedding things. "You're jest makin' me out a foolish, lazy body, " she said, her lipsseen quivering for the first time. Then, fearful lest she should seemungrateful for the kindness of her friends, she made haste to askwhere, in the trunk, to put her staid, coarse linen, and where herbest cap with its fine bow of lavender ribbon, and would they if theywere she take her mending-basket along in hopes there might be momentsfor Davie's socks?

Many a loving offering was tucked in with her belongings to go withher. Now blue-eyed Annie Todd knocked at the door, bringing a bunch ofhealing herbs from her mother, who could not leave for reason of hernursing baby. Then old Mr. Bayne drove into the dooryard with a pairof knitted bedroom slippers, wrapped carefully in a newspaper. NextKerrenhappuch Green, perturbed in his long jaw, pottered down to fetchthe pinball which his daughter had forgotten when she came to help. Mrs. Glegg, who had lately lost her idiot son, Benje, gave a roll ofsoft flannel. Miss Panthea Potter contributed a jar of currant jam, three years sealed, and pretended that she was not moved. The ministercopied out a verse from the Psalms and fixed it so cunningly about agold piece that, proud as a girl in her poverty, Elizabeth could notrefuse the gentle gift. It was he, too, possessing the advantage of aclerkly hand, who arranged for Elizabeth's admission to the free wardof the hospital, and wrote to his niece Mary, living by good fortunein the city, to have a care over her while there. He told that Maryhad a kind, good-humored face, and was herself country born. 

"I'll be better able to thank ye all fittenly, " the white-haired oldwoman said, "when I come back to ye well 'n' strong. "

The last day before she was to start, all that was possible being donefor her, she and Davie were left to themselves, at the minister'ssuggestion. Forty years before, Davie had brought her to the house, yet in her soft marriage dress. The wedding journey had been thecoming up at sunset to the Ridge from her home in the valley, behindhis plough-horses, lifting their plodding hoofs as in the furrows. Onthe clean straw in the back of the wagon rested her small trunk and ahive of bees, shrouded in calico. Tied to the tail-piece was ahomesick heifer. While he unhitched the horses and placed her dowry, she entered his door to lay off her bonnet tremulously in theliving-room. 

Alone with the clumsy carpet-loom which made his winter's work, andhis tired week-day hat hanging from a peg against the wall, she had adeep moment. Joining him on the door-step, they sat side by sidewatching in silence the light die over the scanty fields handed downto him by his father, who had grown bent and weary in wrenching aliving from them as he was aging. Neither was young; both were markedby the swift homeliness of the hard-working; but the look on theirfaces was that which falls when two have gotten an immortal youth andbeauty in each other's hearts. 

It had been their custom on each succeeding spring to go, if theanniversary ware pleasant, to sit again at evening on the door-stepwith the sweetness of the straggling spice-bush upon it. Now as theysat there a silence came upon them like that of their wedding-day. Elizabeth broke it first. 

"Davie, " she whispered, "if I'd say I'd jest like to run through thehouse a minute by myself, you won't think it queer?"

"No, no, " answered Davie, something gripping his chest. 

She went slowly, her slippers flapping back and forth on her heels. She sought first the tidy kitchen with its scoured tins, then theliving-room with the old loom still in the corner, then the parlor. Here she drew a long, shaken breath. Every Ridge woman loved herparlor with an inherited devotion. Many unrecorded self-sacrificesfurnished it. Elizabeth's lay hallowed to her. It was her PlaceBeautiful. There was a pale, striped paper on the sacred walls, and onthe floor an ingrain carpet, dully blue. At the windows were ruffledwhite curtains--the ruffles and sheer lengths of lawn had lain long inher dreams. The mantel-piece held a row of shells, their delicate pinklinings showing, and on either end china vases filled with sprays ofplumy grass. Above was the marriage certificate, neatly framed. On thecentre-table were sundry piteous ornaments, deeply rooted in heraffections. The chairs and the single sofa, angular and sombre, wereset about with proud precision. They had been the result of years ofcareful hoarding of egg-money, and were, to Elizabeth, the achievementof her living. 

Holding on to the banister, she climbed the stairs forlornly to theupper chambers. In her own room Davie found her by and by. She wassitting up very straight in her rocker, a baby's long clothes on herlap. Her expression of pain was gone, and in its stead was the strangepeace of a woman who sees her first-born. She looked up absently ather husband. 

"Melindy Ethel, " her voice crooned, "was so little 'n' warm. "

"You must jest lay down 'n' rest, dearie, " he urged, anxiously. Hetook the things from her and laid them back, one by one, in the lowerdrawer of the high, glass-knobbed bureau whence she had taken them. The thin stuff of the little, listless sleeves and yellowed skirtsclung to his roughened fingers; he freed them with gentleness. 

"An' her hair would hev curled, " she said, when the last piece was in. 

Davie had been kneeling among his vegetables that summer-time longsince that Elizabeth had come to stand beside him in their garden, pushing from her forehead her heavy falling hair, then dark, in theway she had if very glad. Seeing that she had something to tell him, and wondering at her eyes, he waited for her to speak. She did notkeep him long. For an instant her serene glance went up to the bluesky. Then her hands stretched out to him. 

"Davie, " she began, "that old cradle of your ma's--" She broke offshyly. 

Davie stayed on his knees. He could not at once answer her, but couldonly grope toward her blindly. Presently her touch calmed him. 

"It rocks from head to foot, " he quavered in joy, "'stead o' from sideto side--the motion's better for 'em. "

Striving to go well through her troubled months until her hour shouldcome, Elizabeth smiled often at Davie, and sometimes the smile was atender laugh in her throat--Davie clumping excitedly over the farm abouthis work; Davie bringing home from town the cautious purchase of a child'ssack, and crying out in exultation, "It's got tossels on it!" Daviestoring singular treasures in a box in the garret--seed-pods whichrattled when you shook them; scarlet wood-berries, gay and likely toplease; a tin whistle, a rubber ball, a doll with joints, and a foldedpaper having written on it, "For Croup a poultis of onions and heetingthe feet"; and Davie, his importance dropped from him as a garment, coming to put his head down against her shoulder. 

"I dun'no', " he said to her, "as a man better feel too uppity 'boutbecomin' a pa. It's an awful solemn undertakin', an' the more youthink it over the solemner it gets. Seems to me it's somethin' likeplayin' the fiddle. There can't jest anybody rush in an' play a realgood time on a fiddle--takes a terrible lot o' preparin' 'n' hard workto tech them little strings to music. An' mebbe the man that can tech'em the best is him that's always been clean 'n' honest 'n' realgrave. I'm beginnin' to feel so no 'count--why, I dun'no' a note o'fiddle music!"

"Oh, Davie, " she had comforted, "it don't seem to me that the man jest_born_ good 'd play the sweetest, but the one who had fought forthings. "

While she turned the tiny hems and ran the wonderful seams, Davie, winter-bound, sat on the tall stool before his loom, the bobbins woundwith rags for a hit and miss. Weaving eked out a slender income. Hisfather's finger-tips, too, had become stained by colors of warp andwoof after the end of the pig-killing had been announced by thechildren racing with the bladders through the thin snow. 

On Christmas day he brought down the cradle from the garret, and wipedits gathered dust from it with a white cloth. To please him, Elizabethspread it ready with the sheets and blankets. The sight of the pillowunmanned him. "The idee o' that stove smokin' so Christmas!" hechoked. She turned to him quickly. Their seamed hands met as in thatjoyous moment among the vegetables, but this time they clasped above adusted cradle. In view of the increased expenses before the householdthey made each other no gifts; only Davie put a fir bough and ateething-ring in his box. 

Then he wove as though the clack of his shuttle were the beat of adrum going by, then in a vast impatience, then with the bridle hangingon the rim of the manger by the plough-horse which had a saddle gait. 

The morning that he clambered, frightened, into the saddle a greatcold wave was on the Ridge, with a fierce wind continually blowing. Smoke curled up from the chimneys to perish against the sunny sky. Cattle left in the open crowded in the lee of the straw-stacks, theirrough flanks crawling, and in the folds the ewes, yet frail from theirtravail, stood stung and still, mothering their weak-kneed lambs. Beside the thud of the horse's hoofs toward town there was no sound onthe road save a little, dry cracking of the frost. The doctor, as hestarted in his carriage for Davie's house, drew his robes closelyabout him and scowled at the fierceness of the blast; but Davie, riding far ahead, his elbows flying wildly up and down, did not knowthat he had forgotten to fasten his shabby overcoat. Crouched by thesilent loom, he clutched helplessly at the hit and miss as Elizabethwent down into that loneliest of all earth's agonies. 

But from the beginning the child hung a doomed thing on her breast. After three months they followed her up to the burying-ground, themurmuring of its cedars never again to be wholly out of their ears. Away from the grave Davie gave an exceedingly bitter cry--"She'slittle to leave!" But Elizabeth's tears fell back in her heart unshed. She waved her handkerchief to Melindy Ethel. "But she's brave like herpa, " she said. And Davie stiffened. 

Memories of these and other days, mingled with forebodings for theparting, were so heavy upon him that he could get no farther in thenight's devotions than the reading of the Bible chapter. 

"I can't pray to-night, 'Lisbeth, " he said. 

Propped with pillows for the last rest before her journey, she wasstill faithfully brave. "Mebbe the Lord'll jest take care o' me, anyway, bein' as I've tried to do his ways. " The old man did not knowhow wistful was her speech. 

In the morning she was early dressed in her decent black. To those whocame for the leave-taking she bade good-by with gentle courtesy. Kerrenhappuch Green lent his buggy because of its comfortable seat, but Davie drove her carefully over the six miles to the station. Noshriek of an engine's whistle disturbed the quiet of Turkey Ridge; togo into wider ways one must needs start from the nearest town. Onceshe looked back at the house, set like an ancient brown bird's nest onthe narrow fields. 

The yellow-bodied stage, going every other day across the country, brought the minister the letter from his niece with the happy tidingsof Elizabeth's safe arrival, under her guidance, at the city hospital. The stage-driver viewed the missive with professional interest as hedelivered it. The majority of his passengers paid him monotonously inbutter or eggs for his services, his trips were tedious, and hisideals were limited. To read and digest all postals and to conjectureat the contents of all envelopes were his reward for handing out themail at the turning of the lanes. The minister jogged down instantlyto Davie's in his sulky, slapping the lines vigorously, ifineffectually, over the back of his brown mare, which understood, witha truly feminine insight, his perplexity before her character. Daviedropped his hoe and ran stumbling to meet him. He read the pages in atremble. There was something for him from Elizabeth at the bottom ofthe last one. "Dear Davie, " it ran, "are you well an' lookin' jest thesame? Don't get lonesome for me. I ain't missin' you a mite. "

During the period that she was resting for the operation Mary wrotedaily, and every time the letter came the minister jogged down to thefarmhouse, for the words were really from the old wife to Davie. Verycheerful words they were for the most part. "If Davie's askin' how thestreets look, tell him I can't jest tell, for I come in the night, butthe noise is amazin'. " "Tell Davie I can see a church tower from thewindow, an' it's higher 'n' we ever dreamt of its bein', an' sweeter. ""Tell Davie to lay listenin' to feet goin' up and down on stones isgrand. " "Tell Davie I hev seen the surgeon an' that I never thought agreat man'd be so kind. I was all in a flutter over him, but when he'dcome 'n' had seen me, whatever'd I do but tell him 'bout him 'n'Melindy Ethel, an' the meetin'-house, an' how the road runs by infront o' the farm. An' he said he knew, an' not to mind--as ma ust to. Ain't it strange 'bout his knowin'?"

The letters to Elizabeth were a tremendous labor, for Davie was nospeller, and always bashful in the presence of ink. He had only littlehappenings for his pen--he wrote with his tongue forming the painfulsyllables about his mouth. But to her they were infinite things--theMay rose was blossomed in the garden, and a pair of robins werenesting on a ledge of the loom on finding the room so still; thespeckled hen scratched up the pease, and the black cow's calf waslamed; the house dog pined for her and whimpered at the doors, lettingthe cats lick the edges of his dish; the neighbors had sent donationsof a loaf of rye bread, a pitcher of broth, and the half of a newpressed cheese; Kerrenhappuch Green sat with him in the evenings, andhe, Davie, was not getting lonesome nor missing _her_ at all. Butthe one blotted "'Lisbeth, 'Lisbeth, " told the true tale of the emptyhouse. 

When no letter came from Mary he toiled, white as lint, in hispotato-field. There followed two days of sick suspense; then theminister waved to him at the gray fence-rails. So greatly did he dreadto hear the news he longed to know, he could not stir from the spotwhere he stood, but waited, a strained, pathetic figure, for him tomake his way across the even furrows. On the fatherly, near-sightedcountenance, as he drew nearer, was to be seen such a shiningbrightness that straightway Davie knew that she whom he loved hadissued from her trial. The two men, alike weather-beaten and seamed bya humble work--the shepherd no less than the sheep of his flockanxiously tilling a rocky farm, --had the reticence which is learned inhill solitudes, but in the "Thank God, Davie, " and the breaking "Yes, sir, " much was spoken. 

Now Davie slackened his toil and opened all the windows of the houseto freshen the low-ceilinged rooms for Elizabeth's returning. Everymorning he picked bunches of spring flowers and arranged them in stiffbouquets on the tables and old bureaus. He took out his Sunday suitfrom the closet and rebrushed it carefully and laid it with a cleancollar and his musty tie. He began to carry himself all at once withsomething of an air, and he developed a reckless and unnaturalenthusiasm about the weather; for to be darkly critical of the seasonafter the thaw was a local point of masculine etiquette which hithertohe had scrupulously observed. The spring had always been in hisjudgment, sympathetically received, "too terrible warm, " or "pointin'right to a late frost that'll kill everything, " or, were it notpalpably a failure, "so durned nice now that the summer'll be mean. "But with the good news coming from the hospital he was ready todeclare in response to friendly greetings: "It's the beatin'est time Iever come 'cross. Dun'no' when I hev heerd so many bluebirds or sechchirky ones. An' the sky's wonderful an' the ground's jest right. It'sgoin' to be a dreadful good year for farmin'. "

There was in his mind no premonition of trouble on his receiving fromthe lumbering stage an envelope directed to him in Elizabeth's ownhand. It was only that she was getting able to write to him herself. He took it unopened up to the bench by the May rose to read itscontents at his leisure away from the stage-driver's curious gaze. "Dear Davie, " the letter said, "the city streets is so wearyin' an'I'm comin' home. If I ain't so well as we hoped, don't mind. 'Tain'tlike I was young to leave. Mary's comin' with me, for she's long beenwantin' to visit the Ridge. Could you meet me with your wagon, Davie?"

She could not tell, what she did not know, that the money for Mary'sjourney had been sent to her by the minister for his old friend'sneeds. 

 * * * * *

The afternoon was very soft and fair when Davie met the train incomingto town from the city. The farms on Turkey Ridge were illumined withgrowing things like the faint, precious pages of a missal. Dovesfluttered on the lowly roofs. Everywhere was the calling of birds andthe smell of broken earth. The minister and Mary fell behind along theway. Kerrenhappuch Green, caught walking westward to the creek, hisstale pockets bulged by bait, hid with a simple delicacy in theroadside bushes from Davie's face. Only the children hastening fromschool nodded to him as he passed them, nor hushed the loud clatter oftheir burring tongues. 

It was not for young children to be stricken by that sight upon theroad--the pair of patient horses drawing slowly homeward in theshining of the sun a wagon fresh lined with straw, on which lay ahomely mother, smiling with old lips; and above her, on the seat, humbly bowed in his Sunday suit, a gray-haired man whose cheeks werewet with tears. 

BARNEY DOON, BRAGGART

BY PHILIP VERRILL MIGHELS

The nine dusty citizens of Bitter Hole, having one and all proposed, unsuccessfully, for the hand of Miss Sally Wooster, had aboutconcluded that Bitter Water Valley was a desert, after all, when theyfinally thought to turn their attention once again to Barney Doon, thecook. 

Let it here be stated, nevertheless, there was one thing to prove thatthe valley was a desert, despite the presence of Barney, and that wasthe face of the country itself. One-half of that whole Nevada area wasa great white blister, forty miles long and fifteen wide, acrid withalkali, flat, barren, and harsh as a sheet of zinc. The valley'sremaining territory was covered with gray, dry scrub, four incheshigh, through which the dusty Overland stage-route was crookedlyscratched. 

