The Shoulders of Atlas

A Novel

ByMary E. Wilkins Freeman

Author of"By the Light of the Soul" "The Debtor""Jerome" "A New England Nun" etc. 

New York and LondonHarper & Brothers PublishersMCMVIII

Copyright, 1908, by the New York Herald Co. All rights reserved. Published June, 1908. 

Chapter I

Henry Whitman was walking home from the shop in the April afternoon. The spring was very early that year. The meadows were quite green, and in the damp hollows the green assumed a violet tinge--sometimesfrom violets themselves, sometimes from the shadows. The treesalready showed shadows as of a multitude of bird wings; thepeach-trees stood aloof in rosy nimbuses, and the cherry-trees werefaintly a-flutter with white through an intense gloss of gold-green. 

Henry realized all the glory of it, but it filled him with a renewalof the sad and bitter resentment, which was his usual mood, insteadof joy. He was past middle-age. He worked in a shoe-shop. He hadworked in a shoe-shop since he was a young man. There was nothingelse in store for him until he was turned out because of old age. Then the future looked like a lurid sunset of misery. He earnedreasonably good wages for a man of his years, but prices were so highthat he was not able to save a cent. There had been unusual expensesduring the past ten years, too. His wife Sylvia had not been well, and once he himself had been laid up six weeks with rheumatism. Thedoctor charged two dollars for every visit, and the bill was notquite settled yet. 

Then the little house which had come to him from his father, encumbered with a mortgage as is usual, had all at once seemed toneed repairs at every point. The roof had leaked like a sieve, twowindows had been blown in, the paint had turned a gray-black, thegutters had been out of order. He had not quite settled the bill forthese repairs. He realized it always as an actual physical incubusupon his slender, bowed shoulders. He came of a race who wereimpatient of debt, and who regarded with proud disdain all gratuitousbenefits from their fellow-men. Henry always walked a long route fromthe shop in order to avoid passing the houses of the doctor and thecarpenter whom he owed. 

Once he had saved a little money; that was twenty-odd years before;but he had invested it foolishly, and lost every cent. Thattransaction he regarded with hatred, both of himself and of thepeople who had advised him to risk and lose his hard-earned dollars. The small sum which he had lost had come to assume colossalproportions in his mind. He used, in his bitterest moments, to reckonup on a scrap of paper what it might have amounted to, if it had beenput out at interest, by this time. He always came out a rich man, byhis calculations, if it had not been for that unwise investment. Heoften told his wife Sylvia that they might have been rich people ifit had not been for that; that he would not have been tied to ashoe-shop, nor she have been obliged to work so hard. 

Sylvia took a boarder--the high-school principal, Horace Allen--andshe also made jellies and cakes, and baked bread for those in EastWestland who could afford to pay for such instead of doing the workthemselves. She was a delicate woman, and Henry knew that she workedbeyond her strength, and the knowledge filled him with impotent fury. Since the union had come into play he did not have to work so manyhours in the shop, and he got the same pay, but he worked as hard, because he himself cultivated his bit of land. He raised vegetablesfor the table. He also made the place gay with flowers to pleaseSylvia and himself. He had a stunted thirst for beauty. 

In the winter he found plenty to do in the extra hours. He sawed woodin his shed by the light of a lantern hung on a peg. He also did whatodd jobs he could for neighbors. He picked up a little extra money inthat way, but he worked very hard. Sometimes he told Sylvia that hedidn't know but he worked harder than he had done when the shop timewas longer. However, he had been one of the first to go, heart andsoul, with the union, and he had paid his dues ungrudgingly, evenwith a fierce satisfaction, as if in some way the transaction madehim even with his millionaire employers. There were two of them, andthey owned houses which appeared like palaces in the eyes of Henryand his kind. They owned automobiles, and Henry was aware of acursing sentiment when one whirred past him, trudging along, andcovered him with dust. 

Sometimes it seemed to Henry as if an automobile was the last strawfor the poor man's back: those enormous cars, representing fortunes, tyrannizing over the whole highway, frightening the poor old countryhorses, and endangering the lives of all before them. Henry read withdelight every account of an automobile accident. "Served them right;served them just right, " he would say, with fairly a smack of hislips. 

Sylvia, who had caught a little of his rebellion, but was gentler, would regard him with horror. "Why, Henry Whitman, that is a dreadfulwicked spirit!" she would say, and he would retort stubbornly that hedidn't care; that he had to pay a road tax for these people who wouldjust as soon run him down as not, if it wouldn't tip their oldmachines over; for these maniacs who had gone speed-mad, and wereappropriating even the highways of the common people. 

Henry had missed the high-school principal, who was away on hisspring vacation. He liked to talk with him, because he always had afeeling that he had the best of the argument. Horace would take theother side for a while, then leave the field, and light anothercigar, and let Henry have the last word, which, although it had abitter taste in his mouth, filled him with the satisfaction oftriumph. He loved Horace like a son, although he realized that theyoung man properly belonged to the class which he hated, and that, too, although he was manifestly poor and obliged to work for hisliving. Henry was, in his heart of hearts, convinced that HoraceAllen, had he been rich, would have owned automobiles and spent hoursin the profitless work-play of the golf links. As it was, he played alittle after school-hours. How Henry hated golf! "I wish they had towork, " he would say, savagely, to Horace. 

Horace would laugh, and say that he did work. "I know you do, " Henrywould say, grudgingly, "and I suppose maybe a little exercise is goodfor you; but those fellers from Alford who come over here don't haveto work, and as for Guy Lawson, the boss's son, he's a fool! Hecouldn't earn his bread and butter to save his life, except on theroad digging like a common laborer. Playing golf! Playing! H'm!" Thenwas the time for Horace's fresh cigar. 

When Henry came in sight of the cottage where he lived he thoughtwith regret that Horace was not there. Being in a more pessimisticmood than usual, he wished ardently for somebody to whom he couldpour out his heart. Sylvia was no satisfaction at such a time. If sheechoed him for a while, when she was more than usually worn with herown work, she finally became alarmed, and took refuge in Scripturequotations, and Henry was convinced that she offered up prayer forhim afterward, and that enraged him. 

He struck into the narrow foot-path leading to the side door, thefoot-path which his unwilling and weary feet had helped to trace moredefinitely for nearly forty years. The house was a small cottage ofthe humblest New England type. It had a little cobbler's-shop, orwhat had formerly been a cobbler's-shop, for an ell. Besides that, there were three rooms on the ground-floor--the kitchen, thesitting-room, and a little bedroom which Henry and Sylvia occupied. Sylvia had cooking-stoves in both the old shop and the kitchen. Thekitchen stove was kept well polished, and seldom used for cooking, except in cold weather. In warm weather the old shop served askitchen, and Sylvia, in deference to the high-school teacher, used toset the table in the house. 

When Henry neared the house he smelled cooking in the shop. He alsohad a glimpse of a snowy table-cloth in the kitchen. He wondered, with a throb of joy, if possibly Horace might have returned beforehis vacation was over and Sylvia were setting the table in the otherroom in his honor. He opened the door which led directly into theshop. Sylvia, a pathetic, slim, elderly figure in rusty black, wasbending over the stove, frying flapjacks. "Has he come home?"whispered Henry. 

"No, it's Mr. Meeks. I asked him to stay to supper. I told him Iwould make some flapjacks, and he acted tickled to death. He doesn'tget a decent thing to eat once in a dog's age. Hurry and get washed. The flapjacks are about done, and I don't want them to get cold. "

Henry's face, which had fallen a little when he learned that Horacehad not returned, still looked brighter than before. While SidneyMeeks never let him have the last word, yet he was much better thanSylvia as a safety-valve for pessimism. Meeks was as pessimistic inhis way as Henry, although he handled his pessimism, as he dideverything else, with diplomacy, and the other man had a secretconviction that when he seemed to be on the opposite side yet he wasin reality pulling with the lawyer. 

Sidney Meeks was older than Henry, and as unsuccessful as a countrylawyer can well be. He lived by himself; he had never married; andthe world, although he smiled at it facetiously, was not a pleasantplace in his eyes. 

Henry, after he had washed himself at the sink in the shop, enteredthe kitchen, where the table was set, and passed through to thesitting-room, where the lawyer was. Sidney Meeks did not rise. Heextended one large, white hand affably. "How are you Henry?" said he, giving the other man's lean, brown fingers a hard shake. "I droppedin here on my way home from the post-office, and your wife tempted mewith flapjacks in a lordly dish, and I am about to eat. "

"Glad to see you, " returned Henry. 

"You get home early, or it seems early, now the days are getting solong, " said Meeks, as Henry sat down opposite. 

"Yes, it's early enough, but I don't get any more pay. "

Meeks laughed. "Henry, you are the direct outcome of your day andgeneration, " said he. "Less time, and more pay for less time, is ourslogan. "

"Well, why not?" returned Henry, surlily, still with a dawn ofdelighted opposition in his thin, intelligent face. "Why not? Look atthe money that's spent all around us on other things that correspond. What's an automobile but less time and more money, eh?"

Meeks laughed. "Give it up until after supper, Henry, " he said, asSylvia's thin, sweet voice was heard from the next room. 

"If you men don't stop talking and come right out, these flapjackswill be spoiled!" she cried. The men arose and obeyed her call. "There are compensations for everything, " said Meeks, laughing, as hesettled down heavily into his chair. He was a large man. "Flapjacksare compensations. Let us eat our compensations and be thankful. That's my way of saying grace. You ought always to say grace, Henry, when you have such a good cook as your wife is to get meals for you. If you had to shift for yourself, the way I do, you'd feel that itwas a simple act of decency. "

"I don't see much to say grace for, " said Henry, with a disagreeablesneer. 

"Oh, Henry!" said Sylvia. 

"For compensations in the form of flapjacks, with plenty of butterand sugar and nutmeg, " said Meeks. "These are fine, Mrs. Whitman. "

"A good thick beefsteak at twenty-eight cents a pound, regulated bythe beef trust, would be more to my liking after a hard day's work, "said Henry. 

Sylvia exclaimed again, but she was not in reality disturbed. She wasquite well aware that her husband was enjoying himself after his ownpeculiar fashion, and that, if he spoke the truth, the flapjacks weremore to his New England taste for supper than thick beefsteak. 

"Well, wait until after supper, and maybe you will change your mindabout having something to say grace for, " Meeks said, mysteriously. 

The husband and wife stared at him. "What do you mean, Mr. Meeks?"asked Sylvia, a little nervously. Something in the lawyer's manneragitated her. She was not accustomed to mysteries. Life had not heldmany for her, especially of late years. 

Henry took another mouthful of flapjacks. "Well, if you can give meany good reason for saying grace you will do more than the parsonever has, " he said. 

"Oh, Henry!" said Sylvia. 

"It's the truth, " said Henry. "I've gone to meeting and heard howthankful I ought to be for things I haven't got, and things I havegot that other folks haven't, and for forgiveness for breakingcommandments, when, so far as I can tell, commandments are about theonly things I've been able to keep without taxes--till I'm tired ofit. "

"Wait till after supper, " repeated the lawyer again, with smilingmystery. He had a large, smooth face, with gray hair on the sides ofhis head and none on top. He had good, placid features, and an easyexpression. He ate two platefuls of the flapjacks, then two pieces ofcake, and a large slice of custard pie! He was very fond of sweets. 

After supper was over Henry and Meeks returned to the sitting-room, and sat down beside the two front windows. It was a small, squareroom furnished with Sylvia's chief household treasures. There was ahair-cloth sofa, which she and Henry had always regarded as anextravagance and had always viewed with awe. There were two rockers, besides one easy-chair, covered with old-gold plush--also anextravagance. There was a really beautiful old mahogany table withcarved base, of which neither Henry nor Sylvia thought much. Sylviameditated selling enough Calkin's soap to buy a new one, and stowthat away in Mr. Allen's room. Mr. Allen professed great admirationfor it, to her wonderment. There was also a fine, old, gold-framedmirror, and some china vases on the mantel-shelf. Sylvia was ratherashamed of them. Mrs. Jim Jones had a mirror which she had earned byselling Calkin's soap, which Sylvia considered much handsomer. Shewould have had ambitions in that direction also, but Henry was firmin his resolve not to have the mirror displaced, nor the vases, although Sylvia descanted upon the superior merits of some vases withgilded pedestals which Mrs. Sam Elliot had in her parlor. 

Meeks regarded the superb old table with appreciation as he sat inthe sitting-room after supper. "Fine old piece, " he said. 

Henry looked at it doubtfully. It had been in a woodshed of hisgrandfather's house, when he was a boy, and he was not as confidentabout that as he was about the mirror and vases, which had alwaysmaintained their parlor estate. 

"Sylvia don't think much of it, " he said. "She's crazy to have one ofcarved oak like one Mrs. Jim Jones has. "

"Carved oak fiddlestick!" said Sidney Meeks. "It's a queer thing thatso much virtue and real fineness of character can exist in a womanwithout the slightest trace of taste for art. "

Henry looked resentful. "Sylvia has taste, as much taste as mostwomen, " he said. "She simply doesn't like to see the same old thingsaround all the time, and I don't know as I blame her. The world hasgrown since that table was made, there's no doubt about that. Itstands to reason furniture has improved, too. "

"Glad there's something you see in a bright light, Henry. "

"I must say that I like this new mission furniture, myself, prettywell, " said Henry, somewhat importantly. 

"That's as old as the everlasting hills; but the old that's new isthe newest thing in all creation, " said Meeks. "Sylvia is a foolishwoman if she parts with this magnificent old piece for anyreproduction made in job lots. "

"Oh, she isn't going to part with it. Mr. Allen will like it in hisroom. He thinks as much of it as you do. "

"He's right, too, " said Meeks. "There's carving for you; there's afine grain of wood. "

"It's very hard to keep clean, " said Sylvia, as she came in rubbingher moist hands. "Now, that new Flemish oak is nothing at all to takecare of, Mrs. Jones says. "

"This is worth taking care of, " said Meeks. "Now, Sylvia, sit down. Ihave something to tell you and Henry. "

Sylvia sat down. Something in the lawyer's manner aroused hers andher husband's keenest attention. They looked at him and waited. Bothwere slightly pale. Sylvia was a delicate little woman, and Henry waslarge-framed and tall, but a similar experience had worn similarlines in both faces. They looked singularly alike. 

Sidney Meeks had the dramatic instinct. He waited for the silence togather to its utmost intensity before he spoke. "I had something totell you when I came in, " he said, "but I thought I had better waittill after supper. "

He paused. There was another silence. Henry's and Sylvia's eyesseemed to wax luminous. 

Sidney Meeks spoke again. He was enjoying himself immensely. "Whatrelation is Abrahama White to you?" he said. 

"She is second cousin to Sylvia. Her mother was Sylvia's mother'scousin, " said Henry. "What of it?"

"Nothing, except--" Meeks waited again. He wished to make a coup. Hehad an instinct for climaxes. "Abrahama had a shock this morning, " hesaid, suddenly. 

"A shock?" said Henry. 

Sylvia echoed him. "A shock!" she gasped. 

"Yes, I thought you hadn't heard of it. "

"I've been in the house all day, " said Sylvia. "I hadn't seen a soulbefore you came in. " She rose. "Who's taking care of her?" she asked. "She ain't all alone?"

"Sit down, " said Sidney. "She's well cared for. Miss Babcock isthere. She happened to be out of a place, and Dr. Wallace got herright away. "

"Is she going to get over it?" asked Sylvia, anxiously. "I must goover there, anyway, this evening. I always thought a good deal ofAbrahama. "

"You might as well go over there, " said the lawyer. "It isn't quitethe thing for me to tell you, but I'm going to. If Henry here can eatflapjacks like those you make, Sylvia, and not say grace, his stateof mind is dangerous. I am going to tell you. Dr. Wallace saysAbrahama can't live more than a day or two, and--she has made a willand left you all her property. "

Chapter II

There was another silence. The husband and wife were pale, withmouths agape like fishes. So little prosperity had come into theirlives that they were rendered almost idiotic by its approach. 

"Us?" said Sylvia, at length, with a gasp. 

"Us?" said Henry. 

"Yes, you, " said Sidney Meeks. 

"What about Rose Fletcher, Abrahama's sister Susy's daughter?" askedSylvia, presently. "She is her own niece. "

"You know Abrahama never had anything to do with Susy after shemarried John Fletcher, " replied the lawyer. "She made her will soonafterward, and cut her off. "

"I remember what they said at the time, " returned Sylvia. "They allthought John Fletcher was going to marry Abrahama instead of Susy. She was enough sight more suitable age for him. He was too old forSusy, and Abrahama, even if she wasn't young, was a beautiful woman, and smarter than Susy ever thought of being. "

"Susy had the kind of smartness that catches men, " said the lawyer, with a slight laugh. 

"I always wondered if John Fletcher hadn't really done a good deal tomake Abrahama think he did want her, " said Sylvia. "He was just thatkind of man. I never did think much of him. He was handsome and glib, but he was all surface. I guess poor Abrahama had some reason to cutoff Susy. I guess there was some double-dealing. I thought so at thetime, and now this will makes me think so even more. "

Again there was a silence, and again that expression of bewilderment, almost amounting to idiocy, reigned in the faces of the husband andwife. 

"I never thought old Abraham White should have made the will he did, "said Henry, articulating with difficulty. "Susy had just as muchright to the property, and there she was cut off with five hundreddollars, to be paid when she came of age. "

"I guess she spent that five hundred on her wedding fix, " said Sylvia. 

"It was a queer will, " stammered Henry. 

"I think the old man always looked at Abrahama as his son and heir, "said the lawyer. "She was named for him, and his father before him, you know. I always thought the poor old girl deserved the lion'sshare for being saddled with such a name, anyhow. "

"It was a dreadful name, and she was such a beautiful girl andwoman, " said Sylvia. She already spoke of Abrahama in the past tense. "I wonder where the niece is, " she added. 

"The last I heard of her she was living with some rich people in NewYork, " replied Meeks. "I think they took her in some capacity afterher father and mother died. "

"I hope she didn't go out to work as hired girl, " said Sylvia. "Itwould have been awful for a granddaughter of Abraham White's to dothat. I wonder if Abrahama never wrote to her, nor did anything forher. "

"I don't think she ever had the slightest communication with Susyafter she married, or her husband, or the daughter, " replied Meeks. "In fact, I practically know she did not. "

"If the poor girl didn't do well, Abrahama had a good deal to answerfor, " said Sylvia, thoughtfully. She looked worried. Then again thatexpression of almost idiotic joy overspread her face. "That old Whitehomestead is beautiful--the best house in town, " she said. 

"There's fifty acres of land with it, too, " said Meeks. 

Sylvia and Henry looked at each other. Both hesitated. Then Henryspoke, stammeringly:

"I--never knew--just how much of an income Abrahama had, " he said. 

"Well, " replied the lawyer, "I must say not much--not as much as Iwish, for your sakes. You see, old Abraham had a lot of that railroadstock that went to smash ten years ago, and Abrahama lost a gooddeal. She was a smart woman; she could work and save; but she didn'tknow any more about business than other women. There's an income ofabout--well, about six hundred dollars and some odd cents after thetaxes and insurance are paid. And she has enough extra in the AlfordBank to pay for her last expenses without touching the principal. Andthe house is in good repair. She has kept it up well. There won't beany need to spend a cent on repairs for some years. "

"Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid!" saidSylvia. She gaped horribly. Her expression of delight was at oncemean and infantile. 

"Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid, and allthat land, and that great house!" repeated Henry, with precisely thesame expression. 

"Not much, but enough to keep things going if you're careful, " saidMeeks. He spoke deprecatingly, but in reality the sum seemed large tohim also. "You know there's an income besides from that finegrass-land, " said he. "There's more than enough hay for a cow andhorse, if you keep one. You can count on something besides in goodhay-years. "

Henry looked reflective. Then his face seemed to expand with anenormous idea. "I wonder--" he began. 

"You wonder what?" asked Sylvia. 

"I wonder--if it wouldn't be cheaper in the end to keepan--automobile and sell all the hay. "

Sylvia gasped, and Meeks burst into a roar of laughter. 

"I rather guess you don't get me into one of those things, buttinginto stone walls, and running over children, and scaring horses, withyou underneath most of the time, either getting blown up withgasolene or covering your clothes with mud and grease for me to cleanoff, " said Sylvia. 

"I thought automobiles were against your principles, " said Meeks, still chuckling. 

"So they be, the way other folks run 'em, " said Henry; "but not theway I'd run 'em. "

"We'll have a good, steady horse that won't shy at one, if we haveanything, " said Sylvia, and her voice had weight. 

"There's a good buggy in Abrahama's barn, " said Meeks. 

Sylvia made an unexpected start. "I think we are wicked as we canbe!" she declared, violently. "Here we are talking about that poorwoman's things before she's done with them. I'm going right overthere to see if I can't be of some use. "

"Sit down, Sylvia, " said Henry, soothingly, but he, too, looked bothangry and ashamed. 

"You had better keep still where you are to-night, " said Meeks. "MissBabcock is doing all that anybody can. There isn't much to be done, Dr. Wallace says. To-morrow you can go over there and sit with her, and let Miss Babcock take a nap. " Meeks rose as he spoke. "I must begoing, " he said. "I needn't charge you again not to let anybody knowwhat I've told you before the will is read. It is irregular, but Ithought I'd cheer up Henry here a bit. "

"No, we won't speak of it, " declared the husband and wife, almost inunison. 

After Meeks had gone they looked at each other. Both lookeddisagreeable to the other. Both felt an unworthy suspicion of theother. 

"I hope she will get well, " Sylvia said, defiantly. "Maybe she will. This is her first shock. "

"God knows I hope she will, " returned Henry, with equal defiance. 

Each of the two was perfectly good and ungrasping, but each accusedthemselves and each other unjustly because of the possibilities ofwrong feeling which they realized. Sylvia did not understand how, inthe face of such prosperity, she could wish Abrahama to get well, andshe did not understand how her husband could, and Henry's mentalattitude was the same. 

Sylvia sat down and took some mending. Henry seated himself opposite, and stared at her with gloomy eyes, which yet held latent sparks ofjoy. "I wish Meeks hadn't told us, " he said, angrily. 

"So do I, " said Sylvia. "I keep telling myself I don't want that poorold woman to die, and I keep telling myself that you don't; but I'mdreadful suspicious of us both. It means so much. "

"Just the way I feel, " said Henry. "I wish he'd kept his news tohimself. It wasn't legal, anyhow. "

"You don't suppose it will make the will not stand!" cried Sylvia, with involuntary eagerness. Then she quailed before her husband'sstern gaze. "Of course I know it won't make any difference, " shesaid, feebly, and drew her darning-needle through the sock she wasmending. 

Henry took up a copy of the East Westland Gazette. The first thing hesaw was the list of deaths, and he seemed to see, quite plainly, Abrahama White's among them, although she was still quick, and heloathed himself. He turned the paper with a rattling jerk to anaccount of a crime in New York, and the difficulty the police hadexperienced in taking the guilty man in safety to the police station. He read the account aloud. 

"Seems to me the principal thing the New York police protect is thecriminals, " he said, bitterly. "If they would turn a little of theirattention to protecting the helpless women and children, seems to meit would be more to the purpose. They're awful careful of thecriminals. "

Sylvia did not hear. She assented absently. She thought, in spite ofherself, of the good-fortune which was to befall them. She imaginedherself mistress of the old White homestead. They would, of course, rent their own little cottage and go to live in the big house. Sheimagined herself looking through the treasures which Abrahama wouldleave behind her--then a monstrous loathing of herself seized her. She resolved that the very next morning she would go over and helpMiss Babcock, that she would put all consideration of materialbenefits from her mind. She brought her thoughts with an effort tothe article which Henry had just read. She could recall his lastwords. 

"Yes, I think you are right, " said she. "I think criminals ought notto be protected. You are right, Henry. I think myself we ought tohave a doctor called from Alford to-morrow, if she is no better, andhave a consultation. Dr. Wallace is good, but he is only one, andsometimes another doctor has different ideas, and she may get help. "

"Yes, I think there ought to be a consultation, " said Henry. "I willsee about it to-morrow. I will go over there with you myselfto-morrow morning. I think the police ought not to protect thecriminals, but the people who are injured by them. "

"Then there would be no criminals. They would have no chance, " saidSylvia, sagely. "Yes, I agree with you, Henry, there ought to be aconsultation. "

She looked at Henry and he at her, and each saw in the other's facethat same ignoble joy, and that same resentment and denial of it. 

Neither slept that night. They were up early the next morning. Sylviawas getting breakfast and Henry was splitting wood out in the yard. Presently he came stumbling in. "Come out here, " he said. Sylviafollowed him to the door. They stepped out in the dewy yard and stoodlistening. Beneath their feet was soft, green grass strewn with tinyspheres which reflected rainbows. Over their heads was a wonderfulsky of the clearest angelic blue. This sky seemed to sing withbell-notes. 

"The bell is tolling, " whispered Henry. They counted from thatinstant. When the bell stopped they looked at each other. 

"That's her age, " said Sylvia. 

"Yes, " said Henry. 

Chapter III

The weather was wonderful on Abrahama White's funeral day. The airhad at once the keen zest of winter and the languor of summer. Onemoment one perceived warm breaths of softly undulating pines, thenext it was as if the wind blew over snow. The air at once stimulatedand soothed. One breathing it realized youth and an endless vista ofdreams ahead, and also the peace of age, and of work well done anddeserving the reward of rest. There was something in this air whichgave the inhaler the certainty of victory, the courage of battle andof unassailable youth. Even old people, pausing to notice thestreamer of crape on Abrahama White's door, felt triumphant andundaunted. It did not seem conceivable, upon such a day, that thatstreamer would soon flaunt for them. 

