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By Gouverneur Morris

Published byCharles Scribner's Sons

If You Touch Them They Vanish. Illustrated. Net $1. 00

The Penalty. Illustrated. Net $1. 35

It, and Other Stories. Net $1. 25

The Spread Eagle, and Other Stories. Net $1. 20

The Footprint, and Other Stories. $1. 50

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[Illustration: "If I had the power, " he thought, "I'd settle this regionwith innocent people who have been accused of crimes. "]

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IF YOU TOUCH THEM THEY VANISH

By Gouverneur Morris

With illustrations by Charles S. Chapman

New York Charles Scribner's Sons 1913

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Copyright, 1913, by Charles Scribner's Sons

Published October, 1913

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ToJohn Frederick Byers

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Illustrations

"If I had the power, " he thought, "I'd settle this regionwith innocent people who have been accused of crimes" Frontispiece

 FACING PAGE

"Only come back, darlint"--she fought against tears--"andI'll fill the house with helpers from attic to cellar" 42

"Now how about a sawmill--right here?" 80

During the winter the Poor Boy made two excursionssouthward through his valley and beyond 86

She suddenly stopped running, and turned and waited for him 96

His fingers began to follow an air that flowed witheternal sadness like blood from a broken heart 120

"She will always be just as I see her now, noolder, untroubled, gentle, and dear" 132

And then carrying her swiftly home, he proceeded to go quite mad 144

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I

Old Martha wondered if the Poor Boy would have a smile for her. He hadhad so many in the old days, the baby days, the growing-up days, thecollege days, the "world so new and all" days. There were some which shewould always remember. The smile he smiled one Christmas morning, whenhe put the grand fur coat around her shoulders, and the kiss on hercheek. The smile he smiled that day when they met in front of thephotographer's, and he took her in and had their photograph takentogether: she sitting and glaring with embarrassment at the camera, hestanding, his hand on her shoulder, smiling--down on her. 

To save her life she could not recall a harsh word in his mouth, a harshlook in his eyes. In the growing-up days he had been sick a great deal;but the trustees and the doctors had put their trust in old Martha, andshe had pulled him through. When the pain was too great, her Poor Boywas always for hiding his face. It was thus that he gathered strength toturn to her once more, smiling. It was Martha who spoke stories ofprincesses and banshees and heroes and witch-wolves through the longnights when he could not sleep. It was old Martha who drew the tub ofred-hot water that brought him to life, when the doctor said he wasdead. 

If he had been her own, she could not have loved him more. 

How many hundred cold nights she had left her warm bed, to return, bluewith cold, after seeing that he was well covered! How she had dreadedthe passing of time that brought him nearer and nearer to manhood, inwhose multiple interests and cares old tendernesses and understandingsare so often forgotten. But wherever he went, whatever he did, he hadalways an eye of his mind upon Martha's feelings in the matter. She wasold, Irish, unlettered, but as a royal duchess so was she deferred to inthe Poor Boy's great house upon the avenue. 

Old Martha had seats for the play whenever she wanted them. And veryhandsome she looked, with her red cheeks and her white hair, and herthick black silk. One winter, when she had a dreadful cold, the Poor Boytook her to Palm Beach in his car, and introduced all his smart friendsto her. But it was as if they had always known her, for the Poor Boy, who talked a great deal, never talked for long without celebrating "mynurse. "

"Oh, " he might say, "I, too, have known what it is to have a mother. "

Or coming home late from some gay party, the sparkle still in his eyes, he might say to the old woman herself:

"I love people, but I love you more. "

Of the Poor Boy who gave her so much she had never asked but one thing. One simple kindly act in the future. She had made him promise her that;take his oath to it, indeed; cross his tender heart. She had made himpromise that when at last she lay dead, he would come to her and closeher eyes. 

He would keep his word; not a doubt of it. But he would do more. Hewould see to it that in Woodlawn, where his young father and mother lay, old Martha should lie, too, and that the ablest sculptor of the timeshould mark her grave for the ages. 

The Poor Boy had the intuition of a woman, and the tenderness; he hadthe imagination of a poet and the simplicity of a child. Everybody lovedhim--the slim, well-knit, swift body, carrying the beautiful round head;the face, so handsome, so gentle, and so daring. He was not cast in aheroic mould, but he was so vivid that in groups of taller, strongermen it was the Poor Boy whom you saw first. Half the girls did, anyway, and most of the wives, and all the old grandmothers. The most ambitiousgirls forgot that he was princely rich, and wanted him for himselfalone. But the "world-so-new-and-all" was cram-jammed with flowers, andthe Poor Boy was dazzled, and did not more than half make up his mindwhich was the loveliest. 

Old Martha was a firm believer in love at first sight (otherwise shemight never have been a wet-nurse), and often, when the Poor Boy camehome from some great gathering of people, she would ask him, "Did ithappen to yez?" And he knew what she meant, and teased her a littlesometimes, saying that he wasn't "just quite sure. " (And hewasn't--always. )

One day the world crashed about old Martha's ears. The Poor Boy stood upin the court and said, "Not guilty, " in his clear, ringing voice. Butthey didn't believe her child, her angel, and when they sent him toprison she tore her white hair, and beat her head against the wall ofher bedroom until she fell senseless. And indeed it was true thatJustice, the light woman, had again been brought to bed of amiscarriage. But who was to believe that, when Justice's whole familyand her doctor gave out that the child was clean-run and full time? Ifany believed there were not many. The Poor Boy was a poor boy, indeed, and it seemed to him (trying so very hard not to go mad) that his lifewas all over. 

As a matter of fact, it was getting ready at last to begin. 

II

One day old Martha received the following letter:

 "MARTHA, DEARIE: I didn't do it. But only you believe that, and I. You will go to Joyous Guard, for love of me, and put the cottage in order. I shall live there when I come out, and you shall take care of me. But are you too old? Can you do the cooking and the housework for us two? It's I that will split the wood and carry the coals. If the work is too heavy, dearie, you must choose some one to help you. Some one who will never come where I am, whom I shall never have to look in the face. For it's you only that I can look in the face now, or bear to have look in mine. My more than mother, God bless you, and believe me always, with all my love, your

 "POOR BOY. "

"Choose some one to help her!" Old Martha snorted. "Not if I was dead inmy coffin and him wantin' only me, " she said, "I'd rise up and boil mylamb's eggs for him. "

But it was not alone that she sped northward to that great valley in themountains, which the Poor Boy had called Joyous Guard, after Launcelot'sdomain. She took with her the Poor Boy's butler, a man of rare executiveability, and a young architect for whom the Poor Boy had had belief andaffection. These three camped out in the cottage, and sent forthelectric messages to plumbers, and upholsterers, and cabinet-makers. Ifher boy was to live in a tiny stone cottage, old Martha would see to itthat that cottage should be a gem. She could spend what she pleased. Shehad been paid no wages since the Poor Boy's coming of age. Bonds withgilt edges were given to her on that day, deeds to two houses in whichgentlefolk lived, and at all the stores where the Poor Boy had creditshe had credit, just as his own mother would have had. She was a richwoman in her own right. And the young architect knew that, and in hisheart was amazed at always finding her on the floor in a lake of lather, crooning as she scrubbed. 

"Martha, " he said once, "you're a bird. I wish I'd met you when _I_ wasa baby. "

And she answered:

"Don't be thrackin' mud into the study. " And then, "Mister Cotter, " shesaid, "if ye have a heart in your body, put it into the furnace flue. Itwas always a bad egg for drawin', and betimes the snow will lie six feetdeep in the valley. "

"I'll put my heart and soul in that flue, Martha, for your sake, andwe'll put it to the ordeal by fire. But who's to feed the furnace?"

"Who's to feed the furnace!" she put back her head and laughed. "Who butlove, young man? Love will feed the furnace, press the trousers, andclean the boots. There will be no one to care for him but me. Mindthat. No one but old Martha. Twenty year I've shed be the knowledge. It's no mere woman ye behold, Mister Cotter, 't is an army!"

"By Jove, " he said, "I believe you. "

And he passed out with his measuring-stick into the bright sunlight. Andthere stood, drawing deep breaths of the racy September air, and fillinghis eyes almost to overflowing with the magic beauty of the valley. 

It spread away southward from the base of the cliff upon which he stood, melting at last into blue distance; an open valley studded with groupsof astounding trees which were all scarlet and gold. Mountains, deep-green, purple, pale-violet, framed the valley, and through itsmidst was flung a bright blue necklace of long lakes and serpentinerivers. In the nearest and largest lake, towering castles of white cloudcame continuously and went. Very far off, browsing among lily pads, Mr. Cotter could see a cow moose and her calf. And, high over his head, there passed presently a string of black duck. He could hear the strongbeating of their wings. 

Mr. Cotter was a practical man. 

"Why the hell did he do it?" he mused. "He might have married, andwanted a real house in this paradise, and told me to go as far as Iliked. He'd have asked us all up to stay--and now, my God! all it canever be is a cage for a jail-bird. "

When at last the cottage was in exquisite order, old Martha sent theothers away and stayed on alone. In her room she had an elaboratecalendar. To each day was tacked the name of its patron saint. 

The old woman was religious, but every night she drew her pencil throughthe name of a saint, and the days passed, and the Poor Boy's term inprison drew swiftly to an end. 

"Monday week, " she said. "Next Monday. " "Day after to-morrow. ""To-morrow. " "O Father of mine in heaven; O saints; O Motherheart--to-day!"

III

Old Martha wondered if the Poor Boy would have a smile for her. Sheimagined that he would look sick and broken, and that if he smiled atall it would be the bitter smile of the wronged. She imagined that hewould wear ready-made clothes supplied by the prison authorities; andthat he would no longer walk erect, upon swift feet, but bowed over, with dragging steps. 

When he came at last what profoundly shocked her was none of this; butthat to the superficial eye he had not changed at all. His hair, perhaps, was a little shorter than she remembered; his face was notexactly pale; it was more as if he had sat up too late, and was havingan off day. As for the smile for which she hoped and longed, it beganwhen he saw her running toward him, very swiftly for a heavy old woman, and it ended on her cheek. 

"My old dear!" he said. 

He took her hand and swung it as children do, and walked beside her intothe cottage. 