Bitter Hole was the station for the stage. In it flourished the ninedusty citizens, a dusty dog, and a dusty chicken, in addition toBarney and the buxom Miss Sally, whose father was among the citizensenumerated. At the end of the street was a hole, or well, the watersof which, being not precisely fatal to men and horses, had occasionedthe growth of the place, there being no other water for leagues alongthe road. 

Here in this land, even when Sally had scorned them, each in turn, themen of the Hole were still agreed there could be no desolation whereBarney Doon had residence. Purely and simply they loved the littlecook for the fiery suddenness of his temper and the ingenuity of theinsults of which he was never guiltless. The sulphurous little demonwas, as the miners and teamsters estimated, "only two sizes biggerthan a full-grown jack-rabbit. " What he lacked in size, however, hemore than supplied in expression of countenance. His eyes were centresof incandescence, while the meagre supply of hair he grew bristledredly out from beside his ears like ill-ordered spears. Indeed, such ared-whiskered, bald-headed little parcel of fireworks as Barney was israrely created. 

Calmly considered, it is hardly a matter for marvel that Barney had, from time to time, accommodated every individual in the Hole with aquarrel. Moreover, he had challenged each to mortal combat. Indeed, hehad never been known to do anything less. Barney was a challengerfirst and a cook incidentally. But, ancient and modern traditionthrough, there never was chronicle of actual encounter in which thefierce little cook cut figure. 

And, as a matter of fact, the men esteemed him perhaps somewhat morefor the skill and adroitness with which he invariably squirmed out ofimpending engagements, than they did for all the alacrity andpyrotechnics with which he was wont to surround himself with duelsomeentanglements. The boys well knew that if blood were unlet till thebragging, hot little rogue of a Barney stained his record, they wouldall forget the color of a wound. 

It was not without some elemental enthusiasm that the camp, oneevening, extended its welcome to a mule-driver newly mustered to theircompany. The sobriquet by which the man was duly introduced wasSlivers. He was swiftly appraised and as quickly assimilated, afterwhich there was only one process required to complete his initiation, namely, that of preparing his mind for a "racket" with Barney Doon. 

"Don't lose no time, but git right in at supper, " instructed JohnTuttle, for the group. "Jest bang him with any old insult you canthink of, and leave the rest to Barney. Trot out a plain, home-madeslap at the fodder he's dishin' up, fer instance. And when he comes atyou with a challenge, don't fergit your privilege of pickin' out theweapons--savvy?"

It chanced that the moment selected for the entertainment was mostpropitious, inasmuch as Barney had that day declared his devotion toSally Wooster, and had duly desired her big red hand for his own, onlyto hear a wild peal of laughter in reply, and to find himself boostedbodily out of the window by the hearty young lady herself. He was not, therefore, exactly in a mood of milk and honey. 

It never had failed, and it did not fail to-night, that Barney shouldconceive himself more than half insulted merely by the sight of astranger appearing at the board and calmly requiring the wherewithalto satisfy a mountain appetite. Accordingly, when the miners andteamsters all came filing in, dusty, angular, raw-looking ofcountenance, Barney instantly detected the presence of Slivers amongthem, and his eyes "lit up shop" without delay. 

Slivers, to speak the truth, was easily seen. He was framed like asky-scraping building, with the girders all plainly suggested. Notwithout a certain insolence of deliberation, he stared about the roombefore assuming his seat, and provoked himself to a sneer ofopera-bouffe proportions. 

"You're his meat already, " whispered one of the men. "Set down. "

Comrade Slivers thereupon proceeded to comport himself with a studiedindifference to the cook which was duly galling. In a grim silencethat all who knew him comprehended, Barney went about the tableglowering with ferocity. Edging closer and closer to Slivers, thelittle man seemed itching in his ears to catch some careless word thatmight, by dint of inventiveness, be construed as a personal affront. 

"I can see you ain't got no cook in the camp, " said Slivers, loudly, to his neighbor, when Barney was directly behind his chair. "Has thatpizened little boy I seen a while ago been playin' keep-house with thegrub?"

"What's the matter with the grub, you scion of the wild-ass family?"demanded Barney, exploding like a fulminate. 

Slivers looked around and scowled. "Git out, you yawping brat, " saidhe. "You must have been losin' hair for years--one hair a day--foreverything you don't know about decent grub. Go look at yer head, andfigure out your ignorance. "

Sensitive concerning the trackless Sahara which his pate presented, Barney clapped his hand upon it instantly. He could scarcely speak, for rage. 

"You--dead lizard!" finally spurted from his safety-valve. "Youmongrel viper! Low-bred ooze, disowned and outcast, I'll spoil a gravewith your carcass for this! You jelly of cowardice, meet me to-morrowfor satisfaction, or I'll swing you about by the tongue, and hurl youto pulp against the sty of a pig!"

Even Slivers somewhat gasped. 

"Meet you?" he retorted, arising, to tower above his foeman like amast. "Iron me, Johnny!--if I can crawl in the hole to find you whereyou're hidin' I'll make you wish for hair a mile long, to stand onyour head in your pitiful scare!"

"Oh, fie! Oh, bah!" said the cook, scanning the teamster's length withill-concealed awe. "Buzzard, you toy with languages. To-morrow I shallthrow tomato-cans in scorn to build your monument. "

"All right, " answered Slivers. "To-morrow suits me, and we'll fight itout bareback on buckin' broncos, out in the small corral, each fellerarmed with a stockin' full of rocks for a weapon. "

Barney stared for a moment in consternation at the man before him. Hehad previously grown accustomed to the horrors suggested by pistols, knives, red-hot branding-irons, and even pitchforks, but rocks in astocking--that smacked of barbarism. Moreover, to mount on the back ofa bronco, wild or tame--the very meditation made the walls drop out ofhis stomach. However, he smiled. 

"Child's play!" he answered, with fine disgust. "You warty infant! Nomatter, an odious child would become a more detestable reptile! Tillto-morrow, don't speak to me--don't speak to me! Or I shall cheatmyself of the morning's pastime. " And with that he strode haughtilyaway. 

"Howlin' coyotes!" said Slivers, when he met the gaze of a dozen pairof gleaming eyes. "Take him dose for dose he's worse than pizen! Bygar! just see if he burned any holes in my shirt. "

Nearly all night long, however, little Barney lay awake, wildlyfashioning excuses to avoid that horrid duel in the morning. He hadalways escaped by a margin so narrow that no precedent of the pastgave assurance of luck for the future. He was mortally afraid that atlast he had challenged such a monster of brute courage, malignity, andstrength that nothing terrestrial could avert his untimely demise. 

Then in the morning the first sight that met his troubled gaze wasthat of Slivers rounding up a pair of unbroken ponies, as wild asmeteors, in the field of honor, hard by the camp. Every cell inBarney's structure was in a panic. How he managed to walk to thewater-bench to wash was more than he knew. After that there was noretreat. The citizens of Bitter Hole surrounded him, according topreconcerted arrangement, and began to coach him for his fight. 

"Barney, you'd better have a jolt of whiskey in yer vitals, " suggestedone. "Slivers is a regular expert with a stockin' of rocks. "

"If I was you, Barney, " said Tuttle, "I'd leave my bronco throw meright at him. Then. I'd turn in the air and soak my heels intoSlivers's grub-basket and knock him into pieces small enough to smokein a cigarette. "

"Barney, " counselled another, "you take my advice and fight standin'up on your hoss, so you can jump over onto Slivers's bronco and cramyour stockin' of rocks down that there mule-driver's neck and chokehim clean to death. "

They were "herding" the speechless Barney toward the corral, in whichthe two vicious ponies had now been confined. Slivers himself cameforward. 

"Leave me see how much the little scarecrow has shrunk in the night, "said he. 

Barney's wrath was kindled by this. He opened his mouth to deliver abroadside of verbal grape and canister, when he was suddenlyinterrupted. 

A shot and a yell, from down the road, startled every man in camp. Two, three, five more shots barked in swift succession. Miss SallyWooster herself was drawn from the house by the fusillade. 

With Comanche-like whoops, a horseman came dashing madly toward themen, brandishing two huge revolvers as he rode. 

"Skete, and drunk in the morning, " said Tuttle. 

A moment later the rider scattered the population as he rode hisweltering pony through the group. 

"You lubbers, celebrate!" he yelled, discharging a weapon three timesin a second. "There's been a baby born at Red Shirt Canyon! We git inthe census! We git on the map! Big Matt Sullivan's wife has got alittle boy!"

"A boy!" said Sally Wooster. "Oh my!"

"Is that all?" inquired John Tuttle, on behalf of his somewhatindignant townsmen. "Red Shirt's thirty-seven miles away. We've gotsomething more exciting than that right here in camp. "

"Red Shirt's in this same county, " protested the horseman, a triflecrestfallen. "I thought you fellers was patriotic. "

Barney Doon threw out his chest and swaggered forward. 

"Patriotic?" he echoed. "Doggone us, we're the biggest patriots on thecoast! No man is a gentleman who wouldn't be a gentleman on such anoccasion as this. Skete, you've saved the life of yonder braggart, "and he pointed to Slivers. "I couldn't be a gentleman and slay himwhen a child's been born in this here county. Slivers, you can go yourway, without alarm. "

"What!" demanded Tuttle. "No fight? All on account of a baby?"

"If I ever!" added Sally Wooster. 

A third disgusted person queried, "What's a baby got to do with aduel, and the kid near forty miles away?"

To this one Barney turned with pitying scorn. "You don't know how easyit is to disturb a new-born baby, " said he. "There ain't a man but mein camp knows how to behave himself in a holy moment like this here, and I ain't a-goin' to kill no man when a sacred thing like that haswent and happened. "

"Well, durn his slippery hide!" grumbled Tuttle. "He's gittin' toosmart!"

The men were all grinning, including Slivers. 

"I reckon Barney knows as much about a baby as a hop-toad knows aboutarithmetic, " said Wooster, winking prodigiously. "He's got us allsquare beat on kids. "

"I don't know about that, " replied a lanky individual who had soberedamazingly at the news from Red Shirt Canyon. "I've saw a kid or twomyself. "

"That so, Moody?" said Slivers. "Well, say, maybe we could work up abet between you and Barney, to see which knows the most about ayoungster. "

Barney broke in abruptly. "I'll bet a million dollars I know moreabout children than all you cusses put together! There ain't a one ofyou knows how many teeth a baby's got when he's born. "

The challenge produced a solemn stillness. 

"W-e-l-l, I know they don't git their eyes open for a week, " assertedMoody. 

"You're clear off, first crack, " retorted Barney. "It's nine days, instead of a week. "

Again the men were awed to silence. 

"Yes, that's right--Barney's correct, " presently admitted citizenWooster. 

"You old ninnies!" said his daughter Sally, and she turned away to goto the house. 

"Well, anyway, " said Slivers, after a brisk bit of widespreadconversation with Tuttle, "we've got a scheme. Barney wants to matchhimself against the whole shebang in knowin' about a kid, and we'regoin' to fetch a young un to the Hole and leave him prove his claim. "

"Not Sullivan's?" gasped Barney, suddenly overwhelmed at the prospectof proving his erudition on an infant so tender, with a father sobrawny. 

"Never mind whose, " replied the teamster. "You sit quiet and lookpretty, and we'll provide the kid. "

This they did. The following morning, at daylight, Tuttle and Sliversreappeared at camp, from a pilgrimage, and the mule-driver held in hisarms a little red Indian papoose, as fat, dimpled, and pretty as acherub, and as frightened as a captive baby rabbit. 

"Now, then, " said the man, placing his charge on the floor, in themidst of a circle of wondering citizens, "there's your kid. Never mindwhere we got him--there he is. Barney takes charge of him every otherday, and the rest of us by turns in between--all that cares to enterthe race. "

The news having spread, Miss Sally Wooster was among the astonishedspectators who beheld the tiny, half-naked, frightened littlechieftain-to-be, gazing timidly about him as he sat on the planks, gripping his own little shirt as his one and only acquaintance. 

"Lauk!" she said, and laughing immoderately, sped for the door. 

"Sally, you ain't to help neither Barney nor us!" called Tuttle. 

"Don't you worry, " she answered. "It ain't no pie of mine. "

The men continued to look at their "young un" in no small quandary ofhelplessness. 

"He's a pretty little cuss, " said one of the miners, after a moment. "I wouldn't guess him for more than a yearlin'. "

Moody coughed nervously. "One of the first things to do for a child, "he ventured, "is to git a thimble to rub on his teeth. "

"That's right, " said a friend. "My mother used to do that regular. "

"What's the matter with putting pants on him fairly early in thefight?" inquired the next man of wisdom. 

"First thing my mother always done for us was to make us a bib, "drawled one fidgety fellow, tentatively. 

"He'd orter be told never to drink, ner chew, ner smoke, ner swear, ner gamble, 'fore it gits too late, " added a miner who carefullyeschewed all and sundry of these virtues. 

"Stub-tailed idiots!" said Barney, in huge disgust. 

All eyes focussed on the fiery little cook. 

"Well, then, " demanded Tuttle, "what is the first thing to do for alittle kid like him?"

"The first thing?" answered Barney. "The first thing is--Do you thinkI'm going to tell you lop-eared galoots all I know about a baby? WhatI want to know is if he's had a bite to eat?"

"What did you think we'd feed him?" asked Slivers. "Do we look likehis mother?"

"Git away, you venomous scum, and let me have him!" demanded Barney. 

"Hold on, " interrupted Tuttle. "The first day he goes to the feller hepicks out himself, only you come last, bein' the challenger. We'llarrange things alphabetical. Adams, you git first shot, to find out ifyou're popular with the little skeesicks. "

Adams turned redder than usual, which is saying much. 

"Ah--I don't know nuthin' about kids, " he confessed. "Catherwood--seewhat he can do. "

Catherwood also proved to be modest. After him Farnham and Lane waivedtheir alphabetical privilege. 

Moody, as nervous as a girl, approached the dumb little man on thefloor, and twisting the corner of his coat, inquired in a tremblingvoice, "Does Bunny love old Goo-goo?"

The child looked up with a frightened little query in his eyes. 

"I'd hate to scare him, " Moody added. "I don't mind seein' how hetakes to Barney. "

"Yes, give Barney a show, " said Wooster. 

Something had been happening to the cook. The tenseness had gone fromhis usually wiry little body; his eyes were milder; a curve wassoftening his mouth. Kneeling before the child, he held forth hisarms. 

"Baby want to go by-by?" he said, and tenderly lifting the little man, he bore him away, while the men looked on in silence. 

Half an hour later the man who peeked through the keyhole reportedthat Barney was singing the youngster to sleep. The words of the songare not readily conveyed, but they sounded like--

 "Allonsum sum-sum bill-din, Allonsum sum-sum bill-din, Allonsum sum-sum bill-din, "

repeated times without number. Barney called it an Indian lullaby. Assung it was equally good Cherokee, Chinese, or Russian, being Barney'sclearest recollection and interpretation of a song which his motheronce had droned. 

On the third day following, Slivers, Tuttle, and others held a councilof war. 

"Barney's goin' to clean up the whole works of us, " said themule-driver, "unless we can manage to work some better combination. "

"What can we do?" inquired Tuttle. "The kid sure likes him best. "

"That wasn't the point. It's a game of how much we all know about ayoung un as against little Barney. Now, Moody, on the square, do youthink you know as much as him?"

"He knows more than you'd think, " confessed Moody. "The--the onlylittle kid I ever had--she died--ten months old. "

"Oh. "

"Well--that was hell, sure. "

Some of the men puckered their lips as if to whistle, but made nosound. 

"If only we could paint Barney's face an Irish green, or do somethingso's the kid would be scared to see him, we might win out yet, perhaps, " resumed Slivers, presently. "Got any ideas?"

"I don't think Barney could scare him if he tried, " answered Wooster. "Anyhow the pore little scamp ain't cried since he come. "

"He ain't laughed any, either, " added Moody. 

There was neither a cry nor a smile that day, though Barney yearned tohear either one of these baby sounds. The little brown captive clungas always to his tiny shirt, and watched Barney's face with big, brown, questioning eyes. The cook had forgotten his boast. To hold thewee bit of babyhood against his heart, to coax him to eat, to yearnover him, love him, fondle him--these were his passions. A fierceparental jealousy grew in Barney's nature. 

But the hour arrived when jealousy changed to a deeper emotion--toworry. All Barney actually knew of a child came through the intuitionsof a natural father's heart, but little as this amounted to, Barneywas aware that a tiny scamp like this should eat and sleep and creepabout and crow. And the little brown "Bunny" had done not one of thepretty baby tricks. 