The streamer was rusty. It had served for many such occasions, andsuns and rains had damaged it. People said that Martin Barnes, theundertaker, ought to buy some new crape. Martin was a very old manhimself, but he had no imagination for his own funeral. It seemed tohim grotesque and impossible that an undertaker should ever be inneed of his own ministrations. His solemn wagon stood before the doorof the great colonial house, and he and his son-in-law and hisdaughter, who were his assistants, were engaged at their solemn taskswithin. 

The daughter, Flora Barnes, was arraying the dead woman in her lastrobe of state, while her father and brother-in-law waited in thesouth room across the wide hall. When her task was performed sheentered the south room with a gentle pride evident in her thin, florid face. 

"She makes a beautiful corpse, " she said, in a hissing whisper. 

Henry Whitman and his wife were in the room, with Martin Barnes andSimeon Capen, his son-in-law. Barnes and Capen rose at once withpleased interest, Henry and Sylvia more slowly; yet they also hadexpressions of pleasure, albeit restrained. Both strove to draw theirfaces down, yet that expression of pleasure reigned triumphant, overcoming the play of the facial muscles. They glanced at eachother, and each saw an angry shame in the other's eyes because ofthis joy. 

But when they followed Martin Barnes and his assistants into theparlor, where Abrahama White was laid in state, all the shameful joypassed from their faces. The old woman in her last bed was majestic. The dead face was grand, compelling to other than earthlyconsiderations. Henry and Sylvia forgot the dead woman's little storewhich she had left behind her. Sylvia leaned over her and wept;Henry's face worked. Nobody except himself had ever known it, but he, although much younger, had had his dreams about the beautifulAbrahama White. He remembered them as he looked at her, old and deadand majestic, with something like the light of her lost beauty in herstill face. It was like a rose which has fallen in such a windlessatmosphere that its petals retain the places which they have heldaround its heart. 

Henry loved his wife, but this before him was associated withsomething beyond love, which tended to increase rather than diminishit. When at last they left the room he did what was very unusual withhim. He was reticent, like the ordinary middle-aged New-Englander. Hetook his wife's little, thin, veinous hand and clasped it tenderly. Her bony fingers clung gratefully to his. 

When they were all out in the south room Flora Barnes spoke again. "Ihave never seen a more beautiful corpse, " said she, in exactly thesame voice which she had used before. She began taking off her large, white apron. Something peculiar in her motion arrested Sylvia'sattention. She made a wiry spring at her. 

"Let me see that apron, " said she, in a voice which corresponded withher action. 

Flora recoiled. She turned pale, then she flushed. "What for?"

"Because I want to. "

"It's just my apron. I--"

But Sylvia had the apron. Out of its folds dropped a thin roll ofblack silk. Flora stood before Sylvia. Beads of sweat showed on herflat forehead. She twitched like one about to have convulsions. Shewas very tall, but Sylvia seemed to fairly loom over her. She heldthe black silk out stiffly, like a bayonet. 

"What is this?" she demanded, in her tense voice. 

Flora twitched. 

"What is it? I want to know. "

"The back breadth, " replied Flora in a small, scared voice, like thesqueak of a mouse. 

"Whose back breadth?"

"Her back breadth. "

"_Her_ back breadth?"

"Yes. "

"Robbing the dead!" said Sylvia, pitilessly. Her tense voice wasterrible. 

Flora tried to make a stand. "She hadn't any use for it, " shesqueaked, plaintively. 

"Robbing the dead! Its bad enough to rob the living. "

"She couldn't have worn that dress without any back breadth while shewas living, " argued Flora, "but now it don't make any odds. It don'tshow. "

"What were you going to do with it?"

Flora was scared into a storm of injured confession. "You 'ain't anycall to talk to me so, Mrs. Whitman, " she said. "I've worked hard, and I 'ain't had a decent black silk dress for ten years. "

"How can you have a dress made out of a back breadth, I'd like toknow?"

"It's just the same quality that Mrs. Hiram Adams's was, and--" Florahesitated. 

"Flora Barnes, you don't mean to say that you're robbing the dead ofback breadths till you get enough to make you a whole dress?"

Flora whimpered. "Business has been awful poor lately, " she said. "It's been so healthy here we've hardly been able to earn the salt toour porridge. Father won't join the trust, either, and lots of timesthe undertaker from Alford has got our jobs. "

"Business!" cried Sylvia, in horror. 

"I can't help it if you do look at it that way, " Flora replied, andnow she was almost defiant. "Our business is to get our living out offolks' dying. There's no use mincing matters. It's our business, justas working in a shoe-shop is your husband's business. Folks have tohave shoes and walk when they're alive, and be laid out nice andburied when they're dead. Our business has been poor. Either Dr. Wallace gives awful strong medicine or East Westland is too healthy. We haven't earned but precious little lately, and I need a wholeblack silk dress and they don't. "

Sylvia eyed her in withering scorn. "Need or not, " said she, "the onethat owns this back breadth is going to have it. I rather think sheain't going to be laid away without a back breadth to her dress. "

With that Sylvia crossed the room and the hall, and entered theparlor. She closed the door behind her. When she came out a fewminutes later she was pale but triumphant. "There, " said she, "it'sback with her, and I've got just this much to say, and no more, FloraBarnes. When you get home you gather up all the back breadths you'vegot, and you do them up in a bundle, and you put them in that barrelthe Ladies' Sewing Society is going to send to the missionaries nextweek, and don't you ever touch a back breadth again, or I'll tell itright and left, and you'll see how much business you'll have lefthere, I don't care how sickly it gets. "

"If father would--only have joined the trust I never would havethought of such a thing, anyway, " muttered Flora. She was vanquished. 

"You do it, Flora Barnes. "

"Yes, I will. Don't speak so, Mrs. Whitman. "

"You had better. "

The undertaker and his son-in-law and Henry had remained quitesilent. Now they moved toward the door, and Flora followed, red andperspiring. Sylvia heard her say something to her father about thetrust on the way to the gate, between the tall borders of box, andheard Martin's surly growl in response. 

"Laying it onto the trust, " Sylvia said to Henry--"such an awfulthing as that!"

Henry assented. He looked aghast at the whole affair. He seemed tocatch a glimpse of dreadful depths of feminity which daunted hismasculine mind. "To think of women caring enough about dress to dosuch a thing as that!" he said to himself. He glanced at Sylvia, andshe, as a woman, seemed entirely beyond his comprehension. 

The whole great house was sweet with flowers. Neighbors had sent theearly spring flowers from their door-yards, and Henry and Sylvia hadbought a magnificent wreath of white roses and carnations and smilax. They had ordered it from a florist in Alford, and it seemed to themsomething stupendous--as if in some way it must please even the deadwoman herself to have her casket so graced. 

"When folks know, they won't think we didn't do all we could, " Sylviawhispered to Henry, significantly. He nodded. Both were very busy, even with assistance from the neighbors, and a woman who worked outby the day, in preparing the house for the funeral. Everything had tobe swept and cleaned and dusted. 

When the hour came, and the people began to gather, the house wasveritably set in order and burnished. Sylvia, in the parlor with thechief mourners, glanced about, and eyed the smooth lap of her newblack gown with a certain complacency which she could not control. After the funeral was over, and the distant relatives and neighborswho had assisted had eaten a cold supper and departed, and she andHenry were alone in the great house, she said, and he agreed, thateverything had gone off beautifully. "Just as she would have wishedit if she could have been here and ordered it herself, " said Sylvia. 

They were both hesitating whether to remain in the house that nightor go home. Finally they went home. There was an awe and strangenessover them; besides, they began to wonder if people might not think itodd for them to stay there before the will was read, since they couldnot be supposed to know it all belonged to them. 

It was about two weeks before they were regularly established in thegreat house, and Horace Allen, the high-school teacher, was expectedthe next day but one. Henry had pottered about the place, andattended to some ploughing on the famous White grass-land, which wassupposed to produce more hay than any piece of land of its size inthe county. Henry had been fired with ambition to produce more thanever before, but that day his spirit had seemed to fail him. He satabout gloomily all the afternoon; then he went down for the eveningmail, and brought home no letters, but the local paper. Sylvia waspreparing supper in the large, clean kitchen. She had been lookingover her new treasures all day, and she was radiant. She chattered toher husband like a school-girl. 

"Oh, Henry, " said she, "you don't know what we've got! I neverdreamed poor Abrahama had such beautiful things. I have been up inthe garret looking over things, and there's one chest up there packedwith the most elegant clothes. I never saw such dresses in my life. "

Henry looked at his wife with eyes which loved her face, yet saw itas it was, elderly and plain, with all its youthful bloom faded. 

"I don't suppose there is anything that will suit you to have madeover, " he said. "I suppose they are dresses she had when she wasyoung. "

Sylvia colored. She tossed her head and threw back her roundshoulders. Feminine vanity dies hard; perhaps it never dies at all. 

"I don't know, " she said, defiantly. "Three are colors I used towear. I have had to wear black of late years, because it was moreeconomical, but you know how much I used to wear pink. It was realbecoming to me. "

Henry continued to regard his wife's face with perfect love and aperfect cognizance of facts. "You couldn't wear it now, " he said. 

"I don't know, " retorted Sylvia. "I dare say I don't look now as if Icould. I have been working hard all day, and my hair is all out ofcrimp. I ain't so sure but if I did up my hair nice, and wasn't alltuckered out, that I couldn't wear a pink silk dress that's there ifI tone it down with black. "

"I don't believe you would feel that you could go to meeting dressedin pink silk at your time of life, " said Henry. 

"Lots of women older than I be wear bright colors, " retorted Sylvia, "in places where they are dressy. You don't know anything aboutdress, Henry. "

"I suppose I don't, " replied Henry, indifferently. 

"I think that pink silk would be perfectly suitable and real becomingif I crimped my hair and had a black lace bonnet to wear with it. "

"I dare say. "

Henry took his place at the supper-table. It was set in the kitchen. Sylvia was saving herself all the steps possible until Horace Allenreturned. 

Henry did not seem to have much appetite that night. His face wasovercast. Along with his scarcely confessed exultation over hisgood-fortune he was conscious of an odd indignation. For years he hadcherished a sense of injury at his treatment at the hands ofProvidence; now he felt like a child who, pushing hard againstopposition to his desires, has that opposition suddenly removed, andtumbles over backward. Henry had an odd sensation of havingignominiously tumbled over backward, and he missed, with ridiculousrancor, his sense of injury which he had cherished for so many years. After kicking against the pricks for so long, he had come to feel acertain self-righteous pleasure in it which he was now forced toforego. 

Sylvia regarded her husband uneasily. Her state of mind had formerlybeen the female complement of his, but the sense of possessionswerved her more easily. "What on earth ails you, Henry Whitman?" shesaid. "You look awful down-in-the-mouth. Only to think of our havingenough to be comfortable for life. I should think you'd be realthankful and pleased. "

"I don't know whether I'm thankful and pleased or not, " rejoinedHenry, morosely. 

"Why, Henry Whitman!"

"If it had only come earlier, when we had time and strength to enjoyit, " said Henry, with sudden relish. He felt that he had discovered anew and legitimate ground of injury which might console him for theloss of the old. 

"We may live a good many years to enjoy it now, " said Sylvia. 

"I sha'n't; maybe you will, " returned Henry, with malignant joy. 

Sylvia regarded him with swift anxiety. "Why, Henry, don't you feelwell?" she gasped. 

"No, I don't, and I haven't for some time. "

"Oh, Henry, and you never told me! What is the matter? Hadn't youbetter see the doctor?"

"Doctor!" retorted Henry, scornfully. 

"Maybe he could give you something to help you. Whereabouts do youfeel bad, Henry?"

"All over, " replied Henry, comprehensively, and he smiled like asatirical martyr. 

"All over?"

"Yes, all over--body and soul and spirit. I know just as well as anydoctor can tell me that I haven't many years to enjoy anything. Whena man has worked as long as I have in a shoe-shop, and worried asmuch and as long as I have, good-luck finds him with his earthworksabout worn out and his wings hitched on. "

"Oh, Henry, maybe Dr. Wallace--"

"Maybe he can unhitch the wings?" inquired Henry, with grotesqueirony. "No, Sylvia, no doctor living can give medicine strong enoughto cure a man of a lifetime of worry. "

"But the worry's all over now, Henry. "

"What the worry's done ain't over. "

Sylvia began whimpering softly. "Oh, Henry, if you talk that way itwill take away all my comfort! What do you suppose the property wouldmean to me without you?"

Then Henry felt ashamed. "Lord, don't worry, " he said, roughly. "Aman can't say anything to you without upsetting you. I can't tell howlong I'll live. Sometimes a man lives through everything. All I meantwas, sometimes when good-luck comes to a man it comes so darned lateit might just as well not come at all. "

"Henry, you don't mean to be wicked and ungrateful?"

"If I am I can't help it. I ain't a hypocrite, anyway. We've got somegood-fortune, and I'm glad of it, but I'd been enough sight gladderif it had come sooner, before bad fortune had taken away my rightfultaste for it. "

"You won't have to work in the shop any longer, Henry. "

"I don't know whether I shall or not. What in creation do you supposeI'm going to do all day--sit still and suck my thumbs?"

"You can work around the place. "

"Of course I can; but there'll be lots of time when there won't beany work to be done--then what? To tell you the truth of it, Sylvia, I've had my nose held to the grindstone so long I don't know as it'sin me to keep away from it and live, now. "

Henry had not been at work since Abrahama White's death. He had beenoften in Sidney Meeks's office; only Sidney Meeks saw through HenryWhitman. One day he laughed in his face, as the two men sat in hisoffice, and Henry had been complaining of the lateness of hisgood-fortune. 

"If your property has come too late, Henry, " said he, "what's the usein keeping it? What's the sense of keeping property that onlyaggravates you because it didn't come in your time instead of theLord's? I'll draw up a deed of gift on the spot, and Sylvia can signit when you go home, and you can give the whole biling thing toforeign missions. The Lord knows there's no need for any mortal manto keep anything he doesn't want--unless it's taxes, or a quickconsumption, or a wife and children. And as for those last, theredoesn't seem to be much need of that lately. I have never seen thetime since I came into the world when it was quite so hard to getthings, or quite so easy to get rid of them, as it is now. Say theword, Henry, and I'll draw up the deed of gift. "

Henry looked confused. His eyes fell before the lawyer's sarcasticglance. "You are talking tomfool nonsense, " he said, scowling. "Theproperty isn't mine; it's my wife's. "

"Sylvia never crossed you in anything. She'd give it up fast enoughif she got it through her head how downright miserable it was makingyou, " returned the lawyer, maliciously. Then Sidney relented. Therewas something pathetic, even tragic, about Henry Whitman's sheerinability to enjoy as he might once have done the good things oflife, and his desperate clutch of them in flat contradiction to hiswords. "Let's drop it, " said the lawyer. "I'm glad you have theproperty and can have a little ease, even if it doesn't mean to youwhat it once would. Let's have a glass of that grape wine. "

Sidney Meeks had his own small amusement in the world. He was one ofthose who cannot exist without one, and in lieu of anything else hehad turned early in life toward making wines from many things whichhis native soil produced. He had become reasonably sure, at an earlyage, that he should achieve no great success in his profession. Indeed, he was lazily conscious that he had no fierce ambition to doso. Sidney Meeks was not an ambitious man in large matters. But hehad taken immense comfort in toiling in a little vineyard behind hishouse, and also in making curious wines and cordials from manyunusual ingredients. Sidney had stored in his cellar wines from elderflowers, from elderberries, from daisies, from rhubarb, from clover, and currants, and many other fruits and flowers, besides grapes. Hewas wont to dispense these curious brews to his callers with greatpride. But he took especial pride in a grape wine which he had madefrom selected grapes thirty years ago. This wine had a peculiarbouquet due to something which Sidney had added to the grape-juice, the secret of which he would never divulge. 

It was some of this golden wine which Sidney now produced. Henrydrank two glasses, and the tense muscles around his mouth relaxed. Sidney smiled. "Don't know what gives it that scent and taste, doyou?" asked Sidney. "Well, I know. It's simple enough, but nobodyexcept Sidney Meeks has ever found it out. I tell you, Henry, if aman hasn't set the river on fire, realized his youthful dreams, andall that, it is something to have found out something that nobodyelse has, no matter how little it is, if you have got nerve enough tokeep it to yourself. "

Henry fairly laughed. His long, hollow cheeks were slightly flushed. When he got home that night he looked pleasantly at Sylvia, preparingsupper. But Sylvia did not look as radiant as she had done since hergood-fortune. She said nothing ailed her, in response to his inquiryas to whether she felt well or not, but she continued gloomy andtaciturn, which was most unusual with her, especially of late. 

"What in the world is the matter with you, Sylvia?" Henry asked. Theinfluence of Sidney Meeks's wine had not yet departed from him. Hischeeks were still flushed, his eyes brilliant. 

Then Sylvia roused herself. "Nothing is the matter, " she replied, irritably, and immediately she became so gay that had Henry himselfbeen in his usual mood he would have been as much astonished as byher depression. Sylvia began talking and laughing, relating longstories of new discoveries which she had made in the house, planningfor Horace Allen's return. 

"He's going to have that big southwest room and the little one out ofit, " Sylvia said. "To-morrow you must get the bed moved into thelittle one, and I'll get the big room fixed up for a study. He'll betickled to pieces. There's beautiful furniture in the room now. Isuppose he'll think it's beautiful. It's terrible old-fashioned. I'drather have a nice new set of bird's-eye maple to my taste, and abrass bedstead, but I know he'll like this better. It's solid oldmahogany. "

"Yes, he'll be sure to like it, " assented Henry. 

After supper, although Sylvia did not relapse into her taciturn mood, Henry went and sat by himself on the square colonial porch on thewest side of the house. He sat gazing at the sky and the broad acresof grass-land. Presently he heard feminine voices in the house, andknew that two of the neighbors, Mrs. Jim Jones and Mrs. Sam Elliot, had called to see Sylvia. He resolved that he would stay where he wasuntil they were gone. He loved Sylvia, but women in the aggregatedisturbed and irritated him; and for him three women were sufficientto constitute an aggregate. 

Henry sat on the fine old porch with its symmetrical pillars. He hadan arm-chair which he tilted back against the house wall, and he wasexceedingly comfortable. The air was neither warm nor cold. There wasa clear red in the west and only one rose-tinged cloud the shape of abird's wing. He could hear the sunset calls of birds and the laughterof children. Once a cow lowed. A moist sense of growing things, thebreath of spring, came into his nostrils. Henry realized that he wasvery happy. He realized for the first time, with peaceful content, not with joy so turbulent that it was painful and rebellious, that heand his wife owned this grand old house and all those fair acres. Hewas filled with that great peace of possession which causes a man tofeel that he is safe from the ills of life. Henry felt fenced in andguarded. Then suddenly the sense of possession upon earth filled hiswhole soul with the hope of possession after death. Henry felt, forthe first time in his life, as if he had a firm standing-ground forfaith. For the first time he looked at the sunset sky, he listened tothe birds and children, he smelled the perfume of the earth, andthere was no bitterness in his soul. He smiled a smile of utter peacewhich harmonized with it all, and the conviction of endless happinessand a hereafter seemed to expand all his consciousness. 

Chapter IV

The dining-room in the White homestead was a large, low room whosesouthward windows were shaded at this season with a cloud ofgold-green young grape leaves. The paper was a nondescript pattern, alarge satin scroll on white. The room was wainscoted in white, andthe panel-work around the great chimney was beautiful. A Franklinstove with a pattern of grape-vines was built into the chimney underthe high mantel. Sylvia regarded this dubiously. 

"I don't think much of that old-fashioned Franklin stove, " she toldHenry. "Why Abrahama had it left in, after she had her nice furnace, beats me. Seems to me we had better have it taken out, and have anice board, covered with paper to match this on the room, put thereinstead. There's a big roll of the paper up garret, and it ain'tfaded a mite. "

"Mr. Allen will like it just the way it is, " said Henry, regardingthe old stove with a sneaking admiration of which he was ashamed. Ithad always seemed to him that Sylvia's taste must be better than his. He had always thought vaguely of women as creatures of taste. 

"I think maybe he'll like a fire in it sometimes, " he said, timidly. 

"A fire, when there's a furnace?"

"I mean chilly days in the fall, before we start the furnace. "

"Then we could have that nice air-tight that we had in the otherhouse put up. If we had a fire in this old thing the heat would allgo up chimney. "

"But it would look kind of pretty. "

"I was brought up to think a fire was for warmth, not for looks, "said Sylvia, tartly. She had lost the odd expression which Henry haddimly perceived several days before, or she was able to successfullykeep it in abeyance; still, there was no doubt that a strange andsubtle change had occurred within the woman. Henry was constantlylooking at her when she spoke, because he vaguely detected unwontedtones in her familiar voice; that voice which had come to seem almostas his own. He was constantly surprised at a look in the familiareyes, which had seemed heretofore to gaze at life in entire unisonwith his own. 

He often turned upon Sylvia and asked her abruptly if she did notfeel well, and what was the matter; and when she replied, as shealways did, that nothing whatever was the matter, continued to regardher with a frown of perplexity, from which she turned with a switchof her skirts and a hitch of her slender shoulders. Sylvia, while shestill evinced exultation over her new possessions, seemed to do sofiercely and defiantly. 

When Horace Allen arrived she greeted him, and ushered him into hernew domain with a pride which had in it something almost repellent. At supper-time she led him into the dining-room and glanced around, then at him. 

"Well, " said she, "don't you think it was about time we had somethingnice like this, after we had pulled and tugged for nothing all ourlives? Don't you think we deserve it if anybody does?"

"I certainly do, " replied Horace Allen, warmly; yet he regarded herwith somewhat the same look of astonishment as Henry. It did not seemto him that it could be Sylvia Whitman who was speaking. The thoughtcrossed his mind, as he took his place at the table, that possiblycoming late in life, after so many deprivations, good-fortune haddisturbed temporarily the even balance of her good New England sense. 

Then he looked about him with delight. "I say, this is great!" hecried, boyishly. There was something incurably boyish about HoraceAllen, although he was long past thirty. "By George, that Chippendalesideboard is a beauty, " he said, gazing across at a fine old piecefull of dull high lights across its graceful surfaces. 

Sylvia colored with pleasure, but she had been brought up to disclaimher possessions to others than her own family. "Mrs. Jim Jones hasgot a beautiful one she bought selling Calkin's soap, " she said. "Shethinks it's prettier than this, and I must say it's real handsome. It's solid oak and has a looking-glass on it. This hasn't got anyglass. "

Horace laughed. He gazed at a corner-closet with diamond-paned doors. 

"That is a perfectly jolly closet, too, " he said; "and those areperfect treasures of old dishes. "

"I think they are rather pretty, " said Henry. He was conscious of anadmiration for the old blue-and-white ware with its graceful shapesand quaint decorations savoring of mystery and the Far East, but herealized that his view was directly opposed to his wife's. This timeSylvia spoke quite in earnest. As far as the Indian china wasconcerned, she had her convictions. She was a cheap realist to thebone. 

She sniffed. "I suppose there's those that likes it, " said she, "butas for me, I can't see how anybody with eyes in their heads can looktwice at old, cloudy, blue stuff like that when they can have nice, clear, white ware, with flowers on it that _are_ flowers, like thisCalkin's soap set. There ain't a thing on the china in that closetthat's natural. Whoever saw a prospect all in blue, the trees andplants, and heathen houses, and the heathen, all blue? I like thingsto be natural, myself. "

Horace laughed, and extended his plate for another piece of pie. 

"It's an acquired taste, " he said. 

"I never had any time to acquire tastes. I kept what the Lord gaveme, " said Sylvia, but she smiled. She was delighted because Horacehad taken a second piece of pie. 

"I didn't know as you'd relish our fare after living in a Bostonhotel all your vacation, " said she. 

"People can talk about hotel tables all they want to, " declaredHorace. "Give me home cooking like yours every time. I haven't eatena blessed thing that tasted good since I went away. "

Henry and Sylvia looked lovingly at Horace. He was a large man, blond, with a thick shock of fair hair, and he wore gray tweedsrather loose for him, which had always distressed Sylvia. She hadoften told Henry that it seemed to her if he would wear a nice suitof black broadcloth it would be more in keeping with his position ashigh-school principal. He wore a red tie, too, and Sylvia had aninborn conviction that red was not to be worn by fair people, male orfemale. 

However, she loved and admired Horace in spite of these minordrawbacks, and had a fiercely maternal impulse of protection towardshim. She was convinced that every mother in East Westland, with amarriageable daughter, and every daughter, had matrimonial designsupon him; and she considered that none of them were good enough forhim. She did not wish him to marry in any case. She had suspicionsabout young women whom he might have met while on his vacation. 

After supper, when the dishes had been cleared away, and they sat inthe large south room, and Horace had admired that and itsfurnishings, Sylvia led up to the subject. 

"I suppose you know a good many people in Boston, " she remarked. 

"Yes, " replied Horace. "You know, I was born and brought up andeducated there, and lived there until my people died. "

"I suppose you know a good many young ladies. "

"Thousands, " said Horace; "but none of them will look at me. "

"You didn't ask them?"

"Not all, only a few, but they wouldn't. "

"I'd like to know why not?"

Then Henry spoke. "Sylvia, " he said, "Mr. Allen is only joking. "

"I hope he is, " Sylvia said, severely. "He's too young to think ofgetting married. It makes me sick, though, to see the way girls chaseany man, and their mothers, too, for that matter. Mrs. Jim Jones andMrs. Sam Elliot both came while you were gone, Mr. Allen. They saidthey thought maybe we wouldn't take a boarder now we have come intoproperty, and maybe you would like to go there, and I knew just aswell as if they had spoken what they had in their minds. There'sMinnie Jones as homely as a broom, and there's Carrie Elliot gettingolder, and--"

"Sylvia!" said Henry. 