The spickness and spanness of it smote him between the eyes; theimagination and the taste which had changed it from a hunting-lodge intoa gentleman's house, and the tact which had done away with thephotographs of friends, and all things that could remind him of olddays. He passed the whole house in review from top to bottom, andgratitude to the old servant grew very warm in the tired heart. 

They stepped out from the living-room to the edge of the cliff andlooked down the great valley. 

"There was no time, " said Martha, tremulous with joy, for she had beenmuch praised, "to put the landscape to rights. "

The Poor Boy looked up into the blue vault of heaven. 

"Stone walls, " he said, "and _that_, have been my landscape. "

"But now, " she said, "any day you like you can view the world from hereto the North Pole. "

He smiled. 

"That way's south, Martha, " he said, "but it will do. We own all the wayto the ocean that way; but north only to the lake where the riverrises. But even that's a day's travel. Oh, there's room enough even forme, and there's a great deal too much for you, you poor old dear. Buthave you made friends in the village? You must have them up to see you, days when I'm off somewhere or other. And you must have a helper, I seethat. Yes, you must. If necessary, I'll face him, or her. I won't haveyou breaking down with looking after me. Don't say a word. I know you. You think it would be high jinks to wear your eyes out and your handsoff for me, but I won't have it. The cottage is bigger than I remember. But maybe you've added to it, you old witch. "

He stepped to the very edge of the cliff and looked straight down, towhere, two hundred feet below, the perpendicular was first broken by aslope of titanic bowlders, among which the trunks of dwarfed pinestwisted here and there into the light, from the deep-buried soil. 

"How easy, " he thought, "to make an end!"

A dozen feet away old Martha fussed and fumed, like a hen over aduckling. 

"Come back! Come back!" she said. 

But the Poor Boy put on his teasing face, and danced a double shuffle, on the very edge of the big drop. Then, as suddenly, the fun went out ofhis eyes, and he came back. 

"Oh, Martha, " he said, his hand on her shoulder, "I am so tired. "

Upon the great leather lounge in front of the living-room fire, he laydown. His ankles crossed, his hands crossed, his eyes on the ceiling, helooked like those effigies of knights which you have seen on tombs. 

His eyes closed. He could hear her, dimly, putting wood on the fire. 

"Yes, " he said, "you must have help. I see that, " the handsome mouthsmiled; "'only I don't really see it, said Alice, '" he went on, "'because my eyes are closed, and I am falling so fast into a deep darkwell that the white rabbit will never, never catch up with me. ' Bet youa box of candy, Martha, you can't pry my eyes open with a crowbar. "

For a long time the old woman dared not move, for fear her boots mightcreak. She continually wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, andrather than snuffle, heroically endured a running nose. 

He had grown up in her care. Between herself and nature it was always aclose race as to which should be the first to know his needs. But evento a stranger it must now have been obvious that he had not slept wellfor a long time. His face, having passed from under the control of hisintellect, was haggard and harassed, the muscles of expression twitchedand jumped. The hands upon his breast, their fingers interlocked, strained, and twisted. 

A shoe creaked, a strong, cool hand lay lightly on the Poor Boy'sforehead. He became quiet, one by one his muscles went into a state ofcomplete relaxation; he breathed now with long, slow breaths. An hourpassed. 

The hand was lifted from his forehead, two shoes creaked a number oftimes, there was a rustling of heavy curtains, four times repeated; ateach rustling the room grew darker. A door closing sounded faintly. ThePoor Boy slept on. But for his breathing you might have thought himdead, flat on his back, ankles crossed, hands peacefully folded. 

It was the middle of the night when he waked. 

"Martha. "

The old woman was there, crouched between the lounge and the fire. Godknew how her poor bones ached. The Poor Boy would never know. 

"Yes, dearie. "

"Put your arms around me like old times and tell me you _know_ I didn'tdo it. "

There arose in the room, like sad music, the sound of the old woman'ssobbing. 

"I'm so tired, " said the Poor Boy, "and so glad. "

This time he slept till morning. 

IV

For many days it appeared as if the Poor Boy's entire efforts weredirected into an attempt to sleep off his troubles. Experience was likea drug of which he could not rid himself; he waked, tried to read, triedto walk, tried to enjoy looking out over the valley, and soon gave itup, and threw himself on his bed, or on the big lounge in theliving-room. And these days, of course, so the pendulum swings, werefollowed by days and nights in which he could not sleep at all. 

But old Martha was not worried, though she pretended to be. It wasnatural that having slept too much he should now sleep too little. Sheprescribed exercise and usefulness. One day she made him wash all thedishes, and prune all the rose-vines, and tie them in readiness forstraw jackets when winter should set in, and she made him split wood inthe cellar, and after dinner she made him go to the piano and play Irishmusic for her until the sweat stood out on his forehead. Then sheordered him under a cold shower, and when he was in bed she pulled up achair, and told him the longest and dullest story she knew--"The Bansheeof Kilmanogg. " And behold he slept, and was wakened by birds in the ivywho were talking over their plans for going south for the winter. 

The Poor Boy opened his rested eyes and listened to the birds. Therewere some who intended to travel by the seaboard air-line, others by themidland air-line; for the most part they were going to Florida and theGulf States for the cold months; but a certain robin and his wife, tempted by the memory of crumbs and suet which a wise and wonderful oldlady always put out for them, had determined to winter at Aiken in theholly-tree that stood by the old lady's window. There were comparisonsof resorts and disputes about them. 

In the party were young birds who had never been south at all. And acertain old bachelor bird amused himself very heartily at the expense ofthese. He did not dwell upon the beauty of the journey that was beforethem, but upon its inconveniences, its dangers, and its horrors. 

"The midland route would be all right, " he said, "if it weren't for thefarmers' boys with their long guns and the--ever see a cat, Bub?"

"No, " twittered Bub nervously. "Don't expect to. _I'm_ for theseaboard. "

"That would be sense, " said the old bachelor, "if it weren't for theStatue of Liberty. "

"The what?"

"It's a big light--you never know just what it is, because when you flyinto it to see, it breaks your neck and all the other worthless bones inyour body. "

"I'm not agoing to fly into any light. "

"You _think_ you won't, " said the bachelor ominously. "But first yourbrains will scatter figuratively, and then--literally. Too bad!--toobad!"

All the young birds shuddered. 

"Those big snakes in the South are rather nasty things, too, " continuedthe bachelor bird. "I'm used to them, of course, and I've proved dozensof times that there's no such thing as hypnotism; but the effect of asnake's eye on very young and inexperienced birds is inconceivable, andnot to be reconciled to the Darwinian theory or Mendel's law. Whatbetween snakes, hawks, and women's hats, the life of a bird--"

"Isn't what it used to be. "

The bachelor turned upon his interrupter and scowled. 

"On the contrary, " he said, "it's _exactly_ what it used to be. Andthat's the--ahem--of it! Pardon me, ladies. "

"When do you start?" he was asked. 

"Not for a week, " he answered pompously. "I have several little odds andends to look into first--" And right in the midst of his speech the callof the South hit him in the middle, you may say. It always does hit abird like that, and it is contagious like girls fainting in a factory. 

The cynical bachelor flew suddenly to the tipmost top of a tree, andpoured forth the whole of his heart and soul in a song of the South. "I've got to go--I've got to go, " he sang:

 "For it's there that I must be, Where the flower of the pomegranate blazes In the top of the pomegranate tree. 

 "And as for the dangers of travel, I'd laugh--if I hadn't to sing. For a gale is a silly old zephyr And a bird is a wonderful thing, A wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful thing. "

Two more verses he sang at the top of his lungs, broke off short with ashrill cry of joy, and took wing. 

Then the south-sickness spread, and even the young birds flew to thetops of trees, and defied gales, snakes, the Statue of Liberty, the boywith the gun, and the female (you wouldn't call her a woman) with theuntrimmed hat. And away they flew, in ones and twos, until there wereonly a few left. One of these hopped on the window-sill in full view, and told the Poor Boy to get up. 

"Don't be setting such an example of sloth, " she said, and squeaked ather own temerity and flew away. 

The Poor Boy leaped from bed, and flung his pajamas afar, and rushed forcold water. 

The shower fell heavily with wondrous iciness, and the Poor Boy sangaloud and praised God, who had once more returned him the gift of seeingand hearing. At breakfast he told Martha, and with the utmost gravityrepeated to her everything that the birds had said--for _him_. 

V

The power of imagining returned to him slowly. There were whole dayswhen his inner eyes and ears remained obstinately blind and deaf. When a

 "Primrose by the river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more"

(only there were no primroses at this season); when the southing birdsin the ivy outside his window only made noises and were a nuisance; andwhen the burden of his thoughts was one long "done for--done for--donefor. " It was the affection of many people that he missed most, and thefaith that so many people had had in him--shattered forever. But hemissed their voices, too, and their faces; the cheerful sounds of"talking at once"; the massing of fresh, lovely gowns, the scintillationof jewels, the smell of gardenias, the music of violins, hidden byscreens of palms and bay-trees. 

What had he done to deserve exile and ostracism? He asked himself thatquestion thousands of times. He knew, of course, what he was believed tohave done, but he was in search of some committed sin, to account forhis having been punished for one that had only been circumstantiallyalleged. And in the whole memory that he had of his life and acts hecould not find an answer. Every life is full of little sins, but ofmajor ones the Poor Boy had no recollection. 

On the days when his imagination was "no good" he had the face of onewho is worried over something important that has been lost and that cannot be found. And, indeed, the gift was of tremendous importance to him, and he knew it. It was the weapon with which he must fight off insanity;the tongs with which he must snatch from the fires of experiencewhatever bright fragments of life were not yet consumed. 

Now this imagination of the Poor Boy's was not a servant that came andwent at command, but a master. He could not say to himself, "now I willlie back upon the wings of my imagination and fly a pleasant hour"--orrather he could say just that if he liked, but nothing would happen. Itwas he who served; he was an abode in which his imagination might lodgewhenever it so pleased, and whence it might also fare forth. In the olddays it had found lodgment in the Poor Boy's head decidedly comfortable, and had made long stays; but since society had wreaked its vengeanceupon him, it seemed as if his head, as a dwelling-place, had lost itscomforts and advantages. 