The fiery little cook's new concern was at first concealed. Withgrowing reluctance every time, he resigned the little man to Moody'scare as the "contest" required. One night, however, when the dumb, sadbit of an Indian was with Moody, the man was aroused from his dreamsby some one's presence. It was Barney, too worried to sleep, surreptitiously come to the tiny captive's fruit-box cradle, andgently urging the wee bronze man to eat of some gruel prepared at thatsilent hour of the darkness. He was willing that Moody should have thecredit of taking good care of the motherless baby, if only the childcould be made a little more happy. Thereafter, by night and day, thecook was hovering about the uncomplaining little chieftain; and Moodyunderstood. 

By some of the mystic workings of nature, Barney's love and worryextended to Sally. Hiding her feelings from all the men, even fromBarney himself, she could not quell the upgush of emotion in herbosom, as she snatched the little Indian once, in secret, to herheart. Without the courage, as yet, to hear the men ridicule herweakness, she nevertheless contrived to place a hundred littlecomforting things in Barney's path, as he went his rounds of motheringhis sad little wild thing from the hills. Her heart began to ache, asit swelled to take in the child and Barney Doon. 

The men had lost all spirit of fun in the contest, even to Slivers, who strove, however, to see it through in a bluff, rough-hearted way. 

Unexpectedly all of it came to a crisis. It was early in the morning. After a sleepless night Barney had gone in desperate parent-care toreceive his foundling back from Moody. In one keen glance he hadfinally perceived what all their folly was leading to, at last. 

With the dumb little chap on his arm he hastened to the dining-shed, where all the men, save Tuttle, were awaiting breakfast. 

"You brutes had no right to steal this child!" he cried out, passionately. "He's starving! He's pining away! Look at his thinlittle legs! Look at his poor little eyes--getting hollow!" Tears werestreaming from his own tired eyes as he spoke. "Slivers, you didthis!" he charged, angrily. "You tell me where you got him, or I'llshoot you down like a dog!" He had hastened up to the teamster, against whose very breast he thrust a pistol a foot in length. 

"By God! he'd do it!" said Slivers, unmoved by the push of the loadedweapon. "Uncock it, Barney. You'd ought to know I wouldn't harm thekid, any quicker than you. I'd do as much as any man if we had to savehis life. "

"He may not live through the day!" cried Barney. "I'm going to takehim home--back to his mother! And if you don't tell me where she is--"

"Hold on, now; I call, " interrupted Slivers. "We'll see if you've gotany sand. The Injun camp is over across the desert, in ThimbleberryCove. . . . Do you reckon you've got the nerve to pack him across?"

A peculiar silence followed this announcement. Barney stood like ananimal at bay. His face became deathly white. He fully comprehendedthe awfulness of that great white dead-land just outside. 

Wooster broke the silence. "It looks as if the wind is going to blowharder to-day, " he said. "It's stirring up the desert some already. Aman could never get two miles out from here, unless the breeze goesdown. "

Barney, with a crazed, wild look on his face, hastened away to thekitchen. 

"I'm glad he didn't take you up on that, " said Moody, gazing forthfrom a window. "Get on to the way the whirlwinds are kickin' up thesmoke already. "

"I reckon it won't blow no worse than yesterday, " replied Slivers. "But I knowed he wouldn't tackle it anyhow. He'll be back here in aminute, to squirm out of the game. "

They drummed on the table for fifteen minutes, as they waited. A briskwind was blowing; the desert began to deliver up its cohorts ofdust-clouds, where powdered alkali billowed and eddied and sweptacross the valley in ever-increasing volumes. 

"Peek in the kitchen and see what Barney's up to now, " promptedSlivers, nudging Adams as he spoke. 

"Oh, he'll be back directly, " said Adams. 

"Here's somebody comin' now, " added Catherwood, presently. "Maybeit's--"

"Sally, " muttered Slivers, who meditated proposing for the hand of thebuxom Miss Wooster. 

She came toward them almost fiercely. Her face was white. She too haddetected the change come upon the tiny Indian captive. All night shehad accused herself of neglect and heartlessness. 

"Where's Barney? Where's the baby?" she demanded. 

"Barney's maybe striking off for Thimbleberry Cove, " answered Slivers, smilingly. "He was running a bluff on taking the kid to its mother. "

"But Tuttle told me the mother's up at Red Shirt Canyon, " said thegirl. 

"Of course, " agreed Slivers, uneasily. "We--told him about the Cove totest his sand. "

Sally gazed at him wildly. "Then--it must have been a man--Barney!--Isaw--on the desert!" she cried, disjointedly. "They'll die! Oh no, hewouldn't--" She ran outside to scan the fearful expanse of alkali, with its gathering blizzard of dust. 

The men, suddenly grown nervous, followed her out of the house. Apparently there was nothing, far or wide, on the desert, save thesweeping clouds of white, like drifting snow. 

"My God! he wouldn't tackle that!" said Slivers. 

"I hear some one out in the kitchen now, " said Tate. "It must be him. "

Sally ran to see. It was only the dog. She darted forth once more. 

"Not there!" she said. "But surely Barney wouldn't--There! There!"

Her cry rang out so shrilly that even Slivers started. She waspointing stiffly. The men all stared at the storm of dust. For onebrief second the swirling clouds were reft, revealing, far outeastward, in the dead-land of white, a small dark object--the form ofa man. 

One poignant sob was the only sound that Sally made, as she ran towardthe stable. 

"Good Lord! it's him!" said Adams. "Was he heading back this way?"

"I think he was, " answered Catherwood. 

"He couldn't--do anything--else, " stammered Slivers. 

For a moment no one spoke. 

"I reckon I'll just mosey over to the desert, " drawled the fidgetyman. "I'd hate to have anything go wrong with Barney. "

"Guess I'll go along myself, " said Adams. 

"Boys!" said Slivers, hoarsely, "I'm going to saddle up and git himback! I didn't mean no harm when I told him wrong. I didn't think he'dgo. I'd ride through hell for Barney--or the little Injun, either. Youfellers know I didn't mean no harm. "

He started at once to get his horse. Before he had covered half thedistance to the stable, Sally suddenly rode forth, bareback, on abuckskin pony, and heading for the desert, spurred her bronco to agallop, crying to him wildly as she went. 

"Sally!--Sally--I'll go!" yelled Slivers. 

She seemed not to hear, but ran her pony out upon the white expanse, where the wreathing dust seemed to swallow both herself and the animalimmediately. 

Her horse, fleeing swiftly before the wind, carried Sally a mile ortwo out from the camp before she reined him in. Believing Barney couldhave come no farther than this, she began to search and to call. 

At every turn of her head her eyes were blinded by the acrid dust. Thestuff choked her breathing; already her throat was dry. Dust andpowder and snow-of-alkali came from everywhere. It was blowing up hersleeves. It filtered into and through her clothing. Her ears werequickly coated; her hair was heavy. 

She turned her head from side to side for a breath. The air wasthicker than smoke with dust as heavy as flour. 

"Barney!" she called, from time to time, but the alkali coated hertongue. On either side she could see for a distance of twenty feet, orless. It seemed far less, in all that terrible drift of white. 

She rode across the wind, doggedly, crying Barney's name. A namelesshopelessness began to grow upon her. Now this way, now that, she urgedher horse. How far could Barney hear her calling? How far could hewander? How far would she ride? There were forty miles in length andfifteen in width of this reek of wind-driven alkali. God keep them ifever they got more than two miles away from the Hole!

It was aimless riding, presently, but she still persisted. A sickeningconviction that Barney and the little captive would both be deadbefore she could find them made her desperation unendurable. With eyesstarting hotly, with every breath seeming like a struggle forexistence, in the dust, she galloped, calling, calling, till at lastshe could call no more. 

Dazed, she halted her horse at last, and sat staring blindly atnothing. The pony turned about, unheeded, and began to fight his wayagainst the storm, his head down between his legs. 

Sally's head also came down, by instinct more than by design. She feltpast thinking. For a time she rode thus, heedlessly. Then abruptly sheclutched at the reins and drew the horse to a halt. The animal prickedup his ears peculiarly. 

Weirdly out of the wind and dust came a sound--not a moan, not acroon, but like them both, yet a song, uncertain, apparently comingfrom no definitive point. She even caught the words:

 "All on some lonesome bill-din The swallow makes her nest;

 All on some--lonesome bill-din The--swallow makes--her nest. "

Sally tried to call out. She made but a croaking noise. Slipping fromher horse's back, she groped her way forward, leading the pony, andtrying to shout. 

For a rod or more she battled against the driving dust, then halted asbefore. Not another sound would the desert render up--only the strangedry swishing by of the particles of stuff rasping the desert's surfaceas they passed and rose. 

"Barney!" she called, by a mighty effort. There was no response. 

Crying now, in her anguish and plight, she led the pony this way andthat, up and down, listening, trying to force a shout through herswollen lips. At length, in despair, she knew she could search nomore. A lifelessness of feeling was creeping upon her. Mechanicallyshe walked beside her pony, and it was the animal that was leading. 

It seemed as if she had plodded onward thus for hours, when at lengthshe stumbled upon a gray little mound in the drifting alkali. 

"Barney!" she said, in a voice scarcely more than a whisper. Crooningand sobbing, she lifted him up--unconscious, but clinging to thestill, little form that was hugged to the shelter of his breast. 

"Hang on--oh, hang on to the horse, dear, please, " she coaxed, in allthe tender strength of a new-born love. "Barney--try--try, dear, please. I'll be your wife--I'll do anything--if only you'll try. "

She had raised him bodily to the pony's back. Stiffly as a man thatfreezes he straddled the animal. He made no answer, no movement. She feared he must be dead. She dared not look at the little papoose. Barney's weight rested partially upon her shoulder. She tossed awaythe reins. 

"Go on, Sancho--go on home, " she croaked to the horse, passionately. 

The pony seemed to comprehend. With some faint fragrance of the watersof Bitter Hole in his nostrils, the willing creature fought slowly, steadily forward, against the terrible drift. 

 * * * * *

John Tuttle and Henry Wooster descried a group, like a sculpture inwhitened stone endowed with life, creep strangely out from theblizzard of alkali. A blinded horse, with head bent low, bearing onits back a motionless man, and led by a stumbling, blinded girl, against whose shoulder the helpless rider leaned, came with ghostlikeslowness and silence toward them. 

And all day long, one by one, more men came forth, like ghosts, fromthe dead-land. But the twilight had come and the wind had died awaybefore teamster Slivers limped from the desert. He came afoot. He hadridden his horse to death, in his desperate quest. He could barelysee--and his hair was white, even below the coating of the dust. 

Moody ran to meet him. 

"Barney?--Sally?--the kid?" the teamster demanded, raucously. 

"Back--and goin' to live, " said Moody. "The Injuns up to Red Shirtheard where the little feller was and was goin' on the war-trail, sudden, but the mother came down on the stage to-day, --and got herpretty little kid. "

"Oh, God! I didn't deserve it!" said Slivers, and letting himself falllimply to the earth, he lay with his face in the curve of his arm andshook with emotion. 

THE REPARATION

BY EMERY POTTLE

He looked up from the desk where he had been sitting for the lasthour, his head down on his arms, trying to shut out the brave, old cryof life coming in through the open windows, pulling gently at hisheart, cheeping through the darkened room as lightly and as blithelyas the birds in the horse-chestnut tree just outside--the brave cry oflife that, somehow, for all its clamorous traditions, seemed just thensomething peaceful, something that held release, freedom. 

He stared about him, furtively, for an instant, as if instinctively onhis guard against an unwelcome eye. Then, presently, he smiled, andgoing to a window, pushed open the blinds, leaning, with elbows on thesill, gratefully out into the rectangular enclosure, walled in high byhouses, where the late afternoon sun glanced with uncertain warmth onthe horse-chestnut. 

There was now, he told himself, no use of evading or denying itlonger; right or wrong, things had come to a point with him whereanything but the truth was unbearable; it was there, like a live thingwith him in the room, and out in the court, too, --almost as if hecould put out his hand and draw it in close to him. Freedom, that wasit. His lips made the word noiselessly, again and again, fascinatedwith the sensation. "Free, free, " he kept whispering, stretching outhis hands greedily, drawing in full breaths of the late September air. 

"I'm glad, that's all there is to it--glad. I can't help beingglad--I've tried, too, but now, to-day, it's bound to come out. Glad!It's like being let out of school. "

That word--school--brought him back sharply. It seemed to precipitateall the old worry in the solution that but a moment ago was so clear. He came back hesitatingly from the window and threw himself downbefore the desk again, unable to restrain something he vaguely namedhis conscience from its weary accusations. 

"It's an awful thing. It's true, it is. I'm a beast. I'm all wrong tobe like this. It's a terrible thing to be glad a person is--" Heshivered as he withheld the end of the sentence, though he realizedhis cowardice in so withholding. "And that person your--" Again hehesitated. 

Haldane, by the desk, was a figure to make, involuntarily, demands onone's sympathy. It seemed all his life--perhaps thirty years long--hehad been doing this in one way or another, and by no effort of his. People had a fashion of "looking out for him. " Not that he had grownup particularly incapable or helpless; it might rather have been dueto a certain appealing gentleness of bearing, something that was theresultant of a half-shy manner, expanding into boyish confidencewinningly; a shortish, slender figure, scarcely robust; eager, friendly brown eyes behind his glasses; and a keen desire to be liked. It might be seen, in the present sharp nervous play of emotion overhis face, how utterly he was unsuited to the weight of mentaldiscomfort, --how it fretted and galled him. That he was a gentleman, and by nature of a morbidly just and fair disposition, only made hispresent distress the more intolerable to him. 

"Lord God, " he muttered, hopelessly, "why, _why_ had it all tobe?" And this question might, in the end, be taken as an aimlessappeal to the Almighty to know why He had deliberately led him into awretchedly miserable condition of mind and left him there. 

It was the day after Ida's burial--Haldane's wife's burial. A week agohe had taken her to a city hospital, and she had died there--she andher baby--in the night, away from Haldane. He had gone dazedly, veryconscientiously, through the dreadful, relentless activity thatfollows immediately on the heels of death; there was some alleviationin the thought that everything had been done just as _she_ wouldhave liked to have it. To-day the house was free of the grieving, sickening smell of flowers; the last of the people had mercifullyfulfilled their duty to Ida and him and had gone, leaving him thehumiliation of their honest, warm-hearted words and halting phrases ofsympathy. 

"Great God!" he had kept saying to himself as he listened to them, "ifyou _knew_, --if you _knew_!"

At times he felt, as he thought of those friends, secretly resentful. "If it hadn't been for them, I don't believe I, " he caught himselfsaying--"I'd ever have married. " But again he stopped his mental trainabruptly. It was such a wearisome business, this "being fair"--he putit so--to _her_; this conscientious erasing of self-justificationwhich he felt to be so unworthy. It would have been such a relief toHaldane to be, for an hour, obliviously selfish in his estimate of histwo years of marriage with Ida. 

There had been nothing, after all, remarkable in Haldane'sexperience--save for him; nothing very far removed from thecommonplace. His father--a simple-hearted musician--had trained hisson in music since the days when the lad could first hold a violinunder his little chin. He had died when the boy was twenty, andHaldane had gone on, contentedly enough and absorbed, to take hisfather's place among the violins of an orchestra, and to teach music. As he grew older his father's friends told him he was leading awretchedly lonely life; that he ought to marry. And at this Haldanesmiled his deprecating, affectionate smile--a smile that, somehow, convinced his advisers in their own wisdom. 

When Ida Locke came to live in a hall bedroom of the untidyboarding-house Haldane for years had called home, it was not longbefore she, too, quite unaffectedly, took to the idea that thegood-natured musician needed "looking after. " And since, all her life, she had tremendously given herself to the care of people around her, it was no unusual experience--she sought it frankly, importantly. 

It is scarcely probable that, in the beginning, any thought ofultimate marriage entered her head. Those who knew her invariablysaid, "Ida is a sensible girl. " Rather, her "looking after" Haldanetook itself out in the hearty channels of dry boots, overshoes, tea oflate afternoons, candid suggestions as to proper winter underwear, remedies for his frequent colds. This solicitude--which was, inessence, quite maternal--made a bond between the two; this and thefact that they both were workers--for Ida taught English in a privateschool. 