"I don't care. Mr. Allen knows what's going on just as well as I do. Neither of those women can cook fit for a cat to eat, let aloneanything else. Lucy Ayres came here twice on errands, too, and--"

But Horace colored, and spoke suddenly. "I didn't know that you wouldtake me back, " he said. "I was afraid--"

"We don't need to, as far as money goes, " said Sylvia, "but Mr. Whitman and I like to have the company, and you never make a mite oftrouble. That's what I told Mrs. Jim Jones and Mrs. Sam Elliot. "

"I'm glad he's got back, " Henry said, after Horace had gone up-stairsfor the night and the couple were in their own room, a large one outof the sitting-room. 

"So am I, " assented Sylvia. "It seems real good to have him hereagain, and he's dreadful tickled with his new rooms. I guess he'sglad he wasn't shoved off onto Mrs. Jim Jones or Mrs. Sam Elliot. Idon't believe he has an idea of getting married to any girl alive. Heain't a mite silly over the girls, if they are all setting their capsat him. I'm sort of sorry for Lucy Ayres. She's a pretty girl, andreal ladylike, and I believe she'd give all her old shoes to get him. "

"Look out, he'll hear you, " charged Henry. Their room was directlyunder the one occupied by Horace. 

Presently the odor of a cigar floated into their open window. 

"I should know he'd got home. Smoking is an awful habit, " Sylviasaid, with a happy chuckle. 

"He'd do better if he smoked a pipe, " said Henry. Henry smoked a pipe. 

"If a man is going to smoke at all, I think he had better smokesomething besides a smelly old pipe, " said Sylvia. "It seems to me, with all our means, you might smoke cigars now, Henry. I saw realnice ones advertised two for five cents the other day, and youneedn't smoke more than two a day. "

Henry sniffed slightly. 

"I suppose you think women don't know anything about cigars, " saidSylvia; "but I can smell, anyhow, and I know Mr. Allen is smoking areal good cigar. "

"Yes, he is, " assented Henry. 

"And I don't believe he pays more than a cent apiece. His cigars havegilt papers around them, and I know as well as I want to they'recheap; I know a cent apiece is a much as he pays. He smokes so manyhe can't pay more than that. "

Henry sniffed again, but Sylvia did not hear. She had one deaf ear, and she was lying on her sound one. Then they fell asleep, and it wassome time before both woke suddenly. A sound had wakened Henry, anodor Sylvia. Henry had heard a door open, forcing him intowakefulness; Sylvia had smelled the cigar again. She nudged herhusband. Just then the tall clock in the sitting-room struck tendeliberately. 

"It's late, and he's awake, smoking, now, " whispered Sylvia. 

Henry said nothing. He only grunted. 

"Don't you think it's queer?"

"Oh no. I guess he's only reading, " replied Henry. He had a strongmasculine loyalty towards Horace, as another man. He waited until heheard Sylvia's heavy, regular breathing again. Then he slipped out ofbed and stole to the window. It was a strange night, very foggy, butthe fog was shot through with shafts of full moonlight. The air washeavy and damp and sweet. Henry listened a moment at the bedroomwindow, then he tiptoed out into the sitting-room. He stole acrossthe hall into the best parlor. He raised a window in therenoiselessly, looked out, and listened. There was a grove of pines andspruces on that side of the house. There was a bench under a pine. Upon this bench Henry gradually perceived a whiteness more opaquethan that of the fog. He heard a voice, then a responsive murmur. Then the fragrant smoke of a cigar came directly in his face. Henryshook his head. He remained motionless a moment. Then he left theroom, and going into the hall stole up-stairs. The door of thesouthwest chamber stood wide open. Henry entered. He was tremblinglike a woman. He loved the young man, and suspicions, like dreadful, misshapen monsters, filled his fancy. He peeped into the little roomwhich he and Sylvia had fitted up as a bedroom for Horace, and it wasvacant. 

Henry went noiselessly back down-stairs and into his own room. He laydown without disturbing his wife, but he did not fall asleep. Afterwhat seemed to him a long time he heard a stealthy footstep on thestair, and again smelled the aroma of a cigar which floated down fromoverhead. 

That awoke Sylvia. "I declare, he's smoking again, " she murmured, sleepily. "It's a dreadful habit. "

Henry made no reply. He breathed evenly, pretending to be asleep. 

Chapter V

Although it was easy for a man, especially for a young marriageableman, to obtain board in East Westland, it was not so easy for awoman; and the facts of her youth and good looks, and presumablymarriageable estate, rendered it still more difficult. There was inthe little village a hotel, so-called, which had formerly been thetavern. It was now the East Westland House. Once it had been the Signof the Horse. The old sign-board upon which a steed in flaming red, rampant upon a crude green field against a crude blue sky, had beenpainted by some local artist, all unknown to fame, and long since atrest in the village graveyard, still remained in the hotel attic, tilted under the dusty eaves. 

The Sign of the Horse had been in former days a flourishing hostelry, before which, twice a day, the Boston and the Alford stages had drawnup with mighty flourishes of horns and gallant rearings of jadedsteeds. Scarcely a night but it had been crowded by travellers whostayed overnight for the sake of the good beds and the good table andgood bar. Now there was no bar. East Westland was a strictlytemperance village, and all the liquor to be obtained was exceedinglybad, and some declared diluted by the waters of the village pond. 

There was a very small stock of rum, gin, and whiskey, and very youngand morbid California wines, kept at the village drug store, anddispensed by Albion Bennet. Albion required a deal of red-tape beforehe would sell even these doubtful beverages for strictly medicinalpurposes. He was in mortal terror of being arrested and taken to thecounty-seat at Newholm for violation of the liquor law. Albion, although a young and sturdy man not past his youth, was exceedinglyafraid of everything. He was unmarried, and boarded at the hotel. There he was divided between fear of burglars, if he slept on thefirst floor, and of fire if he slept on the second. He compromised bysleeping on the second, with a sufficient length of stout, knottedmuslin stowed away in his trunk, to be attached to the bed-post andreach the ground in case of a conflagration. 

There was no bank in East Westland, none nearer than Alford, sixmiles away, and poor Albion was at his wit's end to keep his dailyreceipts with safety to them and himself. He had finally hit upon theexpedient of leaving them every night with Sidney Meeks, who wasafraid of nothing. "If anything happens to your money, Albion, " saidSidney, "I'll make it good, even if I have to sell my wine-cellar. "Albion was afraid even to keep a revolver. His state of terror waspitiable, and the more so because he had a fear of betraying it, which was to some extent the most cruel fear of all. Sidney Meeks wasprobably the only person in East Westland who understood how it waswith him, and he kept his knowledge to himself. Sidney was astute ona diagnosis of his fellow-men's mentalities, and he had an almostwomanly compassion even for those weaknesses of which he himself wasincapable. 

"Good; I'll keep what you have in your till every night for you, andwelcome, Albion, " he had said. "I understand how you feel, living inthe hotel the way you do. "

"Nobody knows who is coming and going, " said Albion, blinkingviolently. 

"Of course one doesn't, and nobody would dream of coming to my house. Everybody knows I am as poor as Job's off ox. You might get arevolver, but I wouldn't recommend it. You look to me as if you mightsleep too sound to make it altogether safe. "

"I do sleep pretty sound, " admitted Albion, although he did not quitesee the force of the other man's argument. 

"Just so. Any man who sleeps very sound has no right to keep a loadedrevolver by him. He seldom, if ever, wakes up thoroughly if he hearsa noise, and he's mighty apt to blaze away at the first one he sees, even if it's his best friend. No, it is not safe. "

"I don't think it's very safe myself, " said Albion, in a relievedtone. "Miss Hart is always prowling around the house. She doesn'tsleep very well, and she's always smelling smoke or hearing burglars. She's timid, like most women. I might shoot her if I was only halfawake and she came opposite my door. "

"Exactly, " said Sidney Meeks. When Albion went away he stared afterhis bulky, retreating back with a puzzled expression. He shook hishead. Fear was the hardest thing in the world for him to understand. "That great, able-bodied man must feel mighty queer, " he muttered, ashe stowed away the pile of greasy bank-notes and the nickelscollected at the soda-fountain in a pile of disordered linen in abureau drawer. He chuckled to himself at the eagerness with whichAlbion had seized upon the fancy of his shooting Miss Hart. 

Lucinda Hart kept the hotel. She had succeeded to its proprietorshipwhen her father died. She was a middle-aged woman who had been prettyin a tense, nervous fashion. Now the prettiness had disappeared underthe strain of her daily life. It was a hard struggle to keep the EastWestland House and make both ends meet. She had very few regularboarders, and transients were not as numerous as they had been in thedays of the stage-coaches. Now commercial travellers and business menwent to Alford overnight instead of remaining at East Westland. MissHart used the same feather-beds which had once been esteemed soluxurious. She kept them clean, well aired, and shaken, and she wouldnot have a spring-bed or a hair mattress in the house. She wasconservatism itself. She could no more change and be correct to herown understanding than the multiplication table. 

"Feather-beds are good enough for anybody who stays in this hotel, Idon't care who it is, " she said. She would not make an exception, even for Miss Eliza Farrel, the assistant teacher in the high school, although she had, with a distrust of the teacher's personality, agreat respect for her position. She was inexorable even when theteacher proposed furnishing a spring-bed and mattress at her ownexpense. "I'd be willing to accommodate, and buy them myself, but itis a bad example, " she said, firmly. "Things that were good enoughfor our fathers and mothers are good enough for us. Good land! peopleain't any different from what they used to be. We haven't anydifferent flesh nor any different bones. "

Miss Hart had a theory that many of the modern diseases might betraced directly to the eschewing of feather-beds. "Never heard ofappendicitis in my father's time, when folks slept on good, softfeather-beds, and got their bones and in'ards rested, " she said. 

Miss Hart was as timid in her way as Albion Bennet. She never gotenough control of her nervous fears to secure many hours of soundsleep. She never was able to wholly rid herself of the convictionthat her own wakefulness and watchfulness was essential to the rightrunning of all the wheels of the universe, although she would havebeen shocked had she fairly known her own attitude. She patrolled thehouse by night, moving about the low, uneven corridors with aflickering candle--for she was afraid to carry a kerosene lamp--likea wandering spirit. 

She was suspicious, too. She never lodged a stranger overnight butshe had grave doubts of his moral status. She imagined him a murdererescaped from justice, and compared his face with the pictures ofcriminals in the newspapers, or she was reasonably sure that he wasdishonest, although she had little to tempt him. She employed onechambermaid and a stable-boy, and did the cooking herself. Miss Hartwas not a good cook. She used her thin, tense hands too quickly. Shewas prone to over-measures of saleratus, to under-measures of sugarand coffee. She erred both from economy and from the haste whichmakes waste. Miss Eliza Farrel often turned from the scanty, poorlycooked food which was place before her with disgust, but she neverseemed to lose an ounce of her firm, fair flesh, nor a shade of hersweet color. 

Miss Eliza Farrel was an anomaly. She was so beautiful that herbeauty detracted from her charm for both sexes. It was so perfect asto awaken suspicion in a world where nothing is perfect from the handof nature. Then, too, she was manifestly, in spite of her beauty, notin the first flush of youth, and had, it seemed, no right to suchperfection of body. Also her beauty was of a type which peopleinvariably associate with things which are undesirable to the rigidlyparticular, and East Westland was largely inhabited by the rigidlyparticular. 

East Westland was not ignorant. It read of the crimes and follies ofthe times, but it read of them with a distinct and complacent senseof superiority. It was as if East Westland said: "It is desirable toread of these things, of these doings among the vicious and theworldly, that we may understand what _we_ are. " East Westland lookedupon itself in its day and generation as a lot among the cities ofthe plain. 

It seemed inconceivable that East Westland people should haverecognized the fact that Miss Farrel's beauty was of a suspicioustype, but they must have had an instinctive knowledge of it. From themoment that Miss Farrel appeared in the village, although she had thebest of references, not a woman would admit her into her house as aboarder, and the hotel, with its feather-beds and poor table, was heronly resource. Women said of her that she was made up, that no womanof her age ever looked as she did and had a perfectly irreproachablemoral character. 

As for the men, they admired her timidly, sheepishly, and also atrifle contemptuously. They did not admit openly the same opinion asthe women with regard to the legitimacy of her charms, but they didmaintain it secretly. It did not seem possible to many of them that awoman could look just as Eliza Farrel did and be altogether natural. As for her character, they also agreed with the feminine elementsecretly, although they openly declared the women were jealous ofsuch beauty. It did not seem that such a type could be anythingexcept a dangerous one. 

Miss Eliza Farrel was a pure blonde, as blond as a baby. There wasnot a line nor blemish in her pure, fine skin. The flush on herrounded cheeks and her full lips was like a baby's. Her dimples werelike a baby's. Her blond hair was thick and soft with a pristinesoftness and thickness which is always associated with the hair of achild. Her eyebrows were pencilled by nature, as if nature had beenart. Her smile was as fixedly radiant as a painted cherub's. Herfigure had that exuberance and slenderness at various portions whichno woman really believes in. She looked like a beautiful doll, withan unvarying loveliness of manner and disposition under allvicissitudes of life, but she was undoubtedly something more than adoll. 

Even the women listened dubiously and incredulously when she talked. They had never heard a woman talk about such things in the way shedid. She had a fine education, being a graduate of one of the women'scolleges. She was an accomplished musician and a very successfulteacher. Her pupils undoubtedly progressed, although they did nothave the blind love and admiration which pupils usually have for abeautiful teacher. To this there was one exception. 

Miss Farrel always smiled, never frowned or reprimanded. It was saidthat Miss Farrel had better government than Miss Florence Dean, theother assistant. Miss Dean was plain and saturnine, and had nodifficulty in obtaining a good boarding-place, even with the motherof a marriageable daughter, who had taken her in with far-sightedalacrity. She dreamed of business calls concerning school matters, which Mr. Horace Allen, the principal, might be obliged to make, andshe planned to have her daughter, who was a very pretty girl, inevidence. But poor Miss Farrel was thrown back upon the mercies ofMiss Hart and the feather-beds and the hotel. 

There were other considerations besides the feather-beds and the poorfare which conspired to render the hotel an undesirableboarding-place. Miss Farrel might as well have been under theespionage of a private detective as with Miss Hart. If Miss Hart wassuspicious of dire mischief in the cases of her other boarders, shewas certain in the case of Eliza Farrel. She would not have admittedher under her roof at all had she not been forced thereto by thenecessity for money. Miss Hart herself took care of Miss Farrel'sroom sometimes. She had no hesitation whatever in looking through herbureau drawers; indeed, she considered it a duty which she owedherself and the character of her house. She had taken away the keyson purpose, and had told miss Farrel, without the slightestcompunction, that they were lost. The trunks were locked, and she hadnever been able to possess herself of the keys, but she felt surethat they contained, if not entire skeletons, at least scatteredbones. 

She discovered once, quite in open evidence on Miss Farrel'swash-stand, a little porcelain box of pink-tinted salve, and she didnot hesitate about telling Hannah, her chambermaid, the daughter of afarmer in the vicinity, and a girl who was quite in her confidence. She called Hannah into the room and displayed the box. "This is whatshe uses, " she said, solemnly. 

Hannah, who was young, but had a thick, colorless skin, nodded withan inscrutable expression. 

"I have always thought she used something on her face, " said MissHart. "You can't cheat _me_. "

Hannah took up a little, ivory-backed nail-polisher which was also onthe wash-stand. "What do you suppose this is?" she asked, timidly, inan awed whisper. 

"How do I know? I never use such things myself, and I never knewwomen who did before, " said Miss Hart, severely. "I dare say, aftershe puts the paint on, she has to use something to smooth it downwhere the natural color of the skin begins. How do I know?"

Hannah laid the nail-polisher beside the box of salve. She was verymuch in love with the son of the farmer who lived next to herfather's. The next Thursday afternoon was her afternoon off. Shewatched her chance, and stole into Miss Farrel's room, applied withtrembling fingers a little of the nail-salve to her cheeks, thencarefully rubbed it all off with the polisher. She then went to herown room, put on a hat and thick veil, and succeeded in getting outof the hotel without meeting Miss Hart. She was firmly convinced thatshe was painted, and that her cheeks had the lovely peach-bloom ofMiss Farrel's. 

It seems sometimes as if one's own conviction concerning one's selfgoes a long way towards establishing that of other people. Hannah, that evening, when she met the young man whom she loved, felt thatshe was a beauty like Miss Eliza Farrel, and before she went home hehad told her how pretty she was and asked her to marry him, andHannah had consented, reserving the right to work enough longer toearn a little more money. She wished to be married in a white lacegown like one in Miss Farrel's closet. Miss Hart had called Hannah into look at it one morning when Miss Farrel was at school. 

"What do you suppose a school-teacher can want of a dress like thishere in East Westland?" Miss Hart had asked, severely. "She can'twear it to meeting, or a Sunday-school picnic, or a church sociable, or even to a wedding in this place. Look at it. It's cut low-neck. "

Hannah had looked. That night she had, in the secrecy of her ownroom, examined her own shoulders, and decided that although theymight not be as white as Miss Farrel's, they were presumably as wellshaped. She had resolved then and there to be married in a dress likethat. Along with her love-raptures came the fairy dream of the lacegown. For once in her life she would be dressed like a princess. 

When she told Miss Hart she was going to be married, her mistresssniffed. "You can do just as you like, and you will do just as youlike, whether or no, " she said; "but you are a poor fool. Here youare getting good wages, and having it all to spend on yourself; andyou ain't overworked, and you'll find out you'll be overworked andhave a whole raft of young ones, and not a cent of wages, exceptenough to keep soul and body together, and just enough to wear so youwon't be took up for going round indecent. I've seen enough of suchkind of work. "

"Amos will make a real good husband; everybody says he's the bestmatch anywhere around, " replied Hannah, crimson with blushes and halfcrying. 

Miss Hart sniffed again. "Jump into the fire if you want to, " saidshe. "I hope you ain't going before fall, and leave me in the lurchin hot weather, and preserves to be put up. "

Hannah said she would not think of getting married before November. She did not say a word about the white lace gown, but that eveningthe desire to look at it again waxed so strong within her that shecould not resist it. She was sitting in her own room, after lightingthe kerosene lamp in the corridor opposite Miss Farrel's room, whichwas No. 20, and she was thinking hard about the lace gown, andwondering how much it cost, when she started suddenly. As she satbeside her window, her own lamp not yet lit, she had seen a figureflit past in the misty moonlight, and she was sure it was MissFarrel. She reflected quickly that it was Thursday evening, when MissHart always went to prayer-meeting. Hannah had a cold and had stayedat home, although it was her day off. Miss Hart cherished the beliefthat her voice was necessary to sustain the singing at any churchmeeting. She had, in her youth, possessed a fine contralto voice. Shepossessed only the remnant of one now, but she still sang in thechoir, because nobody had the strength of mind to request her toresign. Sunday after Sunday she stood in her place and raised hervoice, which was horribly hoarse and hollow, in the sacred tunes, andpeople shivered and endured. Miss Hart never missed a Sunday service, a choir rehearsal, or a Thursday prayer-meeting, and she did not onthat Thursday evening. 

Hannah went to her door and listened. She heard laughter down in theroom which had been the bar but was now the office. A cloud oftobacco smoke floated from there through the corridor. Hannah drew itin with a sense of delicious peace. Her lover smoked, and somehow theodor seemed to typify to her domestic happiness and mystery. Shelistened long, looking often at the clock on the wall. "She must begone, " she thought, meaning Miss Hart. She was almost sure that thefigure which she had seen flitting under her window in the moonlightwas that of the school-teacher. Finally she could not resist thetemptation any longer. She hurried down the corridor until shereached No. 20. She tapped and waited, then she tapped and waitedagain. There was no response. Hannah tried the door. It was locked. She took her chambermaid's key and unlocked the door, looking aroundher fearfully. Then she opened the door and slid in. She locked thedoor behind her. Then straight to the closet she went, and thatbeautiful lace robe seemed to float out towards her. Hannah slippedoff her own gown, and in a few moments she stood before thelooking-glass, transformed. 

She was so radiant, so pleased, that a flush came out on her thickskin; her eyes gleamed blue. The lace gown fitted her very well. Sheturned this way and that. After all, her neck was not bad, not aswhite, perhaps, as Miss Farrel's, but quite lovely in shape. Shewalked glidingly across the room, looking over her shoulder at thetrail of lace. She was unspeakably happy. She had a lover, and shewas a woman in a fine gown for the first time in her life. The gownwas not her own, but she would have one like it. She did not realizethat this gown was not hers. She was fairly radiant with thepossession of her woman's birthright, this poor farmer's daughter, inwhom the instincts of her kind were strong. She glided across theroom many times. She surveyed herself in the glass. Every time shelooked she seemed to herself more beautiful, and there was somethinggood and touching in this estimation of herself, for she seemed tosee herself with her lover's eyes as well as her own. 

Finally she sat down in Miss Farrel's rocker; she crossed her kneesand viewed with delight the fleecy fall of lace to the floor. Thenshe fell to dreaming, and her dreams were good. In that gown offashion she dreamed the dreams of the life to which the women of herrace were born. She dreamed of her good housewifery; she dreamed ofthe butter she would make; she dreamed of her husband coming home tomeals all ready and well cooked. She dreamed, underneath the otherdreams, of children coming home. She had no realization of the timeshe sat there. At last she started and turned white. She had heard akey turn in the lock. Then Miss Farrel entered the room--Miss ElizaFarrel, magnificent in pale gray, with a hat trimmed with rosescrowning her blond head. Hannah cowered. She tried to speak, but onlysucceeded in making a sound as if she were deaf and dumb. 

Then Miss Farrel spoke. There was a weary astonishment and amusementin her tone, but nothing whatever disturbed or harsh. "Oh, is it you, Hannah?" she said. 

Hannah murmured something unintelligible. 

Miss Farrel went on, sweetly: "So you thought you would try on mylace gown, Hannah?" she said. "It fits you very well. I see yourhands are clean. I am glad of that. Now please take it off and put onyour own dress. "

Hannah stood up. She was abject. 

"There is nothing for you to be afraid of, " said Miss Farrel. "Onlytake off the gown and put on your own, or I am afraid Miss Hart--"

Miss Hart's name acted like a terrible stimulus. Hannah unfastenedthe lace gown with fingers trembling with haste. She stepped out ofthe shimmering circle which it made; she was in her own costume in anincredibly short space of time, and the lace gown was in itsaccustomed place in the closet. Then suddenly Miss Hart opened thedoor. 

"I thought I saw a light, " said she. She looked from one to theother. "It is after eleven o'clock, " she said, further. 

"Yes, " said Miss Farrel, sweetly. "I have been working. I had to lookover some exercises. I think I am not quite well. Have you anydigitalis in the house, Miss Hart? Hannah here does not know. I wassorry to disturb her, and she does not know. I have an irritableheart, and digitalis helps it. "

"No, I have not got any digitalis, " replied Miss Hart, shortly. Shegave the hard sound to the _g_, and she looked suspiciously at bothwomen. However, Miss Farrel was undoubtedly pale, and Miss Hart'sface relaxed. 

"Go back to your room, " she said to Hannah. "You won't be fit for athing to-morrow. " Then she said to Miss Farrel: "I don't know whatyou mean by digitalis. I haven't got any, but I'll mix you up somehot essence of peppermint, and that's the best thing I know of foranything. "

"Thank you, " said Miss Farrel. She had sank into a chair, and had herhand over her heart. 

"I'll have it here in a minute, " said Miss Hart. She went out, andHannah followed her, but not before she and Miss Eliza Farrel hadexchanged looks which meant that each had a secret of the other tokeep as a precious stolen jewel. 

Chapter VI

The next morning Henry was very quiet at the breakfast-table. He saidgood-morning to Horace in almost a surly manner, and Sylvia glancedfrom one to the other of the two men. After Horace had gone to schoolshe went out in the front yard to interview Henry, who was potteringabout the shrubs which grew on either side of the gravel walk. 

"What on earth ailed you and Mr. Allen this morning?" she began, abruptly. 

Henry continued digging around the roots of a peony. "I don't know asanything ailed us. I don't know what you are driving at, " he replied, lying unhesitatingly. 

"Something did ail you. You can't cheat me. "

"I don't know what you are driving at. "

"Something did ail you. You'll spoil that peony. You've got all theweeds out. What on earth are you digging round it that way for? Whatailed you?"

"I don't know what you are driving at. "

"You can't cheat me. Something is to pay. For the land's sake, leavethat peony alone, and get the weeds out from around that syringabush. You act as if you were possessed. What ailed you and Mr. Allenthis morning? I want to know. "

"I don't know what you are driving at, " Henry said again, but heobediently turned his attention to the syringa bush. He always obeyeda woman in small matters, and reserved his masculine prerogatives forlarge ones. 

Sylvia returned to the house. Her mouth was set hard. Nobody knew howon occasions Sylvia longed for another woman to whom to speak hermind. She loved her husband, but no man was capable of entirelysatisfying all her moods. She started to go to the attic on anotherexploring expedition; then she stopped suddenly, reflecting. The endof her reflection was that she took off her gingham apron, tied on anice white one trimmed with knitted lace, and went down the street toMrs. Thomas P. Ayres's. Thomas P. Ayres had been dead for the lastten years, but everybody called his widow Mrs. T. P. Ayres. Mrs. Ayres kept no maid. She had barely enough income to support herselfand her daughter. She came to the door herself. She was a small, delicate, pretty woman, and her little thin hands were red withdish-water. 

"Good-morning, " she said, in a weary, gentle fashion. "Come in, Mrs. Whitman, won't you?" As she spoke she wrinkled her forehead betweenher curves of gray hair. She had always wrinkled her forehead, but insome inscrutable fashion the wrinkles had always smoothed out. Herforehead was smooth as a girl's. She smiled, and the smile wasexactly in accord with her voice; it was weary and gentle. There wasnot the slightest joy in it, only a submission and patience whichmight evince a slight hope of joy to come. 

"I've got so much to do I ought not to stop long, " said Sylvia, "butI thought I'd run in a minute. "

"Walk right in, " said Mrs. Ayres, and Sylvia followed her into thesitting-room, which was quite charming, with a delicate floweredpaper and a net-work of green vines growing in bracket-pots, whichstood all about. There were also palms and ferns. The small roomlooked like a bower, although it was very humbly furnished. Sylviasat down. 