His imagination was not of the kind which makes for literature or music. It could not, in other words, shake itself clear of experience, andjourney into the unknown and the untried. It was not creative, but itwas of a quality so intense and vivid as to wage, sometimes, successfuldisputes with the tangible and the real. Its action was a kind ofdreaming of dreams, whose direction and outcome lay within the option ofthe dreamer. 

Old Martha found him one day sitting on the kitchen steps with his feetin the first snow of the winter. But the Poor Boy was really at PalmBeach with a car-load of his friends, and he was not at all cold, hethanked her, but hot--positively hot. 

Notwithstanding, she ordered a change of shoes and socks, and listenedat his door half a dozen times that night for sounds of incipient cold. 

The old woman's mirror told her that she was getting thin, that the workshe had undertaken was too hard for her, and sometimes when the mendrove in from the village with supplies (and the Poor Boy hid himself)she blarneyed them into lending a hand here and there. For a good jokesweetened with a little base flattery she got coals carried now andthen, or heavy pieces of furniture moved when she was house-cleaning;but to the Poor Boy's constant appeals that she bring into the house apermanent helper she turned a deaf ear. As a matter of fact, havinglived the best part of her life for the Poor Boy, she proposed, ifpossible, to die for him. 

But when ("on top of the thinness, " as he put it) she caught a heavycold, he took the matter in dispute wholly out of her jurisdiction. 

The cold having run its course and gone its way, he appeared to her onemorning dressed for the winter woods. He had on moccasins and manythicknesses of woolens; he carried a knapsack and a light axe. He laidthese on the kitchen table, and went into the cellar, where his longskis had passed the summer. He brought them, turning the corner of thecellar stairs with difficulty, back to the kitchen, and began to examinethe straps with which they are adjusted to the feet. He asked for alittle oil with which to dress the leather. She brought him oil in asaucer. 

He dressed the straps of his skis and talked, more to himself than toher. 

"Killing is bad, but in case I do actually run out of food I'd bettertake a rifle. I suppose the sleeping-bag will keep me warm, still I'dtake along an extra blanket if it weren't so heavy. I'm not as fit as Iused to be. Seems to me this compass acted queerly the last time I usedit. Didn't I tell you once, Martha, about getting lost up here because acompass played me tricks? There were people to find me that time--butwhat's the odds? I can't get lost twice on my own acres. And what's theodds if I do?--"

Old Martha couldn't stand it any longer. 

"Is it for fun you're scaring me out of my wits, young man?"

"_Scaring_ you, Martha?" His face was innocent of any guile. 

"Where do you think you're going, and when do you think you're comin'back--and me all alone in the house?"

Now his eyes gleamed way down in their brown depths with a spark apieceof malice. 

"I don't know where I'm going, " he said, "but I know that I'm not comingback until a little bird tells me that you have hired some one to helpyou with the housework. "

She was furious. 

"Faith, then, " she said, "you'll not come back till Doom's Day. "

He concluded his preparations in silence, and carried his skis outdoorsto put them on. 

"I say, Martha, " he called, "hand me my pack and things, will you?"

"I will not. "

He laughed, and managed, with more laughter and some peril, to come upthe steps and into the kitchen on his skis. 

He adjusted the pack to his shoulder, put on his mittens, and took uphis rifle and his axe. Malice still gleamed in his eyes. 

He went out as he had entered, but with more difficulty and peril. Hecrossed the kitchen-yard with long, easy strides. 

But Martha was running after him, bareheaded. She lost a carpet slipperin the deep snow. 

"Only come back, darlint"--she fought against tears--"and I'll fill thehouse with helpers from attic to cellar. "

"One, " said the Poor Boy judicially, "will do. The nearest employmentbureau will be in Quebec. Isn't there somebody in the village?"

"In the village! In Quebec!"

[Illustration: "Only come back, darlint"--she fought against tears--"andI'll fill the house with helpers from attic to cellar. "]

Her indignation was tremendous. 

"This side of New York there's not a gentleman's servant to be had, "said she, "and but few there. I'll have to go meself. "

"Couldn't you write?"

"Full well you know that I can only make me mark, and never the twicetalike. "

"Well, " said the Poor Boy, "the change will do you good, and I'll campout in the house instead of in the woods till you come back. It will beeasier, and ever so much safer. "

The next day, looking very grand in her furs and feathers, old Marthastarted for New York. As the man from the village drove her through thewoods to the little railroad station the tears froze on her veil. 

VI

Old Martha was longer in New York than she had intended to be. Therewere plenty of servants out of work on the lists of the variousemployment agencies which she visited. But Martha's requirements weresuch as the average servant can not meet or will not face, andcandidates for the place and wages she offered asked questions and werenot satisfied with her answers. 

"And where is the house?"

"Canada. "

"Is it a city?"

"It's country. "

"Are there neighbors?"

"No. "

"What manner of man is the master?"

"A fine, kind man. "

"Married?"

"Single. "

"An old man?"

"A young man. But you'll not see the master. "

"Me work for a man I don't see?"

"He don't see nobody but me. "

"What ails him?"

"Nothing. 'Tis his way. He's shy o' people. "

"There'll be no company, then?"

"None. "

"What men will there be to help about the place?"

"The men that drive in from the village with supplies. "

"How far off is the village?"

"Twelve miles. When they can't drive they come in on snow-shoes. "

"Hum!"

"What more can I tell you?"

"You've told enough. I would not touch the place with a pole, not fortwice the wages. I'd rather be dead than twelve miles from everywhereand never a man in the house. "

Girls who seemed able and willing wouldn't go, two were willing to trythe place for a month, but Martha did not like their faces or theirvoices. She was in despair, until one day, far from any employmentagency, a chance meeting settled the matter. 

"Why, Martha!"

"If it isn't Miss Joy!"

And for a moment old Martha was dazed, for except in the pursuit ofsport, tennis or golf, Miss Joceylin Grey was not the sort of girl whois met walking. And here she was crossing Madison Square on the longdiagonal, in shoes that had not been blacked that day, and furthermoreshe was not headed for the avenue but away from it, and dusk wasdescending upon the city. And furthermore the color that had been herchiefest glory in the old Palm Beach and Newport days was all gone, andshe looked very thin and delicate, and tired and discouraged. And where, oh where, were the gardenias that she always wore during the time ofyear when they are rarest and most expensive? Where even were thechild's gloves, old Martha asked herself, her sables? Her pearls?

"Why, Miss Joy, " she exclaimed, "you look as if your father had lostevery cint he had in the world. "

The girl flushed uneasily, but her eyes did not fall from the oldwoman's. 

"Everybody knows that, Martha. Where _have_ you been?"

"Stone deaf, " said Martha, "among me own sorrows. But you're all inblack. "

"I lost my father, too. "

Old Martha made a soft, crooning sound of pity. 

"So, " and Miss Joy tried to speak bravely. "I live all alone now, and--"

"Have ye no money?"

"Not a penny, Martha. I had a job as a reporter until they asked me todo things that I wouldn't do. "

"And when did you lose this job?"

"Day before yesterday. "

"And now?"

"Oh, something will turn up. "

"Meaning that nothing has. "

"Not yet. " She was beginning to shiver with the cold. "Good-by, Martha, it's good to see you again, and I could stand here talking till allhours if it wasn't for the wind. "

She had given both her hands to Martha, but this one would not let themgo. Her fine, gentle, old face became set and obstinate. 

"When did you eat last?"

The girl smiled wanly and shivered. 

She felt her arm being drawn through Martha's. She felt herself pulledrapidly toward the avenue. 

Martha, satisfied with the face of a passing taxicab's driver, whistledwith sudden, piercing shrillness. 

"Where are you taking me?"

Old Martha's eyes became humorous. It was pleasant to her to play fairygodmother to a millionaire's daughter. 

"To me suite in the St. Savior, " said she. "To a hot tub, dearie, and ahot dinner, and a warm bed. "

In Martha's sitting-room were flowers. She could afford them. On thebureau in her bedroom was a large photograph of the Poor Boy, in aneighteen-carat gold frame, very plain and smart. 

While Martha was undoing the hooks of her dress Miss Joy stood in frontof the bureau and looked at this photograph. 

"Poor Boy, " she said presently. 

"What's that?" said Martha. 

"What's become of him, Martha?"

Martha told her. 

"It was all so wicked, " said the girl. 

"Wicked, " said Martha, "was no name for it. All his friends to believehe'd do a thing like that! I could skin them alive, the lot of them!"

"I was one of his friends, Martha. "

"I make no war on women, " said Martha. 

"I say I was one of his friends--but I never believed he did it--I meanhow could he, and why should he?"

"Perhaps you wrote to tell him you believed in him!"

"I wish I had, " said the girl, "but I thought everybody would, and thenyou know we had a sort of a misunderstanding; and I was going to, andthen my father's troubles got so bad that he couldn't hide them from me, and we used to talk them over all night sometimes, and I couldn't thinkabout anybody else's troubles. --Is he up there all alone?"

"There's the last hook. And now I'll draw a tub. "

Miss Joy undressed herself to the music of water roaring under highpressure into a deep porcelain tub. She was no longer hungry, for shehad had a glass of milk on arriving at the hotel, but she was very tiredand a little dizzy in her head. 

As is the custom with girls who have been brought up with maids todress and undress them, she flung her clothes upon a chair in adisorderly heap, and was no more embarrassed at being naked beforeMartha than if Martha had been a piece of furniture. 

"Come and talk to me, Martha, " she said, "while I soak. "

So Martha sat by the tub as by a bedside, and Miss Joy with a sigh ofcomfort lay at length in the hot water and they talked. 

"Is he up there all alone?"

"He is now. The housework was too heavy for one old woman. He sent me toNew York to find a helper. But the wages don't make up for theloneliness in the young biddy's mind--in what she is plazed to call hermind--and I'm five days lookin' about and nothing done. "

"Wages?" sighed Miss Joy. "They sound good to me. "

"To think of wages sounding good to you, Miss Joy!"

"But they do. I'd do almost anything for money. "

"Ye would not, Miss Joy. "

"You don't know me. "

"I know well that you could 'a' had Mr. Ludlow for the taking, and himnearly as rich as me Poor Boy. "

"So I could, " said Miss Joy, "and perhaps I shall marry him after all. "

"What!" exclaimed Martha. "Marry that old devil! Tell me ye'd soonerstarve--or--get out of me tub, and take yourself off!"