It is hardly necessary to elaborate their romance, if it was such, from this point. Gradually, hastened by the awful propinquity in athird-rate boarding-house, Haldane really came to believe--as alongthe line of least resistance--in his personal incapacity and hisloneliness; gradually Ida Locke began to realize that, for the firsttime, this Love she had read of and dreamed of doubtfully had become areality for her. She was not a little amazed and gratified at itsplain practicability--its _sensibleness_, she put it. 

That she so liked him--indeed, he liked _her_ enormously, heconsidered--assured Haldane in his moments of misgiving. The verylargeness in her ample effect of good looks, her genius for managinghis affairs and hers, her prim neatness of dress, her utter freedomfrom any sort of weak dependence on him, her uncompromising rigidityof moral attitude, and, above all, her _goodness_ to him--thisconvinced him of her ultimate fitness to be a wife to him; and it mustbe said that he had never heretofore given anything but the scantestattention to the matter of sentimental attachments; it had notoccurred to him, definitely, that he was even likely some day to fallsplendidly in love. 

So when he asked her, shyly, gently, to marry him she consentedfrankly--too frankly, Haldane almost admitted. And since, in the worldas she knew it, men did not ask women to marry them unless they lovedthem really, she took much for granted, and began, at once, to lookfor a cheap flat. 

Ida gave up her teaching when they married and went to their Harlemflat. Indeed, she considered this her domestic right; now, afteralmost a dozen years--she was older than Haldane--of instruction, shewanted "to rest, and keep house, " she told her husband. 

Then, suddenly, illogically perhaps, after not more than three monthsof it, Haldane knew it was all quite intolerable to him. Before thedesk to-day, Ida's desk, he saw luminously just how intolerable it hadbeen--these two years of marriage. 

The more irritatingly unbearable, too, it was because of theexcellence of Ida's qualities--qualities he had taken humorouslybefore marriage, but which later he had to take seriously. He began tohate her constant and intimate possession of his motives and tastes, her inquiries as to what he ate for lunch, and whether he consideredhis flannels quite adequate. He childishly resented her little naggingeconomies--and especially because he knew they were generallynecessary. He chafed at the practical, sensible view he was arguedresolutely into on every matter. What made it hard was that Haldanecould not decently account for his revulsion of feeling toward Ida, now she was his wife. Worse than all, he saw how lightly she held inesteem his music--his one real love. To her it was a graceful trade toearn a living by--nothing else. And when she finally made it out thatin his position in the orchestra he was likely never to rise muchhigher, unconsciously the fiddling seemed to her rather more of asmall business. She told him he ought to be more ambitious. 

One night Haldane had played to Ida--he resented so her nameIda--parts of the score of a light opera he had been at work on foryears;--he would never play it on the boarding-house piano. 

The moment was as vivid for Haldane now as it was then. He could hearagain her brisk cheerful voice when he had finished and waswaiting--more hopeful than he had ever yet been with her: "That's_pretty_. It's funny--isn't it, dear?--to think you made it upout of your own head. I never _could_ understand--Leonard, haveyou got entirely rid of your sore throat?--Why don't you try to sellsome of your little tunes?"

The disappointment of it all, for an instant, had brought angry tearsto his eyes. He remembered now just the bitter hopelessness of feelinghow she had failed him--and the remembrance hurt anew. That night hehad seen almost clearly how it was to be with him and her in all theyears to come. 

There was, in Haldane's subsequent attitude toward the question of hismarriage to Ida Locke, nothing worth the name of heroic. Indeed, looked at from the commonplace, critical standpoint, the situation wasnot so bad. It was Haldane's personal conception of it which causedthe difficulty. Probably it was his sense of fairness to _her_which made him accept matters quietly--as he did accept them. It washis comfort to-day, out of all the ruck of his artificialself-reproach, that Ida had never known--as he said--how he felttoward her. 

"She never knew, " he repeated often, "she never knew. She couldn't, I'm sure. Thank God for that!"

What she had never known was, in Haldane's mind, his real idea of heras his wife. For he had been very kind; he had patiently let her lookout for him; he had kept the fret of his heart off his tongue, and thesulkiness of his temper off his face. What he had not succeeded indoing, however, was to keep the hurt of his soul out of his eyes. Sothey had gone on with it for the two years, with a prospect of goingon with it forever, Haldane growing daily quieter, more reserved, ifanything more gently kind, and more pathetically hopeless. With Ida itwas, rather, a large, legitimate outlet for all the sensibleness, practicality, capable qualities, she so generously possessed. Itseemed to her, when she knew her child was coming, that she waswonderfully reaching the culmination of womanhood and wifehood. Yet, after all, it had been but just death for Ida. 

All this was running through Haldane's brain as he sat, on the dayafter his wife's burial, before her little oak desk. And the result hehad to make out of it was always the same:

"I'm glad it's over. I'm _glad_. "

 * * * * *

The room seemed less burdensome when he came back to it late thatnight. Oppressed with the hatefulness of his attitude of theafternoon, Haldane had seized his hat and had fled out into thestreets. He had dined at a restaurant, a thing he had not done inyears, and had listened to a bad orchestra play cheerful tunes--tunesthat somehow livened him up, stayed comfortably in his mindafterwards. Every one he saw seemed so happy. He assured himself thathappiness--a quiet content, at least--was to be _his_ now. Whynot? Why disguise the fact that he was really, underneath, glad? So hesmiled and lingered and sipped his coffee, feeling suddenly thebeautiful realization that he was again of the world--irresponsible, careless. Coming back into the dull flat was not half the gloomyeffort he had fancied it was going to be. For one blessed thing, hecame when he chose. Besides, something had given him a sense of hisright, his cheerful right, to be as he liked, what he liked. Haldanewent about the tiny rooms humming gently; he played softly on thepiano some old love-songs he had composed when he was twenty--things_she_ had never heard. 

Presently he sat down, lighted a fresh cigarette, and set himself tothinking out matters anew. 

"It was a mistake, that's all, " he said, at last. "And that's plain. Amistake for me. But now it's all over and done with. There's nothingto be got out of this endless accusing and regret over something thatcouldn't be helped--helped, at least, after it was once started. . . . I'll always wear my hurt of it; that I know. It hurts like the devilto think I didn't--couldn't--give her the love she ought to have had. If there were any way--any possible way of reparation, . . . But Isuppose there isn't. Nothing except to live decently and honorably--ifthat's reparation. Thank God, 'tisn't as if there were any other womanmixed up in it--I haven't got that to worry me at any rate. I wonderwhether a man gets his punishment for--but no, you can't help feeling, and being, and loving, just as it comes. It's this dreadfulunconventionality of--not really liking--loving a person you aresupposed to love that warps your judgment. And we lie about it toourselves and to others till when we have to face the real truth we goall to pieces. . . . But, just the same, I'd feel so much easier if there_were_ only some way I could make it up to Ida now that she'sgone. Poor Ida, poor Ida. "

Haldane's eyes strayed to the little, cheap desk again, and for amoment the distress of the afternoon was renewed. But he resolutelythrew off the accusing mood he so feared. There was a pile of letterslying there--letters that he had had neither the time nor the heart tolook into for the past week. He picked them up now with relief atfinding something tangible to be done. Most of them were letters ofconsolation and sympathy for him from his friends and hers; the wornphrases one can so little avoid in such missives touched him with asense of their dual ineffectuality. Other letters were addressed toIda--commonplace messages and bills which she had not been able toopen. And there was one from her mother--written evidently before shehad heard of her daughter's imminent illness and death. This lastHaldane laid aside until he had finished the others; and even then helooked at it long and somewhat tenderly before he opened it. 

"It must have come very hard to her; Ida was all she had, " heconsidered. "It must have been very hard. " He thought of thetear-stained, illegible letter Ida's mother had sent him after she hadhad his telegram. An illness had prevented her from coming to thefuneral; and she lived so far away, somewhere in Iowa. Her heart wasbleeding for _him_, she wrote. Her own loss was almost blottedout in the thought of _his_ terrible grief. He had never finishedit--that letter; he could not. Such words had seemed too sacred forhim to read, feeling as he did. So he had torn it up. 

"Ida was very good to her mother, " he reflected; "at least she wasconscientiously always trying to do her best by her, support her andall that. She took it awfully as a duty--but she did it. "

Once, after they were married, Ida had gone back, for six months, tothe private school that she might have money to send her mother in asudden financial stress. Haldane thought of that, too, with keenregret that he had not been able to earn the necessary moneyhimself--he was ill that winter. Yes, surely, Ida had been splendid inthe matter of her mother. "It's a pity that things weren't so thatIda's mother could have come to see us here in New York, " Haldanesaid, as he opened the envelope--"come before Ida died. " The letteritself was not long. When he had finished with it--and this only aftera third reading--he laid it down slowly and stared silently at thefine old-fashioned characters. 

"Great God!" he said at last, gently, "the poor old lady!"

"My dear daughter, " ran the letter, "mother is so sorry to have totell you this now when all your thoughts and energies must be centredon the wonderful event so soon to happen. It seems to me I've alwaysbeen calling on you for help and you have done so much. Oh, it hurtsme to have to worry and distress you now, dear. 

"The truth is that Mr. Liddell is going to foreclose the mortgage onthe house. He says he cannot wait longer than a week or two. I'vetried every way to get the interest, but I can't do it. The little Ihad left, your cousin George invested for me, and now he tells me--Idon't understand it at all--that it's quite lost. I know you'll say Iwas foolish to let George have it, but he promised so much--and Georgehas been so good to me. I won't ask you and Leonard to give me a home;that would be unfair to you both. I'm so distressed and upset. Writeme, if you can, and tell me what you think is best. " And there wasmore in the same distressed key. 

Haldane was as near his decision, perhaps, when he laid down theletter as hours afterward when he stumbled to bed. It was strangelyclear to him--the attitude he was to assume. Not that he did not makea fight of it, and a sharp fight. But, after all, he knew from thefirst how it was destined to end. 

"I asked for my chance to make it up to her, " he muttered. "Well, I'vegot it, haven't I? Isn't this it? If where _she_ is she knowsto-night that I never loved her--sometimes even hated her--then sheknows that I'll try to pay it back to her in the only way I can. I'llbring her mother here to live with me. . . . My God! and I wanted so the_freedom_ of it all again, just to feel _free_. . . . No, thisis it--my way--I'll take it. It's what I owe Ida. I can't reason itout logically and I dare say the world would put it straight that Ididn't have to do this--take her mother--but I will. I wouldn't feelright about it in this life or in any next if I didn't. Yes, that'sthe reparation. "

Haldane's last thought before he slept that night, as it was in thefortnight before she came, was, "What is Ida's mother like? I wonderif--she is like--like Ida?"

 * * * * *

It had been six months--a whole winter and more--since Ida's motherhad come to live with Leonard Haldane. And altogether unexpectedly ithad been, for Haldane, quite the most beautiful winter he had everspent. As for Ida's mother--well, when she was alone her eyes wereconstantly filling with tears--tears of thankfulness that the Lord hadsent her, in the language of her frequent prayers of gratitude, a sonto stay the declining years of her life--a son to her who had sowanted a son all these years. 

Haldane could never forget that night he had gone, with sharpmisgivings, to the station to meet Mrs. Locke. "I suppose I'm a fool, "he had muttered, as he paced miserably up and down the draughty, smokyenclosure where her train, already very late, was to come in. "Butit's my debt to the dead I'm going to pay. " He added a moment later:"What I shall hate most of all, what will be hardest to bear, will beher endless sympathy. For she won't know--she'll never know--just howit was between Ida and me. "

He was to look for a "little dried-up, frightened woman in a blackbonnet, with a handkerchief in her left hand"--so Mrs. Locke hadwritten him. Haldane had smiled at the frank characterization--that, somehow, didn't sound like Ida's spirit in her mother. 

She was the last to come out through the iron gate. Almost he hadgiven her up, she had delayed so long. A little, dried-up, frightenedwoman in a black bonnet--that was she. Like a tiny, stray cloud, verynervous and out of place. Her face was white with fatigue, theexcitement of the journey, and the thought of how she shouldmeet--ought she to call him Leonard? And when Haldane saw her hesuddenly smiled boyishly--as if there could be such a thing as aproblem over this scared, half-tearful, ridiculously pathetic, white-haired old woman with a black-bordered handkerchief in hershaking left hand. 

Before he considered it he had said gently, "Well, mother--"

The tears in her eyes welled over as she gasped in a whisper, "Myboy!"

So, after all, there was no awkward, conscious period of adjustmentfor the two. They took up their life simply and quite as if it were nonew thing to them both--as if they had come together again after along separation. And it was, perhaps, in a way, just that--a comingtogether of elements that had long been kept apart. "She's not likeIda, " Haldane kept saying to himself. 

"You're just like a mother in a storybook; the kind you always wantwhen you read about them, " Haldane often told her. "You know, I neverhad one--one that I remember; mine died so long ago. "

"And you--you're--quite my son, " she would answer shyly, her voicetrembling with the joy of it. It was such a regret to her that shehadn't Leonard's readiness of speech and the courage to break down herreserve--for she wanted to tell him, as she said to herself, just howshe felt, just how good he was to her. 

So it was a beautiful winter for them both. Naturally there was thefact of Ida that had to be faced. That was tremendously hard at first. He constantly felt her grieving for him, for the failure of all hishopes, the wreck of all a man holds so precious. And there were allthe details of Ida's sickness and death to be gone over with hermother--the things she had done just before. How she looked; thequantity of flowers; even what she wore for her burial. InstinctivelyHaldane knew how dear these matters were to her, and he went over themfaithfully, effacing his own bitterness of memory as best he might. When Mrs. Locke hesitatingly asked him one evening if--if Ida had--had_said_ anything--left any message for _her_, Haldane's heartached for her; Ida had left no message. He softened it as best hemight. 

"You see, she didn't know, couldn't know, that--that she was going todie. It was all so sudden, you know, so awfully sudden. "

Mrs. Locke nodded. "Yes--I see. Poor Ida! She did so much for mealways. "

After a month or so, quite unconsciously, they ceased to mention Ida. Haldane, when he thought of it at all--and that with relief--wonderedvaguely why Ida's mother did not talk more about her. "Perhaps it'sbecause she doesn't want to keep hurting me, " he thought it out, "bless her!"

Gradually the intimacy between Haldane and his mother--for she wasquite that to him--grew into a relation that was as rare as it wastender. They both felt it keenly. Their talk was all of him, hisaffairs, his music. He played to her for hours in the evenings he wasnot at the orchestra; when he was teaching in the mornings she wouldsteal into the room, and sit, sewing, in a corner, listeninggratefully to the dreary routine of his pupils' exercises. She seemednever to tire of "being near Leonard. " And always she was asking, "Won't you play a little from _the opera_, Leonard?"

Once she said to him, with her timid smile: "It's like heaven, havingso much music all the time. Seems as if all my life I've been juststarved to death for tunes. "

Haldane bent and kissed her white hair. "Well, mother, " he laughed, "it's quite a real piece of heaven to have you around the place. "

"You're spoiling me, " she cried; "how can I ever go back to Iowa?"

"Who said Iowa in this house?" he demanded of her. "You're to stayalways--as long as you can stand me--_always_. "

"My son!" she kept murmuring after he had gone, as if she loved thewords on her lips. "He's just the kind of son I used to hope I mighthave, " she sighed. "I don't see--it's so strange why he's so good tome. I'm not at all like _her_. Ida was so sensible always, andI'm not at all--Ida always told me I couldn't take care of myself, that I was very foolish. I don't see why Leonard is so kind to me. Itmust he just because I'm her mother. Leonard must have loved her somuch, and understood her. Poor Ida!"

 * * * * *

The spring had broken through its first slender greenish film into thefreshness of its young beauty. The sense of faint, far voicesendlessly calling was in the air. Again the windows of the little flatwere opened and again the afternoon sun warmed to golden green the newgrowth of leaves on the horse-chestnut in the rectangular enclosureoutside. 

Haldane had never felt so splendidly the birth of new things--inhimself and in the world. All the morning he had been constantlypicking up his violin, playing what he called his "Spring-feelings"--unrhythmic wild snatches of melody. 