"You always look so cool in here, " she said, "and it's a warm morningfor so early in the season. "

"It's the plants and vines, I guess, " replied Mrs. Ayres, sittingdown opposite Mrs. Whitman. "Lucy has real good luck with them. "

"How is Lucy this morning?"

Mrs. Ayres wrinkled her forehead again. "She's in bed with a sickheadache, " she said. "She has an awful lot of them lately. I'm afraidshe's kind of run down. "

"Why don't you get a tonic?"

"Well, I have been thinking of it, but Dr. Wallace gives suchdreadful strong medicines, and Lucy is so delicate, that I havehesitated. I don't know but I ought to take her to Alford to Dr. Gilbert, but she doesn't want to go. She says it is too expensive, and she says there's nothing the matter with her; but she has theseterrible headaches almost every other day, and she doesn't eat enoughto keep a sparrow alive, and I can't help being worried about her. "

"It doesn't seem right, " agreed Mrs. Whitman. "Last time I was here Ithought she didn't look real well. She's got color, a real prettycolor, but it isn't the right kind. "

"That's just it, " said Mrs. Ayres, wrinkling her forehead. "Thecolor's pretty, but you can see too plain where the red leaves offand where the white begins. "

"Speaking about color, " said Mrs. Whitman, "I am going to ask yousomething. "

"What?"

"Do you really think Miss Farrel's color is natural?"

"I don't know. It looks so. "

"I know it does, but I had it real straight that she keeps some pinkstuff that she uses in a box as bold as can be, right in sight on herwash-stand. "

"I don't know anything about it, " said Mrs. Ayres, in her weary, gentle fashion. "I have heard, of course, that some women do use suchthings, but none of my folks ever did, and I never knew anybody elsewho did. "

Then Sylvia opened upon the subject which had brought her there. Shehad reached it by a process as natural as nature itself. 

"I know one thing, " said she: "I have no opinion of that woman. Ican't have. When I hear a woman saying such things as I have heard ofher saying about a girl, when I know it isn't true, I make up my mindthose things are true about the woman herself, and she's talkingabout herself, because she's got to let it out, and she makes believeit's somebody else. "

Mrs. Ayres's face took on a strange expression. Her sweet eyeshardened and narrowed. "What do you mean?" she asked, sharply. 

"I guess I had better not tell you what I mean. Miss Farrel givesherself clean away just by her looks. No living woman was ever madeso there wasn't a flaw in her face but that there was a flaw in hersoul. We're none of us perfect. If there ain't a flaw outside, there's a flaw inside; you mark my words. "

"What was it she said?" asked Mrs. Ayres. 

"I don't mean to make trouble. I never did, and I ain't going tobegin now, " said Sylvia. Her face took on a sweet, hypocriticalexpression. 

"What did she say?"

Sylvia fidgeted. She was in reality afraid to speak, and yet her verysoul itched to do so. She answered, evasively. "When a woman talksabout a girl running after a man, I think myself she lives in a glasshouse and can't afford to throw stones, " said she. She nodded herhead unpleasantly. 

Mrs. Ayres reddened. "I suppose you mean she has been talking aboutmy Lucy, " said she. "Well, I can tell you one thing, and I can tellMiss Farrel, too. Lucy has never run after Mr. Allen or any man. Whenshe went on those errands to your house I had to fairly make her go. She said that folks would think she was running after Mr. Allen, evenif he wasn't there, and she has never been, to my knowledge, morethan three times when he was there, and then I made her. I told herfolks wouldn't be so silly as to think such things of a girl likeher. "

"Folks are silly enough for anything. Of course, I knew better; youknow that, Mrs. Ayres. "

"I don't know what I know, " replied Mrs. Ayres, with that forcefulindignation of which a gentle nature is capable when aroused. 

Mrs. Whitman looked frightened. She opened her lips to speak, when aboy came running into the yard. "Why, who is that?" she cried, nervously. 

"It's Tommy Smith from Gray & Snow's with some groceries I ordered, "said Mrs. Ayres, tersely. She left the room to admit the boy at theside door. Then Sylvia Whitman heard voices in excited conversation. At the same time she began to notice that the road was filled withchildren running and exclaiming. She herself hurried to the kitchendoor, and Mrs. Ayres turned an ashy face in her direction. At thesame time Lucy Ayres, with her fair hair dishevelled, appeared at thetop of the back stairs listening. "Oh, it is awful!" gasped Mrs. Ayres. "It is awful! Miss Eliza Farrel is dead, and--"

Sylvia grasped the other woman nervously by the arm. "And what?" shecried. 

Lucy gave an hysterical sob and sank down in a slender huddle on thestairs. The grocer's boy looked at them. He had a happy, importantexpression. "They say--" he began, but Mrs. Ayres forestalled him. 

"They say Lucinda Hart murdered her, " she screamed out. 

"Good land!" said Sylvia. Lucy sobbed again. 

The boy gazed at them with intense relish. He realized the joy of acoup. He had never been very important in his own estimation nor thatof others. Now he knew what it was to be important. "Yes, " he said, gayly; "they say she give her rat poison. They've sent for thesheriff from Alford. "

"She never did it in the world. Why, I went to school with her, "gasped Mrs. Ayres. 

Sylvia had the same conviction, but she backed it with logic. "Whatshould she do it for?" she demanded. "Miss Farrel was a steadyboarder, and Lucinda ain't had many steady boarders lately, and sheneeded the money. Folks don't commit murder without reason. Whatreason was there?"

"School ain't going to keep to-day, " remarked the boy, with glee. 

"Of course it ain't, " said Sylvia, angrily. "What reason do theygive?"

"I 'ain't heard of none, " said the boy. "S'pose that will come out atthe trial. Hannah Simmons is going to be arrested, too. They thinkshe knowed something about it. "

"Hannah Simmons wouldn't hurt a fly, " said Sylvia. "What makes themthink she knew anything about it?"

"Johnny Soule, that works at the hotel stable, says she did, " saidthe boy. "They think he knows a good deal. "

Sylvia sniffed contemptuously. "That Johnny Soule!" said she. "He'shalf Canadian. Father was French. I wouldn't take any stock in whathe said. "

"Lucinda never did it, " said Mrs. Ayres. "I went to school with her. "

Lucy sobbed again wildly, then she laughed loudly. Her mother turnedand looked at her. "Lucy, " said she, "you go straight back up-stairsand put this out of your mind, or you'll be down sick. Go straightup-stairs and lie down, and I'll bring you up some of that nervemedicine Dr. Wallace put up for you. Maybe you can get to sleep. "

Lucy sobbed and laughed again. "Stop right where you are, " said hermother, with a wonderful, firm gentleness--"right where you are. Putthis thing right out of your mind. It's nothing you can help. "

Lucy sobbed and laughed again, and this time her laugh rang so wildlythat the grocer's boy looked at her with rising alarm. He admiredLucy. "I say, " he said. "Maybe she ain't dead, after all. I heard allthis, but you never can tell anything by what folks say. You hadbetter mind your ma and put it all out of your head. " The grocer'sboy and Lucy had been in the same class at school. She had nevernoticed him, but he had loved her as from an immeasurable distance. Both were very young. 

Lucy lifted a beautiful, frightened face, and stared at him. "Isn'tit so?" she cried. 

"I dare say it ain't. You had better mind your ma. "

"I dare say it's all a rumor, " said Sylvia, soothingly. 

Mrs. Ayres echoed her. "All a made-up story, I think, " said she. "Goright up-stairs, Lucy, and put it out of your head. "

Lucy crept up-stairs with soft sobs, and they heard a door close. Then the boy spoke again. "It's so, fast enough, " he said, in awhisper, "but there ain't any need for her to know it yet. "

"No, there isn't, poor child, " said Sylvia. 

"She's dreadful nervous, " said Mrs. Ayres, "and she thought a lot ofMiss Farrel--more, I guess, than most. The poor woman never was afavorite here. I never knew why, and I guess nobody else ever did. Idon't care what she may have intimated--I mean what you were talkingabout, Sylvia. That's all over. Lucy always seemed to like her, andthe poor child is so sensitive and nervous. "

"Yes, she is dreadful nervous, " said Sylvia. 

"And I think she ate too much candy yesterday, too, " said Mrs. Ayres. "She made some candy from a recipe she found in the paper. I thinkher stomach is sort of upset, too. I mean to make her think it's alltalk about Miss Farrel until she's more herself. "

"I would, " said Sylvia. "Poor child. "

The grocer's boy made a motion to go. "I wonder if they'll hang her, "he said, cheerfully. 

"Hang her!" gasped Mrs. Ayres. "She never did it any more than I did. I went to school with Lucinda Hart. "

"Why should she kill a steady boarder, when the hotel has run down soand she's been so hard up for money?" demanded Sylvia. "Hang her!You'd better run along, sonny; the other customers will be waiting;and you had better not talk too much till you are sure what you aretalking about. "

The boy went out and closed the door, and they heard his merrywhistle as he raced out of the yard. 

Chapter VII

Sylvia Whitman, walking home along the familiar village street, feltlike a stranger exploring it for the first time. She had never beforeseen it under the glare of tragedy which her own consciousness threwbefore her eyes. No tragedy had ever been known in East Westlandsince she could remember. It had been a peaceful little community, with every day much like the one before and after, except for thehappenings of birth and death, which are the most common happeningsof nature. 

But now came death by violence, and even the wayside weeds seemed towave in a lurid light. Now and then Sylvia unconsciously brushed hereyes, as if to sweep away a cobweb which obstructed her vision. Whenshe reached home, that also looked strange to her, and even herhusband's face in the window had an expression which she had neverseen before. So also had Horace Allen's. Both men were in the southroom. There was in their faces no expression which seemed to denote acessation of conversation. In fact, nothing had passed between thetwo men except the simple statement to each other of the news whichboth had heard. Henry had made no comment, neither had Horace. Bothhad set, with gloomy, shocked faces, entirely still. But Sylvia, whenshe entered, forced the situation. 

"Why should she kill a steady boarder, much as she needed one?" shequeried. 

And Horace responded at once. "There is no possible motive, " he said. "The arrest is a mere farce. It will surely prove so. "

Then Henry spoke. "I don't understand, for my part, why she isarrested at all, " he said, grimly. 

Horace laughed as grimly. "Because there is no one else to arrest, and the situation seems to call for some action, " he replied. 

"But they must have some reason. "

"All the reason was the girl's (Hannah Simmons, I believe her nameis) seeming to be keeping something back, and saying that Miss Hartgave Miss Farrel some essence of peppermint last night, and the factthat the stable-boy seems to be in love with Hannah, and jealous andeager to do her mistress some mischief, and has hinted at knowingsomething, which I don't believe, for my part, he does. "

"It is all nonsense, " said Sylvia. "Whatever Hannah Simmons iskeeping to herself, it isn't killing another woman, or knowing thatLucinda Hart did it. There was no reason for either of those women tokill Miss Farrel, and folks don't do such awful things withoutreason, unless they're crazy, and it isn't likely that Lucinda andHannah have both come down crazy together, and I know it ain't in theHart family, or the Simmons. What if poor Lucinda did give MissFarrel some essence of peppermint? I gave some to Henry night beforelast, when he had gas in his stomach, and it didn't kill him. "

"What they claim is that arsenic was in the peppermint, " said Horace, in an odd, almost indifferent voice. 

"Arsenic in the peppermint!" repeated Sylvia. "You needn't tell meLucinda Hart put arsenic in the peppermint, though I dare say she hadsome in the house to kill rats. It's likely that old tavern wasoverrun with them, and I know she lost her cat a few weeks ago. Shetold me herself. He was shot when he was out hunting. Lucinda thoughtsomebody mistook him for a skunk. She felt real bad about it. I feelkind of guilty myself. I can't help thinking if I'd just looked roundthen and hunted up a kitten for poor Lucinda, she never would havehad any need to keep rat poison, and nobody would have suspected herof such an awful thing. I suppose Albion Bennet right up and toldshe'd bought it, first thing. I think he might have kept still, aslong as he'd boarded with Lucinda, and as many favors as she'd showedhim. He knew as well as anybody that she never gave it to MissFarrel. "

"Now, Sylvia, he had to tell if he was asked, " Henry said, soothingly, for Sylvia was beginning to show signs of hystericalexcitement. "He couldn't do anything else. "

"He could have forgot, " Sylvia returned, shrilly. "Men ain't so awfulconscientious about forgetting. He could have forgot. "

"He had to tell, " repeated Henry. "Don't get all wrought up over it, Sylvia. "

"I can't help it. I begin to feel guilty myself. I know I might havefound a kitten. I had a lot on my mind, with moving and everything, but I might have done it. Albion Bennet never had the spunk to doanything but tell all he knew. I suppose he was afraid of his ownprecious neck. "

"Ain't it most time to see about dinner?" asked Henry. 

Then Sylvia went out of the room with a little hysterical twitterlike a scared bird, and the two men were left alone. Silence cameover them again. Both men looked moodily at nothing. Finally Henryspoke. 

"One of the worst features of any terrible thing like this is thatburdens innumerable are either heaped upon the shoulders of theinnocent, or they assume them. There's my poor wife actually tryingto make out that she is in some way to blame. "

"Women are a queer lot, " said Horace, in a miserable tone. 

Then the door opened suddenly, and Sylvia's think, excited faceappeared. 

"You don't suppose they'll send them to prison?" she said. 

"They'll both be acquitted, " said Horace. "Don't worry, Mrs. Whitman. "

"I've got to worry. How can I help worrying? Even if poor Lucinda isacquitted, lots of folks will always believe it, and her boarderswill drop away, and as for Hannah Simmons, I shouldn't be a mitesurprised if it broke her match off. "

"It's a dreadful thing, " said Henry; "but don't you fret too muchover it, Sylvia. Maybe she killed herself, and if they think thatLucinda won't have any trouble afterwards. "

"I think some have that opinion now, " said Horace. 

Sylvia sniffed. "A woman don't kill herself as long as she's gotspirit enough to fix herself up, " she said. "I saw her only yesterdayin a brand-new dress, and her hair was crimped tight enough to last aweek, and her cheeks--"

"Come, Sylvia, " said Henry, admonishingly. 

"You needn't be afraid. I ain't going to talk about them that's deadand gone, and especially when they've gone in such a dreadful way;and maybe it wasn't true, " said Sylvia. "But it's just as I say: whena woman is fixed up the way Miss Eliza Farrel was yesterday, sheain't within a week of making way with herself. Seems as if I mighthave had forethought enough to have got that kitten for poor Lucinda. "

Sylvia went out again. The men heard the rattle of dishes. Horacerose with a heavy sigh, which was almost a sob, and went out by thehall door, and Henry heard his retreating steps on the stair. Hefrowned deeply as he sat by the window. He, too, was bearing in somemeasure the burden of which he had spoken. It seemed to him verystrange that under the circumstances Horace had not explained hismysterious meeting with the woman in the grove north of the house thenight before. Henry had a certainty as to her identity--a certaintywhich he could not explain to himself, but which was none the lessfixed. 

No suspicion of Horace, as far as the murder was concerned--if murderit was--was in his mind, but he did entertain a suspicion of anothersort: of some possibly guilty secret which might have led to thetragedy. "I couldn't feel worse if he was my own son, " he thought. Hewished desperately that he had gone out in the grove and interruptedthe interview. "I'm old enough to be his father, " he told himself, "and I know what young men are. I'm to blame myself. "

When he heard Horace's approaching footsteps on the stair he turnedhis face stiffly towards the window, and did not look up when theyoung man entered the room. But Horace sat down opposite and beganspeaking rapidly in a low voice. 

"I don't know but I ought to go to Mr. Meeks with this instead ofyou, " he said; "and I don't know that I ought to go to anybody, but, hang it, I can't keep the little I know to myself any longer--thatis, I can't keep the whole of it. Some I never will tell. Mr. Whitman, I don't know the exact minute Miss Hart gave her thatconfounded peppermint, and Miss Hart seems rather misty about it, andif the girl knows she won't tell; but I suspect I may be the lastperson who saw that poor woman alive. I found a note waiting for mefrom her when I arrived yesterday, and--well, she wanted to see mealone about something very particular, and she--" Horace paused andreddened. "Well, you know what women are, and of course there wasreally no place at the hotel where I could have been sure of aprivate interview with her. I couldn't go to her room, and one mightas well talk in a trolley-car as that hotel parlor; and she didn'twant to come here to the house and be closeted with me, and shedidn't want to linger after school, for those school-girls are thevery devil when it comes to seeing anything; and though I will admitit does sound ridiculous and romantic, I don't see myself what elseshe could have done. She asked me in her note to step out in thegrove about ten o'clock, when the house was quiet. She wrote she hadsomething very important to say to me. So I felt like a fool, but Ididn't go to bed, and I stole down the front stairs, and she was outthere in the grove waiting for me, and we sat down on the bench thereand she told me some things. "

Henry nodded gravely. He now looked at Horace, and there was reliefin his frowning face. 

"I can tell you some of the things that she said to me, " continuedHorace, "and I am going to. You are connected with it--that is, youare through your wife. Miss Farrel wasn't Miss at all. She was amarried woman. " Henry nodded again. "She had not lived with herhusband long, however, and she had been married some twenty yearsago. She was older than she looked. For some reason she did not geton with him, and he left her. I don't myself feel that I know whatthe reason was, although she pretended to tell me. She seemed to havea feeling, poor soul, that, beautiful as she was, she excitedrepulsion rather than affection in everybody with whom she came incontact. 'I might as well be a snake as a woman. ' Those were just herwords, and, God help her, I do believe there was something true aboutthem, although for the life of me I don't know why it was. "

Henry looked at Horace with the eyes of a philosopher. "Maybe it wasbecause she wanted to charm, " he said. 

Horace shot a surprised glance at him. He had not expected anythinglike that from Henry, even though he had long said to himself thatthere were depths below the commonplace surface. 

"Perhaps you are right, " he said, reflectively. "I don't know but youare. She was a great beauty, and possibly the knowledge of it madeher demand too much, long for too much, so that people dimly realizedit and were repelled instead of being attracted. I think she lovedher husband for a long time after he left her. I think she loved manyothers, men and women. I think she loved women better than a womanusually does, and women could not abide her. That I know; even theschool-girls fought shy of her. "

"I have seen the Ayres girl with her, " said Henry. 

Horace changed color. "She is not one of the school-girls, " hereplied, hastily. 

"I think I have heard Sylvia say that Mrs. Ayres had asked her thereto tea. "

"Yes, I believe she has. I think perhaps the Ayres family have paidsome attention to her, " Horace said, constrainedly. 

"I have seen the Ayres girl with her a good deal, I know, " said Henry. 

"Very possibly, I dare say. Well, Miss Farrel did not think she orany one else cared about her very much. She told me that none of herpupils did, and I could not gainsay her, and then she told me what Ifeel that I must tell you. " Horace paused. Henry waited. 

Then Horace resumed. He spoke briefly and to the purpose. 

"Miss Abrahama White, who left her property to your wife, had asister, " he said. "The sister went away and married, and there was adaughter. First the father died, then the mother. The daughter, amere child at the time, was left entirely destitute. Miss Farrel tookcharge of her. She did not tell her the truth. She wished toestablish if possible some claim upon her affection. She consideredthat to claim a relationship would be the best way to further herpurpose. The girl was told that Miss Farrel was her mother's cousin. She was further told that she had inherited a very considerableproperty from her mother, whereas she had not inherited one cent. Miss Farrel gave up her entire fortune to the child. She then, withthe nervous dread of awakening dislike instead of love which filledher very soul, managed to have the child, in her character of anheiress, established in a family moving in the best circles, butsadly in need of money. Then she left her, and began supportingherself by teaching. The girl is now grown to be a young woman, andMiss Farrel has not dared see her more than twice since she heapedsuch benefits upon her. It has been her dream that some day she mightreveal the truth, and that gratitude might induce love, but she hasnever dared put it to the test. Lately she has not been very well, and the thought has evidently come to her more than once that shemight die and never accomplish her purpose. I almost think the poorwoman had a premonition. She gave me last night the girl's address, and she made me promise that in case of her death she should be sentfor. 'I can't bear to think that nobody will come, ' she said. Ofcourse I laughed at her. I thought her very morbid, but--well, I havetelegraphed to the girl to come in time for the funeral. She is inNew York. She and the people with whom she lives have just returnedfrom the South. "

"She must come here, " Henry said. 

"I could think of no other place, " said Horace. "You think Mrs. Whitman--"

"Of course, " Henry said. He started up to speak to Sylvia, but Horacestopped him. 

"I forgot, " he said, quickly. "Miss Farrel asked me to promise that Ishould not tell the girl, in case of her death before she had anopportunity of doing so, of what she had done for her. 'Let her comejust because she thinks I am her relative, ' she said, 'and becauseshe may possibly feel kindly towards me. If I can have no comfortfrom it while I am alive, there is no need for her to know herobligation. '"

"It sounds like a mighty queer story to tell Sylvia, " Henry said. Then he opened the door and called, and Mrs. Whitman immediatelyresponded. Her hands were white with flour. She had been makingbiscuits. She still looked nervous and excited. 

"What is to pay now?" said she. 

Henry told her in few words. 

"You mean that Abrahama's niece was taken care of by Miss Farrel whenher mother died, and Miss Farrel got a place for her to live withsome New York folks, and you mean Miss Farrel was related to hermother?" said Sylvia. She looked sharply at Henry. 

"Yes, " he replied, feebly. Horace stood looking out of the window. 

"She wa'n't, " said Sylvia. 

"Now, Sylvia. "

"If that poor woman that's gone wanted the girl to think she was herrelation enough to lie about it I sha'n't tell her, you can depend onthat; but it's a lie, " said Sylvia. "Miss Farrel wa'n't no relationat all to Susy White. She couldn't have been unless she was relatedto me, too, on my mother's side, and she wa'n't. I know all about mymother's family. But I sha'n't tell her. I'm glad Miss Farrel got ahome for her. It was awful that the child was left without a cent. Ofcourse she must come here, and stay, too. She ought to live with herfolks. We've got enough to take care of her. If we can't do as muchas rich folks, I guess it will be full as well for the girl. "

Henry opened his lips to speak, but a glance from Horace checked him. Sylvia went on talking nervously. The odd manner and tone which Henryhad noticed lately in everything she said and did seemed intensified. She talked about what room she should make ready for the girl. Shemade plan after plan. She was very pale, then she flushed. She walkedaimlessly about gesturing with her floury hands. 

Finally Henry took her firmly by the shoulder. "Come, Sylvia, " hesaid, "she won't be here until night. Now you had better get dinner. It's past twelve. " Sylvia gave a quick, frightened glance at him. Then she went silently out of the room. 

"Mrs. Whitman does not seem well, " Horace said, softly. 

"I think her nerves are all out of order with what she has gonethrough with lately, " said Henry. "It has been a great change thathas come to us both, Mr. Allen. When a man and woman have lived pasttheir youth, and made up their minds to bread and butter, and nothingelse, and be thankful if you get that much, it seems more like a slapthan a gift of Providence to have mince-pie thrust into their mouths. It has been too much for Sylvia, and now, of course, this awful thingthat has happened has upset her, and--"

He stopped, for Sylvia opened the door suddenly. "If she wa'n't deadand gone, I wouldn't believe one word of such a tomfool story, " saidshe, with vicious energy. Then she shut the door again. 

At dinner Sylvia ate nothing, and did not talk. Neither Henry norHorace said much. In the afternoon Horace went out to make somearrangements which he had taken upon himself with regard to the deadwoman, and presently Henry followed him. Sylvia worked with feverishenergy all the afternoon setting a room in order for her expectedguest. It was a pretty room, with an old-fashioned paper--a sprawlingrose pattern on a tarnished satin ground. The room overlooked thegrove, and green branches pressed close against two windows. Therewas a pretty, old-fashioned dressing-table between the front windows, and Sylvia picked a bunch of flowers and put them in a china vase, and set it under the glass, and thought of the girl's face which itwould presently reflect. 

"I wonder if she looks like her mother, " she thought. She stoodgazing at the glass, and shivered as though with cold. Then shestarted at a sound of wheels outside. In front of the house wasLeander Willard, who kept the livery-stable of East Westland. He wasdescending in shambling fashion over the front wheels, steadying atthe same time a trunk on the front seat; and Horace Allen sprang outof the back of the carriage and assisted a girl in a flutter ofdark-blue skirts and veil. "She's come!" said Sylvia. 

Chapter VIII

Sylvia gave a hurried glance at her hair in the glass. It shone likesatin with a gray-gold lustre, folded back smoothly from her temples. She eyed with a little surprise the red spots of excitement whichstill remained on her cheeks. The changelessness of her elderlyvisage had been evident to her so long that she was startled to seeanything else. "I look as if I had been pulled through a knot-hole, "she muttered. 

She took off her gingham apron, thrust it hastily into a bureaudrawer in the next room, and tied on a clean white one with ahemstitched border. Then she went down-stairs, the starched white bowof the apron-strings covering her slim back like a Japanese sash. Sheheard voices in the south room, and entered with a little cough. Horace and the new-comer were standing there talking. The momentSylvia entered, Horace stepped forward. "I hardly know how tointroduce you, " he said; "I hardly know the relationship. But, Mrs. Whitman, here is Miss Fletcher--Miss Rose Fletcher. "

"Who accepts your hospitality with the utmost gratitude, " said MissRose Fletcher, extending a little hand in a wonderful loose graytravelling glove. Mrs. Whitman took the offered hand and let it drop. She was rigid and prim. She smiled, but the smile was merely awidening of her thin, pale, compressed lips. She looked at the girlwith gray eyes, which had a curious blank sharpness in them. RoseFletcher was so very well dressed, so very redolent of good breedingand style, that it was difficult at first to comprehend if that wasall. Finally one perceived that she was a very pretty girl, of asweet, childish type, in spite of her finished manners and her verysophisticated clothes. Sylvia at first saw nothing except theclothes, and realized nothing except the finished manner. Sheimmediately called to the front her own manners, which were asfinished as the girl's, albeit of a provincial type. Extreme mannersin East Westland required a wholly artificial voice and an expressionwholly foreign to the usual one. Horace had never before seen Sylviawhen all her manners were in evidence, and he gazed at her now inastonishment and some dismay. 