Old Martha rose hurriedly with a squeak of dismay, and rushed to closethe door between the bedroom and the sitting-room. She returnedbreathing fast. 

"They were knocking with the dinner, " she explained, "and all the doorsopen! Ye've soaked long enough, deary. Come out. "

"Not until you say that you know I wouldn't marry Mr. Ludlow to save mefrom drowning. "

"Full well I know it, " said Martha heartily. "Come out. "

The girl came out of the tub reluctantly, and presently, swathed inMartha's best lavender dressing-gown (she had bought it that morning), was lifting a spoonful of clear green-turtle soup to her lips. 

"Martha!"

"Miss Joy!"

"I see champagne. "

"'Tis not only to look at, Miss Joy. "

"It's wonderful, " said Miss Joy, "starving--I meet you--champagne--andto-morrow--"

Her sudden high spirits suddenly fell. 

"Oh, Martha, from the top of even a small tree to the ground is a cruel, hard fall!"

"We were speakin' of wages, Miss Joy. And of a certain young ladywillin' to do almost anything for money. Will ye come back to the woodswith me to help with the housework?"

"Oh, but Martha--it wouldn't do. It isn't as if I'd never known him--butwe were such good friends--and it would all be too uncomfortable andembarrassing. "

"Ye'd never see _him_, Miss Joy. "

"Never see him!"

"He will look no one in the face but me. The faces that he loved arenightmares to him now--all but old Martha's. No, Miss Joy--ye might, peepin' from behind curtains, set eyes on me Poor Boy, but as for you, he'd not know if you was man or woman, old or young, unless I told him. He has his rules; when the men come in from the village he disappearslike a ghost. When they have gone he comes back. There'd be hours forhousework, when he'd be out of the way, and that there was a born ladyhelping old Martha out and kapin' the poor woman company--he'd neverknow--never at all. "

"Hum, " said Miss Joy to the bubbles in her glass of champagne. 

"The life, " said Martha, "will bring back the color to your cheeks, theflesh to your bones, the courage to your heart. "

"Am I so dreadfully thin?"

"If I was that thin, " said Martha, "I'd hate to have me best friends seeme without me clothes. But ye've the makin's of a Vanus, and that's morethan ever I had. "

Miss Joy laughed aloud. 

Then, after a silence, and very seriously: "You're sure he'd never knowthat I was in the house?"

"Not unless I told him. "

"But you wouldn't tell him?"

"Not if he hitched wild horses to me sacret and lashed them. "

Another thoughtful silence. 

"There's just one thing, Martha, " said Miss Joy, "that I _won't_ do. "

Martha flung up her hands in a gesture of despair. 

"That's what they all say!" she cried. "That's how they all get out o'comin'. Well, what is it that ye won't do?"

Miss Joy hated to say. She was a little ashamed. She had enjoyed thereputation of being a good sport, a girl whom it was hard to dare. Butshe had her weakness. "I won't, " she said, "I won't--I can't--bringmyself to touch a live lobster. "

Old Martha's face became extremely grave. She leaned forward. She wasall confidence. 

"Deary, " she said, "nor more can I. "

The two women exploded into laughter, loud and prolonged. 

"Well, " said Miss Joy at last, and she was still laughing, "it's asporting proposition. .. . When do we start?"

"Ye must have warm clothes first. "

"I have no money, Martha. "

"Do ye remember a house ye took one winter, while your poor father wastearin' out the innerds of his own?"

"On Park Avenue and--"

"The same, " said Martha. "The northwest corner. Ye were my tenants thatwinter. .. . Yes, deary, I am a rich old woman. And, between you and me, your poor father wanted that house the worst way, and me agents stuckhim good and plenty. There's a balance comin' to ye, Miss Joy. 'Tis whatthey call conscience money, and 'twill buy ye warm clothes, and maybe abit jool to go at your throat. "

"Martha--Martha, what makes you so good to me?"

"Have ye not said ye never believed that me Poor Boy did what they saidhe did?"

"Is that the only reason?"

"There's another, " said Martha. "For in all the world, next to his, ye've the swatest face and way with yez. "

The old woman's emotions rose, and her brogue became heavier and heavierupon her, until her words lost all semblance of meaning. And Miss Joy, warm and well fed, leaned back in her deep chair and listened and triedto understand, and looked into Martha's face with eyes that were darkand misty with tenderness. 

And she slept that night and late into the next morning, withoutstirring. And when she waked there was already a little flicker of colorin her pale face. 

VII

"Well, Martha, " said the Poor Boy, when he had kissed her and welcomedher back, "did you find some one to help you?"

"She's a plain old thing, " said Martha, "but honest and with goodreferences. Would ye care to see her for yourself?"

"Good God, no, " said the Poor Boy. "As long as I live I don't want tosee any one but you. Tell her, will you? See that she understands. Tellher--gently, so as not to hurt her feelings, but firmly, that she hasonly to show herself to be dismissed. The day I see her--she goes. "

"She'll not thank you, " said old Martha. "Ye may safely leave that tome. "

"And if she isn't a real help to you, Martha, she goes. Another thing, I'd rather she didn't talk very loud or sing, if she can help it. Idon't want to know that she's here. "

To Martha's discerning and suspicious eyes the Poor Boy seemed nervous, ill at ease, and eager to be off somewhere. He was dressed for deepsnow-going, and kept swinging his mittens by the wrists and beating themtogether. He stood much on one foot and much on the other. 

"What's vexing you?" she asked. 

"Nothing, " he said. "I've found something off here, " he waved towardthe valley, "that amuses me--just a silly game, Martha, that goes on inmy head. The minute I get out of sight of the house it begins. It's doneit every day since you left. "

"What kind of a game will that be?"

"It's just making believe, " he said with a certain embarrassment, "pretending things--and it makes me forget other things. I'll be back bydark. "

He literally bolted, and could be heard saying sharp things to thestraps of his skis, which had become stiffened with the cold. 

Old Martha stood for a while staring at the door which he had closedbehind him. She wondered if by any possible chance his mind wasbeginning to go. To relieve her own she hurried back to Joy in thekitchen, and began a conversation that had not flagged by tea-time. 

The Poor Boy had found a long diagonal by which he could descend fromthe top of the cliff to the bottom in one swift silent slide. More thanhalf-way down there was a dangerous turn, but he had learned to ski atSt. Moritz when he was little, and never thought of the danger at all. The chief thing, turn or no turn, was to get to the bottom of the cliffas quickly as possible. Everything that was bitter and tragic in hislife ended there, in an open glade among towering white pines. 

The day that Martha had left for New York, the Poor Boy, standing verylonely on the top of the cliff and looking out over the valley, had beenstruck with a whimsical thought. 

"If I had the power, " he thought, "I'd settle this region with innocentpeople who have been accused of crimes. "

At this suggestion the component parts of his nature began a discussion. 

_Reason:_ How would you know they were innocent?

_Truthfulness:_ They'd tell me. And I'd know. 

_Snobbishness:_ Very few people in your station of life are accused ofcrime. 

_Cynicism:_ And very few of them are innocent. 

_Snobbishness:_ You wouldn't care to associate with people of lowerstation than yourself. 

_Affection:_ I love Martha better than anybody in the world. 

_Reason:_ Think of something more sensible. 

_Love of Detail:_ I wonder how we could dispose of sewage withoutpolluting lakes and streams? I must send for books on the disposal ofsewage. 

_Love of the Beautiful:_ I should like to settle the whole valleywithout changing the look of it--from here. 

_Eyes_ (roving from one group of screening trees to the next): It can bedone. Put your village on the east side of the big lake, back of thehardwood ridge. Do you remember Placid Brook? That will flow through themain street. It will be kept clean and well stocked with trout, so thatthe old men can fish from the bridges. Above the village there shall bea path along the brook, all in the shade. Can't you see the girls andboys walking, two and two?

_Love of Detail:_ All the houses in the village must be white. Who isgoing to make the laws?

_Ego:_ I am. Because I own the valley. And put up the money. 

_Modesty:_ But there will be lots of men wiser than I am. And they willhelp. 

_Sudden Impulse:_ The women shall have votes. 

_Childishness:_ The men shan't. 

_Reason:_ Now I wonder. It's never been tried, and maybe it's what theworld is waiting for and striving for. 

_Touch of Genius and Prophecy:_ It shall be tried. It is what the worldneeds. No votes for men. No men on juries. .. . 

_Memory:_ (Things too recent and poignant for utterance. )

_Vague Idea Gathered at School:_ Am I going to stand for being taxedwithout representation?

_Sense of Justice:_ No. 

_Self-confidence:_ But if I can't influence some woman's vote I may aswell drown myself. 

_Reason:_ Some men have no influence over anybody. _They_ won't standfor taxation without representation. 

The Poor Boy (as a whole) gives up with reluctance the idea of agovernment of the ladies, by the ladies, and for the ladies. 

_Wish to Do the Next Best Thing:_ Let it be a government bycommission--a commission of three. A man and a woman--and--

_Touch of Genius:_ The children must be represented. They shall elect achild. 

_Sense of the Ridiculous:_ Upon a platform of "Baseball in thestreets--longer vacations, and more of them. "

_Reason:_ The child must not be related to the other members of thecommission. We are against affairs of state being influenced by aslipper. 

_Sense of Decency, Good Form, Breeding, etc. :_ Candidates shall not votefor themselves; nor stump the valley proclaiming at the top of theirlungs that they alone can keep the country from going to the dogs. 

_Fondness for an Occasional Glass of Champagne:_ How about liquor?

_Self-control:_ If _everybody_ else will do without it, _I_ will. 

_Human Nature:_ We must encourage early marriages. 

_Ego:_ Of course, you exempt yourself. 

_Whole System of Nerves and Circulation:_ I do not!

_Fastidiousness:_ She must be so and so and so (but he only succeeded inconjuring up a vague shadow of a girl). 

Beginning like this (or something like it), deliberately, and thinkingup things as he went along, the Poor Boy's imagination suddenly steppedin and took such a terrific grip of the situation that little by littlethe idea of a model settlement became as real as the most vivid andlogical dream. 