"God! it's good, good, _good_, " he cried, throwing back his head. "Good to have lived out of it all into this. "

"Mother, " he called presently, "what on earth are you doing there allalone? Come out and play with me. You've looked over those old booksand papers, spring-cleaned your old closets, too long. If you don'tcome out at once, I'll come and drag you out bodily--I will indeed. "

He ran to her door in another moment, and flinging it open wide, hecalled: "If you will insist on being led forth--Why, mother, what isit? what's the matter? _What is it?_ Are you _ill_? Why--"

She sat on a low stool drawn up close to her bed. Her hands wereclasped straight out before her over a little book bound in fadedimitation red leather--a little book Haldane, on the instant, withcurious alertness, knew as one of Ida's old school note-books. On herface was a look so bewildered, so grieved, so terror-stricken almost, that Haldane suddenly ceased to speak. She raised her eyes to him withthe pleading of a hurt animal. For a time neither uttered a word. Andthen, all at once, it seemed to Haldane as if he _knew_. His gazefell hesitatingly. When, at last, he spoke, it was in a very gentlevoice. 

"Mother--is it anything we can talk out together--now?"

She shook her head dumbly, the tears gathering in her eyes. "Oh, Lennie!" she whispered, finally, as if he were a little boy. "It isn'ttrue, is it?"

Haldane did not reply. She reached out the little red book to himslowly. "You'd--you'd better read it. I--found it--this afternoon. "

He took the book, without wonder, and went back, softly closing thedoor on her. Unconsciously he sat down before the little, cheap, oakdesk--Ida's desk--and began to read. It was, perhaps, two hoursafterward when he had finished. The room was dark and very still. 

"So she knew, " he said, slowly. "After all, she knew. And I neverguessed. " His head sank down on his arms. 

It was a curious inconsistency in the mind of Ida Locke which hadprompted her to write in that red-covered note-book just what she hadwritten. No one would have guessed the secret strain of introspectionin her, nor guessed the impulse which led her to put into writing herhidden life. Unless, indeed, that introspection and that impulse arealways part of the intuitions of love--yielded to or not, as may be. The entries were scattered--as if put down when the stress of feelinghad overcome her. They ranged over the two years of their marriedlife. In each one she had seemed, with a startling lucidity, to haveapprehended exactly her husband's state of mind toward her. She hadwritten freely, baldly, without excess of sentimentality. "I know hehates me sometimes; I see it in his eyes. " Again: "He is hideouslykind. " "He lives in a mental room that I can't break into. " In anotherplace it ran: "Why is it? I am his mental equal; his superior ineducation. I'm his wife and he asked me to marry him. And yet he can'tbear to have me near him. He hates me to-day. " "I'm afraid, " she wroteagain, "how Leonard will regard our child. If he should hate it, too. Perhaps we shall both not live through it. " And so it ran on, withawful candor. 

"I'm so sorry she had to know, " Haldane sighed again and again. "And, now, what's to be the end of it? What will Ida's mother do? Lord God, she'll never forgive me--never. "

 * * * * *

Late that night Mrs. Locke came in. Haldane had scarcely stirred fromhis chair. The note-book lay open before him on the desk. He looked ather compassionately, for now his thoughts were all for the shrinking, hurt woman beside him. She had never before seemed so fragile, sodependent, and yet he could not but mark in her hearing a newresolution of forces, a dignity as of a stern decision. Haldane didnot wait for her to question. 

"You will want to know, " he began, wearily, "if all this written hereis true. All this Ida wrote down. You want to ask me that? It's--it'sall true, quite true. " He waited, but she gave no sign. "Quite true;I--I suppose it wouldn't be worth while for me to explain things now. You will think I've lied to you all along. In a way, I have. No, Isuppose you don't want to hear me make futile explanations, excuses. "

"If there--there is anything to be said, Leonard, you had better sayit--now, " she answered, nervously, twisting her handkerchief in herfingers. 

He hesitated painfully. "Everything I might say seems to be trying toshift the load from my shoulders on to--another's, " he said, at last. "It was a mistake--that's all. A mistake for us. Before it began--ourmarriage--it was different, but afterward--She was very good to me;looked after me and all that, but--Oh, I'm afraid I'm only hurting youthe worse by saying all this. You won't, you can't understand. Let itbe that it was all my fault. It was, it was. Believe that, please. . . . And I know you won't want to stay here with me any longer--after this. I quite understand that. A man who--who felt as she wrote it all downhere--such a man you wouldn't, you couldn't--" He stopped hopelessly. "I can't bear to have you go, " he burst out, impulsively. "Where willyou go? Back there to Iowa?"

She nodded sorrowfully. 

"And have no more music? And--and--oh, it's cruel. _Why_ had youto find it out? It didn't matter anyway when it was all done with. Why_did_ you have to know? . . . And you haven't any money. You mustlet me help you. Let me do that--just that. Can't you forget it allenough for that? Surely you've liked me--for what you've liked in me, let me help you. Great heavens, if I thought of you alone out there, without money--_Must_ you go?"

Haldane was fast losing control of himself. With an effort he pulledhimself together and tried to smile. 

"You're right to go, " he said. "Right. You wouldn't want anything todo with me now. "

He looked up at her, though loath to meet her eyes. There was awonderful pity in her face. "Don't!" he cried, sharply, notunderstanding. 

"I want to say this, " he broke out again, almost roughly. "I neverguessed that she knew how I felt toward her. I wasn't cruel orbeastly--I was kind. They say that's cruelty, too. I tried--my God!how I tried!--never to let her know the truth. That's all I can sayfor myself; . . . You'd better go. "

She was so silent that at last he faced her again. She was cryingsoftly, and, it appeared, without bitterness. Haldane stared at hercuriously. 

"I wanted to know that--that last you said, " Mrs. Locke gasped, withdifficulty. "I--I--I've been thinking it all over in my room. It's veryhard to say--please let me go on with it just as I can, I--I've said Iwanted to hear that last. But I knew it--in my heart--all the time. I knew you couldn't be cruel to a living thing. And--and--somehow--it changed--things. I've had such a terrible struggle all alone. I'vetried to pray over it and--oh, I'm afraid I'm very wrong and verywicked--I almost know I am. " Her voice sank to a whisper. "But--oh, Leonard . . . Somehow I just seemed to feel inside me just how you felt, just how--it was with you those two years. Oh, it's a dreadful thingto say, isn't it? Poor Ida! She was so good to me, and yet sometimes--"The trembling old woman's voice faltered and broke. 

Haldane's eyes were full of tears. A great light was slowly breakingfor him. He dared not speak. 

"Don't think I'm a wicked old woman, Leonard; I never evenguessed--till I came here--how I felt. And then you were like ason--my son--the boy I wanted so, and--I loved the music so, and beingwith you, more than anything I ever knew--it doesn't seem as if--"

Haldane put his hand on hers gently, "As if you could go away now?"

She turned to him with a little sad smile, and in her face was a sweetdignity. 

"Yes, I cannot go--now, my son. "

THE YEARLY TRIBUTE

BY ROSINA HUBLEY EMMET

"For science is a cruel mistress. She exacts a yearly tribute of fleshand blood like the dragons of ancient pagan mythology. "

The eminent scientist paused momentarily here and viewed the earnestyoung faces before him. In this poetic figure of speech he saw fit topresent to them the hardships of the life they had chosen to embarkupon. It was a hot June morning, and the heavy scent of syringa camein through the high uncurtained windows of the lecture-hall. All thestudents stared with reverence at this distinguished stranger, who hadcome a long distance to speak to the graduating class; and one of itsmembers sighed deeply and turned his eyes to the window, and watchedsome maple leaves moving languidly against the blue sky. The lecturerheard his sigh, saw him fall into abstraction, realized the peculiarcharacter of his face; and marked him as a man who would serve to theend, possibly becoming one of the victims of that cruel mistress. 

 * * * * *

Pilchard and Swan had stopped to rest in the middle of the plaza. Theblack Mexican night was falling and a few stars blossomed in the sky, but there was no abatement in the heat which had held since sunrise;rather, indeed, the thickness of the atmosphere seemed intensified. The two Americans, who had spent a whole year in Mexico and becomeaccustomed to the climate, attempted to make themselves comfortable. Pilchard sank to a dilapidated bench and lighted a cigarette; andSwan, not having even sufficient spirit to smoke, stretched himselfbodily on the flat stones which paved the plaza, and placed his oldhat upon his upturned face. 

Both young men seemed depressed, and without speaking they listened tothe moaning of the ocean which heaved and glistened in the distance;and when Pilchard finally said, "So poor Murphy is gone too, " and Swanresponded, "His troubles are over, poor fellow, " it showed howcompletely they had been absorbed in the same thought. 

"And Mulligan last week, " Pilchard continued, "and all the others whowent before, and Peele taken sick this afternoon. Swan, we're the onlywhite men left. "

"And we've only got ten days left. "

"Oh, I guess we can do it, so long as we're out of the swamp. "

"So long as the swamp isn't in us. "

They were alluding to the railroad they had come to Mexico to build. The time-limit given in the contract would expire in ten days, and itwould be a race to get the tracks through the town and down to the newdocks in that time. Swan, whenever he thought of it, became restless, and now he sat up with a jerk, and his old hat slipped off his face. Even in that dim light Swan's ugliness was apparent. He measured oversix feet and was loose-jointed and ungainly; he had big flat feet, andbig bony, capable hands; and his features, which were big and bonytoo, seemed in proportion to nothing but his general ungainliness. Swan was an inventive Yankee with no background and no tradition. Hecould not even claim the proverbial Connecticut farm. His people hadbeen dreary commercials in a middle-sized New Hampshire town, and hehad worked his way through college to fit himself for a scientificcareer. His memory of his deceased parents was so colorless that itseemed to Swan as if they had never existed, and his contacts had beenso dull, his outlook so dreary, that he had almost no conception ofbeauty. His plain college room, where, by the hour, he had worked outmathematical problems, and a grimy engine-room (which was the nextstage of his advancement), where he had stood in a greasy black shirt, surrounded by an unceasing whir of machinery, and bossed a gang ofmen--these had been the things which had substituted for him romanceand passion and life; and finally, when Pilchard, a college friend, had persuaded him to come down to Mexico and build a railroad, he hadtaken off his greasy black shirt and gone, principally because thiswas such a big undertaking, and it would undoubtedly in the end leadto something very much bigger. 

The company which was causing the railroad to be built had establishedlarge exporting-houses in San Francisco, which sent down certainarticles of merchandise to Mexico, and the railroad was designed totransport this freight from one of the southwestern seaport towns tothe city of Mexico. The undertaking included the erection of dockswith swinging elevators to lift the freight from the vessels anddeposit it in the cars, and as the pay was very large and Pilchard wasan adventurous soul, he undertook the job when it was offered to him, and going to the manager's office, impressed him with his boldness andability, and signed his name to the contracts without reading themthrough; then gayly, and feeling no uneasiness, he buttoned his coatover the neatly folded paper and went to see Swan. 

Swan, in a greasy black shirt, was in the engine-room, hard at work, and he was just about to reprimand one of the men when Pilchard camein. Although it was early in May, a spell of precocious heat had takenNew York by the throat, and what with the whir of rapidly turningwheels, and the smell of hot machine-oil and perspiring men, there wassomething filthy and degraded about the atmosphere. Swan suddenlyrealized this, although it was the only atmosphere he knew anythingabout. Glancing upward, he saw a little patch of blue sky through thetop of one of the grimy windows . . . A white cloud sailed past . . . Andthen another . . . Something akin to longing welled in his heart, something like a wave of despair and hope, a desire to lift himselfinto a higher and less degraded world. . . . He looked toward the doorand saw Pilchard, and crossing the room, he greeted him warmly andread the contract Pilchard pulled from his pocket. 

"That's a queer business, " said Swan, when he had finished. 

"How so?"

"Man alive, haven't you read what you've signed your name to?"

"Certainly I've read it. "

"And you think you can put the job through in a year?"

"Why not?" asked Pilchard, with his "cock-sure" smile. 

Swan, like every one else, was taken in by this smile, and to convincehimself he read the contract again, out loud this time, and in athoughtful way. Pilchard listened. 

The contract guaranteed that a railroad covering two hundred and fiftymiles, between the city of Mexico and the little seaport of Zacatula, on the Pacific Ocean, would be built and completed in one year's time, work starting on the 25th of June. Docks and freight-elevators wereincluded in the work, and if the tracks were not in fit condition forthe trains to run by the date specified, every penny of the very largepay would be forfeited by the builders. A strange contract, indeed!Pilchard, however, as he heard it read, betrayed by no sign that hewas as much surprised as Swan. 

"Well, " said Swan, looking up and meeting that "cock-sure" smile, "youthink you can do it in a year?"

"I'm certain I can. "

"Of course, " Swan continued, not yet convinced, "it's the worstcountry on earth; full of swamp and yellow fever. "

"I'll run in a gang of Mexican Indians to lay the ties. They can standtheir own climate. "

"But you'll have to take down some white men, too, good fellows whoknow the business. You can't be the only man to do the bossing. It'dkill you. "

All this time Pilchard was closely watching Swan, and almostunconsciously something had been growing in his mind. Swan had anugly, resolute face, and endurance seemed to be expressed in everyline of his body. Behind him the engine roared, and spit steam, andground out the produce of a great city factory; his face and handswere grimy and covered with grease, and the black cinders around hisdeep-set eyes gave him a terrible, deathly look. Pilchard sawinstantly that he must have Swan to do the work. He must take him downto Mexico or else the railroad would never be built. Swan would come, too, because there was a look of tragic fatigue in his deep-set eyes, an expression of sick nausea in the lines about his mouth, that showedhow gladly he would change, how completely he had come to the end ofhis hopes here; so Pilchard suggested with a careless smile that theygo down to Mexico together. "Of course, " he said, "I don't say that itmightn't be better for me to do it alone--two heads to a job, youknow, isn't always a good arrangement; but you've got a pretty meanberth here. It'll take years for you to get a rise, and you're wastingyour youth and health shut up with this filthy gang of men. This jobof mine would push you right along, and you'll get others like it. Better come. "

Swan reflected. His work was the only thing on earth that he caredfor, and to progress in his work, to keep putting through more andmore difficult jobs, was what he had always aimed to do. But had he aright to take advantage of Pilchard's generosity? He glanced aroundthe room, conscious of the incessant chattering of the different partsof the engine, which he must keep going in order to turn out theproduce of a great city factory. He was no more here than one of themany parts of that engine, and if some day he should be absorbed intothe midst of those whirring wheels and ground up like corn, who wouldever be the wiser?

So he went. 

 * * * * *

"Had a letter from the company today, " Pilchard observed, suddenly. 

"That so?"

"They're going to send a fellow down from Frisco on the steamer thattouches on the 25th. Everything plays into their hands. Steamerreaches here the day the contract expires. "

"Well, that's all right. "

"They request that I meet the fellow and show him around. "

"That's easy, too. "

Pilchard breathed smoke through his nose in his self-possessed way, and said nothing more, until Swan suddenly broke out:

"Well, I for one won't be sorry to get out of this hole. I'll get thejob done, of course, but we've just had a terrible setback. I thinkPeele's dying. "

"Lord!"

"I came away from him only half an hour ago. He may last through thenight, but I doubt it. Anyhow, if he lives or dies, we're devilishpressed for time. I'm beginning to think we'll have to work at night, too. "

"At night?"

"There's a full moon. Here she comes now. " Swan looked at the fullmoon, which, as the darkness increased, grew in radiance. 

Pilchard breathed more smoke through his nose, then said with a sigh:"That's hard luck, Swan. I'm sorry. "

"Hey?"

"And yet it's a lucky thing that you're as strong as you are. It's alucky thing you haven't got the responsibilities at home that I have. "

"I don't see what you mean. "

"Why, you know I'm engaged! I'm as good as married. That poor girl'sgot everything ready for the wedding. You met her that day last yearyou came up to Maine before we left New York. "

"Yes, I met her. "

"And you remember how much she thought of me?" Pilchard spoke slowly. It was impossible to tell why he did so. Was it because he did notcare to discuss the woman he loved with an outsider like Swan, or wasit because he was going on tiptoe, because he wondered what he mustsay next, because he was waiting, hoping that something unexpectedwould develop?

Swan, however, dropped the question of Pilchard's marriage. 

"You mean, I suppose, that you won't work at night. "

"I can't. I'm not well enough. "

Swan grunted and sighed and stretched all his limbs, shaking his greatshoulders as if he were trying to shake out the ague. Then he clearedhis throat again and turned to Pilchard. 

"See here, Pilchard, it's time we came to some understanding. "

"Understanding?" Pilchard queried in a surprised voice. 