"Her mother was own sister to Miss Abrahama White, and AbrahamaWhite's mother and my mother were own cousins on the mother's side. My mother was a White, " she said. The voice came like a slender, reedy whistle from between her moveless, widened lips. She stood asif encased in armor. Her apron-strings stood out fiercely and werequite evident over each hip. She held her head very high, and thecords on her long, thin neck stood out. 

Poor Rose Fletcher looked a little scared and a little amused. Shecast a glance at Horace, as if for help. He did not know what to say, but tried manfully to say it. "I have never fully known, in such acase, " he remarked, "whether the relationship is second cousin orfirst cousin once removed. " It really seemed to him that he had neverknown. He looked up with relief as Henry entered the room, and Sylviaturned to him, still with her manners fully in evidence. 

"Mr. Whitman, this is Miss Abrahama White's niece, " said she. 

She bowed stiffly herself as Henry bowed. He was accustomed toSylvia's company manners, but still he was not himself. He had neverseen a girl like this, and he was secretly both angry and alarmed tonote the difference between her and Sylvia, and all women to which hehad been used. However, his expression changed directly before thequick look of pretty, childish appeal which the girl gave him. It wasRose's first advance to all men whom she met, her little feeler putout to determine their dispositions towards her. It was quiteinvoluntary. She was unconscious of it, but it was as if she said inso many words, "Do you mean to be kind to me? Don't you like the lookof me? I mean entirely well. There is no harm in me. Please don'tdislike me. "

Sylvia saw the glance and interpreted it. "She looks like hermother, " she announced, harshly. It was part of Sylvia's extrememanners to address a guest in the third person. However, in thiscase, it was in reality the clothes which had occasioned so muchformality. She immediately, after she had spoken and Henry hadawkwardly murmured his assent to her opinion, noticed how tired thegirl looked. She was a slender little thing, and looked delicate inspite of a babyish roundness of face, which was due to bone-formationrather than flesh. 

Sylvia gave an impression of shoving the men aside as she approachedthe girl. "You look tired to death, " said she, and there was a sweettone in her force voice. 

Rose brightened, and smiled at her like a pleased child. "Oh, I amvery tired!" she cried. "I must confess to being very tired, indeed. The train was so fast. I came on the limited from New York, you know, and the soft-coal smoke made me ill, and I couldn't eat anything, even if there had been anything to eat which wasn't all full ofcinders. I shall be so very glad of a bath and an opportunity tochange my gown. I shall have to beg you to allow your maid to assistme a little. My own maid got married last week, unexpectedly, and Ihave not yet replaced her. "

"I don't keep a hired girl, " said Sylvia. She looked, as Henry had, both angry and abashed. "I will fasten up your dress in the neck ifthat is what you want, " said she. 

"Oh, that is all, " Rose assured her, and she looked abashed, too. Even sophistication is capable of being daunted before utterlyunknown conditions. She followed Sylvia meekly up-stairs, and Henryand Horace carried the trunk, which had been left on the front walk, up after them. 

Leander Willard was a man of exceeding dignity. He was never willingto carry a trunk even into a house. "If the folks that the trunkbelongs to can't heft it in after I've brought it up from the depot, let it set out, " he said. "I drive a carriage to accommodate, but Iain't no porter. "

Therefore, Henry and Horace carried up the trunk and unstrapped it. Rose looked around her with delight. "Oh, what a lovely room!" shecried. 

"It gets the morning sun, " said Sylvia. "The paper is a little mitefaded, but otherwise it's just as good as it ever was. "

"It is perfectly charming, " said Rose. She tugged at the jewelledpins in her hat. Sylvia stood watching her. When she had succeeded inremoving the hat, she thrust her slender fingers through her fluff ofblond hair and looked in the glass. Her face appeared over the bunchof flowers, as Sylvia had thought of its doing. Rose began to laugh. "Good gracious!" she said. "For all I took such pains to wash my facein the lavatory, there is a great black streak on my left cheek. Sometimes I think the Pullmans are dirtier than the commoncoaches--that more soft-coal smoke comes in those large windows;don't you think so?"

Sylvia colored, but her honesty was fearless. "I don't know what aPullman is, " she said. 

Rose stared for a second. "Oh, a parlor-car, " she said. "A great manypeople always say parlor-car. " Rose was almost apologetic. 

"Did you come in a parlor-car?" asked Sylvia. Rose wondered why hervoice was so amazed, even aggressive. 

"Why, of course; I always do, " said Rose. 

"I've seen them go through here, " said Sylvia. 

"Do you mind telling me where my bath-room is?" asked Rose, lookingvaguely at the doors. She opened one. "Oh, this is a closet!" shecried. "What a lovely large one!"

"There ain't such a thing as a bath-room in this house, " repliedSylvia. "Abrahama White, your aunt, had means, but she always thoughtshe had better ways for her money than putting in bath-rooms tofreeze up in winter and run up plumbers' bills. There ain't anybath-room, but there's plenty of good, soft rain-water from thecistern in your pitcher on the wash-stand there, and there's a newcake of soap and plenty of clean towels. "

Rose reddened. Again sophistication felt abashed before dauntlessignorance. She ran to the wash-stand. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" shecried. "Of course this will do beautifully. What a charming oldwash-stand!--and the water is delightfully soft. " Rose begansplashing water over her face. She had taken off her bluetravelling-gown and flung it in a heap over a chair. Sylviastraightened it out carefully, noting with a little awe the rustle ofits silk linings; then she hung it in the closet. "I'll hang it here, where it won't get all of a muss, " said she. Already she began tofeel a pleasure which she had never known--the pleasure of chiding ayoung creature from the heights of her own experience. She beganharshly, but before she had finished her voice had a tender cadence. 

"Oh, thank you, " said the girl, still bending over the wash-basin. "Iknow I am careless with my things. You see, I have always been sodependent upon my maid to straighten out everything for me. You willdo me good. You will teach me to be careful. "

She turned around, wiping her face, and smiling at Sylvia, who felther very soul melt within her, although she still remained rigidlyprim, with her stiff apron-strings standing out at right angles. Shelooked at the girl's slender arms and thin neck, which was prettythough thin. "You don't weigh much, do you?" she said. 

"A little over a hundred, I think. "

"You must eat lots of fresh vegetables and eggs, and drink milk, andget more flesh on your bones, " said Sylvia, and her voice was full ofdelight, although now--as always, lately--a vague uneasiness lurkedin her eyes. Rose, regarding her, thought, with a simple shrewdnesswhich was inborn, that her new cousin must have something on hermind. She wondered if it was her aunt's death. "I suppose you thoughta good deal of my aunt who died, " she ventured, timidly. 

Sylvia regarded her with quick suspicion. She paled a little. "Ithought enough of her, " she replied. "She had always lived here. Wewere distant-related, and we never had any words, but I didn't seemuch of her. She kept herself to herself, especially of late years. Of course, I thought enough of her, and it makes me feel real badsometimes--although I own I can't help being glad to have so manynice things--to think she had to go away and leave them. "

"I know you must feel so, " said Rose. "I suppose you feel sometimesas if they weren't yours at all. "

Sylvia turned so pale that Rose started. "Why, what is the matter?Are you ill?" she cried, running to her. "Let me get some water foryou. You are so white. "

Sylvia pushed her away. "There's nothing the matter with me, " shesaid. "Folks can't always be the same color unless they're painted. "She gave her head a shake as if to set herself right, and turnedresolutely towards Rose's trunk. "Can you unpack, yourself, or do youwant me to help you?" she asked. 

Rose eyed the trunk helplessly, then she looked doubtfully at Sylvia. A woman who was a relative of hers, and who lived in a really grandold house, and was presumably well-to-do, and had no maids atcommand, but volunteered to do the service herself, was an anomaly toher. 

"I'm afraid it will be too much trouble, " she said, hesitatingly. "Marie always unpacked my trunk, but you have no--"

"I guess if I had a girl I wouldn't set her to unpacking your trunk, "said Sylvia, vigorously. "Where is your key?"

"In my bag, " replied Rose, and she searched for the key in herdark-blue, gold-trimmed bag. "Mrs. Wilton's maid, Anne, packed mytrunk for me, " she said. "Anne packs very nicely. Mr. Wilton and hersister, Miss Pamela Mack, did not know whether I ought to put onmourning or not for Cousin Eliza, but they said it would be onlyproper for me to wear black to the funeral. So I have a ready-madeblack gown and hat in the trunk. I hardly knew how much to bring. Idid not know--" She stopped. She had intended to say--"how long Ishould stay, " but she was afraid. 

Sylvia finished for her. "You can stay just as long as you are a mindto, " said she. "You can live here all the rest of your life, as faras that is concerned. You are welcome. It would suit me, and it wouldsuit Mr. Whitman. "

Rose looked at Sylvia in amazement as she knelt stiffly on the floorunlocking her trunk. "Thank you, you are very kind, " she said, feebly. She had a slight sensation of fear at such a wealth ofhospitality offered her from a stranger, although she was a distantrelative. 

"You know this was your own aunt's house and your own aunt's things, "said Sylvia, beginning to remove articles from the trunk, "and I wantyou to feel at home here--just as if you had a right here. " The wordswere cordial, but there was a curious effect as if she were repeatinga well-rehearsed lesson. 

"Thank you, " Rose said again, more feebly than before. She watchedSylvia lifting out gingerly a fluffy white gown, which trailed overher lean arm to the floor. "That is a tea-gown; I think I will put iton now, " said Rose. "It will be so comfortable, and you are notformal here, are you?"

"Eh?"

"You are not formal here in East Westland, are you?"

"No, " replied Sylvia, "we ain't formal. So you want to put on--this?"

"Yes, I think I will. "

Sylvia laid the tea-gown on the bed, and turned to the trunk again. 

"You know, of course, that Aunt Abrahama and mamma were estranged foryears before mamma died, " said Rose. She sat before the whitedressing-table watching Sylvia, and the lovely turn of her neck andher blond head were reflected in the glass above the vase of flowers. 

"Yes, I knew something about it. "

"I never did know much, except that Aunt Abrahama did not approve ofmamma's marriage, and we never saw her nor heard of her. Wasn't itstrange, " she went on, confidentially, "how soon after poor mamma'sdeath all my money came to me?"

Sylvia turned on her. "Have you got money?" said she. "I thought youwere poor. "

"Yes, I think I have a great deal of money. I don't know how much. Mylawyers take care of it, and there is a trustee, who is very kind. Heis a lawyer, too. He was a friend of poor Cousin Eliza's. His name isMcAllister. He lives in Chicago, but he comes to New York quiteoften. He is quite an old gentleman, but very nice indeed. Oh yes, Ihave plenty of money. I always have had ever since mamma died--atleast, since a short time after. But we were very poor, I think, after papa died. I think we must have been. I was only a little girlwhen mamma died, but I seem to remember living in a very little, shabby place in New York--very little and shabby--and I seem toremember a great deal of noise. Sometimes I wonder if we could havelived beside the elevated road. It does not seem possible that wecould have been as poor as that, but sometimes I do wonder. And Iseem to remember a close smell about our rooms, and that they werevery hot, and I remember when poor mamma died, although I was soyoung. I remember a great many people, who seemed very kind, came in, and after that I was in a place with a good many other little girls. I suppose it was a school. And then--" Rose stopped and turned white, and a look of horror came over her face. 

"What then?" asked Sylvia. "Don't you feel well, child?"

"Yes, I feel well--as well as I ever feel when I almost remembersomething terrible and never quite do. Oh, I hope I never shall quiteremember. I think I should die if I did. "

Sylvia stared at her. Rose's face was fairly convulsed. Sylvia roseand hesitated a moment, then she stepped close to the girl and pulledthe fair head to her lean shoulder. "Don't; you mustn't take on so, "she said. "Don't try to remember anything if it makes you feel likethat. You'll be down sick. "

"I am trying not to remember, and always the awful dread lest I shallcomes over me, " sobbed the girl. "Mr. McAllister says not to try toremember, too, but I am so horribly afraid that I shall try in spiteof me. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela don't know anything about it. Inever said anything about it to them. I did once to Mr. McAllister, and I did to Cousin Eliza, and she said not to try, and now I amtelling you, I suppose because you are related to me. It came over meall of a sudden. "

Rose sobbed again. Sylvia smoothed her hair, then she shook her bythe slender, soft shoulders, and again that overpowering delightseized her. "Come, now, " she said, "don't you cry another minute. Youget up and lay your underclothes away in the bureau drawers. It'salmost time to get supper, and I can't spend much more time here. "

Rose obeyed. She packed away piles of laced and embroidered things inthe bureau drawers, and under Sylvia's directions hung up her gownsin the closet. As she did this she volunteered further information. 

"I do remember one thing, " she said, with a shudder, "and I alwaysknow if I could remember back of that the dreadful thing would cometo me. " She paused for a moment, then she said, in a shocked voice:"Mrs. Whitman. "

"What is it?"

"I really do remember that I was in a hospital once when I waslittle. I remember the nurses and the little white beds. That was notdreadful at all. Everybody petted me, but that was when the tryingnot to remember began. "

"Don't you think of it another minute, " Sylvia said, sternly. 

"I won't; I won't, really. I--"

"For goodness' sake, child, don't hang that heavy coat over that lacewaist--you'll ruin it!" cried Sylvia. 

Rose removed the coat hurriedly, and resumed, as Sylvia took it outof her hand: "It was right after that Cousin Eliza Farrel came, andthen all that money was left to me by a cousin of father's, who died. Then I went to live with Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela, and I went toschool, and I went abroad, and I always had plenty, and never anytrouble, except once in a while being afraid I should remembersomething dreadful. Poor Cousin Eliza Farrel taught school all thetime. I never saw her but twice after the first time. When I grewolder I tried to have her come and live with me. Mrs. Wilton and MissPamela have always been very nice to me, but I have never loved them. I could never seem to get at enough of them to love. "

"You had better put on that now, " said Sylvia, indicating the fluffymass on the bed. "I'll help you. "

"I don't like to trouble you, " Rose said, almost pitifully, but shestood still while Sylvia, again with that odd sensation of delight, slipped over the young head a lace-trimmed petticoat, and fastenedit, and then the tea-gown. The older woman dressed the girl withexactly the same sensations that she might have experienced indressing her own baby for the first time. When the toilet wascompleted she viewed the result, however, with something that savoredof disapproval. 

Rose, after looking in the glass at her young beauty in its settingof lace and silk, looked into Sylvia's face for the admiration whichshe felt sure of seeing there, and shrank. "What is the matter? Don'tI look nice?" she faltered. 

Sylvia looked critically at the sleeves of the tea-gown, which weremere puffs of snowy lace, streaming with narrow ribbons, reaching tothe elbow. "Do they wear sleeves like that now in New York?" askedshe. 

"Why, yes!" replied Rose. "This tea-gown came home only last weekfrom Madame Felix. "

"They wear sleeves puffed at the bottom instead of the top, and agood deal longer, in East Westland, " said Sylvia. 

"Why, this was made from a Paris model, " said Rose, meekly. Againsophistication was abashed before the confidence of conservatism. 

"I don't know anything about Paris models, " said Sylvia. "Mrs. Greenaway gets all her patterns right from Boston. "

"I hardly think madame would have made the sleeves this way unless itwas the latest, " said Rose. 

"I don't know anything about the latest, " said Sylvia. "We folks herein East Westland try to get the _best_. " Sylvia felt as if she werechiding her own daughter. She spoke sternly, but her eyes beamed withpleasure. The young girl's discomfiture seemed to sweeten her verysoul. 

"For mercy's sake, hold up your dress going down-stairs, " sheadmonished. "I swept the stairs this morning, but the dust gathersbefore you can say boo, and that dress won't do up. "

Rose gathered up the tail of her gown obediently, and she alsoexperienced a certain odd pleasure. New England blood was in herveins. It was something new and precious to be admonished as a NewEngland girl might be admonished by a fond mother. 

When she went into the south room, still clinging timidly to her lacetrain, Horace rose. Henry sat still. He looked at her with pleasedinterest, but it did not occur to him to rise. Horace always rosewhen Sylvia entered a room, and Henry always rather resented it. "Putting on society airs, " he thought to himself, with a sneer. 

However, he smiled involuntarily; the girl was so very pretty and sovery unlike anything which he had ever seen. "Dressed up as if shewere going to a ball, in a dress made like a night-gown, " he thought, but he smiled. As for Horace, he felt dazzled. He had scarcelyrealized how pretty Rose was under the dark-blue mist of her veil. Heplaced a chair for her, and began talking about the journey and theweather while Sylvia got supper. Henry was reading the local paper. Rose's eyes kept wandering to that. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, was across the room in a white swirl, and snatched the paper fromHenry's hands. 

"What is this, oh, what is this?" she cried out. 

She had read before Horace could stop her. She turned upon him, thenupon Henry. Her face was very pale and working with emotion. 

"Oh, " she cried, "you only telegraphed me that poor Cousin Eliza wasdead! You did not either of you tell me she was murdered. I lovedher, although I had not seen her for years, because I have so few towhom my love seemed to belong. I was sorry because she was dead, butmurdered!"

Rose threw herself on a chair, and sobbed and sobbed. 

"I loved her; I did love her, " she kept repeating, like a distressedchild. "I did love her, poor Cousin Eliza, and she was murdered. Idid love her. "

Chapter IX

Horace was right in his assumption that the case against Lucinda Hartand Hannah Simmons would never be pressed. Although it was provedbeyond a doubt that Eliza Farrel had swallowed arsenic in asufficiently large quantity to cause death, the utter absence ofmotive was in the favor of the accused, and then the suspicion thatthe poison might have been self-administered, if not with suicidalintent, with another, steadily gained ground. Many thought MissFarrel's wonderful complexion might easily have been induced by theuse of arsenic. 

At all events, the evidence against Lucinda and Hannah, when sifted, was so exceedingly flimsy, and the lack of motive grew so evident, that there was no further question of bringing them to trial. Stillthe suspicion, once raised, grew like a weed, as suspicion does growin the ready soil of the human heart. For a month after the tragedyit seemed as if Sylvia Whitman's prophecy concerning the falling offof the hotel guests was destined to fail. The old hostelry wascrowded. Newspaper men and women from all parts of the countryflocked there, and also many not connected with the press, who weremorbidly curious and revelled in the sickly excitement of thinkingthey might be living in the house of a poisoner. Lucinda Hart sent inher resignation from the church choir. Her experience, the first timeshe had sung after Eliza Farrel's death, did not exactly daunt her;she was not easily daunted. But she had raised her husky contralto, and lifted her elderly head in its flowered bonnet before thatwatchful audience of old friends and neighbors, and had gone home andwritten her stiffly worded note of resignation. 

She attended church the following Sunday. She said to herself thather absence might lead people to think there was some ground for theawful charge which had been brought against her. She bought a smartnew bonnet and sat among the audience, and heard Lucy Ayres, who hada beautiful contralto, sing in her place. Lucy sang well, and lookedvery pretty in her lace blouse and white hat, but she was so palethat people commented on it. Sylvia, who showed a fairly antagonisticpartisanship for Lucinda, spoke to her as she came out of church, andwalked with her until their roads divided. Sylvia left Henry tofollow with Rose Fletcher, who was still staying in East Westland, and pressed close to Lucinda. 

"How are you?" she said. 

"Well enough; why shouldn't I be?" retorted Lucinda. 

It was impossible to tell from her manner whether she was gratefulfor, or resented, friendly advances. She held her head very high. There was a stiff, jetted ornament on her new bonnet, and it stood uplike a crest. She shot a suspicious glance at Sylvia. Lucinda inthose days entertained that suspicion of suspicion which poisons thevery soul. 

"I don't know why you shouldn't be, " replied Sylvia. She herself castan angry glance at the people around them, and that angry glance waslike honey to Lucinda. "You were a fool to give up your place in thechoir, " said Sylvia, still with that angry, wandering gaze. "I'dsung. I'd shown 'em; and I'd sung out of tune if I'd wanted to. "

"You don't know what it was like last Sunday, " said Lucinda then. Shedid not speak complainingly or piteously. There was proud strength inher voice, but it was emphatic. 

"I guess I do know, " said Sylvia. "I saw everybody craning theirnecks, and all them strangers. You've got a lot of strangers at thehotel, haven't you, Lucinda?"

"Yes, " said Lucinda, and there was an echo in her monosyllable likean expletive. 

Sylvia nodded sympathizingly. "Some of them write for the papers, Isuppose?" said she. 

"Some of them. I know it's my bread-and-butter to have them, but Inever saw such a parcel of folks. Talk about eyes in the backs ofheads, they're all eyes and all ears. Sometimes I think they ain'tnothing except eyes and ears and tongue. But there's a lot besideswho like to think maybe they're eating poison. I know I'm watchedevery time I stir up a mite of cake, but I stir away. "

"You must have your hands full. "

"Yes; I had to get Abby Smith to come in and help. "

"She ain't good for much. "

"No, she ain't. She's thinkin' all the time of how she looks, insteadof what she's doing. She waits on table, though, and helps washdishes. She generally forgets to pass the vegetables till the meat isall et up, and they're lucky if they get any butter; but I can't helpit. They only pay five dollars a week, and get a lot of enjoyment outof watching me and Hannah, and they can't expect everything. "

The two women walked along the country road. There were many otherpeople besides the church-going throng in their Sunday best, but theyseemed isolated, although closely watched. Presently, however, ayoung man, well dressed in light gray, with a white waistcoat, approached them. 

"Why, good-day, Miss Hart!" he said, raising his hat. 

Lucinda nodded stiffly and walked on. She did not speak to him, butto Sylvia. "He is staying at the hotel. He writes for a New Yorkpaper, " she informed Sylvia, distinctly. 

The young man laughed. "And Miss Hart is going to write for it, too, "he said, pleasantly and insinuatingly. "She is going to write anarticle upon how it feels to be suspected of a crime when one isinnocent, and it will be the leading feature in next Sunday's paper. She is to have her picture appear with it, too, and photographs ofher famous hotel and the room in which the murder was said to havebeen committed, aren't you, Miss Hart?"

"Yes, " replied Lucinda, with stolidity. 

Sylvia stared with amazement. "Why, Lucinda!" she gasped. 

"When I find out folks won't take no, I give 'em yes, " said Lucinda, grimly. 

"I knew I could finally persuade Miss Hart, " said the young man, affably. He was really very much of a gentleman. He touched his hat, striking into a pleasant by-path across a field to a wood beyond. 

"He's crazy over the country, " remarked Lucinda; and then she wasaccosted again, by another gentleman. This time he was older andstouter, and somewhat tired in his aspect, but every whit as geniallypersuasive. 

"He writes for a New York paper, " said Lucinda to Sylvia, in exactlythe same tone which she had used previously. "He wants me to write apiece for his paper on my first twenty-four hours under suspicion ofcrime. "

"And you are going to write it, aren't you, Miss Hart?" asked thegentleman. 

"Yes, " replied Lucinda, with alacrity. 

This time the gentleman looked a trifle suspicious. He pressed hisinquiry. "Can you let us have the copy by Wednesday?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said Lucinda. Her "yes" had the effect of a snap. 

The gentleman talked a little more at length with regard to hisarticle, and Lucinda never failed with her ready "yes. "

They were almost at the turn of the road, where Sylvia would leaveLucinda, when a woman appeared. She was young, but she looked old, and her expression was one of spiritual hunger. 

"This lady writes for a Boston paper, " said Lucinda. "She cameyesterday. She wants me to write a piece for her paper upon women'sunfairness to women. "

"Based upon the late unfortunate occurrence at Miss Hart's hotel, "said the woman. 

"Yes, " said Lucinda, "of course; everything is based on that. Shewants me to write a piece upon how ready women are to accuse otherwomen of doing things they didn't do. "

"And you are going to write it?" said the woman, eagerly. 

"Yes, " said Lucinda. 

"Oh, thank you! you are a perfect dear, " said the woman. "I am somuch pleased, and so will Mr. Evans be when he hears the news. Now Imust ask you to excuse me if I hurry past, for I ought to wire him atonce. I can get back to Boston to-night. "

The woman had left them, with a swish of a frilled silk petticoatunder a tailored skirt, when Sylvia looked at Lucinda. "You ain'tgoin' to?" said she. 

"No. "

"But you said so. "

"You'd say anything to get rid of them. I've said no till I found outthey wouldn't take it, so then I began to say yes. I guess I've saidyes, in all, to about seventeen. "

"And you don't mean to write a thing?"

"I guess I ain't going to begin writing for the papers at my time oflife. "

"But what will they do?"

"They won't get the pieces. "

"Can't they sue you, or anything?"

"Let them sue if they want to. After what I've been through lately Iguess I sha'n't mind that. "

"And you are telling every one of them you'll write a piece?"

"Of course I am. It's the only thing they'll let me tell them. I wantto get rid of them somehow. "

Sylvia looked at Lucinda anxiously. "Is it true that Albion Bennethas left?" she said. 

"Yes; he was afraid of getting poisoned. Mrs. Jim Jones has takenhim. I reckon I sha'n't have many steady boarders after this hasquieted down. "

"But how are you going to get along, Lucinda?"

"I shall get along. Everybody gets along. What's heaped on you youhave to get along with. I own the hotel, and I shall keep more hensand raise more garden truck, and let Hannah go if I can't pay her. Ishall have some business, enough to keep me alive, I guess. "

"Is it true that Amos Quimby has jilted Hannah on account of--?"