The valley was under three feet of snow. There was four feet of snowupon the surrounding hills and mountains, but already the engineers, headed by the Poor Boy, had been at work, and the masons and thecarpenters. And many miles of ditches had been dug, and dams built, anda powerhouse, and roads (always among trees--so that the natural beautyof the valley was not so much as scratched), and already the village wascomplete, with its white houses and white school (with its longerholidays and more of them), its white library with the long lovelycolonnade, commission house facing it, gardens in front of everydwelling, and pairs of lovers strolling by Placid Brook. 

Furthermore the village was full of people already, and half a dozen ofthem had been so clearly designed by the Poor Boy's imagination that hecould see them, every line of their faces, every detail of theirclothes. He knew every intonation of their voices. When he talked withthem, he did not have to make up their answers--they just came. Andbetter, other people, at first dim figureheads, were becoming clearerand more vivid all the time, so it seemed sure that before long he wouldknow even the dogs of his settlement by sight. 

The greatest difficulty in the game that he was playing lay in theimperfection of his memory. As he built each house in the village he sawit as plainly as I see the pages on which I am writing, but leaving itto go at the next house he had to return again and again to fix theimage of the first. For instance, he got the whole village built, andlying in his bed that night could only remember with real distinctionthe commission house, the library, and one dwelling house, far down themain street. The rest was vague--houses--white houses--not high--notcrowded, but all blurred and without detail, as if seen through tears. 

He built the village, parts of it, four or five times before it became adefinite thing to him. Before he could stop, let us say, before theBrowns' house and take pleasure in the trim of their front door, beforehe could see the heliotrope growing in the snow-white jardinière in theliving-room window, before he knew that Mrs. Brown made cookies everyFriday, and that if you went round to the kitchen door and were veryhungry and polite she gave them away while they were still hot andcrisp. 

It was precisely to call on Mrs. Brown that the Poor Boy had been soeager to leave his own house. Realities began for him at the bottom ofthe cliff. The road to the village crossed the glade in the pinewoods--the snow was packed and icy with much travel, with the sliding ofrunners and the semicircular marks of horses' hoofs. As the Poor Boysped along on his skis, he met people in sleighs and was overtaken andpassed by others. They were his people--his alone. He had cheerful wordsfor all of them, and they for him. They were hazy--a little--to theeye, but here and there he caught a face clearly and did not forget itagain--a baby in a blue-and-white blanket coat, that had bright redcheeks and that smiled and showed two brand-new teeth; a boy with barehands and red knuckles (the Poor Boy sent him a pair of warm mittensfrom the village store), and ears (one bigger than the other) whichstuck straight out. 

The Poor Boy came to a halt suddenly where a stream too vigorous to beice-bound crossed the road (under a concrete bridge that had been builtonly the day before), ran out over a ledge of smooth granite and fellthirty feet with a roar. 

"Yes, " said the Poor Boy, "there's got to be a sawmill with a red roofand flower-boxes in the windows, and this is just the place for it orI'm very much mistaken. .. . I wonder . .. I wish to the deuce Mr. Tinkerwas here, he's the best man we've got on water-power. The woods are fullof trees that ought to be cut for the benefit of the others. Yardsleywas showing me about them only yesterday. But this is a matter forTinker. "

The Poor Boy listened and heard sleigh-bells. They came swiftly nearer. 

"Wonder who this is?"

Around the nearest turn of the road toward the village came a powerfulroan horse, drawing a cutter; in the cutter sat an enormous man, but thePoor Boy had already recognized the horse. 

"I'm damned, " said he; "Tinker!"

He waved both arms and called a joyous greeting. The cutter came to ahalt on the bridge. 

"Just the man I wanted to see, " said the Poor Boy. "I want advice andhelp. Yardsley says we're letting a lot of timber go to waste. Now howabout a sawmill--right _here_?"

Mr. Tinker was a joyous bachelor of forty-five. He had been cashier of abank. A deficit arising, he had been wrongfully accused of directresponsibility, and from prison he had come straight to the Poor Boy'ssettlement on special (most special) invitation. He had taken a room(and bath) in the village inn, and had made a little money out ofcontracts which the Poor Boy had thrown his way. 

"What's the flow here in summer?" asked Mr. Tinker doubtfully. 

"About half what it is now, " said the Poor Boy. 

"Hum--that would be width so and so--depth so and so. .. . What's thefall?"

"Thirty feet. "

"Can't use it all, can we?"

The Poor Boy shook his head. 

"Well--I tell you, I'll bring a tape-measure to-morrow and go into thething thoroughly. By the way, you know Mrs. Caxton, who's staying at theinn?"

"Yes--yes, " said the Poor Boy, "they accused her of shoplifting and itwasn't she at all. "

"Damn them, " said Tinker. 

"By all means, " said the Poor Boy. 

[Illustration: "Now how about a sawmill--right here?"]

"But what about her?" His eyes twinkled. 

Mr. Tinker blushed and beamed. 

"She's given up her rooms. "

"What!" exclaimed the Poor Boy. 

"And _we're_ going to move to the little house on the corner. "

"Then, " said the Poor Boy, "what are you doing alone in the woods?"

"Came to find you, " said Tinker. "Couldn't get married without you. "

"Turn around, " cried the Poor Boy. "I'm with you. "

He knelt swiftly and took off his skis. 

He started to slide an affectionate arm round the older man's shoulders, but jerked it back before it was too late. 

"No, " he muttered, "you mustn't try to touch them or they vanish. "

"What's that?"

"Just that this is the best thing that ever happened. You're just madefor each other, you two. "

They sped on through the pine forest, talking of village matters, ofschool matters, and hitching-posts, of politics, of sewers--but mostlyof love. 

It was dark when the Poor Boy got back to his own house. But he was veryhappy and (in spite of many hot crisp cookies at Mrs. Brown's kitchendoor) very hungry. 

After he had dressed and dined, he soaked his hands in hot water to makethem supple, and played Beethoven till far into the night. 

Martha went boldly into the room to listen, and sat in a deep chair bythe fire, as was her right. But Miss Joy listened without the door, andduring the Adagio from the Pathetique her hands covered her bowed faceand tears came through the fingers. 

Then she crept off to bed, but Martha came before she was asleep to saygood-night. 

"Miss Joy, " she said, "it's the first time since he came that he'splayed; other times he's only fooled and toyed. "

"Martha, " said Miss Joy, "I think it's the first time that _anybodyever_ played. "

"It's what the Poor Boy does best, " said Martha, "and takes the leastpride in. Listen now--he's making up as he goes--there's voices--onlylisten--there's one that insists and one that denies--but both theirhearts are breakin'--breakin' in their breasts. "

Miss Joy sat straight up in bed. "Listen, Martha--there's a thirdvoice--things are going to come right for the other two--"

Thus the two women. As for the Poor Boy, he made music because he hadbeen to a wedding that day and knew that if he got to thinking about italone in the dark he might get so unhappy that he would remember wherehe had hidden his revolver and his rifles, and get up to look for them. 

He played until he was exhausted in body and mind. Then he rose from thepiano, closed it gently, and went to bed. He was very sad and unhappy, but quite sane again. 

VIII

During the winter the Poor Boy made two excursions, lasting for a numberof days, southward through his valley and beyond. It was supposed byMartha, wild with anxiety, and by Miss Joy, but little less so, that hewent alone. As a matter of fact he had companions; Yardsley, theforester and surveyor; Wangog, the Huron chief, taciturn in talk, but agreat woodsman; and Stephen Bell, a young man recently come to live inthe village and a great favorite with the Poor Boy. 

It had developed that there were enough people wrongfully accused ofsome crime or other in the world to settle the Poor Boy's lands from thebig lake all the way to the salt sea. And the main object of his longexcursions was to locate upon deep water, navigable for great ships, asite, not for a village, but for a city. 

Already his first village had suburbs, and here and there, dotted aboutamong the foot-hills, were villas belonging to a wealthier class ofpeople: Bradleys, Godfreys, Warrens, Warings, etc. , families of positionand breeding, among whom was a constant round of little dinners anddances to which the Poor Boy dearly loved to be invited. 

[Illustration: During the winter, the Poor Boy made two excursionssouthward through his valley and beyond. ]

Government by a commission of three was an established and successfulfact. Though it must be owned that as the man member and the womanmember could never agree about anything, all reins of policy weregathered into the hands of the child. 

"A child leads us, " was often in the mouths of the village elders, andoften anxiety expressed as to what would happen when the child grew up. But that he would grow up was not likely, since he was the very image ofwhat the Poor Boy himself had been at the same age--a charming, straightforward, most honorable boy, touched by the fairy godmother ofjustice, music, and fancy. 

It was wonderful how much the school-children learned with three hours'schooling a day (except Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday, when they hadnone), and how outdoor play the rest of the time was rapidly developingthem physically and in the sense of responsibility and judgment. Therewere no recorded cases of weak eyes, nerves, or hysteria. There were nosuicides among the children upon the occasion of failures to passexaminations. 

Nor was morbid curiosity allowed to stalk among them, destroying as itwent. They were brought up on a newer and more scientific catechism, beginning:

_Teacher:_ Who made you?

_Answer:_ My father and mother. 

And among themselves they were encouraged to raise up questions andbring them to their elders for simple and instructive answers. And thepunishment for lying to children and frightening them with mysteries wasvery terrible. 

Upon his second long excursion the Poor Boy and his jolly companions(except Wangog, who was taciturn) came to the end of the Poor Boy'slands, a coast of granite sheathed with ice, and beyond, great brokencakes of ice heaving slowly with groans and grinding roars upon thetranquil winter ocean. 

Back of the granite barriers the river spread right and left, and thenwent out to sea in a deep and narrow stream, curiously free from ice. Indeed, there was but little ice in the main basin, and a kind of steamhung over it so that the Poor Boy was compelled and delighted toconclude (with the aid of his companions) that the river toward itsmouth must be swollen by warm springs. 

"I wonder if ships couldn't come in all the year round?"

He was going to wonder about other things, when the taciturn Wangoggrunted and pointed to where the smoke of a steamer lay black along thehorizon, and after that, to them closely watching, little by little herblack hull rose from the grays and whites and greens of the ice. 

She proved to be many kinds of a ship, in rapid succession, but last ofall she was a yacht, huge and black and glittering with much brass. Shewas owned by a great statesman, who, with nothing but his country'swelfare at heart, had been accused of high treason, and who, havingheard of the Poor Boy's asylum for unfortunates, was making for it asfast as he could. 