"Yes, about this job. About the pay--m--not so much the pay as thecredit. This job ought to give a man a name. It's been a big piece ofengineering and devilish hard work to put it through. I've planned thewhole thing and watched every stroke of what's been done, and Ideserve at least half the credit, if not all. "

Swan spoke in a brutal, masterful way. Perhaps he realized as he didso how completely the acknowledgment of his services depended onPilchard's generosity. Pilchard alone had signed the contract, andSwan's existence was no more to the company than the existence of theother workmen. Moreover, the eleven mechanics they had brought downhad all been carried off by fever, and there was no one else who, incase of necessity, could testify to the splendid work Swan had done, practically alone. All this was in Pilchard's mind as well as Swan's, and all this suddenly showed Pilchard how completely Swan was in hispower. He must play a careful game. 

"Why, what the devil do you mean?" he asked, speaking rather angrily. 

"What do I mean? I mean that this is all too unbusinesslike. It's toovague. I'm risking my life to put this business through, and I want toget what I deserve. It's the biggest thing I've ever done, and I won'tdo it for nothing. "

"For nothing? Man alive, you're almost accusing me of dishonesty! Itold you when we started out that I'd give you half the pay. If I'dever supposed you didn't trust my word I'd have had it drawn up onpaper. And as for the credit, you deserve it all, and you'll get itall . . . And that's all. "

Pilchard ended with a self-conscious laugh, and got up to go indoorsand take a few drinks before he went to bed. He stood for a moment, uncertainly, before Swan, wondering with a strange distrust, whichlately had been growing upon him, what Swan really thought. Swan wasso silent and reserved, and he worked with such unflinching constancy, that Pilchard often felt as if he too must be developing some plan. Itwas fortunate, he told himself, that there were only ten days more. His nerves could not have held out much longer; but after he hadfilled himself with several drinks and was sitting in gauzy pajamasbeside an open window, things began to look brighter. Ten days mightdevelop unheard-of things. To work all night on the borders of a swampin this rainy season, which is almost certain death for a whiteman--Pilchard closed his eyes and peacefully slept. . . . 

Swan continued to sit on the bench, and throwing back his head, lookedat the sky. A full moon swung above him, huge and tropical and red, seeming to garnish the black depths that lay behind it and that greatblack mouth that opened immeasurably into the west. All his actualsurroundings faded away, and, as is often the case with men at thesemoments, he thought of a woman that he had seen once and had neverforgotten. 

That cool summer day just a year ago that he had spent on the coast ofMaine, whither he had gone to see Pilchard about some finalarrangements for their journey to Mexico--Pilchard had introduced himto the girl he was going to marry, and it had somehow happened that heand she had taken a short walk together along a cliff where some pineswere growing, and which looked forlornly enough across the solitaryocean. Nothing but the most commonplace words had passed between them;they had talked of Pilchard and his enterprise, and had stopped tolook at the view, and had gazed out over the rolling waves. He hadscarcely dared look at his companion, but once he had helped her oversome rocks, and he remembered that her foot had slipped, and for aninstant her body had swayed against his. He remembered, too, that shehad pale cheeks and dreamy eyes, and a slim hand laden with rings thatheld back her skirts. This slight experience had made a changed man ofhim. New senses existed for him, new hopes for the future that turnedhim dizzy, a splendid and deeper insight into life. The sordidrealities of his life no longer claimed all his thoughts; they werebeautified by rare and exquisite dreams, and by repetitions of thatstrange welling of hope and despair which had come to him in the grimyengine-room. After all, there were things in the world other thanengines and boilers and steel tracks; there were plenty of uses forhim besides calculating and experimenting and bossing a lot of filthymen. He, too, could serve and wait and hope and . . . Die!

 * * * * *

Swan spent the remainder of that night with Peele, and as the sick manwas still alive at sunrise, and Swan was obliged to oversee the men, he swallowed some coffee and went off, leaving Pilchard in charge. About noon Pilchard came out to him with a white face. 

"What's the matter?" Swan asked, full of apprehension. 

"Peele died before you'd been gone an hour. "

"We must see to having him buried at once. "

"He's underground already. "

"Where we'll all be if we stay much longer. "

"Where I feel as if I ought to be, " Pilchard groaned. 

"What d'ye mean?"

"I mean that I'm about ready to give up. If it wasn't for you I wouldgive up. I'm as weak as water. I just saw Peele die, and that finishedme. Ugh! It was awful!"

And Pilchard, who certainly was pale, drew a flask from his pocket andtook a long drink. He seemed to drink to his own weakness. He seemedto glory in the fact that he had given up, and that he knew Swan neverwould. 

Swan realized this and looked wearily across the swamp they had justcovered. It was all his work. A narrow mound of solid earth ran backas far as eye could reach, and on it two shining steel rails glitteredin the blazing sun. On either side lay wet, poisonous ground coveredwith deadly growths and exuding fearful odors and devitalizing forceswhich even the heat could not dissipate. In that noonday light whichburned and burned and made no impression on the moisture, Swan's facewas wilted like a white flower which is dead and turning yellow. Hiseyes, too, were like things once living and now dead. The musclesaround his mouth twitched like electric wire. 

"It isn't possible for me to finish it alone, " he told himself. Heknew that he could finish the job by working both night and day, butcould he stand the strain? Had he, after all, a stronger physique thanany other white man had ever had before? He leaned far back as if hewere trying to fold himself up, and then bent forward in the samemanner, trying, with a desperation like death, to relieve the weaknessthat was numbing his limbs. He suddenly felt dizzy as he looked at thehot distance where some big leaves were waving--dizzy as he knew thathe must fail. 

"By God!" he exclaimed, striking the pile of dirt. "By God! I'll do it!"

Pilchard put on his hat and smiled. He had been waiting for this. "Ifyou say you will, I bet you will!" he told Swan. "That's why you'llalways come out ahead. " As he said this he looked intently at Swan, who was still sitting on the pile of dirt. He noticed for the firsttime the peculiar look in his eyes and the trembling of his wholebody. 

Swan sat silent. He saw the dark perspiring bodies of the Indians whowere laying ties, and his lifelong ambition to be a great engineersuddenly presented itself to him in the old strong unemotional way. 

"For science is a cruel mistress. She exacts her yearly tribute offlesh and blood like the dragons of ancient pagan mythology. "

This had been said by an eminent scientist who had addressed hisgraduating class. Swan had heard it then and remembered it now. Heclearly remembered that hot June morning ten years ago. Some youngmaple leaves had made a lovely pattern on the blue northern skyoutside the uncurtained windows of the lecture-hall. He rememberedthat he had looked through the window and vowed that he would nevergive up. 

He organized two bands of men, one to work by moonlight and one bysunlight; but it was necessary for him to overlook them both, day andnight, so it happened that there were just two hours in thetwenty-four when he could find any rest. This was when the dailytropical storm broke, late in the afternoon, and all the workmenscampered for shelter. Swan crawled into a shanty the men had put upto hold their tools, and wrapping himself in a blanket, slept untilthe storm was over. That is to say, for three or four times he slept, but gradually he found it impossible to get any rest, and nobody knewthe agonies he endured fighting off the fever, which he felt hadmarked him for its own. He never looked forward longer than twelvehours, thinking always that the next day would decide his fate, andthe next day never did. "If I can keep it off till to-morrow, I guessit won't come back, " he repeated, mechanically, standing in themoonlight and dosing himself and bossing the men. But in the morningthere was never any abatement in those deadly symptoms which told himthat the period of incubation would soon be over; and it almost seemedto him as if his cruel mistress was saving him in some miraculous wayto complete her work, for it was not until the evening of the ninthday, when the railroad was finished and the last man paid off, thathis temperature rose to fever-heat, his pulse quickened, and histongue became congested, and this demon of the tropical swamp claimedhim for its own. 

Early on the morning of the 25th, a Pacific mail-steamer touched atthe little port of Zacatula, and a man was put off who came down fromSan Francisco to do business for the company in the event of therailroad not being completed. He was greatly astonished when Pilchardshowed him that the last day's work had been done. 

"Then, " said the agent, mopping his perspiring bald head, "we may saythat you've carried out the contract to the letter, to the veryminute. You say you only paid off the men last night?"

"Yes, " answered Pilchard, with his engaging smile, and casting apossessive glance down the front of his white trousers. "And it was anawful rush to get the job done. " But in spite of Pilchard's sleekfigure and social smile, he looked pale that morning. The hot sunlightthat bathed the end of the dock met no responsive glow in his cheeks. 

The agent hung his handkerchief over the top of a post to dry it, andlooked more closely at his companion. "Anything the matter?" he asked, kindly. "You certainly haven't lost anything on the job?"

"No--no. " Pilchard brought out that ever-ready smile that was sodelightful. "But it's about time to go home. This is a terribleclimate. We've lost every white man that came down, eleven all told, except myself and--and--one other, who's dying over in that shed now. Maybe--maybe--he's dead--" Pilchard jerked with his thumb towards ashanty just where the docks joined the land. . . . 

 * * * * *

In this rude shanty, knocked together by the workmen to hold theirtools, on a heap of sacks and blankets, Swan lay as he had dropped thenight before. Pilchard had found him there, and the full moon comingin at the wide opening had revealed a fearful sight--Swan in thethroes of terrific fever, his face scarlet, his eyes ferrety andcongested, and his swollen tongue lolling between his lips. When hesaw Pilchard he asked in a strange voice for water. Pilchard broughthim some and felt his forehead. It seemed on fire. 

"Pilchard, " began Swan, in a deliberate voice, as if he were trying tofight off the delirium, "the swamp got into me, after all. I've takenthe fever. "

Pilchard, appalled by the terrible sight before him, and the things itsuggested, which he could not help but see, leaned against the rudewall, and for once his self-possession deserted him. "Swan, " hefaltered, "Swan--for God's sake--"

"Hush, " Swan interposed, in that same deliberate voice. "Don't loseyour head. I'm keeping mine. Am I talking sense?"

"Yes, yes, Swan. Perfectly correctly. "

"Then I'll tell you what to do. " Swan spoke more and more slowly asthe fire mounted to his brain and besieged it. "There's every symptomof fever. You can't deny that. "

"Symptoms, Swan? I don't see any. You're worn out, poor fellow. That'sall. "

"Then what's this?" Swan opened his mouth and showed his scarlettongue. "And this?" He tore open the breast of his shirt and showedthe congested condition of his skin. "But I'll fight death as I foughtthe fever! I'm not going to die. There's too much for me to do in theworld! I'll be a great engineer. I'll make her proud. I vowed it whenwe looked out over the waves and I wanted to take her in my arms. Seehere!" and suddenly seizing a pickaxe from the ground beside him, heswung it around his head and sent it whizzing past Pilchard's ear, outthrough the opening of the shanty. "I've got my muscle and I've got mybrain and I'll keep my life. I deserve to live. I deserve it aspayment for putting the job through. I'll keep my wife here, too, herein the engine-room, with the pines behind us, and I can look after themen then. Who's that leaning against the wall? Pilchard? Poor fool!Why did you boast you were the only man who had ever loved a woman?"

"Me boast! Heaven forbid, " faltered Pilchard. 

"Then, " shouted Swan, suddenly sitting up and striking out with botharms, "take these things away. All these little black things that arepouring over me. It's a regular shower. It must be a whole city. No!No! They're sparks! They're fire! They burn! They burn! Take thewheels away from me! They're grinding me like corn--oh, Lord! it'sheavy, it's heavy! There, there! It crushes me! Now, now it's over. This is--death--" And he sank back, oppressed by a sudden, andoverwhelming load of oblivion. 

Swan grew worse toward morning, and though the disease had onlyattacked him at sunset the night before, so rapid and terrible wereits onslaughts that by the time the sun rose a complete physicalcollapse had occurred. His pulse had fallen below normal, and his skinassumed a strange yellow hue, the color of a lemon, and in these signsand the constant hiccough which convulsed the death-stricken framePilchard guessed properly what the termination must be. The end wouldcome easily. Swan had ceased to suffer. 

When light crept gray and silent into the shanty, Pilchard stood andlooked at Swan's prostrate form. No sound came to them but the gentlelapping of the waves. Sober as a dove Day hovered in the sky, and thatsolemn change which is Death was somewhere near, hiding and waiting;and Pilchard and Death and the breaking Day were for one second alone. And Pilchard was overwhelmed with terror. Some spectre had seized him, and he could not shake it off. He looked once more at the dying man, at his closed eyes and his still body, momentarily convulsed by thefinal signs of life, like a great piece of machinery when the steampower is gradually running down. Then he turned and broke away, totake a bath and to take a drink and then go to meet the steamer fromSan Francisco. . . . 

 * * * * *

"Eleven? You don't say. Fever, I suppose?"

"Yes. We tackled three swamps on our way down from Mexico. "

"That so? Well, it's worth some sacrifice. It's a good job. I wouldn't'a' undertaken it myself. "

"I wouldn't do it again. "

They walked down the dock. . . . 

Swan opened his eyes and looked through the wide opening of the shantyout to where the blazing sun struck the hot water of the littleharbor. He hardly remembered where he was. Oh yes! He must get up andgo down-town. In a minute, when he was fully awake. And he closed hiseyes again and heard the accustomed whir of machinery, and knew thathe was in the engine-room. One of the workmen needed to be spoken to;he was the filthiest of the lot, and Swan was the only man who couldcontrol him. Suddenly Swan opened his eyes again and saw that thissame workman had entered the shanty and was standing beside him. Heinstantly recognized the man's greasy black shirt. 

"For science is a cruel mistress, " the man said. "She exacts heryearly tribute of flesh and blood. "

But, singularly enough, these words meant something entirelydifferent. Swan looked curiously at the workman and saw that he toowas really somebody else. The man smiled and, leaning over, gentlyraised him up, and for the first time in his life Swan felt himselfencircled by a woman's arms, and he tasted a strange, delicious joyawakening deep within him that knowledge of reciprocal love whichslumbers in the heart of every man. 

"And you did it all for me, " she said. 

"Did what?" he asked her. 

"Built the road?"

"Yes, " he whispered, closing his eyes again, filled with this newstrange joy. 

"And now we'll go home together to the North, where the maple leavesmake a lovely pattern against the blue sky. "

He knew nothing for a minute, and then she spoke again:

"Well, it's a good job. I'll see that you get pushed along. Thecompany 'll have plenty more work; big pay, too. This business hasmade your name. You're a wonderful fellow! You say you worked night aswell as day?"

"For eight days, yes. "

It was Pilchard's voice. He was talking to another man. They wereleaning heavily against the rough wall of Swan's shanty. A horriblesensation came over the sick man, that sensation experienced by menwho emerge from some unnatural mental condition, who are recalled byone sentence, often by one word, which acts like a key and opens againto their terrified vision the horrible realities of actual life. Swanraised his arms to bring that woman's face close to his, but he couldnot find it. He opened his eyes, and tears of weakness watered hischeeks. He was alone in the hovel knocked together by the men to holdtheir tools, and the work for which he had given his life was beingclaimed outside by another man. . . . 

The agent leaned against the side of the shanty, gazing reflectivelyat his steamer, which was anchored half a mile from shore. "I'm goingclear round to New York. You'd better get aboard and come with me, " heproposed to Pilchard, to whom he had taken a fancy. "Good Lord!" hesuddenly shouted, leaping forward. "Is this the shed where you said aworkman was dying of fever? Let's get out quick or we'll take theinfection. "

But Pilchard, pale as death, put up a warning hand. "Yes, let's clearout--let's get to sea before I go crazy! But--but--don't speak soloud. _He may hear_!"

He had heard every word. His faculties, numb with death, spranginstantly into life. He leaped to his feet and left the shanty, momentarily endowed with his full strength, and facing the two men, spoke three times: "My work! My work! My work!" His eyes were onPilchard all the time, and that look pierced like a sword; itpenetrated to the very foundations of his being. . . . 

 * * * * *

Pilchard caught the body as it fell and lowered it to the ground, andthen looked at the agent with a scared face to see how much he knew. The agent had leaped still farther away, and now was crouching, lividwith fear, before this man whose last words had been words ofdelirium. No, he knew nothing. Pilchard alone knew the extent of hisown deceit, which dead lips could never disclose. He alone knew ofthat half-formed idea he had not dared to mature, which had come tohim a year ago when he looked at Swan's resolute face in theengine-room; and he alone in all the world could ever know of theterror which had possessed him at daybreak in the shanty when he hadturned in a panic and run away--from what? . . . 