"Guess so. He hasn't been near her since. "

"Ain't it a shame?"

"Hannah's got to live with what's heaped on her shoulders, too, " saidLucinda. "Folks had ought to be thankful when the loads come fromother people's hands, instead of their own, and make the best of it. Hannah has got a good appetite. It ain't going to kill her. She cango away from East Westland by-and-by if she wants to, and get anotherbeau. Folks didn't suspect her much, anyway. I've got the brunt ofit. "

"Lucinda, " said Sylvia, earnestly. "Folks can't really believe you'dgo and do such a thing. "

"It's like flies after molasses, " said Lucinda. "I never felt I wasso sweet before in my life. "

"What can they think you'd go and poison a good, steady boarder likethat for?"

"She paid a dollar a day, " said Lucinda. 

"I know she did. "

"And I liked her, " said Lucinda. "I know lots of folks didn't, but Idid. I know what folks said, and I'll own I found things in her room, but I don't care what folks do to their outsides as long as theirinsides are right. Miss Farrel was a real good woman, and she had akind of hard time, too. "

"Why, I thought she had a real good place in the high-school; andteachers earn their money dreadful easy. "

"It wasn't that. "

"What was it?"

Lucinda hesitated. "Well, " she said, finally, "it can't do her anyharm, now she's dead and gone, and I don't know as it was anythingagainst her, anyway. She just set her eyes by your boarder. "

"Not Mr. Allen? You don't mean Mr. Allen, Lucinda?"

"What other boarder have you had? I've known about it for a longtime. Hannah and me both have known, but we never opened our lips, and I don't want it to go any further now. "

"How did you find out?"

"By keeping my eyes and ears open. How does anybody find outanything?"

"I don't believe Mr. Allen ever once thought of her, " said Sylvia, and there was resentment in her voice. 

"Of course he didn't. Maybe he'll take a shine to that girl you'vegot with you now. "

"Neither one of them has even thought of such a thing, " declaredSylvia, and her voice was almost violent. 

"Well, I don't know, " Lucinda said, indifferently. "I have had toomuch to look out for of my own affairs since the girl came to knowanything about that. I only thought of their being in the same house. I always had sort of an idea myself that maybe Lucy Ayres would bethe one. "

"I hadn't, " said Sylvia. "Not but she--well, she looked real sickto-day. She didn't look fit to stand up there and sing. I shouldthink her mother would be worried about her. And she don't sing halfas well as you do. "

"Yes, she does, " replied Lucinda. "She sings enough sight better thanI do. "

"Well, I don't know much about music, " admitted Sylvia. "I can't tellif anybody gets off the key. "

"I can, " said Lucinda, firmly. "She sings enough sight better than Ican, but I sang plenty well enough for them, and if I hadn't been somad at the way I've been treated I'd kept on. Now they can get onwithout me. Lucy Ayres does look miserable. There's consumption inher family, too. Well, it's good for her lungs to sing, if she don'toverdo it. Good-bye, Sylvia. "

"Good-bye, " said Sylvia. She hesitated a moment, then she said:"Don't you mind, Lucinda. Henry and I think just the same of you aswe've always thought, and there's a good many besides us. You haven'tany call to feel bad. "

"I don't feel bad, " said Lucinda. "I've got spunk enough and gritenough to bear any load that I 'ain't heaped on my own shoulders, andthe Lord knows I 'ain't heaped this. Don't you worry about me, Sylvia. Good-bye. "

Lucinda went her way. She held her nice black skirt high, but herplodding feet raised quite a cloud of dust. Her shoulders were thrownback, her head was very erect, the jetted ornament on her bonnetshone like a warrior's crest. She stepped evenly out of sight, asevenly as if she had been a soldier walking in line and saying tohimself, "Left, right; left, right. "

Chapter X

When Sylvia reached home she found Rose Fletcher and Horace Allensitting on the bench under the oak-trees of the grove north of thehouse. She marched out there and stood before them, holding herfringed parasol in such a way that it made a concave frame for herstern, elderly face and thin shoulders. "Rose, " said she, "you hadbetter go into the house and lay down till dinner-time. You have beenwalking in the sun, and it is warm, and you look tired. "

She spoke at once affectionately and severely. It seemed almostinconceivable that this elderly country woman could speak in suchwise to the city-bred girl in her fashionable attire, with her air ofself-possession. 

But the girl looked up at her as if she loved her, and answered, injust the way in which Sylvia liked her to answer, with a sort ofpretty, childish petulance, defiant, yet yielding. "I am not in theleast tired, " said she, "and it did not hurt me to walk in the sun, and I like to sit here under the trees. "

Rose was charming that morning. Her thick, fair hair was rolled backfrom her temples, which had at once something noble and childlikeabout them. Her face was as clear as a cameo. She was dressed inmourning for her aunt, but her black robe was thin and the finecurves of her shoulders and arms were revealed, and the black lace ofher wide hat threw her fairness into relief like a setting of onyx. 

"You had better go into the house, " said Sylvia, her eyes stern, hermouth smiling. A maternal instinct which dominated her had awakenedsuddenly in the older woman's heart. She adored the girl to such anextent that the adoration fairly pained her. Rose herself mighteasily have found this exacting affection, this constantwatchfulness, irritating, but she found it sweet. She could scarcelyremember her mother, but the memory had always been as one of lostlove. Now she seemed to have found it again. She fairly coquettedwith this older woman who loved her, and whom she loved, with thatcharming coquettishness sometimes seen in a daughter towards hermother. She presumed upon this affection which she felt to be sostaple. She affronted Sylvia with a delicious sense of her own powerover her and an underlying affection, which had in it the protectiveinstinct of youth which dovetailed with the protective instinct ofage. 

It had been planned that she was to return to New York immediatelyafter Miss Farrel's funeral. In fact, her ticket had been bought andher trunk packed, when a telegram arrived rather late at night. Rosehad gone to bed when Sylvia brought it up to her room. "Don't bescared, " she said, holding the yellow envelope behind her. Rosestared at her, round-eyed, from her white nest. She turned pale. 

"What is it?" she said, tremulously. 

"There's no need for you to go and think anything has happened untilyou read it, " Sylvia said. "You must be calm. "

"Oh, what is it?"

"A telegram, " replied Sylvia, solemnly. "You must be calm. "

Rose laughed. "Oh, Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela are forever sendingtelegrams, " she said. "Very likely it is only to say somebody willmeet me at the Grand Central. "

Sylvia looked at the girl in amazement, as she coolly opened and readthe telegram. Rose's face changed expression. She regarded the yellowpaper thoughtfully a moment before she spoke. 

"If anything has happened, you must be calm, " said Sylvia, looking ather anxiously. "Of course you have lived with those people so manyyears you have learned to think a good deal of them; that is onlynatural; but, after all, they ain't your own. "

Rose laughed again, but in rather a perplexed fashion. "Nothing hashappened, " she said--"at least, nothing that you are thinkingof--but--"

"But what?"

"Why, Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela are going to sail for Genoato-morrow, and that puts an end to my going to New York to them. "

A great brightness overspread Sylvia's face. "Well, you ain't leftstranded, " she said. "You've got your home here. "

Rose looked gratefully at her. "You do make me feel as if I had, andI don't know what I should do if you did not, but"--she frownedperplexedly--"all the same, one would not have thought they wouldhave gone off in this way without giving me a moment's notice, " shesaid, in rather an injured fashion, "after I have lived with them solong. I never thought they really cared much about me. Mrs. Wiltonand Miss Pamela look too hard at their own tracks to get muchinterest in anybody or anything outside; but starting off in thisway! They might have thought that I would like to go--at least theymight have told me. "

Suddenly her frown of perplexity cleared away. "I know what hashappened, " she said, with a nod to Sylvia. "I know exactly what hashappened. "

"What?"

"Mrs. Wilton's and Miss Pamela's aunt Susan has died, and they've gotthe money. They have been waiting for it ever since I have been withthem. Their aunt was over ninety, and it did begin to seem as if shewould never die. "

"Was she very rich?"

"Oh, very; millions; and she never gave a cent to Mrs. Wilton andMiss Pamela. She has died, and they have just made up their minds togo away. They have always said they should live abroad as soon asthey were able. " Rose looked a little troubled for a moment, then shelaughed. "They kept me as long as they needed me, " said she, with apleasant cynicism, "and I don't know but I had lived with them longenough to suit myself. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela were always niceto me, but sometimes--well, sometimes I felt so outside them that Iwas awfully lonesome. And Mrs. Wilton always did just what you knewshe would, and so did Miss Pamela, and it was a little like livingwith machines that were wound up to do the right thing by you, butdidn't do it of their own accord. Now they have run down, just likemachines. I know as well as I want to that Aunt Susan has died andleft them her money. I shall get a letter to-morrow telling me aboutit. I think myself that Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela will get marriednow. They never gave up, you know. Mrs. Wilton's husband died agesago, and she was as much of an old maid as Miss Pamela, and neitherof them would give up. They will be countesses or duchesses orsomething within a year. "

Rose laughed, and Sylvia beamed upon her. "If you feel that you canstay here, " she said, timidly. 

"_If_ I feel that I can, " said Rose. She stretched out her slenderarms, from which the lace-trimmed sleeves of her night-gown fell awayto the shoulder, and Sylvia let them close around her thin neck andfelt the young cheek upon her own with a rapture like a lover's. 

"Those folks she lived with in New York are going to Europeto-morrow, " she told Henry, when she was down-stairs again, "and theyhave treated that poor child mean. They have never told her a wordabout it until now. She says she thinks their rich aunt has died andleft them her money, and they have just cleared out and left her. "

"Well, she can stay with us as long as she is contented, " said Henry. 

"I rather guess she can, " said Sylvia. 

Henry regarded her with the wondering expression which was often onhis face nowadays. He had glimpses of the maternal depths of hiswife's heart, which, while not understanding, he acquiesced in; butthere was something else which baffled him. 

But now for Sylvia came a time of contentment, apparently beyondanything which had ever come into her life. She fairly revelled inher possession of Rose, and the girl in her turn seemed toreciprocate. Although the life in East Westland was utterly atvariance with the life she had known, she settled down in it, ofcourse with sundry hitches of adjustment. For instance, she could notrid herself at first of the conviction that she must have, as she hadalways had, a maid. 

"I don't know how to go to work, " she said to Sylvia one day. "Ofcourse I must have a maid, but I wonder if I had better advertise orwrite some of my friends. Betty Morrison may know of some one, orSally Maclean. Betty and Sally always seem to be able to find waysout of difficulties. Perhaps I had better write them. Maybe it wouldbe safer than to advertise. "

Sylvia and Rose were sitting together in the south room thatafternoon. Sylvia looked pathetically and wistfully at the girl. "What do you want a maid for?" she asked, timidly. 

Rose stared. "What for? Why, what I always want a maid for: to attendto my wardrobe and assist me in dressing, to brush my hair, and--everything, " ended Rose, comprehensively. 

Sylvia continued to regard her with that wistful, pathetic look. 

"I can sew braid on your dresses, and darn your stockings, and buttonup your dresses, and brush your hair, too, just as well as anybody, "she said. 

Rose ran over to her and went down on her knees beside her. "Youdear, " she said, "as if you didn't have enough to do now!"

"This is a very convenient house to do work in, " said Sylvia, "andnow I have my washing and ironing done, I've got time on my hands. Ilike to sew braid on and darn stockings, and always did, and it'snothing at all to fasten up your waists in the back; you know that. "

"You dear, " said Rose again. She nestled her fair head againstSylvia's slim knees. Sylvia thrilled. She touched the soft puff ofblond hair timidly with her bony fingers. "But I have always had amaid, " Rose persisted, in a somewhat puzzled way. Rose could hardlyconceive of continued existence without a maid. She had managed verywell for a few days, but to contemplate life without one altogetherseemed like contemplating the possibility of living without a comband hair-brush. Sylvia's face took on a crafty expression. 

"Well, " said she, "if you must have a maid, write your friends, and Iwill have another leaf put in the dining-table. "

Rose raised her head and stared at her. "Another leaf in thedining-table?" said she, vaguely. 

"Yes. I don't think there's room for more than four without anotherleaf. "

"But--my maid would not eat at the table with us. "

"Would she be willing to eat in the kitchen--cold victuals--after wehad finished?"

Rose looked exceedingly puzzled. "No, she would not; at least, nomaid I ever had would have, " she admitted. 

"Where is she going to eat, then? Would she wait till after we werethrough and eat in the dining-room?"

"I don't believe she would like that, either. "

"Where is she going to eat?" demanded Sylvia, inexorably. 

Rose gazed at her. 

"She could have a little table in here, or in the parlor, " saidSylvia. 

Rose laughed. "Oh, that would never do!" said she. "Of course therewas a servants' dining-room at Mrs. Wilton's, and there always is ina hotel, you know. I never thought of that. "

"She has got to eat somewhere. Where is she going to eat?" askedSylvia, pressing the question. 

Rose got up and kissed her. "Oh, well, I won't bother about it for awhile, anyway, " said she. "Now I think of it, Betty is sure to be offto Newport by now, and Sally must be about to sail for Paris to buyher trousseau. She is going to marry Dicky van Snyde in the autumn(whatever she sees in him)! So I doubt if either of them could doanything about a maid for me. I won't bother at all now, but I am notgoing to let you wait upon me. I am going to help you. "

Sylvia took one of Rose's little hands and looked at it. "I guess youcan't do much with hands like yours, " said she, admiringly, and withan odd tone of resentment, as if she were indignant at the meresuggestion of life's demanding service from this dainty littlecreature, for whom she was ready to immolate herself. 

However, Rose had in her a vein of persistency. She insisted uponwiping the dishes and dusting. She did it all very badly, but Sylviafound the oddest amusement in chiding her for her mistakes and insetting them right herself. She would not have been nearly as wellpleased had Rose been handy about the house. One evening Henry caughtSylvia wiping over all the dishes which Rose had wiped, and whichwere still damp, the while she was fairly doubled up with suppressedmirth. 

"What in creation ails you, Sylvia?" asked Henry. 

She extended towards him a plate on which the water stood in drops. "Just see this plate that dear child thinks she has wiped, " shechuckled. 

"You women do beat the Dutch, " said Henry. 

However, Rose did prove herself an adept in one respect. She hadnever sewed much, but she had an inventive genius in dress, and, whenshe once took up her needle, used it deftly. 

When Sylvia confided to her her aspiration concerning the pink silkwhich she had found among Abrahama's possessions, Rose did not laughat all, but she looked at her thoughtfully. 

"Don't you think it would be suitable if I had it made with someblack lace?" asked Sylvia, wistfully. "Henry thinks it is too youngfor me, but--"

"Not black, " Rose said, decisively. The two were up in the atticbeside the old chest of finery. Rose took out an old barege of anashes-of-roses color. She laid a fold of the barege over the pinksilk, then she looked radiantly at Sylvia. 

"It will make a perfectly lovely gown for you if you use the pink fora petticoat, " said she, "and have the gown made of this delicious oldstuff. "

"The pink for a petticoat?" gasped Sylvia. 

"It is the only way, " said Rose; "and you must have gray gloves, anda bonnet of gray with just one pale-pink rose in it. Don't youunderstand? Then you will harmonize with your dress. Your hair isgray, and there is pink in your cheeks. You will be lovely in it. There must be a very high collar and some soft creamy lace, becausethere is still some yellow left in your hair. "

Rose nodded delightedly at Sylvia, and the dressmaker came and madethe gown according to Rose's directions. Sylvia wore it for the firsttime when she walked from church with Lucinda Hart and found Rose andHorace sitting in the grove. After Rose had replied to Sylvia'sadvice that she should go into the house, she looked at her with thepride of proprietorship. "Doesn't she look simply lovely?" she askedHorace. 

"She certainly does, " replied the young man. He really gazedadmiringly at the older woman, who made, under the glimmering shadowsof the oaks, a charming nocturne of elderly womanhood. The faint pinkon her cheeks seemed enhanced by the pink seen dimly through theashen shimmer of her gown; the creamy lace harmonized with heryellow-gray hair. She was in her own way as charming as Rose in hers. 

Sylvia actually blushed, and hung her head with a graceful sidewisemotion. "I'm too old to be made a fool of, " said she, "and I've got agood looking-glass. " But she smiled the smile of a pretty womanconscious of her own prettiness. Then all three laughed, althoughHorace but a moment before had looked very grave, and now he wasquite white. Sylvia noticed it. "Why, what ails you, Mr. Allen?" shesaid. "Don't you feel well?"

"Perfectly well. "

"You look pale. "

"It is the shadow of the oaks. "

Sylvia noticed a dainty little white box in Rose's lap. "What isthat?" she asked. 

"It is a box of candy that dear, sweet Lucy Ayres who sang to-daymade her own self and gave to me, " replied Rose. "She came up to meon the way home from church and slipped it into my hand, and I hardlyknow her at all. I do think it is too dear of her for anything. Sheis such a lovely girl, and her voice is beautiful. " Rose lookeddefiantly at Horace. "Mr. Allen has been trying to make me promisenot to eat this nice candy, " she said. 

"I don't think candy is good for anybody, and girls eat altogethertoo much of it, " said Horace, with a strange fervor which theoccasion hardly seemed to warrant. 

"Wouldn't I know he was a school-teacher when I heard him speak likethat, even if nobody had ever told me?" said Rose. "Of course I amgoing to eat this candy that dear Lucy made her own self and gave me. I should be very ungrateful not to, and I love candy, too. "

"I will send for some to Boston to-morrow, " cried Horace, eagerly. 

Rose regarded him with amazement. "Why, Mr. Allen, you just said youdid not approve of candy at all, and here you are proposing to sendfor some for me, " she said, "when I have this nice home-made candy, agreat deal purer, because one knows exactly what is in it, and yousay I must not eat this. "

Rose took up a sugared almond daintily and put it to her lips, butHorace was too quick for her. Before she knew what he was about hehad dashed it from her hand, and in the tumult the whole box of candywas scattered. Horace trampled on it, it was impossible to saywhether purposely or accidentally, in the struggle. 

Both Rose and Sylvia regarded him with amazement, mixed withindignation. 

"Why, Mr. Allen!" said Rose. Then she added, haughtily: "Mr. Allen, you take altogether too much upon yourself. You have spoiled mycandy, and you forget that you have not the least right to dictate tome what I shall or shall not eat. "

Sylvia also turned upon Horace. "Home-made candy wouldn't hurt her, "she said. "Why, Mr. Allen, what do you mean?"

"Nothing. I am very sorry, " said Horace. Then he walked away withoutanother word, and entered the house. The girl and the woman stoodlooking at each other. 

"What did he do such a thing for?" asked Rose. 

"Goodness knows, " said Sylvia. 

Rose was quite pale. She began to look alarmed. "You don't supposehe's taken suddenly insane or anything?" said she. 

"My land! no, " said Sylvia. "Men do act queer sometimes. "

"I should think so, if this is a sample of it, " said Rose, eying thetrampled candy. "Why, he ground his heel into it! What right had heto tell me I should or should not eat it?" she said, indignantly, again. 

"None at all. Men are queer. Even Mr. Whitman is queer sometimes. "

"If he is as queer as that, I don't see how you have lived with himso long. Did he ever make you drop a nice box of candy somebody hadgiven you, and trample on it, and then walk off?"

"No, I don't know as he ever did; but men do queer things. "

"I don't like Mr. Allen at all, " said Rose, walking beside Sylviatowards the house. "Not at all. I don't like him as well as Mr. JamesDuncan. "

Sylvia looked at her with quick alarm. "The man who wrote you lastweek?"

"Yes, and wanted to know if there was a hotel here so he could come. "

"I thought--" began Sylvia. 

"Yes, I had begun the letter, telling him the hotel wasn't any good, because I knew he would know what that meant--that there was no usein his asking me to marry him again, because I never would; but now Ithink I shall tell him the hotel is not so bad, after all, " said Rose. 

"But you don't mean--"

"I don't know what I do mean, " said Rose, nervously. "Yes, I do knowwhat I mean. I always know what I mean, but I don't know what menmean making me drop candy I have had given me, and trampling on it, and men don't know that I know what I mean. " Rose was almost crying. 

"Go up-stairs and lay down a little while before dinner, " saidSylvia, anxiously. 

"No, " replied Rose; "I am going to help you. Don't, please, think Iam crying because I feel badly. It is because I am angry. I am goingto set the table. "

But Rose did not set the table. She forgot all about it when she hadentered the south room and found Henry Whitman sitting there with theSunday paper. She sat down opposite and looked at him with her clear, blue, childlike eyes. She had come to call him Uncle Henry. 

"Uncle Henry?" said she, interrogatively, and waited. 

Henry looked across at her and smiled with the somewhat abashedtenderness which he always felt for this girl, whose environment hadbeen so very different from his and his wife's. "Well?" he said. 

"Uncle Henry, do you think a man can tell another man's reasons fordoing a queer thing better than a woman can?"

"Perhaps. "

"I almost know a woman could tell why a woman did a queer thing, better than a man could, " said Rose, reflectively. She hesitated alittle. 

Henry waited, his worn, pleasant face staring at her over a vividlycolored page of the paper. 

"Suppose, " said Rose, "another woman had given Aunt Sylvia a box ofcandy which she had made herself, real nice candy, and suppose thewoman who had given it to her was lovely, and you had knocked a pieceof candy from Aunt Sylvia's mouth just as she was going to taste it, and had startled her so you made her drop the whole box, and then setyour heel hard on the pieces; what would you have done it for?"

The girl's face wore an expression of the keenest inquiry. Henrylooked at her, wrinkling his forehead. "If another woman had givenSylvia a box of candy she had made, and I knocked a piece from herhand just as she was going to taste it, and made her drop the wholebox, and had trampled all the rest of the candy underfoot, whatshould I have done it for?" he repeated. 

"Yes. "

Henry looked at her. He heard a door shut up-stairs. "I shouldn'thave done it, " he said. 

"But suppose you had done it?"

"I shouldn't have. "

Rose shrugged her shoulders. "You are horrid, Uncle Henry, " she said. 

"But I shouldn't have done it, " repeated Henry. He heard Horace'sstep on the stair. Rose got up and ran out of the room by anotherdoor from that which Horace entered. Horace sat down in the chairwhich Rose had just vacated. He looked pale and worried. The eyes ofthe two men met. Henry's eyes asked a question. Horace answered it. 

"I am in such a devil of a mess as never man was yet, I believe, " hesaid. 

Henry nodded gravely. 

"The worst of it is I can't tell a living mortal, " Horace said, in awhisper. "I am afraid even to think it. "

At dinner Rose sat with her face averted from Horace. She never spokeonce to him. As they rose from the table she made an announcement. "Iam going to run over and see Lucy Ayres, " she said. "I am going totell her an accident happened to my candy, and maybe she will give mesome more. "

Henry saw Horace's face change. "Candy is not good for girls; itspoils their complexion. I have just been reading about it in theSunday paper, " said Henry. Sylvia unexpectedly proved his ally. Rosehad not eaten much dinner, although it had been an especially niceone, and she felt anxious about her. 

"I don't think you ought to eat candy when you have so littleappetite for good, wholesome meat and vegetables, " she said. 

"I want to see Lucy, too, " said Rose. "I am going over there. It is alovely afternoon. I have nothing I want to read and nothing to do. Iam going over there. "

Henry's eyes questioned Horace's, which said, plainly, to the otherman, "For God's sake, don't let her go; don't let her go!"

Rose had run up-stairs for her parasol. Horace turned away. Heunderstood that Henry would help him. "Don't let her go over therethis afternoon, " said Henry to Sylvia, who looked at him in theblankest amazement. 

"Why not, I'd like to know?" asked Sylvia. 

"Don't let her go, " repeated Henry. 

Sylvia looked suspiciously from one man to the other. The onlysolution which a woman could put upon such a request immediatelyoccurred to her. She said to herself, "Hm! Mr. Allen wants Rose tostay at home so he can see her himself, and Henry knows it. "

She stiffened her neck. Down deep in her heart was a feeling moreseldom in women's hearts than in men's. She would not have owned thatshe did not wish to part with this new darling of her heart--who hadawakened within it emotions of whose strength the childless woman hadnever dreamed. There was also another reason, which she would notadmit even to herself. Had Rose been, indeed, her daughter, and shehad possessed her from the cradle to womanhood, she would probablyhave been as other mothers, but now Rose was to her as the infant shehad never borne. She felt the intense jealousy of ownership which themother feels over the baby in her arms. She wished to snatch Rosefrom every clasp except her own. 

She decided at once that it was easy to see through the plans ofHorace and her husband, and she determined to thwart them. "I don'tsee why she shouldn't go, " she said. "It is a lovely afternoon. Thewalk will do her good. Lucy Ayres is a real nice girl, and of courseRose wants to see girls of her own age now and then. "

"It is Sunday, " said Henry. He felt and looked like a hypocrite as hespoke, but the distress in Horace's gaze was too much for him. 

Sylvia sniffed. "Sunday, " said she. "Good land! what has come overyou, Henry Whitman? It has been as much as I could do to get you togo to meeting the last ten years, and now all of a sudden you turnaround and think it's wicked for a young girl to run in and seeanother young girl Sunday afternoon. " Sylvia sniffed again verydistinctly, and then Rose entered the room. 

Her clear, fair face looked from one to another from under her blackhat. "What is the matter?" she asked. 

Sylvia patted her on the shoulder. "Nothing is the matter, " said she. "Run along and have a good time, but you had better be home by fiveo'clock. There is a praise meeting to-night, and I guess we'll allwant to go, and I am going to have supper early. "

After Rose had gone and Sylvia had left the room, the two men lookedat each other. Horace was ashy pale. Henry's face showed alarm andastonishment. "What is it?" he whispered. 

"Come out in the grove and have a smoke, " said Horace, with a looktowards the door through which Sylvia had gone. 

Henry nodded. He gathered up his pipe and tobacco from the table, andthe two men sauntered out of the house into the grove. But even therenot much was said. Both smoked in silence, sitting on the bench, before Horace opened his lips in response to Henry's inquiry. 