She came slowly between the headlands and to anchor at last with asplendid splash that glittered in the sun like diamonds. .. . 

It was very disappointing. If the Poor Boy, searching a more thanhalf-emptied knapsack, was ever to get home to his own house he mustpostpone his visit to--Lord Harrow's (yes, that was the name forever andever) yacht. Why had the Poor Boy and his companions wasted so much timeover an empty harbor, when they might just as well have had the yachtarrive in the early morning, giving time for visits, explanations, andlunch?

The Poor Boy began to stamp his feet. There was no sensation in them, and he found that they were frozen. He had come too far, he had exposedhimself too much--the sea with its burden of ice groaned and clashed. His companions, so jolly but now (except Wangog, who was taciturn), looked pityingly upon him and began to fade. They vanished. He was allalone. A shrill wind was rising, dusk was descending. He stood andstamped his feet, and two plans fought in his head for recognition andacceptance. 

He could board Lord Harrow's great black yacht and be welcomed into thelight and the warmth of the great satin-wood saloon with its openfireplace and its Steinway grand. Lord Harrow's daughter, that lovelygirl, would minister to him, and Warinaru, the steward, would bring himhot grog in cut crystal, upon a heavy silver tray of George the First'stime. They would give him the best state-room, the green andwhite--white for winter, green for summer--and he would sleep--such along sleep--with no dreams in it, no worries, no memories--no awakening!

That was one plan--a delightful plan. So easy of accomplishment! He hadbut to sit in the snow and wait; Lord Harrow would see him and send aboat. No. Lord Harrow's daughter should be the first. .. . No . .. No. Howfoolish! Don, the spaniel, begins to whine and fret, to put his paws onthe bulwarks and bark toward a spot on the shore. 

A boat is lowered; Don, the spaniel, leaps in--they row, following thepoint of his nose, and the Poor Boy is found just in the nick oftime. .. . 

But the other plan, which was not delightful, was best. 

"I told old Martha, " the Poor Boy murmured, "to look for me at such atime. Why break her heart for a pair of bright eyes and a glass of hotgrog? Why not keep my word? It's only two or three days of torture. "

He turned from the river and ran upon his skis, stamping at each step, until he found shelter from the wind. His feet began to tingle and heknew that they were not frozen. But by the time he had a fire going theywere numb again. 

Between the Poor Boy and his old Martha was not two or three days oftorture, but four. During part of the time snow fell, and wind flew intohis face from the north. 

Late on the fourth day he climbed the cliff upon which his house stood, not because it was the cliff upon which his house stood, but because itwas an obstacle in his way. His house might be a month's journey beyond, for all he knew. 

At the top of the cliff, among the pines was a young woman. She was byno means the first he had seen that day. But her face was clearer thanthe other faces had been, and when she darted behind a tree and tried toescape without being seen or spoken to, he ran after her, not knowingwhy he ran nor why he called her Joy--Joy--Joy! And he did notunderstand why she in her turn kept calling, "Martha--Martha--comequick--come quick!"

He knew best that she suddenly stopped running, and turned and waitedfor him, and that as he fell forward she caught him in her arms andbegan to drag him toward a bright light. 

It was a most vivid hallucination. And when he woke in his bed, so warmand all, and Martha bending over him, the first thing he toldher--smiling sleepily--was that he had mistaken her for Miss JocelynGrey. 

"It was the realest sort of an hallucination, " he said, "she caught meas I was falling--and of course she was you. "

[Illustration: She suddenly stopped running, and turned and waited forhim. ]

"How do you feel, Deary? We--I had a devil of a time with ye. "

But the Poor Boy's mind was still upon the vision of Miss Grey. 

"I saw her, " he said, "and there was a look in her eyes that told meshe'd _never_--_never_ believed I'd done it. .. . And I was so glad, Itried to run to her for comfort, and all the time she was you. It wasall so real--so real. It was a lot realer than some things that reallydid happen to me yesterday--yesterday morning, before I began to getsnow-foolish. "

"'Twas the day before yesterday ye came home, " said Martha. "And allyesterday ye raved like a lunatic until night, when ye fell asleep, andI knew that all was well. "

"Have you sat up with me all the time?"

"Ye forget I have an old female to help me. We took turns. "

"You must thank her for me, Martha. "

"I'll do that. "

"Tell her I am grateful to her, and I think we should give her quite alot of money, don't you?"

IX

The Poor Boy could not get Miss Jocelyn Grey out of his head, nor thatlook which she had had of belief in him. The episode was a rejuvenation, and there were days when he was steadily joyful from morning to night. 

He was having luncheon one day, and he said to Martha:

"I never knew what Miss Joy believed. But ever since I saw--thought Isaw her--that time--I've been as sure as sure that she knew justice hadmiscarried. "

"I'm for thinking you're right, " said old Martha. 

"But if she believed in me, why didn't she write and say so? We weresuch good friends until we had a sort of misunderstanding. "

"You never told me about that. "

"Oh, it was silly. We were both staying with the Brettons; and one dayMiss Joy turned her ankle and I wanted to carry her back to the house, and she wouldn't let me. Every step she took hurt her a lot, and memore. I was a spoiled boy. I always did what I wanted to do. It seemedto me that I wanted to carry her more than anything I'd ever wanted todo. And she wouldn't let me. So we managed to misunderstand each othervery thoroughly, and then things began to happen--things began tohappen. "

The Poor Boy sighed. Then he looked up with a smile and a blush. 

"I've always thought, " he said, "that if she had let me carry her, Iwould have asked her to marry me. Anyway, it's the nearest I ever cameto asking any one. "

"And not very near, " said Martha, "since she wouldn't be bothered with alift. "

"She was a good kid, " said the Poor Boy. And then, more than half tohimself: "I think I'll have her up for a visit. "

"Fwaat!" exclaimed Martha. 

"I'll have her stay with some of my make-believe people, " he said. "She'll be the first person to come here that I ever knew before. Sheshall stay with--with? I have it, she's a guest of Lord Harrow'sdaughter, and they've just moved into Harrow Hall. That's the newGeorgian House, on Lilly Pond. .. . "

"When I was in New York I saw Miss Joy. "

"You did!"

"She was prettier than any picture. She come up and give me both handsand says: 'Why, _Martha_!' And then we talked. --And she never believedyou did it, never!"

"Ah! She might have written!"

"Troubles came on her poor father. He lost his money, and he died. Shelost thought for any one but him. "

"Miss Joy--_poor_! How dreadful! How wrong! What is she doing?"

"She's a sort of companion and helper to a rich old woman, and she'ssaving her wages against a rainy day. "

The Poor Boy was terribly troubled about his old friend. She had beenso generous, so debonair, such a gay and charming spender. 

"Oh!" he cried. "Can't I do anything?"

"Once before, " said old Martha, "ye tried for to give her a lift, andyou know well what came of it. "

His eyes flashed. 

"She shall stay at Harrow Hall, " he said. "Every day I shall take herwalking, and every day she shall turn her ankle, and I shall carry herback to her house. And when I find out how poor she is I shall kill anold uncle of hers in the southwest--she never heard of him--his name isEliphalet Pomfret Grey, and he shall leave her a pot of money. --Did shesend me any message, Martha?"

"She did not. "

He was sorry--inside. 

Miss Joy thought that the Poor Boy was a very long time at his luncheon. She was feeling rather blue and lonely. She wanted to talk to Martha, and here it was half past two o'clock, and Martha still in thedining-room with the Poor Boy. 

She could hear the sound of their voices but not the words. She couldhave heard the words by listening at the pantry door. But it neverentered her head to do so. She was working at a marble-topped tabletrying to compose a cake according to a very complicated inspiration ina cookbook that weighed seven pounds. Miss Joy had a vague idea that hercake, not a large cake, was going to weigh more. It was going to bevery dark and rich, something like a wedding-cake. 

Martha came at last from the dining-room, and examined the mixture whichMiss Joy had made. 

"What is that?" she asked. 

"Lady Godiva. "

"Lady God help us! And what is the antidote?"

"Hard work in the open air. Why were you so long?"

"We got talking!"

"What about?"

"Mostly about the dangers of falling down and hurting yourself. "

"Why, " asked Miss Joy innocently, "is it so slippery out?"

Martha was overjoyed, and began to execute a sort of cautious tiptoedance. 

"What are you doing?"

"I'm showing ye how an old woman walks on thin ice, " said Martha. Shestopped dancing. "The Poor Boy is off to his playground, and it's timeyou got ready for your walk. "

"Did he say when he was coming back?"

"'Not before dark, ' he said. "

"Then I can go as far as the Three Beeches, " said Miss Joy. She drew along breath. 

"'Tis a pity ye have to walk alone. "

"But it's doing me so much good. I'd hate to know what I weigh. "

"Be careful you don't fall and hurt yourself, " said Martha. "And becareful your red cheeks don't set the woods on fire. "

"Oh, Martha, are they--_too_ red?"

"Miss Joy"--this with solemn and heartfelt faith--"unless it is for anose now and then, the Lord Gawd never made anything _too_ red in hislife--"

The Poor Boy hurried to the beautiful new Georgian home that Lord Harrowhad built on Lilly Pond, and was already occupying. As befitted a greatman he had the whole lake to himself. His house, backed by noble beechesand pines, faced south, and was a wonderful deep red, with white trim. The house opened directly on a terrace, which in turn was built out overthe lake. It was formally planted to box and roses. It was all undersnow now, but white mounds marked the positions of the box-bushes, andneat stakes and straw jackets showed where the roses would bloom. 

The terrace garden would be a great show in June. And the Poor Boy hadno difficulty in closing his eyes for a moment and so seeing it. 

The Poor Boy, privileged old friend that he was, entered withoutringing, and started through the ground floor of the house, stopping attimes to admire a mantel-piece, a ceiling, or a painting. Lord Harrow'snew hothouses being in full blast, there were flowers everywhere, andgreat logs of birch roared and crackled in all the fireplaces. The PoorBoy peeped into the dining-room and drew back, his eyes almost drunkwith mahogany, and gold and Spanish leather. Under a table in the hallstood a great silver punch-bowl in which water was kept for Don, thespaniel, to drink. There were stags' heads on the walls, and on eachside of the stairway stood a splendid suit of Gothic armor. One suit wasinlaid with enamel, black as ebony, and the other with red gold. 