A MATTER OF RIVALRY

BY OCTAVE THANET

It was the fifth afternoon of St. Kunagunda's fair. An interlude ofsemi-rest had come between the clearing up last night's debris ofcrowd and traffic, which had filled the morning, and the renewed crowdand traffic that would come with the lamps. The tired elderly women incharge of the supper had sunk into chairs before their clean linen anddazzling white stone-china dishes and fresh bunches of lilacs. Thepretty young girls at the "fancy table" were laughing and prattlingrather loudly with two amiable young men who had been tackinghome-made lace handkerchiefs and embroidered "art centres" in thevacant spaces left on the pink cambric wall by the departure of lastnight's purchases. A comely matron kept guard simultaneously over theuseful but not perilously alluring wares of the "household table" andthe adjacent temptations of the flower-stand and the candy-booth. Thelast was indeed fair to see, having a magnificent pyramid of pop-cornballs and entrancing heaps of bright-colored home-made French candy;and round and round its delights prowled a chubby and wistful boy, with hands in his penniless pockets, waiting for the chancellor of theexchequer. 

Across the hall, the walls whereof were lavishly decked with red, white, and blue festoons of cambric, and had the green and gold ofErin's flag intertwined with the yellow and black of Germany, stood atable which had been the centre of interest for four nights, but whichnow was entirely deserted. There was no glory of color or pomp ofbedizenment about it; nothing more taking to the eye than a ballot-boxand a small show-case (the contents of the latter draped in newspapersat the present) and a neatly lettered sign above a blackboard, to oneside. The sign simply demanded, "Vote Here!" The blackboard in lesstrim script announced that "For most popular business man" Mr. TimothyG. Finnerty had 305 votes, and three or four other candidates so fewthat there was no interest in deciphering the chalk figures; and that"For most popular young lady" Miss Norah Murray had 842 votes, andMiss Freda Berglund had 603. At intervals some one of the score ofpeople in the hall would saunter up to the show-case or to theblackboard, to peer into the one or to study the figures on theother--although, really, there was no one in the hall who did not knowevery line on the board, and who had not seen both the gold watch andthe gold-headed cane of the show-case. Two women came from differentquarters of the room at the same instant to look at the blackboard. One was a comely dame in a silken gown that rustled and glittered withjet. She had just entered the hall, and was a little flushed with theclimb up the stairs. The other was a stunted, wiry little Irish womanin black weeds of ancient make. She caught sight of the one in silkattire and paused. The first-comer also paused. Her color deepened;her head erected itself more proudly on her shoulders. Then shecontinued her progress, halting, with a dignified and elegant air, before the blackboard. The little Irish woman tossed her own head andappeared about to follow; however, her intention changed at a fewwords from the guardian of the apron table. She inclined her head, andwith a glance of scorn at the silken back passed on over to the apronsand quilts. 

The matrons at the supper-table had viewed the incident with interest. A little sigh of relief or regret rippled about the board. 

"'Tis a great pity, that's sure, " said one. 

"I was there when they had the words, " said another. "Mrs. Conner wassaying this voting business was all wrong--"

"Well, sure she ain't far out of the way, with this time, " interjecteda voice; "bad blood more'n in this instance it's raised; the wholetown's taking sides on it, and there was two fights yesterday. Whydidn't they jest raffle the watch off decent and peaceable?"

"There's some objects to raffling. "

"There's some objects to drinking tea an' coffee, they're so bigoted!In a raffle there's nobody pays more'n their quarter, or maybe adollar or two--"

"And that's it. Look at the power o' money we're gettin', Mrs. O'Briendear! We'd _niver_ 'a' got nigh on to four hundred dollars for agold watch rafflin'; and well you know it!"

"Maybe, " agreed Mrs. O'Brien, grimly, "but neither would we have gotfightin' out of the church and fightin' in it; nor Pat Barnes behaving his head broke. 'Twas hurted awful bad he was. His own mothertold me; and she said Fritz Miller was sick in bed from it; Pat paidhim well for talkin' down ould Ireland; and poor Terry Flanagin, helost his job at the saw-mill for maddin' the boss that's Dutch, andinfidel Dutch at that; and there's quarrels on ivery side, God forgive'em! They talk of it at the stores, and they talk of it at the saloon, where they do be going too often to talk it; and 'tis a shame an' adisgrace, down to that saloon the dirty Dutchman--"

"_Whisht_!" three or four mouths puckered in warning, and Mrs. O'Brien caught the smouldering gaze of a flaxen-haired woman in veryfull black skirts and black basque of an antique cut, who had but nowapproached the group; with her race's nimbleness of wit she added, "Sure there's dirty Germans and there's dirty Irish. "

"Dere is, " agreed the new-comer, with displeasing alacrity, "und someis in _dis_ parish und dis sodality. I vas seen dem viping dishesmit a newsbaber. Dot's so. Yesterday night. "

An electric thrill ran through the circle, and two matrons, suddenlyvery red, answered at once:

"Would you have us wipe them on our _handkerchiefs_? The towelswere all gone!"

"'Twas the awful crowd did it; an' 'twas only some saucers for theice-cream. "

Mrs. O'Brien waved her hands, very clean, not very shapely, and wornby many an honest day's toil, persuading and pleading for peace atonce. "Sure, " says she, "if you'd wurrk at fairs you'd know that youcan't be doing things like you'd do them at home; and 'twas only for aminit they wiped the saucers with the paper napkins, clean tishy-papernapkins, Mrs. Orendorf; 'twas only two or three saucers got wiped withthe newspaper, because the napkins was give out and they was shriekingand clamoring for saucers; and they're _terrible_, them younggirls! waving their hands and jumpin' an' squealin'. 'Me first, Mrs. O'Brien!' 'It's _my_ turn, Mrs. O'Brien!' 'Oh, Mrs. O'Brien, waiton _me_. I've got six people haven't had a bite in half an hour;and they're so cross!' Till your mind's goin'! No doubt we're makin'money, but I'm for a smaller crowd an' more good falein'. "

"It's for der voting dey kooms, " grumbled the German woman, only halfpacified. "Dot vas bad mistake haf dot votin'. Vot vas dot dirtyDeutchman you call him do dot make you so mad?"

"Oh, it wasn't so _much_"--Mrs. O'Brien was still bent onpeace--"he jist telephoned to the next door an' got the returns, as hecalled them, and had 'em posted up in his saloon. An' if they wasdaughters of mine--I 'ain't got anny daughters, praise God! for sinceI seen the way these waiters go on, I'm misdoubtin' I niver couldmanage thim--but if they was daughters of mine, 'twould be the sorryday for me whin they'd their names posted up in a saloon!"

"Meine fader in der old country kept a saloon, " said the German woman, with extreme dryness of accent, "und does you mean to say vun vurdagainst Freda Berglund?"

"No, indade, " cried Mrs. O'Brien. 

"And do _you_ mean to say one word against Norah Murray?" a bolderpartisan on the Celtic side struck in, with a determined air. Three orfour voices murmured assent. 

The German stood her ground. "I nefer seen her till yesterday"--thuswithout committing direct assault on the Murray supporters she avoidedconcession; "all I know of her is dot she nefer haf dot gold vatch!"

"Then you know more than _we_ do. Norah's ahead, and she'll be_more_ ahead this evening, " retorted a Murray voter; "there'splenty more money to spend for old Ireland--ain't there, ladies?"

"Whisht!" called the peace-maker, in her turn. "Ain't it easy to seehow Mrs. Conner and Mrs. Finn come to words and hard falein' whenwe're nigh that same ourselves, we that determined to kape out of theworry? They are both awful nice, pretty young ladies, and I'm sorrysuch a question come up between them; and 'tis _dreadful_, O'Brien says, the way the young men was spinding their money for Norahlast night. Sure, an' it is that. 'Tis all a bad thing; I think thatlike Mrs. Conner. "

Mrs. Orendorf was unable to adjust her mental view to the varyingargument; she cast a sullen and puzzled eye on the amiable Irishwoman, and said, grimly:

"It isn't joost yoong mans vot kan spend money. Freda don't have gotno yoong mans, 'cause her Schatz vent to der var und die py der feverin Florida--"

"Sure he did that!" cried Mrs. O'Brien, "an' 'twas a fine man an' afine carpenter he was. Aw, the poor girl! I mind how she looked theday Company E marched out of town, him turnin' his eyes up sidewises, an' her white as paper but a-smilin'!"

"God pity her!" chimed in another matron, with the ready response tosympathy of the Celt. There was a little murmur of assent. Mrs. Orendorf's swelling crest fell a little; her tone was softer. 

"But Freda got a fader, a goot man, _too_ goot and kind; he sayhe vunt haf his dochter look down on like she don't got no friends. Hego and mortgage his farm, und he got drie--tree hunterd dollar"--shetapped the sum off her palm with solemn deliberation--"und he svear hevill in der votin' all, all spend, an' sie git dot vatch. _AchHimmel! er ist verruckt!_ He say he got his pension and he got derinsure on his life, und he 'ain't got nobody 'cept Freda, und he vunthaf Freda look down on. Und _sie_ don't know. Mans don't can talkmit him; he git mad. He git mad at _me_ 'cause I talk. _Dot's_ vatder fine votin' do!"

A little gasp from the audience meant more than agreement; their eyesran to Mrs. O'Brien, who faced the German and could see what they saw;then back of Mrs. Orendorf to the crimson face of a young girl. Mutelythey signalled consternation. 

But the young girl did not speak; she walked away quickly, not turningher head as she passed the voting-booth. She was a pretty girl, withfresh skin, the whiter and fresher against her abundant silky blackhair and black-lashed violet eyes. She carried her dainty head alittle haughtily, but her soft eyes had a wistful sweetness. Her bigflowered hat and her white gown, brightened by blue ribbons, were asfresh as her skin and became her rich beauty. She walked with thenatural light grace often seen in girls of her race, whatever theirclass. No one could watch the winsome little figure pass and not feelthe charm of youth and frank innocence and immeasurable hopes. Morethan one pair of elderly eyes that had seen the glory and freshness ofthe dream fade followed it kindly and with a pensive pride. 

"Ain't she pretty and slim!" sighed a stout lady in silk (Mrs. Conner, the most important supporter of the parish, no less), "and think of mehaving a waist as little as hers when I was married! But I wish shehadn't let them drag her into this voting business, for it has causedtrouble. "

"Norah's as good and sweet's she's pretty, " another elderly womanreplied. "Just to think of that young thing supporting her mother andeducating her brother for a priest with only those pretty littlehands! But she won't be doing it long if the boys can one of them gettheir way. And what will we do for a dress-maker then? We never_did_ have such a stylish one!"

"That's so, " Mrs. Conner agreed, cordially; "she's the only one I everwent to didn't make me look fleshier than I am. But I say it is allthe more shame to make that innocent young creature talked about andfought over, and have jokes made in the saloon and at the stores, andquarrels outside the parish and in it, too. "

"I guess it has gone farther than we thought, " said the other. "Look!there's Father Kelly and the Vicar-General; they're looking at theblackboard. I wish I could hear what they are saying. "

Norah, indeed, was the only person who did not look at the two quietgentlemen before the blackboard, curiously, and wonder the same, sincethe voting-booth had become a firebrand menacing the peace of theparish. Norah was too busy with her own thoughts even to see them; sheonly wanted to get past her wellwishers and be alone with herperplexities. If she did not see her spiritual guides, they saw her, and Father Kelly's tired face brightened. "You really can't blame theboys, " he said, smiling; "and she's as good a daughter and sister, andas good a girl, too, as ever stepped. "

The Vicar-General smiled faintly, but his eyes were absent. The parishat Clover Hill was the newest in the diocese--a feeble folk strugglingto build a church, or rather help build it, and holding its firstbazar. There were no rich people of their faith--unless one except theConners, who owned the saw-mill and were well-to-do--not even manypoor to club their mites; more disheartening yet, the parish roll heldabout an equal proportion of Irish and German names. The Vicar-Generaland the Bishop shook their heads at the yoking of the two races; butthere was no church nearer than Father Kelly's, five miles away, andFather Kelly was not young, and his own great parish growing all thetime; so the parish was made, and a young American priest, who hadmore sense than always goes with burning enthusiasm, was sent to guidethe souls at Clover Hill and keep the peace. He kept it until thefair, when in an evil hour he consented to the voting-booth. Heexpected--they all expected--that the excitement would focus on thegold-headed cane, and that Mr. Michael Conner would lead the poll, although the popular Finnerty might give him a pretty race for hishonors; the gold watch was but an incidental attraction to please theyoung people and attract outsiders; nor was there any suggestion ofnames. Alas! Michael Conner, a blunt man, dubbed the voting scheme a"d--- weather-breeder, " and would not give the use of his name; hencethere was a walkaway for Finnerty; and somehow, before any of theelders quite realized how it began, the Irish girl and the German girlwere unconsciously setting the whole town by the ears, and importedvoters from Father Kelly's were joyously mixing in the fight. 

"There's no question about the _need_ of stopping it, " said theVicar-General, continuing his own train of thought aloud, "but how arewe to do it? The feeling is a perfect dynamite factory now, and theleast stumble on our part will bring an explosion. If we tried to givethem the money back--and you know women have a tight grip on money--we shouldn't know where to give it. Positively we're like the familyof the poor fellow who had the fit--one doctor said it would kill himto bring him to his senses, and the other said he would die if theydidn't!"

"And Father Martin safe in his bed with pneumonia!" groaned FatherKelly. 

Norah had found her progress barred by new-comers, and she had fledback to avoid them. Her cheeks reddened again, and the tears burnedher eyelids; she went past too fast for more than a hurriedsalutation, at which Father Kelly shook his head. "That's the girl, isn't it?" said the Vicar-General. "I'm afraid the situation is alittle too much for her, too; she looks excited. "

"Not a bit, not a bit, " cried Father Kelly, undaunted; "she's a bitimpulsive, but she's got good sense. "

"She wears too much jewelry. "

Norah did not hear this; she was out of the hall, speeding back toMrs. Conner's gown that awaited her finishing touches. Her mother, alittle creature with sweet temper that made amends for an entire lackof energy, was rocking over some bastings, sawing the air with herforefinger as she discoursed on the weighty splendor of the gold watchand chain, ending in gush of parental complacency, "And Norah saysit'll be as much mine 's hers!"

Norah could hear her chirping on, happily, while she laid away her hatin the bandbox and girt herself with a protecting apron. 

The talk turned her cold. "It ain't only for myself I want it, " shedeclared to an invisible suggester, "though I _do_ want somethingreal. I never had a real gold chain, or even a real gold breastpin, inmy life--or a ring. Oh, I did want one!" She looked scornfully at thegay prism gleaming from her pretty fingers (fingers as daintily keptas any lady's); they had flashed like rubies and sapphires anddiamonds from the white velvet drifts of the show-case in the greatdepartment store where she bought them when she went to the city; butnow they were cheapened and dimmed by her memories of the "real"watch. She peeled them roughly from her hands. 

She had no morsel of news ready for the hungry ears awaiting her. Toher mother's questions she answered briefly that the only thing sheheard was that Freda Berglund would have a great number of new votesin the evening. 

Mrs. Murray tossed back a confident: _"Let_ her! I know some boysthat's going to go this night, with a hundred dollars in their pocketseach of 'em. Let her bring on her votes, I say. It's a good cause gitsthe money. But it's you'll be wearin' the watch next Sunday, and notFreda Berglund!"

Norah bit her lip. She was not used to silence, but she sewed silently(Norah, who was so sweet-tempered that she had been known to work awhole day with a machine that skipped stitches, never getting cross, and stopping four times to wrestle with the bobbin before she subduedit). Her mother did not know what to make of her. Her own nickeringcomplaints of Norah's "glumness" sank into dumb anxiety. She stoletimid glances at the bowed black head and the frowning black brows;after a glance she would sigh, a prolonged, patient sigh. There aretimes when a sigh is to strained nerves like a blast of hot air on aburn. Norah jumped up and ran away from her own irritation before itexploded. She made a pretext of looking at her skirt (which was new)in the parlor cheval-glass; but in the parlor, behind the door, shedid not give a glance to the picture in the mirror. The "pire glass, "as Mrs. Murray called it, was a relic of the family's better days whenNorah's father was alive and kept a grocery-store and owned a horseand wagon; its florid frame of black-walnut etched with gilt, its tallmirror, very little marred by water-spots on the back, long had beenreverently admired by Norah; it showed that the family had "hadthings"; but she passed it without a glance, just as she passed thecabinet organ decked in flowered plush which she had bought with herown savings. Never until that day had she stood in the parlor withouta sensation of pleasure over its fresh paint and paper and the manygilt frames on the wall; but to-day she went, unnoting, to the crayonpicture of a man, and looked through tears at a plain, smiling, kindlyface. 