"I don't know what it is, and I don't know that it is anything, andthat is the worst of it, " he said, gloomily; "and I can't see my wayto telling any mortal what little I do know that leads me to fearthat it is something, although I would if I were sure and actuallyknew beyond doubt that there was--" He stopped abruptly and blew aring of smoke from his cigar. 

"Something is queer about my wife lately, " said Henry, in a low voice. 

"What?"

"That's just it. I feel something as you do. It may be nothing atall. I tell you what, young man, when women talk, as women areintended by an overruling Providence to talk, men know where they areat, but when a woman doesn't talk men know where they ain't. "

"In my case there has been so much talk that I seem to be in a fog ofit, and can't see a blessed thing sufficiently straight to knowwhether it is big enough to bother about or little enough to letalone; but I can't repeat the talk--no man could, " said Horace. 

"In my case there ain't talk enough, " said Henry. "I ain't in a fog;I'm in pitch darkness. "

Chapter XI

The two men sat for some time out in the grove. It was very pleasantthere. The air was unusually still, and only the tops of the treeswhitened occasionally in a light puff of wind like a sigh. Now andthen a carriage or an automobile passed on the road beyond, but notmany of them. It was not a main thoroughfare. The calls and quickcarols of the birds, punctuated with sharp trills of insects, werealmost the only sounds heard. Now and then Sylvia's face glanced atthem from a house window, but it was quickly withdrawn. She neverliked men to be in close conclave without a woman to superintend, yetshe could not have told why. She had a hazy impression, as she mighthave had if they had been children, that some mischief was afoot. 

"Sitting out there all this time, and smoking, and never seeming tospeak a word, " she said to herself, as she returned to her seatbeside a front window in the south room and took up her book. She wasreading with a mild and patronizing interest a book in which theheroine did nothing which she would possibly have done under givencircumstances, and said nothing which she would have said, and was, moreover, a distinctly different personality from one chapter toanother, yet the whole had a charm for the average woman reader. Henry had flung it aside in contempt. Sylvia thought it beautiful, possibly for the reason that her own hard sense was sometimes astrenuous burden, and in reading this she was forced to put it behindher. However, the book did not prevent her from returning every nowand then to her own life and the happenings in it. Hence her stealthyjourneys across the house and peeps at the men in the grove. If theywere nettled by a sense of feminine mystery, she reciprocated. "Whaton earth did they want to stop Rose from going to see Lucy for?"seemed to stare at her in blacker type than the characters of thebook. 

Presently, when she saw Horace pass the window and disappear down theroad, she laid the book on the table, with a slip of paper to keepthe place, and hurried out to the grove. She found Henry leisurelycoming towards the house. "Where has he gone?" she inquired, with ajerk of her shoulder towards the road. 

"Mr. Allen?"

"Yes. "

"How should I know?"

"Don't you know?"

"Maybe I do, " said Henry, smiling at Sylvia with his smile ofaffection and remembrance that she was a woman. 

"Why don't you tell?"

"Now, Sylvia, " said Henry, "you must remember that Mr. Allen is not achild. He is a grown man, and if he takes it into his head to goanywhere you can't say anything. "

Sylvia looked at Henry with a baffled expression. "I think he mightspend his time a good deal more profitably Sunday afternoon thansitting under the trees and smoking, or going walking, " said she, rashly and inconsequentially. "If he would only sit down and readsome good book. "

"You can't dictate to Mr. Allen what he shall or shall not do, " Henryrepeated. 

"Why didn't you want Rose to go to Lucy's?" asked Sylvia, making acharge in an entirely different quarter. 

Henry scorned to lie. "I don't know, " he replied, which was theperfect truth as far as it went. It did not go quite far enough, forhe did not add that he did not know why Horace Allen did not want herto go, and that was his own reason. 

However, Sylvia could not possibly fathom that. She sniffed with herdelicate nostrils, as if she actually smelled some questionable odorof character. "You men have mighty queer streaks, that's all I've gotto say, " she returned. 

When they were in the house again she resumed her book, reading everyword carefully, and Henry took up the Sunday paper, which he had notfinished. The thoughts of both, however, turned from time to timetowards Horace. Sylvia did not know where he had gone. She did notsuspect. Henry knew, but he did not know why. Horace had sprungsuddenly to his feet and caught up his hat as the two men had beensitting under the trees. Henry had emitted a long puff of tobaccosmoke and looked inquiringly at him through the filmy blue of it. 

"I can't stand it another minute, " said Horace, almost with violence. "I've got to know what is going on. I am going to the Ayres's myself. I don't care what they think. I don't care what she thinks. I don'tcare what anybody thinks. " With that he was gone. 

Henry took another puff at his pipe. It showed the difference betweenthe masculine and the feminine point of view that Henry did not forone moment attach a sentimental reason to Horace's going. He realizedRose's attractions. The very probable supposition that she and Horacemight fall in love with and marry each other had occurred to him, butthis he knew at once had nothing to do with that. He turned the wholeover and over in his mind, with no result. He lacked enough premisesto arrive at conclusions. He had started for the house and his Sundaypaper when he met Sylvia, and had resolved to put it all out of hismind. But he was not quite able. There is a masculine curiosity aswell as a feminine, and one is about as persistent as the other. 

Meantime Horace was walking down the road towards the Ayres house. Itwas a pretty, much-ornamented white cottage, with a carefully keptlawn and shade trees. At one side was an old-fashioned garden with anarbor. In this arbor, as Horace drew near, he saw the sweep offeminine draperies. It seemed to him that the arbor was full ofwomen. In reality there were only three--Lucy, her mother, and Rose. 

When Rose had rung the door-bell she had been surprised by whatsounded like a mad rush to answer her ring. Mrs. Ayres opened thedoor. She looked white and perturbed, and behind her showed Lucy'sface, flushed and angry. 

"I knew it was Miss Fletcher; I told you so, mother, " said Lucy, andher low, sweet voice rang out like an angry bird's with a suddenbreak for the high notes. 

Mrs. Ayres kept her self-possession of manner, although herface showed not only nervousness but something like terror. "Good-afternoon, Miss Fletcher, " she said. "Please walk in. "

"She said for me to call her Rose, " cried Lucy. "Please come in, Rose. I am glad to see you. "

In spite of the cordial words the girl's voice was strange. Rosestared from daughter to mother and back again. "If you were engaged, "she said, rather coldly, "if you would prefer that I come some othertime--"

"No, indeed, " cried Lucy, "no other time. Yes, every other time. Whatam I saying? But I want you now, too. Come right up to my room, Rose. I know you will excuse my wrapper and my bed's being tumbled. I havebeen lying down. Come right up. "

Rose followed Lucy, and to her astonishment became aware that Lucy'smother was following her. Mrs. Ayres entered the room with the twogirls. Lucy looked impatiently at her, and spoke as Rose wondered anydaughter could speak. "Rose and I have some things to talk over, mother, " she said. 

"Nothing, I guess, that your mother cannot hear, " returned Mrs. Ayres, with forced pleasantry. She sat down, and Lucy flung herselfpetulantly upon the bed, where she had evidently been lying, butseemingly not reposing, for it was much rumpled, and the pillows gaveevidence of the restless tossing of a weary head. Lucy herself had acuriously rumpled aspect, though she was not exactly untidy. Hersoft, white, lace-trimmed wrapper carelessly tied with blue ribbonswas wrinkled, her little slippers were unbuttoned. Her mass of softhair was half over her shoulders. There were red spots on the cheekswhich had been so white in the morning, and her eyes shone. She kepttying and untying two blue ribbons at the neck of her wrapper as shelay on the bed and talked rapidly. 

"I look like a fright, I know, " she said. "I was tired after church, and slipped off my dress and lay down. My hair is all in a muss. "

"It is such lovely hair that it looks pretty anyway, " said Rose. 

Lucy drew a strand of her hair violently over her shoulder. It almostseemed as if she meant to tear it out by the roots. 

"Lucy!" said her mother. 

"Oh, mother, do let me alone!" cried the girl. Then she said, lookingangrily at her tress of hair, then at Rose: "It is not nearly aspretty as yours. You know it isn't. All men are simply crazy overhair your color. I hate my hair. I just hate it. "

"Lucy!" said her mother again, in the same startled but admonitorytone. 

Lucy made an impatient face at her. She threw back the tress of hair. "I hate it, " said she. 

Rose began to feel awkward. She noticed Mrs. Ayres's anxious regardof her daughter, and she thought with disgust that Lucy Ayres was notso sweet a girl as she had seemed. However, she felt an odd kind ofsympathy and pity for her. Lucy's pretty face and her white wrapperseemed alike awry with nervous suffering, which the other girl dimlyunderstood, although it was the understanding of a normal characterwith regard to an abnormal one. 

Rose resolved to change the subject. "I did enjoy your singing somuch this morning, " she said. 

"Thank you, " replied Lucy, but a look of alarm instead of pleasureappeared upon her face, which Rose was astonished to see in themother's likewise. 

"I feel so sorry for poor Miss Hart, because I cannot think for amoment that she was guilty of what they accused her of, " said Rose, "that I don't like to say anything about her singing. But I will saythis much: I did enjoy yours. "

"Thank you, " said Lucy again. Her look of mortal terror deepened. From being aggressively nervous, she looked on the verge of acollapse. 

Mrs. Ayres rose, went to Lucy's closet, and returned with a bottle ofwine and a glass. "Here, " she said, as she poured out the red liquor. "You had better drink this, dear. You know Dr. Wallace said you mustdrink port wine, and you are all tired out with your singing thismorning. "

Lucy seized the glass and drank the wine eagerly. 

"It must be a nervous strain, " said Rose, "to stand up there, beforesuch a crowded audience as there was this morning, and sing. "

"Yes, it is, " agreed Mrs. Ayres, in a harsh voice, "and especiallywhen anybody isn't used to it. Lucy is not at all strong. "

"I hope it won't be too much for her, " said Rose; "but it is such adelight to listen to her after--"

"Oh, I am tired and sick of hearing Miss Hart's name!" cried Lucy, unpleasantly. 

"Lucy!" said Mrs. Ayres. 

"Well, I am, " said Lucy, defiantly. "It has been nothing but MissHart, Miss Hart, from morning until night lately. Nobody thinks shepoisoned Miss Farrel, of course. It was perfect nonsense to accuseher of it, and when that is said, I think myself that is enough. Isee no need of this eternal harping upon it. I have heard nothingexcept 'poor Miss Hart' until I am nearly wild. Come, Rose, I'll getdressed and we'll go out in the arbor. It is too pleasant to stayin-doors. This room is awfully close. "

"I think perhaps I had better not stay, " Rose replied, doubtfully. Itseemed to her that she was having a very strange call, and she beganto be indignant as well as astonished. 

"Of course you are going to stay, " Lucy said, and her voice was sweetagain. "We'll let Miss Hart alone and I'll get dressed, and we'll goin the arbor. It is lovely out there to-day. "

With that Lucy sprang from the bed and let her wrapper slip from hershoulders. She stood before her old-fashioned black-walnut bureau andbegan brushing her hair. Her white arms and shoulders gleamed throughit as she brushed with what seemed a cruel violence. 

Rose laughed in a forced way. "Why, dear, you brush your hair as ifit had offended you, " she said. 

"Don't brush so hard, Lucy, " said Mrs. Ayres. 

"I just hate my old hair, anyway, " said Lucy, with a vicious strokeof the brush. She bent her head over, and swept the whole dark massdownward until it concealed her face and nearly touched her knees. Then she gave it a deft twist, righted herself, and pinned the coilin place. 

"How beautifully you do up your hair, " said Rose. 

Lucy cast an appreciative glance at herself in the glass. The winehad deepened the glow on her cheeks. Her eyes were more brilliant. She pulled her hair a little over one temple, and looked at herselfwith entire satisfaction. Lucy had beautiful neck and arms, unexpectedly plump for a girl so apparently slender. Her skin wasfull of rosy color, too. She gazed at the superb curve of hershoulders rising above the dainty lace of her corset-cover, andsmiled undisguisedly. 

"I wish my neck was as plump as yours, " said Rose. 

"Yes, she has a nice, plump neck, " said Mrs. Ayres. While the wordsshowed maternal pride, the tone never relaxed from its nervousanxiety. 

Lucy's smile vanished suddenly. "Well, what if it is plump?" saidshe. "What is the use of it? A girl living here in East Westland cannever wear a dress to show her neck. People would think she had goneout of her mind. "

Rose laughed. "I have some low-neck gowns, " said she, "but I can'twear them, either. Maybe that is fortunate for me, my neck is sothin. "

"You will wear them in other places, " said Lucy. "You won't stay hereall your days. You will have plenty of chances to wear your low-neckgowns. " She spoke again in her unnaturally high voice. She turnedtowards her closet to get her dress. 

"Lucy!" said Mrs. Ayres. 

"Well, it is the truth, " said Lucy. "Don't preach, mother. If youwere a girl, and somebody told you your neck was pretty, and you knewother girls had chances to wear low-neck dresses, you wouldn't beabove feeling it a little. "

"My neck was as pretty as yours when I was a girl, and I never wore alow-neck dress in my life, " said Mrs. Ayres. 

"Oh, well, you got married when you were eighteen, " said Lucy. Therewas something almost coarse in her remark. Rose felt herself flush. She was sophisticated, and had seen the world, although she had beenclosely if not lovingly guarded; but she shrank from some things asthough she had never come from under a country mother's wing in herlife. 

Lucy got a pale-blue muslin gown from the closet and slipped it overher shoulders. Then she stood for her mother to fasten it in theback. Lucy was lovely in this cloud of blue, with edgings of lace onthe ruffles and knots of black velvet. She fastened her black velvetgirdle, and turned herself sidewise with a charming feminine motion, to get the effect of her slender waist between the curves of hersmall hips and bust. Again she looked pleased. 

"You are dear in that blue gown, " said Rose. 

Lucy smiled. Then she scowled as suddenly. She could see Rose overher shoulder in the glass. "It is awful countrified, " said she. "Lookat the sleeves and look at yours. Where was yours made?"

"My dressmaker in New York made it, " faltered Rose. She felt guiltybecause her gown was undeniably in better style. 

"There's no use trying to have anything in East Westland, " said Lucy. 

While she was fastening a little gold brooch at her throat, Roseagain tried to change the subject. "That candy of yours lookedperfectly delicious, " said she. "You must teach me how you make it. "

Mrs. Ayres went dead white in a moment. She looked at Lucy with alook of horror which the girl did not meet. She went on fastening herbrooch. "Did you like it?" she asked, carelessly. 

"An accident happened to it, I am sorry to say, " explained Rose. "Mr. Allen and I were out in the grove, and somehow he jostled me, and thecandy got scattered on the ground, and he stepped on it. "

"Were you and he alone out there?" asked Lucy, in a very quiet voice. 

Rose looked at her amazedly. "Why, no, not when that happened!" shereplied. "Aunt Sylvia was there, too. " She spoke a littleresentfully. "What if Mr. Allen and I had been alone; what is that toher?" she thought. 

"There is some more candy, " said Lucy, calmly. "I will get it, andthen we will go out in the arbor. I will teach you to make the candyany day. It is very simple. Come, Rose dear. Mother, we are going outin the arbor. "

Mrs. Ayres rose immediately. She preceded the two girls down-stairs, and came through the sitting-room door with a dish of candy in herhand just as they reached it. "Here is the candy, dear, " she said toLucy, and there was something commanding in her voice. 

Lucy took the dish, a pretty little decorated affair, with whatseemed to Rose an air of suspicion and a grudging "thank you, mother. "

"Come, Rose, " she said. She led the way and Rose followed. Mrs. Ayresreturned to the sitting-room. The girls went through theold-fashioned garden with its flower-beds outlined with box, in whichthe earlier flowers were at their prime, to the arbor. It was apretty old structure, covered with the shaggy arms of an oldgrape-vine whose gold-green leaves were just uncurling. Lucy placedthe bowl of candy on the end of the bench which ran round theinterior, and, to Rose's surprise, seated herself at a distance fromit, and motioned Rose to sit beside her, without offering her anycandy. Lucy leaned against Rose and looked up at her. She lookedyoung and piteous and confiding. Rose felt again that she was sweetand that she loved her. She put her arm around Lucy. 

"You are a dear, " said she. 

Lucy nestled closer. "I know you must have thought me perfectlyhorrid to speak as I did to mother, " said she, "but you don'tunderstand. "

Lucy hesitated. Rose waited. 

"You see, the trouble is, " Lucy went on, "I love mother dearly, ofcourse. She is the best mother that ever a girl had, but she isalways so anxious about me, and she follows me about so, and I getnervous, and I know I don't always speak as I should. I am oftenashamed of myself. You see--"

Lucy hesitated again for a longer period. Rose waited. 

"Mother has times of being very nervous, " Lucy said, in a whisper. "Isometimes think, when she follows me about so, that she is not forthe time being quite herself. "

Rose started and looked at the other girl in horror. "Why don't youhave a doctor?" said she. 

"Oh, I don't mean that she--I don't mean that there is anythingserious, only she has always been over-anxious about me, and at timesI fancy she is nervous, and then the anxiety grows beyond limit. Shealways gets over it. I don't mean that--"

"Oh, I didn't know, " said Rose. 

"I never mean to be impatient, " Lucy went on, "but to-day I was verytired, and I wanted to see you especially. I wanted to ask yousomething. "

"What?"

Lucy looked away from Rose. She seemed to shrink within herself. Thecolor faded from her face. "I heard something, " she said, faintly, "but I said I wouldn't believe it until I had asked you. "

"What is it?"

"I heard that you were engaged to marry Mr. Allen. "

Rose flushed and moved away a little from Lucy. "You can contradictthe rumor whenever you hear it again, " said she. 

"Then it isn't true?"

"No, it isn't. "

Lucy nestled against Rose, in spite of a sudden coldness which hadcome over the other girl. "You are so dear, " said she. 

Rose looked straight ahead, and sat stiffly. 

"I am thoroughly angry at such rumors, merely because a girl happensto be living in the same house with a marriageable man, " said she. 

"Yes, that is so, " said Lucy. She remained quiet for a few moments, leaning against Rose, her blue-clad shoulder pressing lovingly theblack-clad one. Then she moved away a little, and reared her prettyback with a curious, snakelike motion. Rose watched her. Lucy's eyesfastened themselves upon her, and something strange happened. EitherLucy Ayres was a born actress, or she had become actually so imbued, through abnormal emotion and love, with the very spirit of the manthat she was capable of projecting his own emotions and feelings intoher own soul and thence upon her face. At all events, she looked atRose, and slowly Rose became bewildered. It seemed to her that HoraceAllen was looking at her through the eyes of this girl, with a lookwhich she had often seen since their very first meeting. She feltherself glowing from head to foot. She was conscious of a deepcrimson stealing all over her face and neck. Her eyes fell before theother girl's. Then suddenly it was all over. Lucy rose with a littlelaugh. "You sweet, funny creature, " she said. "I can make you blush, looking at you, as if I were a man. Well, maybe I love you as well asone. " Lucy took the bowl of candy from the bench and extended it toRose. "Do have some candy, " said she. 

"Thank you, " said Rose. She looked bewildered, and felt so. She tooka sugared almond and began nibbling at it. "Aren't you going to eatany candy yourself?" said she. 

"I have eaten so much already that it has made my head ache, " repliedLucy. "Is it good?"

"Simply delicious. You must teach me how you make such candy. "

"Lucy will be glad to teach you any day, " said Mrs. Ayres's voice. She had come swiftly upon them, and entered the arbor with areligious newspaper in her hand. Lucy no longer seemed annoyed by hermother's following her. She only set the candy behind her with aquick movement which puzzled Rose. 

"Aren't you going to offer your mother some?" she asked, laughing. 

"Mother can't eat candy. Dr. Wallace has forbidden it, " Lucy said, quickly. 

"Yes, that is quite true, " assented Mrs. Ayres. She began reading herpaper. Lucy offered the bowl again to Rose, who took a bonbon. Shewas just swallowing it when Horace Allen appeared. He made a motionwhich did not escape Mrs. Ayres. She rose and confronted him withperfect calmness and dignity. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Allen, " she said. 

Lucy had sprung up quickly. She was very white. Horace saidgood-afternoon perfunctorily, and looked at Rose. 

Mrs. Ayres caught up the bowl of candy. "Let me offer you some, Mr. Allen, " she said. "It is home-made candy, and quite harmless, Iassure you. "

Her fair, elderly face confronted him smilingly, her voice was calm. 

"Thank you, " said Horace, and took a sugared almond. 

Lucy made a movement as if to stop him, but her mother laid her handwith gentle firmness on her arm. "Sit down, Lucy, " she said, and Lucysat down. 

Chapter XII

Henry Whitman and his wife Sylvia remained, the one reading hisSunday paper, the other her book, while Horace and Rose were away. Henry's paper rustled, Sylvia turned pages gently. Occasionally shesmiled the self-satisfied smile of the reader who thinks sheunderstands the author, to her own credit. Henry scowled over hispaper the scowl of one who reads to disapprove, to his own credit. 

Both were quite engrossed. Sylvia had reached an extremelyinteresting portion of her book, and Henry was reading a section ofhis paper which made him fairly warlike. However, the clock strikingfour aroused both of them. 

"I think it is very funny that they have not come home, " said Sylvia. 

"I dare say they will be along pretty soon, " said Henry. 

Sylvia looked keenly at him. "Henry Whitman, did he go to theAyres's?" said she. 

Henry, cornered, told the truth. "Well, I shouldn't wonder, " headmitted. 

"I think it is pretty work, " said Sylvia, angry red spots coming inher cheeks. 

Henry said nothing. 

"The idea that a young man can't be in the house with a girl anylonger than this without his fairly chasing her, " said Sylvia. 

"Who knows that he is?"

"Do you think he is interested in the Ayres girl?"

"No, I don't. "

"Then it is Rose, " said Sylvia. "Pretty work, I call it. Here she iswith her own folks in this nice home, with everything she needs. "

Henry looked at Sylvia with astonishment. "Why, " he said, "girls getmarried! You got married yourself. "

"I know I did, " said Sylvia, "but that hasn't got anything to do withit. Of course he has to chase her the minute she comes withingunshot. "

"Still, there's one thing certain, if she doesn't want him he cantake it out in chasing, if he is chasing, and I don't think he is, "said Henry. "Nobody is going to make Rose marry any man. "

"She don't act a mite in love with him, " said Sylvia, ruminatingly. "She seemed real mad with him this noon about that candy. Henry, thatwas a funny thing for him to do. "

"What?" asked Henry, who had so far only gotten Rose's rather vagueaccount of the candy episode. 

Sylvia explained. "He actually knocked that candy out of her hand, and made her spill the whole box, and then trampled on it. I saw him. "

Henry stared at Sylvia. "It must have been an accident, " said he. 

"It looked like an accident on purpose, " said Sylvia. "Well, I guessI'll go out and make some of that salad they like so much for supper. "

After Sylvia had gone Henry sat for a while reflecting, then he wentnoiselessly out of the front door and round to the grove. He foundthe scattered pieces of candy and the broken box quickly enough. Hecast a wary glance around, and gathered the whole mass up and thrustit into the pocket of his Sunday coat. Then he stole back to thehouse and got his hat and went out again. He was hurrying along theroad, when he met Horace and Rose returning. Rose was talking, seemingly, with a cold earnestness to her companion. Horace seemed tobe listening passively. Henry thought he looked pale and anxious. When he saw Henry he smiled. "I have an errand, a business errand, "explained Henry. "Please tell Mrs. Whitman I shall be home in timefor supper. I don't think she knew when I went out. She was in thekitchen. "

"All right, " replied Horace. 

After he had passed them Henry caught the words, "I think you owe mean explanation, " in Rose's voice. 

"It is about this blamed candy, " thought Henry, feeling the crumpledmass in his pocket. He had a distrust of candy, and it occurred tohim that he would have an awkward explanation to make if the candyshould by any possibility melt and stick to the pocket of his Sundaycoat. He therefore took out the broken box and carried it in hishand, keeping the paper wrapper firmly around it. "What in creationis it all about?" he thought, irritably. He felt a sense of personalinjury. Henry enjoyed calm, and it seemed to him that he was beingdecidedly disturbed, as by mysterious noises breaking in upon theeven tenor of his life. 

"Sylvia is keeping something to herself that is worrying her todeath, in spite of her being so tickled to have the girl with us, andnow here is this candy, " he said to himself. He understood that forsome reason Horace had not wanted Rose to eat the candy, that he hadresorted to fairly desperate measures to prevent it, but he could notimagine why. He had no imagination for sensation or melodrama, andthe candy affair was touching that line. He had been calmly prosaicwith regard to Miss Farrel's death. "They can talk all they want toabout murder and suicide, " he had said to Sylvia. "I don't believe aword of it. "

"But the doctors found--" began Sylvia. 

"Found nothing, " interposed Henry. "What do doctors know? She etsomething that hurt her. How do doctors know but what anybody mighteat something that folks think is wholesome, that, if the personain't jest right for it, acts like poison? Doctors don't know much. She et something that hurt her. "

"Poor Lucinda's cooking is enough to hurt 'most anybody, " admittedSylvia; "but they say they found--"

"Don't talk such stuff, " said Henry, fiercely. "She et something. Idon't know what you women like best to suck at, candy or horrors. "

Now Henry was forced to admit that he himself was confronted bysomething mysterious. Why had Horace fairly flung that candy on theground, and trampled on it, unless he had suddenly gone mad, or--?There Henry brought himself up with a jolt. He absolutely refused tosuspect. "I'd jest as soon eat all that's left of the truck myself, "he thought, "only I couldn't bear candy since I was a child, and Iain't going to eat it for anybody. "

Henry had to pass the Ayres house. Just as he came abreast of it heheard a hysterical sob, then another, from behind the open windows ofa room on the second floor, whose blinds were closed. Henry made agrimace and went his way. He was bound for Sidney Meeks's. He foundthe lawyer in his office in an arm-chair, which whirled like a top atthe slightest motion of its occupant. Around him were strewn Sundaypapers, all that could be bought. On the desk before him stood abottle of clear yellow wine, half-emptied. 