The Poor Boy lifted his voice and called up the columned wall of thestair:

"Anybody home!"

Lord Harrow's daughter leaned over the rail. She had a very white faceand very wonderful red hair. Her way of speaking always reminded thePoor Boy of pearls falling from a string one by one. 

"Joy Grey's just come, " she said. "She's changing into outdoor things. Do you mind waiting?"

"How is she?" asked the Poor Boy eagerly. 

"Oh, she's white and tired after all she's been through, poor duck;don't let her overdo at first. Where are you going to take her?"

"Aren't you coming with us?"

Three pearls fell. 

"How--you--talk!"

"But--but--"

"Nonsense, " exclaimed Lord Harrow's daughter. "You're head over ears inlove with her, and she with you. "

"What!" exclaimed the Poor Boy. "Do you mean that!"

"Mean it? Of course I do. And everybody knows it--except you two. I wasin the village yesterday, and the people had heard that she wascoming--to you--_to you_--and they were hanging wreaths in the windowsas if for Christmas. When we drove through the village on our way herethey lined the main street and cheered her. "

"What did she do?"

"She was delighted. She thought they were cheering my father and me, andshe said she was so glad that she had been asked to visit such wonderfuldistinguished people. The little duck!"

"The little _goat_, " cried the Poor Boy. "The darling little goat!"

"Only call her that to her face--and she's yours. "

"I daren't, " said the Poor Boy, "now that I know that I love her--"

"Lucky I told you!" This with pearly sarcasm. 

"Now that I know--I'm afraid--I'm afraid. .. . But I've always loved her. It began in Arcadia, that is, Central Park. You roller-skate there whenyou are little. She was knee-high to a grasshopper, and I wasshoulder-high. She wore a coat of gosling-green with facings ofprimrose-yellow, and when she fell and barked the knee of one stocking Itook her to old Martha, and old Martha mended her. Her knee itselfwasn't really hurt, but it was all rough and gritty from the asphalt. She didn't cry. And so I loved her. Why is she so long changing intooutdoor things?"

"Hush!" pearled Lord Harrow's daughter. "She's coming. "

And the Poor Boy's heart echoed: "She's coming--she's coming. "

At the last moment reason and experience whispered in his ear: "_Don't_be a fool--_don't_ spoil everything. If you tell her you love her andshe says she loves you, why the least you can do is to kiss her, and youknow as well as I do that _if you touch them they vanish_. "

So the Poor Boy walked with Joy that day and the next and the next, andthey were never very far apart, and he got to love her more and more. And the more he loved her the more dangerous was it to tell her so, forthings got to such a point that if she had suddenly vanished, the blowwould almost have broken his heart. 

X

But it was the heart of winter, not the Poor Boy's that was to bebroken. March came, and a wind from the south. Snow melted in sunnycorners, to freeze again at night, and melted and froze; and April came, and wherever the Poor Boy went with his love there was a sound of waterfalling, running, and roaring. The ice in lakes and streams wore thinalong the shores, broke, lost its grip, tinkled in the brooks, clashedand cracked in the river. In the lakes the margin of water between theice islands and the shore grew wider and wider. In open spaces, facedsouth, the snow melted and thinned until black soil showed in patches. Rain came, more and more frequently, until no day passed without rain, and the land was washed clean of winter, and rinsed, and became deepmud, that oozed and gasped under foot. 

The Poor Boy had been happier than he had ever hoped to be again. Andsince Joy's coming (she still stopped with Lord Harrow's daughter, whoconversed pearls) there had been an ecstasy in his happiness and athrilling quality of romance. No man who has not endured solitude inlong doses knows how vivid, real, and necessary people and things of theimagination may become. Sometimes the Poor Boy laughed at himself, butmore often he surrendered to his inventions, his people, his dams, powerhouses, and schemes of amelioration, as you surrender to an opiate. 

His valley from his own house to the sea was a thriving and virtuousstate; on terms with other governments. Ships came and went; there wereexports and imports, newspapers, news. News of inventions, of romances, of misunderstandings righted by Solomonian judgments; of successes, promotions; and almost every day in the foreign columns were to be foundreversals of those judgments by which his friends and the citizens ofhis little state had been convicted of sins and crimes of which they hadnever been guilty. 

But daily and sometimes nightly through the complex evolutions of hisdreams the Poor Boy never lost grip upon his own personal love-affair. It had become more real, and with the bursting of woods and meadows intocarpets of spring flowers more necessary to him than anything in life. It was joy for him, and rapture--a dizzy path into unknown lands whereonly the footprints of the "True Romance" marked the way. But suddenlysometimes in the very heyday of his ecstasy the tragedy of it smote him, you may say, between the eyes--so that villages vanished, homes, institutions, and all the creatures of his brain, and he saw himself, asanother might have seen him, a very young man, all alone, thrust outforever and ever. 

The thought that all unknown to him the real Miss Grey might loveanother, belong to another, tortured him. Tortured him, too, theknowledge that if this was so he had no right to entertain that belovedphantom that he had made of her in his North Woods. Or it tortured himto remember that his love for her could come to nothing--nothing. Hemust not tell her that he loved her; he must not, upon a night floodedwith moonlight and the odor of flowers, so much as touch her hand, because he knew too well--too well--that "when you touch them theyvanish. "

Old Martha and Joy will never forget a certain June night. The Poor Boydid not come home for his dinner; supper of the most tempting nature andvariety did not tempt him. He was drunk, ethereally drunk with thebeauty of the night and with love. He opened many windows, and sat athis piano in the moonlight. The two women drew as near as they dared, tolisten, while the Poor Boy's tantalized soul went out in splendid, beseeching singing. Until after midnight Schubert and Schumann and otherlovers sang through the Poor Boy to their loves, and the women listenedand cried and trembled, or were carried upward as it were upon angelwings into regions of pure and disembodied bliss. 

At last there fell a long silence. 

It was now the Poor Boy who listened. He had sent forth his questing, questioning soul, and he waited for an answer. But in those regions, that night, all things were still; and not so much as the hoot of anowl answered him nor the chirp of a cricket. 

"Oh, " he thought, "there is no answer for me in all the world, noanswer. I have said all that I can say. And she--she doesn't hear--shewill not hear--she can not hear. "

[Illustration: His fingers began to follow an air that flowed witheternal sadness like blood from a broken heart. ]

His fingers found their way once more to the keys, and for a whileharmonies rose in slow, quiet succession like a meditation, and tookmore shape presently as if something had been decided on, and began tofollow an air that flowed with eternal sadness like blood from a brokenheart . .. And then once more the Poor Boy was singing:

 "Let us go hence, my songs, she will not hear, Let us go hence, together, without fear. Keep silence now, for singing time is over, And over all things old, and all things dear. She loves not you nor me, as all we love her. Yea! Though we sang as angels in her ear, She would not hear. "

He broke off abruptly. The knob had rattled in a door!--a door hadopened, and been swiftly closed. The Poor Boy leapt to his feet. Hethought he had heard _her_ voice. 

He stood, and trembled. .. . 

 * * * * *

That "Yea! though we sang as angels in her ear, she would not hear, " hadbeen too much for Joy. She had sobbed and said things, and had tried togo to him. It was her voice that he had heard. 

Martha had dragged her out of danger and sent her to bed with ascolding. "The conceit of some people!" she had exclaimed. "To be alwaysthinking it's themselves as is grouped in the lime-light of another'sthoughts!"

XI

"You can get away from people, but you can't get away from moths. "

It was Martha herself, carrying a great paper bag of camphor-balls and agreat roll of tarred paper, who announced this truth. 

Rain was falling in torrents. Even the Poor Boy did not feel like goingout. He looked with a certain longing at the bag of camphor balls. 

"Going to put the furs away?"

Martha said that she was. 

Time was hanging heavily that morning. There was neither music in thePoor Boy nor desire to read. 

"I think--" he began, and was ashamed. 

"You think?"

"Nothing. "

"Out with it. "

"Just that--well, you see, I've never done it--always had you. But I'mthinking it must be rather fun to fold things carefully, and put them incedar chests, and sprinkle moth-balls over them, and tuck them in withtar-paper. "

"And you think wrong, " said Martha. "It is no fun at all. "

"Oh!" said the Poor Boy. "You're used to it. You've always done it. ButI haven't. "

"No more, " said Martha, "have you ever knit a comforter. "

"I think that would be fun too, " twinkled the Poor Boy; "a very littlecomforter. I should use very thick worsted and make very big, loopy, spready stitches. I think, if you don't mind, I'll put my own thingsaway for the summer. "

Martha clutched the bag and the roll of paper tighter. Her jaws set. 

"Don't be selfish, Martha. "

Her jaws relaxed. 

"What do I do first, Martha?"

"First you get all your things in one place. Then you brush them andfold them. Then you lay them away in the chests. "

The Poor Boy, in shirt-sleeves, was soon busily employed, making in thecentre of the living-room an enormous pile of winter furs andwoolens--coonskin coats, Shetland socks, stockings, oily Norfolk coatsand mackintoshes, sweaters, mittens, fur gloves, fur robes, steamerrugs, toques, and mackinaws. 

The great pile finished, he sorted his things into smaller piles: a pileto be thrown away, a pile to be given away, a pile to be kept. 

A doubtful garment was a mackinaw of dark gray splashed with blood-colorand black. It had seen better days, on the one hand; on the other, itwas sound, and he had always liked the coloring. He carried it to thelight and looked it over carefully. 

What was there about an old lumberman's coat to bring a look ofbewildered wonder into the Poor Boy's eyes? And what particular memoriesdid he associate with the last time of wearing it?

He closed his eyes, frowned, thought, remembered. 

"I wore this, " he said to himself, "the time I went down to the sea, andnearly died getting back. Then it was mislaid, when I wanted to wear itagain. Then spring came. .. . When I got back from the sea I thought I sawJoy. I thought she ran, and that I ran after her. Then that she turnedand caught me as I fell. .. . I was wearing this coat. I haven't worn itsince. "

With fingers that shook he unwound from the top button of the coat along, entangled hair, the color of old Domingo mahogany, which is eithermore brown than red, or more red than brown. Nobody can swear which. 