"I wish you hadn't died, " was all she said; but the tears rolled downher cheeks and her frame shook with sobs that she forced to benoiseless. At last she dried her wet cheeks and tossed her head. "Idon't see that _I_ need do _anything_, " she muttered, whileshe hurried round the house outside, in order that she might reach thebedroom and efface the traces of her weeping. "I'm a great fool tothink of doing anything, " she declared. "I didn't put myself up, and Iwon't put myself down--and disappoint mother and all my friends. It'snone of my business. " Therewith she assumed a light and cheerful air, which she carried securely through the remainder of the afternoon. 

 * * * * *

The fifth evening of St. Kunagunda's fair opened with a stiflingcrowd. Protestants, Catholics, and Germans who never had seen theinterior of an American church jostled the buyers at the booths, andthe faithful dutifully ate turkey and cold rolls for the fifth time atthe supper-tables. The outsiders did not linger at the booths; theywere come to vote or to witness the voting, and their jests andcomments buzzed noisily above the talk. Every moment the note of thebuzz grew more hostile. More than a few ears were tingling; at everyturn there were scowls and sullen eyes and ugly smiles. The matrons'cheeks were burning; their eyes flashed; every now and again one oftheir voices shrilled defiantly above the hoarse hum of the crowd. Theyoung Irish girls were laughing, enjoying the excitement, and admiringthe young men flaunting their banknotes with the swing of theirfather's shillalahs. The young German girls curled their lips andwhispered together. There was a significant herding of the contendingraces apart, while the visiting Anglo-Saxons wore an air of safe anddispassionate enjoyment, such as pertains of right to the boy on thefence waiting for the fight. 

Norah Murray had a circle of young men about her, who laughedrapturously at her sallies. She wore her chain and a new rhinestonebrooch and all her rings. She looked very handsome with her flushedcheeks and bright eyes. She raised her voice to be heard above thedin. Mrs. Murray's new bonnet nodded its red roses and black ostrichtips among the lace handkerchiefs and embroidery of the fancytable--she being enthroned on the step-ladder for lack of otherseat--and her delighted eyes ran from her daughter to the votingblackboard. She waved a spangled fan and smiled buoyantly at everyfamiliar face, whether turned towards her in recognition or not. Mrs. O'Brien, who had slipped away from the kitchen to be sure the lampswere not smoking, stopped a moment beside her. Mrs. O'Brien lookedtired and worried when she let her own smile of greeting slip from herface. A tinge of the same expression was on Father Kelly's kind oldcountenance, but the Vicar-General's features were as inscrutable as adoctor's. He had made a genial procession through the room, distributing the merited praise at each booth, and appreciablysoftening the atmosphere by his presence. He halted opposite Norah'sparty. Father Kelly's gaze grew anxious. "I mind me, " said he--"I mindme of the child when her father died--not six she was--holding hermother's hand, not weeping herself, the creature, just stroking hermother's hand and petting her; and holding the baby, the one that'soff to the seminary now. Her father was an honest man. He failed once, and then paid every dollar with interest--an _honest_ man. I mindme of little Norah at her first communion--"

The Vicar-General smiled. "Kelly, you're a good fellow, " said he, notremoving his glance from Norah's excited face. 

"She'll come out all right, all right, " said Father Kelly, with thehammer-like gesture of his right fist which his congregation knew wellfor a storm signal. "She's a good girl. This is no fault of hers, thisfoolish contraption to make money; I'm one with Conner, there; but thegirls aren't to blame. Freda's a good girl, too. That's she coming. "

The German heroine of this miniature Nibelungenlied was tall andslender, fair haired and fair faced. Her face wore a placid air; shelooked perfectly serene and had assumed unconsciousness as a garment;she did not talk, only faintly smiled in return to the greetings thatmet her on every side. To right and left, before and behind her, walked her two aunts and her two neighbors, women of substance anddignity. They walled her about as might a body-guard, sendingeye-blinks of defiance at the hilarious young Irishmen. Mrs. Orendorf, of the guard, went the length of twisting her head for a final glareof disapproval at Norah, in passing. Norah laughed. "I used to knowFreda Burglund last week, " said she, "but I guess she has forgottenme. "

"She's too busy with the blackboard, doing arithmetic, " joked one ofthe young men. 

"You ought to see old Fritz!" cried another; "he's clean off his base. He's mortgaged his farm to Nichols. Nichols didn't want to lend, buthe would have the money. "

"Well, I guess we'll give him a run for his pile. "

"He's mortgaged his farm!" said a third young man; when his voicedsounded, the very slightest of movements of Norah's head betrayed thatshe listened. 

"I'd mortgage two farms if I had them, " was the gallant comment fromthe first man, "if Miss Norah needed votes. "

The third man felt the rustle of every dollar he had, drawn out of thebank that morning, and now bulging his waistcoat-pocket in companywith a bit of ribbon that had dropped from Norah's hair; but it waseasier for him to make money than talk; he was ready to push the lastof it over the voting-table for Norah, but he wasn't ready of tongue;he put his big honest hands in his pocket, and lest he should glowertoo openly at the fluent blade, sent his eyes after Freda Berglund'syellow head and fine shoulders. Norah could see him. She stiffened. 

"I don't think it very nice of her to _let_ her father mortgagehis farm, " said a fourth partisan of Norah's; "he'd better buy her awatch out and out; you can get a good one for ten dollars. She'd oughtto stop the old man. Her mother would if she were alive. "

"Fritz ain't so easy headed off, " said the third man. "Miss Freda is avery nice young lady; I don't believe she knows about it. "

He kept his eyes on the yellow head, this unfortunate bungler, who hadbeen in love with Norah since he had worn knickerbockers, and Norahheld her own head higher in the air. And she let Mr. Williamson, thenew book-keeper at Conner's (he who would have mortgaged two farms forher), take her to the ice-cream table, leaving the bungling lover(christened Patrick Maurice, his surname being Barnes), to jostledismally over to the apron table, where Freda was. 

Norah laughed at Mr. Williamson's jokes, and asked him questions aboutthe business college from which he had recently been graduated, andwas the picture of soft animation and pleasure; and the while herheart was like lead, and she hated Freda Berglund. Sitting at thetable she heard snatches of talk, all tinctured by the strongexcitement of the evening. "I can't help it if they do quarrel, " shethought, angrily, answering her own accusation; not even to herselfdid she say that she hated Freda. 

Her eyes wandered a second over the hall; they saw the Vicar-General'spale, handsome face, a half-head taller than Father Kelly's good grayhead; they saw a square-jawed, black-haired, determined, smiling youngman behind the ballot-box turning his eyes from Pat Barnes to anelderly man who held up his hand, waving a roll of bills. 

"Ah, I see Berglund has arrived, " said Williamson. "You are going todo a lot to build the church, Miss Norah. "

Berglund was rather a short man; his hair was gray; he limped from theold wound received at Shiloh. Something clutched at Norah's heart asshe looked at him. Williamson made some trivial joke; she did not hearit; she was hearing over again the words of the German woman to Mrs. O'Brien that afternoon. Impulsively she sprang to her feet. "Will youexcuse me, Mr. Williamson?" she exclaimed. "I have to go to thevoting-booth one moment. " She went so swiftly that Williamson had muchado to keep pace with her, besides overpaying the waitress in hishurry. Father Kelly swallowed a groan of dismay at the fresh strain onhis faith when he perceived her beckoning a ring-laden hand at thecustodian of votes; and the Vicar-General involuntarily frowned. Theyboth with one accord pushed up to the table--to the visible relief ofthe young man behind it. "I don't know what to do, " he confided toFather Kelly, before the latter could ask the question quivering onhis tongue--"I don't know what to do. Miss Murray wants me not to takein any more money 'til I hear from her again. She'll be back. Andhere's old Berglund wants three hundred and fifty dollars' worth forMiss Freda, and here's Barnes with a big bunch for Miss Murray, tryingto scare off the old man. What'll I do, Father?"

"I guess you better not do anything, " said Father Kelly, with atwinkle in his eye. "Norah Murray is apt to have a good reason for herasking. Shut the booth down, and _I'll_ take charge while you gooff for a cup of coffee. "

The Vicar-General nodded approval. 

"Well, just's you say, Father, " said the young man; "it's kind ofunprecedented. "

"What do you suppose it means?" puzzled the Vicar-General, in anundertone, as the vote-taker disappeared; and the crowd fell back alittle on Father Kelly's bland announcement that Mr. Duffy had beencalled off for a few minutes, and there would be a recess in voting. 

"'Tis beyond _me_, " said Father Kelly, "but watch the girl; she'sgone straight to Freda Berglund. There, they're talking; they're goingoff together with Mrs. Orendorf. I can't give a guess, but she's agood girl. I'm hopeful. "

Norah had indeed gone straight to Freda Berglund. She addressed her inso low a voice that only Freda and Mrs. Orendorf, bending acrossFreda's shoulders at that instant, the better to cheapen a darning-bagfor stockings, could hear her words. "I want to see you, Freda, " shesaid. "Won't you and Mrs. Orendorf come away somewhere so we can talk?I have got something important to say. "

"I--don't--know, " faltered Freda. 

"I want Mrs. O'Brien, too, " said Norah, firmly. "It's all right;you'll think it all right, Mrs. Orendorf. Come, come; don't you seethose men who have been drinking? Don't you hear them? Don't you seeMrs. Finn, who used to think there was nobody like Mrs. Conner, looking the other way so's not to see her? Can't you hear thequarrelling all round? They've stopped voting, but they haven'tstopped quarrelling. Come!"

Although she had dropped her voice, the listeners were so close thatthey caught snatches of the sentences, and craned their necks forwardand hushed their own talk to listen. Mrs. Orendorf was not of a nimblehabit of thought; but she felt the electric impetus of the Irish girl;besides, was _she_ not bidden? Could she not protect Freda fromthe machinations of the enemy?

"Dot's so, Freda, " she concluded, stolidly. "Koom den, der only blacevere we can talk py uns is dot coal-closet wo is der eggstry ice-creamfreezer. Koom. I see Meezis O'Breen. "

Amid a startling pause, every eye questioning them, the three pickedup Mrs. O'Brien and sought the coal-closet. Then Norah turned. In thedim light her face shone whitely. Her full melodious voice shook theleast in the world with haste and excitement. "We've got to stopthis, " said she, "and I know how. Freda, I am going to withdraw myname. I wish to Heaven I never had let them put it on. You may havethe watch. "

Freda's tall figure was only an outline in the shadow; they could notsee her face; but the outline wavered backward. Her voice was stiffand cold. 

"I don't think that's fair. You have more votes than I have. "

Mrs. O'Brien opened her lips and shut them tightly. It was so dark noone saw her, or Mrs. Orendorf, as she sat on the freezer gulping downinaudible opinions regarding Norah's sanity. 

"I sha'n't have, " retorted Norah, impatiently, "when your fatherspends all his money that he mortgaged his farm--"

_"What!"_ cried Freda. 

"She not know; ve keep it von her, " muttered Mrs. Orendorf. "Fritzmake me promise not to tell. "

"Well, he didn't make _me_, " said Norah. "_I'll_ tell. Heraised the money, and he was trying to buy the votes, and I saw him. Ihaven't any father. I can't remember anything of my father except hisleading me about when I was a little thing by the finger, and how kindhis voice was; but I miss him--I miss him all the time; I know he wasa good man, and loved me; and he'd have done anything for me, just asyour father is doing; and I couldn't have borne it to have him, and Iwas sure you couldn't, either. Freda, it's all wrong, this spendingmore money than they can afford on us; I've felt it all along. Nowlet's stop it. The church has got enough. "

"Is it true about papa?" said Freda, in German. 

"_Ach Himmel_! Yes, my child. Dost thou not know thy father yet?For all he seems still and stern, thou art more than all the world tohim. " Mrs. Orendorf spoke in the same tongue; her other listenerscould not understand it, but they marvelled over the soft change inher voice. 

"It's true enough, Miss Freda, " said Mrs. O'Brien, gently. "And maybeyou're in the right of it, Norah darling, though 'tis a bit hard togive in; but, yes, I'm sure you're right. "

"You _are_ right, " said Freda, "and it's all been wrong, allwrong. But I've got to see my father first. Please come with me. "

As Norah had led them in the first place, Freda led them by an equallypotent although entirely different force now; it was Norah's turn tofollow, blindly. 

A hush everywhere in their wake betrayed that a consciousness of theirconference and its importance was in the air. Freda was pale, Norah'scheeks burned, but neither girl looked to the right or the left; andboth the matrons following avoided their friends' curiosity by asoldierly "eyes front. " Freda walked up to her father, who looked up, not altogether pleased, at her light touch on his arm. 

"This is no place for thee, my child, " said he; something in her facemade his voice gentler than common. She looked, he thought, dimly, asshe had looked when they got the news about Otto. 

"I _have_ to say something, " said Freda. 

"You beples stand back!" commanded Mrs. Orendorf, with a backwardimpulse of her elbows. 

"Yes, you stand back, ladies and gentlemen, please, " begged Mrs. O'Brien, smiling; "'twill all be explained to yous. " Only Norah stoodher ground; and Pat Barnes kept in the front rank of the bystanders. 

"What is it?" growled Berglund, bristling at the circle of faces muchreadier for peace than war. 

"She wants to give the watch to me, " explained Freda, rapidlyrepeating almost word for word Norah's offer. As she spoke suspicionwrinkled the corners of old Fritz's eyes. 

"Maypi sie know sie vill git peten, " he muttered, loud enough forNorah to hear. Then, as he saw her color turn, his hard face softened. "No, " he said, clearly, "it don't be _dot_; dot Pat Barnes gothis pocket full of moneys; no, sie is a goot schild, und her fader hevas a goot mans; sie haf a hard dime mit no fader to look oudt forher. " He turned to Norah, whose swimming eyes met his full. Pat Barnestried to cough down his emotion and made a strange squeak; but nobodysmiled; the crowded hall was curiously still as Fritz limped up toNorah. "No, ve don't can take it off you; can ve, Freda?" said he. 

Freda slipped her hand into her father's arm. "No, Norah, " she said. "I withdraw my name. And I'm prouder to have my father than all thewatches in the world!"

"Sure, you're right there, mavourneen, " cried Mrs. O'Brien. "Whisht, all of you! These blessid children have got the way out of all thismess; they're better Christians than anny of us. " Mrs. Orendorffrowned fiercely, reached for her handkerchief, and wiped her face. 

Father Kelly felt it time for his own word, and stepped into thecircle. A sentence or two from Mrs. O'Brien made the quick-witted oldIrishman master of the incident. 

"As I understand it, " his full, rich, Celtic tones purred, "'tis thefeeling of both these young ladies that there is hard feeling andstrife and wasteful spending of money coming out of what was meant tobe a good-natured contest for the good of the church; but thisdisputing, this spending, are neither for the good of the church northe glory of God--far from it--God forgive us our weakness. So boththese young ladies withdrew their names. We have cause to be proud ofthem both, as they surely have cause to be proud of the loyalty oftheir friends. " (Irrepressible applause. ) "And the kindest thing theirfriends can do is to shake hands all around. " (A voice--in point offact, the voice of the widow Murray: "But what will the sodality dowith the watch?") "The watch is the property of the parish. " HereFather Kelly paused, his persuasive argument rolling back on himself;_he didn't_ know what to do with the watch. It was too perilousto run the risk of new discords over it. The priest cast a distressrocket in a look at the Vicar-General; but the Vicar-Generalperfidiously smiled and looked away. 

Up spoke Norah, her sweet voice not quite steady, her cheekscrimson--but they all heard her: "It's a large gold watch. Why can'twe give it to Father Kelly?"

The Vicar-General's lifted hand stilled the shout that rose. 

"Why not?" called he. "Father Kelly is not a young lady, but he ispopular. "

And Father Kelly, putting both hands over his blushes, ran away fromthe frantic roar of applause and laughter. The Vicar-General pursuedhim to say:

"You were right, Kelly; she _is_ a good girl--and a wise one!"

Perhaps the only person in the hall who was not either shouting orscreaming, according to sex, was Norah's mother; and the cloud on herface lightened when she saw Norah coming to her on Pat Barnes's armand Pat's face aglow. 

Freda saw them too; she slipped her hand into her father's arm. 

"_Liebchen_!" said he, stroking it with his rough fingers, "Iwill get thee a watch some day, never fear!"

But it was not the thought of a watch that made Freda's heart lighterthan for many a day. "I don't want a watch, " said she. "Oh, I'm sorryfor Norah, who can't even remember about her father!"

THE END