When Martha came to see how the Poor Boy was getting on with hispacking she was amused to find that he had tired of it. That his thingswere all in a mess, nothing packed or protected from moths, and that hehimself was standing at a window looking out into the dark torrents ofrain. At his feet was an old mackinaw. Martha picked it up and foldedit. 

"Shall I _resoom_ where you've left off?" she asked. 

"Please! But be careful of that coat. "

She began to bring order swiftly out of chaos. 

"Martha!"

"Don't be stopping me now. "

"What would you do if you knew that something that couldn't possibly betrue absolutely was true?"

"For that, " said Martha bluntly, "I'd take two tablespoonfuls ofcastor-oil. "

"It is true, " said the Poor Boy, "and it can't be. "

He passed one hand in front of his face as if brushing a cobweb or--ahair. 

"A hot-water bag at the feet, " Martha continued impetuously, "andanother on the pit of the stomick is a favored remedy with some. "

"Martha. .. . "

"What else?"

"Has your helper got reddish-brownish, brownish-reddish hair--the colorof the sideboards in the dining-room?"

"Well, " said Martha, "she has and she hasn't. The first of every month'tis that color or thereabouts; but be the twenty-ninth or thirtieth'tis back to a good workin' gray. "

"The day I got back from the sea, " said the Poor Boy to himself, "wasabout the twenty-ninth or the thirtieth. But still if I'm going tobelieve what can't be true--I say, Martha, lend me a saucer of alcohol, will you?"

Old Martha bustled off and returned with what he required. The Poor Boycarried his chemical into the book-room and closed the door firmly, andmuch to Martha's disappointment, she being anxious to know what wastoward in her darling's mind. 

The Poor Boy placed the saucer of alcohol in the light, and dropped intoit the mahogany-colored hair; nothing happened. The hair itselfappeared brighter perhaps, but the crystal liquid was not discolored. The Poor Boy devoted half an hour to the experiment. There was nodevelopment. 

"Not Ed Pinaud, " he then said reverently, "dyed this hair, but the LordGod. "

He put it away in a safe place, just over his heart. 

"Not, " he said, "because it is hers, but because it is the same color. And because there are stranger things in heaven and earth than ever anyman wotted of in his philosophy. "

Martha knocked on the door. 

"Come in, Martha. "

"Just to tell you that it's stopped raining, and if ye'll not take oilnor hot-water bags, the next best remedy for cobwebs in the brain isexercise. "

The Poor Boy was glad to get out. 

He went straight to Lord Harrow's house and walked with Joy forhours--up and down between the glorious roses on the terrace. The pathwas wide. They could walk side by side without danger of touching eachother. 

She was very grave that afternoon. So was he. It was hard that theyshould love each other so much and not be allowed to talk about it orhold hands. But the Poor Boy knew mighty well that if he touched her shewould vanish. 

"There's comfort, " thought the Poor Boy, "in loving a spirit--even if itcan never be quite the real thing. She will always be just as I see hernow, no older, untroubled, gentle, and dear. "

[Illustration: "She will always be just as I see her now, no older, untroubled, gentle and dear. "]

He said poetry to her, and hummed songs. She dropped a rose that she wascarrying. He stooped to pick it up, remembered, and let it lie. Theylooked into each other's eyes, very sadly. 

He saw her mistily through tears. She vanished. Vanished the rosegarden, vanished Lord Harrow's house. And remained only a wild lake, anopen space in which he stood, and wild-woods, and beyond more woods andhills and mountains. 

To the west the forest was intolerably bright, as if it was burning. Thesun was going down. 

XII

Old Martha and Joy were bending over a tremendous pile of newspapers, cables, and telegrams that had just been brought in by special messengerfrom the nearest village in the outside world. 

The messenger, a rosy old man, kept explaining why he had come. 

"I know it's not my day to come in and that he don't want us hangin'about where he can see us, but the missus, she says, don't you dare tokeep back this news from him even if he shoots you down in yourtracks. "

The newspapers said that the Poor Boy had been wrongfully accused, wrongfully convicted, wrongfully imprisoned, and that his 'scutcheon wasclear in the eyes of all men. 

Martha took it upon herself to open some of the telegrams. They werefrom old friends who wished to be the first, etc. , etc. 

"Oh!" cried Martha, "the bastes. Why couldn't they have come forwardwith their great hearts when his trouble was heavy upon him, when a wordof belief would have strengthened him for what he had to go through?"

She wept. She raved. She talked pure Irish, and there was no one presentwho could understand her, and there were only seven people in Irelandwho could have understood. 

"Please!" said Miss Joy to the messenger, "God bless you, and go away. "

He went slowly, his fingers inching their way continually around thebattered circumference of the straw hat. He drove off, after a while, asone in a trance. The last thing that would have occurred to him was thathis good-hearted impulse had made a rich man of him. 

"We must find him, " said Miss Joy, "and tell him--at once. You must findhim. It's your duty and your privilege. He must hear the good news fromyou. "

But Martha shook her head, and talked through her apron which she hadthrown over it. When sense began to mingle with her words she pulleddown this flag of distress, and showed a face red with emotion andtears. 

"Full well I know his heart, " she said. "'Tis an open book to me. "

Then she laughed aloud. 

"'Tis better than an open book, for I read like a snail and cannot writeat all. .. . 'Tis you must bear him the glad tidings--you alone--with yourbright hair the color of the old sideboards in the dining-room. Take thefront page of a newspaper and run to him. 'Tis for you to do. "

There was a wonderful light in Miss Joy's eyes. Martha mocked it:"Yea, '" said she, "'Tho' we sang as angels in her ear, she would nothear!' Be off!"

"How shall I find him?"

"If you don't know that then I am wrong. And it's me that should go. Ifyour heart cannot take you to him, 'tis not the heart I've thought it. "

But Miss Joy, clutching the front page of a newspaper, was gone, bareheaded, running, in the dusk. 

As for old Martha, she wailed all alone in the kitchen. No one wouldever know what it had cost her to send forth another on that errand ofglad tidings. 

 * * * * *

The Poor Boy looked up calmly. What was possible in broad sunlight wasno matter even of difficulty in the dusk. And yet it seemed to him thateven for a creature of _his_ brain she was preternaturally natural andsolid-looking. Nor was he in the habit of letting her look quite so paleor breathe so hard. But when she spoke he was troubled; not because thesound of her voice was an unusual sound for him to hear, but because inthe present instance it was accompanied with distinct vibrations. Andthat had never happened since she came to stay with Lord Harrow'sdaughter. 

"Balking, " she said, "has confessed!"

"Yes--yes, " said the Poor Boy, "I always knew he _did it_. But Icouldn't very well say so, _could_ I? I had to take the _gaff_. "

"There are telegrams and cables from all your friends to say how gladthey are. "

A shadow of bitterness came over the Poor Boy's face, but went swiftly. 

"It can never be the same about _them_, " he said. "They all believed. But now they are sorry. "

He sighed deeply, and then smiled like sunshine. 

"It was like you to bring me the news. Dear child, where is your hat, and why did you run so fast? You might have fallen and hurt yourself. Doyou remember the day you turned your ankle and wouldn't let me carryyou?"

"I'm not such a little fool as I used to be, " she said. Her face wasgetting whiter and whiter. 

"You _are_ hurt!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, " she said, "it's that same blessed ankle. I was so excited overthe good news that I didn't mind at first, but now--I--I think I'll haveto sit down and rest it. "

The Poor Boy knew better than to give her a helping hand. _When youtouch them, they vanish. _

She sank down with a little moan. 

"How am I going to get back to the house?" she said. "I'm sure I don'tknow. "

"I'll send for a motor. "

A motor? Was he crazy?

"A motor couldn't get in here, " she said; "the trees are too closetogether. "

"I'll have them down, " said the Poor Boy; "it's only a matter ofinstants, " and he smiled gently. "But you know as well as I do how thesethings are done. "

"Here's the paper, " she said. "Don't you want to read for yourself?" Sheheld it out to him. But he shook his head. 

"I can see the headlines from here, " he said. "_Balking confesses_--yes, it's all there. "

And then suddenly the Poor Boy turned his face heavenward and cried witha great bitterness:

"Oh, God! oh, God!--if it only was true!"

She thought he was mad. But she was not afraid. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, to share with him her own fine, young sanity. But theturned ankle would not do any work, and she could not get up. He heardher moan. And looked at her once more, his eyes round with wonder. 

"But I have just taken you to Lord Harrow's in a motor, " he said; "andyet here you are--and in pain. "

"I think I can walk, " she said. "If you don't mind helping me a little. "

"Of course I don't mind, " said the Poor Boy cautiously. "But you knowas well as I do that when you touch them, --they vanish. "

There was a pained silence. She was bitterly disappointed. The Poor Boywas thoroughly bewildered. His imagination was playing him anextraordinary trick. 

"That's the reason, " he went on, "that we can never tell each other thatwe love each other, you know. 'Cause if we did, we'd have to kiss andhold hands--and that would be the end of everything--better you thisway--than the other way and _no you_. "

Her pain was becoming greater than she could bear. 

"_Any_ man would help me, " she began; and then came the tears in atorrent. 

The Poor Boy could not stand it. 

"It is better, " he said, "that she should vanish!"

He stepped swiftly forward. 

The realness of her almost dazed him. In his happiest day-dreams in LordHarrow's rose-garden by the lake there had never been quite so vivid amaterialization. Furthermore, she had violets in her dress, and as hebent to lift her (and resolve her into the stuff o' dreams) thesweetness of them was strong in his nostrils. 

[Illustration: And then carrying her swiftly home, he proceeded to goquite mad. ]

"Well--well, " he thought, "people with too much imagination always doend by going mad. And now it's happened to me. "

And it was just what did happen to him a moment later, only he was to gomad with a different kind of madness--a sane and wonderful madness. 

He touched her and she did not vanish. 

He made a sound that was half moan, half pity, and he lifted her in hisstrong arms. And then carrying her swiftly home, he proceeded, as I haveforewarned the reader, to go quite mad. So did she, bless her, untilthere was no longer any pain in her ankle or in her heart. 

"Well--well, " said old Martha; "what's all this?"

She stood in the door of the house lighting them with a lamp. 

"This, " said the Poor Boy in his ecstasy, "is a new and wonderfulthing. "

He laughed aloud for joy. 

"And the more you kiss her--the less she vanishes!"