Sidney looked up and smiled as Henry entered. "Here I am in a vortexof crime and misrule, " he said, "and I should have been out of mywits if it had not been for that wine. There's another glass overthere, Henry; get it and help yourself. "

"Guess I won't take any now, thank you, " said Henry. "It's justbefore supper. "

"Maybe you are wise, " admitted the lawyer. He slouched before Henryin untidy and unmended, but clean, Sunday attire. Sidney Meeks was asclean as a gentleman should be, but there was never a crease exceptof ease in his clothes, and he was so buttonless that women feared tolook at him closely. "It might go to your head, " said Sidney. "Itwent to mine a little, but that was unavoidable. After one of thosepapers there my head was mighty near being a vacuum. "

"What do you read the papers for?" asked Henry. 

"Because, " said Sidney, "I feel it incumbent upon me to be wellinformed concerning two things, although I verily believe it to betrue that I have precious little of either, and they cannot directlyconcern me. I want to know about the stock market, although I don'town a blessed share in anything except an old mine out West on a map;and I want to know what evil is fermenting in the hearts of men, though I am pretty sure, in spite of the original sin part of it, that precious little is fermenting in mine. About three o'clock thisafternoon I came to the conclusion that we were in hell or Sodom, orelse the newspaper men got saved from the general destruction alongwith Lot. So I got a bottle of this blessed wine, and now I am fullyconvinced that I am on a planet which is the work of the LordAlmighty, and only created for an end of redemption and eternalbliss, and that the newspaper men are enough sight better than Lotever thought of being, and are spending Sunday as they should, peacefully in the bosoms of their own families. In fact, Henry, mymental and spiritual outlook has cleared. What in creation is thatwad of broken box you are carrying as if it would go off any minute?"

Henry told him the story in a few words. 

"Gee whiz!" said Meeks. "I thought I had finished the Sunday papersand here you are with another sensation. Let's see the stuff. "

Henry gave the crumpled box with the mass of candy to Meeks, whoexamined it closely. He smelled of it. He even tasted a bit. "It'sall beyond me, " he said, finally. "I am loath to admit that asensation has lit upon us here in East Westland. Leave it with me, and I'll see what is the matter with it, if there's anything. I don'tthink myself there's anything, but I'll take it to Wallace. He's ananalytical chemist, and holds his tongue, which is worth more thanthe chemistry. "

"You will not say a word--" began Henry, but Meeks interrupted him. 

"Don't you know me well enough by this time?" he demanded, and Henryadmitted that he did. 

"Do you suppose I want all this blessed little town in a tumult, andthe devil to pay?" said Meeks. "It is near time for me to start somedaisy wine, too. I shouldn't have a minute free. There'd be suits fordamages, and murder trials, and the Lord knows what. I'd rather makemy daisy wine. Leave this damned sticky mess with me, and I'll see toit. What in creation any young woman in her senses wants to spend hertime in making such stuff for, anyway, beats me. Women are all moreor less fools, anyhow. I suppose they can't help it, but we ought tohave it in mind. "

"I suppose there's something in it, " said Henry, rather doubtfully. 

Meeks laughed. "Oh, I don't expect any man with a wife to agree withme, " he said. "You might as well try to lift yourself by yourboot-straps; but I've got standing-ground outside the situation andyou haven't. Good-night, Henry. Don't fret yourself over this. I'lllet you know as soon as I know myself. "

Henry, passing the Ayres house on his way home, fancied he heardagain a sob, but this time it was so stifled that he was not sure. "It's mighty queer work, anyway, " he thought. He thought also thatthough he should have liked a son, he was very glad that he andSylvia had not owned a daughter. He was fond of Rose, but, althoughshe was a normal girl, she often gave him a sense of mystery whichirritated him. 

Had Henry Whitman dreamed of what was really going on in the Ayreshouse, he would have been devoutly thankful that he had no daughter. He had in reality heard the sob which he had not been sure of. It hadcome from Lucy's room. Her mother was there with her. The two hadbeen closeted together ever since Rose had gone. Lucy had rushedup-stairs and pulled off her pretty gown with a hysterical fury. Shehad torn it at the neck, because the hooks would not unfasten easily, before her mother, who moved more slowly, had entered the room. 

"What are you doing, Lucy?" Mrs. Ayres asked, in a voice which was atonce tender and stern. 

"Getting out of this old dress, " replied Lucy, fiercely. 

"Stand round here by the light, " said her mother, calmly. Lucyobeyed. She stood, although her shoulders twitched nervously, whileher mother unfastened her gown. Then she began almost tearing off herother garments. "Lucy, " said Mrs. Ayres, "you are over twenty yearsold, and a woman grown, but you are not as strong as I am, and I usedto take you over my knee and spank you when you were a child anddidn't behave, and I'll do it now if you are not careful. Youunfasten that corset-cover properly. You are tearing the lace. "

Lucy gazed at her mother a moment in a frenzy of rage, then suddenlyher face began to work piteously. She flung herself face downwardupon her bed, and sobbed long, hysterical sobs. Then Mrs. Ayres waxedtender. She bent over the girl, and gently untied ribbons andunfastened buttons, and slipped a night-gown over her head. Then sherolled her over in the bed, as if she had been a baby, and laid herown cheek against the hot, throbbing one of the girl. "Mother'slamb, " she said, softly. "There, there, dear, mother knows all aboutit. "

"You don't, " gasped the girl. "What do you know? You--you weremarried when you were years younger than I am. " There was somethingviolently accusing in her tone. She thrust her mother away and sat upin bed, and looked at her with fierce eyes blazing like lamps in hersoft, flushed face. 

"I know it, " said Mrs. Ayres. "I know it, and I know what you mean, Lucy; but there is something else which I know and you do not. "

"I'd like to know what!"

"How a mother reads the heart of her child. "

Lucy stared at her mother. Her face softened. Then it grew burningred and angrier. "You taunt me with that, " she said, in awhisper--"with that and everything. " She buried her face in hercrushed pillow again and burst into long wails. 

Mrs. Ayres smoothed her hair. "Lucy, " said she, "listen. I know whatis going on within you as you don't know it yourself. I know theagony of it as you don't know it yourself. "

"I'd like to know how. "

"Because you are my child; because I can hardly sleep for thinking ofyou; because every one of my waking moments is filled with you. Lucy, because I am your mother and you are yourself. I am not taunting you. I understand. "

"You can't. "

"I do. I know just how you felt about that young man from the citywho boarded at the hotel six years ago. I know how you felt about TomMerrill, who called here a few times, and then stopped, and married agirl from Boston. I have known exactly how you have felt about allthe others, and--I know about this last. " Her voice sank to a whisper. 

"I have had some reason, " Lucy said, with a terrible eagerness ofself-defence. "I have, mother. "

"What?"

"One day, the first year he came, I was standing at the gate besidethat flowering-almond bush, and it was all in flower, and he camepast and he looked at the bush and at me, then at the bush again, andhe said, 'How beautiful that is!' But, mother, he meant me. "

"What else?"

"You remember he called here once. "

"Yes, Lucy, to ask you to sing at the school entertainment. "

"Mother, it was for more than that. You did not hear him speak at thedoor. He said, 'I shall count on you; you cannot disappoint me. ' Youdid not hear his voice, mother. "

"What else, Lucy?"

"Once, one night last winter, when I was coming home from thepost-office, it was after dark, and he walked way to the house withme, and he told me a lot about himself. He told me how all alone inthe world he was, and how hard it was for a man to have nobody whoreally belonged to him in the wide world, and when he said good-nightat the gate he held my hand--quite a while; he did, mother. "

"What else, Lucy?"

"You remember that picnic, the trolley picnic to Alford. He sat nextto me coming home, and--"

"And what?"

"There were only--four on the seat, and he--he sat very close, andtold me some more about himself: how he had been alone ever since hewas a little boy, and--how hard it had been. Then he asked how longago father died, and if I remembered, and if I missed him still. "

"I don't quite understand, dear, how that--"

"You didn't hear the way he spoke, mother. "

"What else, Lucy?"

"He has always looked at me very much across the church, and wheneverI have met him it has not been so much what--he said as--his manner. You have not known what his manner was, and you have not heard how hespoke, nor seen his eyes when--he looked at me--"

"Yes, dear, you are right. I have not. Then you have thought he wasin love with you?"

"Sometimes he has made me think so, mother, " Lucy sobbed. 

Mrs. Ayres gazed pitifully at the girl. "Then when you thoughtperhaps he was not you felt badly. "

"Oh, mother!"

"You were not yourself. "

"Oh, mother!"

Mrs. Ayres took the girl by her two slender shoulders; she bent hermerciful, loving face close to the younger one, distraught, and fullof longing, primeval passion. "Lucy, " she whispered, "your mothernever lost sight of--anything. "

Lucy turned deadly white. She stared back at her mother. 

"You thought perhaps he was in love with Miss Farrel, didn't you?"Mrs. Ayres said, in a very low whisper. 

Lucy nodded, still staring with eyes of horrified inquiry at hermother. 

"You had seen him with her?"

"Ever so many times, walking, and he took her to ride, and I saw himcoming out of the hotel. I thought--"

"Listen, Lucy. " Mrs. Ayres's whisper was hardly audible. "Mother madesome candy and sent it to Miss Farrel. She--never had any thatanybody else made. It--was candy that would not hurt anybody that shehad. "

Lucy's face lightened as if with some veritable illumination. 

"Mother perhaps ought not to have let you think--as you did, solong, " said Mrs. Ayres, "but she thought perhaps it was best, and, Lucy, mother has begun to realize that it was. Now you think, perhaps, he is in love with this other girl, don't you?"

"They are living in the same house, " returned Lucy, in a stifledshriek, "and--and--I found out this afternoon that she--she is inlove with him. And she is so pretty, and--" Lucy sobbed wildly. 

"Mother has been watching every minute, " said Mrs. Ayres. 

"Mother, I haven't killed him?"

"No, dear. Mother made the candy. "

Lucy sobbed and trembled convulsively. Mrs. Ayres stroked her hairuntil she was a little quieter, then she spoke. "Lucy, " she said, "the time has come for you to listen to mother, and you must listen. "

Lucy looked up at her with her soft, terrible eyes. 

"You are not in love with this last man, " said Mrs. Ayres, quietly. "You were not in love with any of the others. It is all because youare a woman, and the natural longings of a woman are upon you. Thetime has come for you to listen and understand. It is right that youshould have what you want, but if the will of God is otherwise youmust make the best of it. There are other things in life, or it wouldbe monstrous. It will be no worse for you than for thousands of otherwomen who go through life unmarried. You have no excuse to--commitcrime or to become a wreck. I tell you there are other things besidesthat which has taken hold of you, soul and body. There are spiritualthings. There is the will of God, which is above the will of theflesh and the will of the fleshly heart. It is for you to behaveyourself and take what comes. You are still young, and if you werenot there is always room in life for a gift of God. You may yet havewhat you are crying out for. In the mean time--"

Lucy interrupted with a wild cry. "Oh, mother, you will take care ofme, you will watch me!"

"You need not be afraid, Lucy, " said Mrs. Ayres, grimly and tenderly. "I will watch you, and--" She hesitated a moment, then she continued, "If I ever catch you buying that again--"

But Lucy interrupted. 

"Oh, mother, " she said, "this last time it was not--it really wasnot--_that!_ It was only something that would have made her sick alittle. It would not have--It was not _that!_"

"If I ever do catch you buying that again, " said Mrs. Ayres, "youwill know what a whipping is. " Her tone was almost whimsical, but ithad a terrible emphasis. 

Lucy shrank. "I didn't put enough of _that_ in to--to do much harm, "she murmured, "but I never will again. "

"No, you had better not, " assented Mrs. Ayres. "Now slip on yourwrapper and come down-stairs with me. I am going to warm up some ofthat chicken on toast the way you like it, for supper, and then I amcoming back up-stairs with you, and you are going to lie down, andI'll read that interesting book we got out of the library. "

Lucy obeyed like a child. Her mother helped her slip the wrapper overher head, and the two went down-stairs. 

After supper that night Sidney Meeks called at the Whitmans'. He didnot stay long. He had brought a bottle of elder-flower wine forSylvia. As he left he looked at Henry, who followed him out of thehouse into the street. They paused just outside the gate. 

"Well?" said Henry, interrogatively. 

"All right, " responded Meeks. "What it is all about beats me. Thestuff wouldn't hurt a babe in arms, unless it gave it indigestion. Your boarder hasn't insanity in his family, has he?"

"Not that I know of, " replied Henry. Then he repeated Meeks'scomment. "It beats me, " he said. 

When Henry re-entered the house Sylvia looked at him. "What were youand Mr. Meeks talking about out in the street?" she asked. 

"Nothing, " replied Henry, lying as a man may to a woman or a child. 

"He's in there with her, " whispered Sylvia. "They went in there theminute Mr. Meeks and you went out. " Sylvia pointed to the best parlorand looked miserably jealous. 

"Well, " said Henry, tentatively. 

"If they've got anything to say I don't see why they can't say ithere, " said Sylvia. 

"The door is open, " said Henry. 

"I ain't going to listen, if it is, and you know I can't hear withone ear, " said Sylvia. "Of course I don't care, but I don't see whythey went in there. What were you and Mr. Meeks talking about, Henry?"

"Nothing, " answered Henry, cheerfully, again. 

Chapter XIII

Rose Fletcher had had a peculiar training. She had in one sensebelonged to the ranks of the fully sophisticated, who are supposed toswim on the surface of things and catch all the high lights ofexistence, like bubbles, and in another sense it had been very muchthe reverse. She might, so far as one side of her character wasconcerned, have been born and brought up in East Westland, as hermother had been before her. She had a perfect village simplicity andwonder at life, as to a part of her innermost self, which was onlyveneered by her contact with the world. In part she was entirelydifferent from all the girls in the place, and the difference wasreally in the grain. That had come from her assimilation at a verytender age with the people who had had the care of her. They hadbelonged by right of birth with the most brilliant social lights, butlack of money had hampered them. They blazed, as it were, underground glass with very small candle-powers, although they were on thesame shelf with the brilliant incandescents. Rose's money had beenthe main factor which enabled them to blaze at all. Otherwise theymight have still remained on the shelf, it is true, but as dark stars. 

Rose had not been sent away to school for two reasons. One reason wasMiss Farrel's, the other originated with her caretakers. Miss Farrelhad a jealous dread of the girl's forming one of those eroticfriendships, which are really diseased love-affairs, with anothergirl or a teacher, and the Wiltons' reason was a pecuniary one. Amongthe Wiltons' few assets was a distant female relative of pronouncedaccomplishments and educational attainments, who was even worse offfinancially than they. It had become with her a question ofbread-and-butter and the simplest necessaries of life, whereas Mrs. Wilton and her sister, Miss Pamela, still owned the old familymansion, which, although reduced from its former heights of fashion, was grand, with a subdued and dim grandeur, it is true, but stillgrand; and there was also a fine old country-house in a fashionablesummer resort. There were also old servants and jewels and laces andall that had been. The difficulty was in retaining it with theaddition of repairs, and additions which are as essential to the mereexistence of inanimate objects as food is to the animate, these beingas their law of growth. Rose Fletcher's advent, although her fortunewas, after all, only a moderate one, permitted such homely butnecessary things as shingles to be kept intact upon roofs of oldfamily homes; it enabled servants to be paid and fuel and food to beprovided. Still, after all, had poor Eliza Farrel, that morbid victimof her own hunger for love, known what economies were practised ather expense, in order that all this should be maintained, she wouldhave rebelled. She knew that the impecunious female relative was aperson fully adequate to educate Rose, but she did not know that heronly stipend therefor was her bread-and-butter and the cast-offraiment of Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela. She did not know that whenRose came out her stock of party gowns was so limited that she had torefuse many invitations or appear always as the same flower, as faras garments were concerned. She did not know that during Rose's twotrips abroad the expenses had been so carefully calculated that thegirl had not received those advantages usually supposed to be derivedfrom foreign travel. 

While Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela would have scorned the imputationof deceit or dishonesty, their moral sense in those two directionswas blunted by their keen scent for the conventionalities of life, which to them had almost become a religion. They had never owned totheir inmost consciousness that Rose had not derived the fullestbenefit from Miss Farrel's money; it is doubtful if they really werecapable of knowing it. When a party gown for Rose was weighed in thebalance with some essential for maintaining their position upon thesociety shelf, it had not the value of a feather. Mrs. Wilton andMiss Pamela gave regular dinner-parties and receptions through theseason, but they invited people of undoubted social standing whomMiss Farrel would have neglected for others on Rose's account. By atacit agreement, never voiced in words, young men or old who mighthave made too heavy drains upon wines and viands were seldom invited. The preference was for dyspeptic clergymen and elderly and genteelfemales with slender appetites, or stout people upon diets. It wasalmost inconceivable how Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela, with no actualconsultations to that end, practised economies and maintainedluxuries. They seemed to move with a spiritual unity like thephysical one of the Siamese twins. Meagre meals served magnificently, the most splendid conservatism with the smallest possible amount ofcomfort, moved them as one. 

Rose, having been so young when she went to live with them, had neverrealized the true state of affairs. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela hadnot encouraged her making visits in houses where her eyes might havebeen opened. Then, too, she was naturally generous, and notsharp-eyed concerning her own needs. When there were no guests atdinner, and she rose from the table rather unsatisfied after herhalf-plate of watery soup, her delicate little befrilled chop and dabof French pease, her tiny salad and spoonful of dessert, she neverimagined that she was defrauded. Rose had a singularly sweet, ungrasping disposition, and an almost childlike trait of acceptingthat which was offered her as the one and only thing which shedeserved. When there was a dinner-party, she sat between an elderlyclergyman and a stout judge, who was dieting on account of the dangerof apoplexy, with the same graceful agreeableness with which shewould have sat between two young men. 

Rose had not developed early as to her temperament. She had playedwith dolls until Miss Pamela had felt it her duty to remonstrate. Shehad charmed the young men whom she had seen, and had not thoughtabout them when once they were out of sight. Her pulses did notquicken easily. She had imagination, but she did not make herself theheroine of her dreams. She was sincerely puzzled at the expressionwhich she saw on the faces of some girls when talking with young men. She felt a vague shame and anger because of it, but she did not knowwhat it meant. She had read novels, but the love interest in them waslike a musical theme which she, hearing, did not fully understand. She was not in the least a boylike girl; she was wholly feminine, butthe feminine element was held in delicate and gentle restraint. Without doubt Mrs. Wilton's old-fashioned gentility, and MissPamela's, and her governess's, who belonged to the same epoch, hadserved to mould her character not altogether undesirably. She was, onthe whole, a pleasant and surprising contrast to girls of her age, with her pretty, shy respect for her elders, and lack ofself-assertion, along with entire self-possession and good breeding. However, she had missed many things which poor Miss Farrel hadconsidered desirable for her, and which her hostesses with theirself-sanctified evasion had led her to think had been done. 

Miss Farrel, teaching in her country school, had had visions of thegirl riding a thoroughbred in Central Park, with a groom inattendance; whereas the reality was the old man who served both ascoachman and butler, in carefully kept livery, guiding two horses aptto stumble from extreme age through the shopping district, and thepretty face of the girl looking out of the window of an ancient coupewhich, nevertheless, had a coat of arms upon its door. Miss Farrelimagined Rose in a brilliant house-party at Wiltmere, Mrs. Wilton'sand Miss Pamela's country home; whereas in reality she was roamingabout the fields and woods with an old bull-terrier for guard andcompanion. Rose generally carried a book on these occasions, andgenerally not a modern book. Her governess had a terror of modernbooks, especially of novels. She had looked into a few and shuddered. Rose's taste in literature was almost Elizabethan. She was notallowed, of course, to glance at early English novels, which hergoverness classed with late English and American in point ofmorality, but no poetry except Byron was prohibited. 

Rose loved to sit under a tree with the dog in a white coil besideher, and hold her book open on her lap and read a word now and then, and amuse herself with fancies the rest of the time. She grew inthose days of her early girlhood to have firm belief in those thingswhich she never saw nor heard, and the belief had not wholly desertedher. She never saw a wood-nymph stretch out a white arm from a tree, but she believed in the possibility of it, and the belief gave her acurious delight. When she returned to the house for her scanty, elegantly served dinner with the three elder ladies, her eyes wouldbe misty with these fancies and her mouth would wear the inscrutablesmile of a baby's at the charm of them. 

When she first came to East Westland she was a profound mystery toHorace, who had only known well two distinct types of girls--thepurely provincial and her reverse. Rose, with her mixture of the two, puzzled him. While she was not in the least shy, she had a reservewhich caused her to remain a secret to him for some time. Rose'sinner life was to her something sacred, not to be lightly revealed. At last, through occasional remarks and opinions, light began toshine through. He had begun to understand her the Sunday he hadfollowed her to Lucy Ayres's. He had, also, more than begun to loveher. Horace Allen would not have loved her so soon had she been morevisible as to her inner self. Things on the surface rarely interestedhim very much. He had not an easily aroused temperament, and a veilwhich stimulated his imagination and aroused his searching instinctwas really essential if he were to fall in love. He had fallen inlove before, he had supposed, although he had never asked one of thefair ones to marry him. Now he began to call up various faces andwonder if this were not the first time. All the faces seemed to dimbefore this present one. He realized something in her very dear andprecious, and for the first time he felt as if he could not foregopossession. Hitherto it had been easy enough to bear the slightwrench of leaving temptation and moving his tent. Here it wasdifferent. Still, the old objection remained. How could he marry uponhis slight salary?

The high-school in East Westland was an endowed institution. Theprincipal received twelve hundred a year. People in the villageconsidered that a prodigious income. Horace, of course, knew better. He did not think that sum sufficient to risk matrimony. Here, too, hewas hampered by another consideration. It was intolerable for him tothink of Rose's wealth and his paltry twelve hundred per year. Anambition which had always slumbered within his mind awoke to fullstrength and activity. He began to sit up late at night and writearticles for the papers and magazines. He had got one accepted, andreceived a check which to his inexperience seemed promisingly large. In spite of all his anxiety he was exalted. He began to wonder ifcircumstances would not soon justify him in reaching out for thesweet he coveted. He made up his mind not to be precipitate, to waituntil he was sure, but his impatience had waxed during the last fewhours, ever since that delicious note of stilted, even cold, praiseand that check had arrived. When Rose had started to go up-stairs hehad not been able to avoid following her into the hall. The door ofthe parlor stood open, and the whole room was full of the softshimmer of moonlight. It looked like a bower of romance. It seemedfull of soft and holy and alluring mysteries. Horace looked down atRose, Rose looked up at him. Her eyes fell; she trembled deliciously. 

"It is very early, " he said, in a whispering voice which would nothave been known for his. It had in it the male cadences of wooingmusic. 

Rose stood still. 

"Let us go in there a little while, " whispered Horace. Rose followedhim into the room; he gave the door a little push. It did not quiteclose, but nearly. Horace placed a chair for Rose beside a windowinto which the moon was shining; then he drew up one beside it, butnot very close. He neither dared nor was sure that he desired. Alonewith the girl in this moonlit room, an awe crept over him. She lookedaway from him out of the window, and he saw that this same awe wasover her also. All their young pulses were thrilling, but this awewhich was of the spirit held them in check. Rose, with the full whitemoonlight shining upon her face, gained an ethereal beauty which gaveher an adorable aloofness. The young man seemed to see her throughthe vista of all his young dreams. She was the goddess before whichhis soul knelt at a distance. He thought he had never seen anythinghalf so lovely as she was in that white light, which seemed to crownher with a frosty radiance like a nimbus. Her very expression waschanged. She was smiling, but there was something a little grave andstern about her smile. Her eyes, fixed upon the clear crystal of themoon sailing through the night blue, were full of visions. It did notseem possible to him that she could be thinking of him at all, thisbeautiful creature with her pure regard of the holy mystery of thenightly sky; but in reality Rose, being the more emotional of thetwo, and also, since she was not the one to advance, the more daring, began to tremble with impatience for his closer contact, for thetouch of his hand upon hers. 

She would have died before she would have made the first advance, butit filled her as with secret fire. Finally a sort of anger possessedher, anger at herself and at Horace. She became horribly ashamed ofherself, and angry at him because of the shame. She gazed out at thewonderful masses of shadows which the trees made, and she gazed upagain at the sky and that floating crystal, and it seemed impossiblethat it was within her as it was. Her clear face was as calm asmarble, her expression as immovable, her gaze as direct. It seemed asif a man must be a part of the wonderful mystery of the moonlit nightto come within her scope of vision at all. 

Rose chilled, when she did not mean to do so, by sheer maidenliness. Horace, gazing at her calm face, felt in some way rebuked. He had leda decent sort of life, but after all he was a man, and what right hadhe to even think of a creature like that? He leaned back in hischair, removing himself farther from her, and he also gazed at themoon. That mysterious thing of silver light and shadows, which hadillumined all the ages of creation by their own reflected light, until it had come to be a mirror of creation itself, seemed to givehim a sort of chill of the flesh. After all, what was everything inlife but a repetition of that which had been and a certainty ofdeath? Rose looked like a ghost to his fancy. He seemed like a ghostto himself, and felt reproached for the hot ardor surging in hisfleshly heart. 

"That same moon lit the world for the builders of the Pyramids, " hesaid, tritely enough. 

"Yes, " murmured Rose, in a faint voice. The Pyramids chilled her. Sothey were what he had been thinking about, and not herself. 

Horace went on. "It shone upon all those ancient battle-fields of theOld Testament, and the children of Israel in their exile, " he said. 

Rose looked at him. "It shone upon the Garden of Eden after Adam hadso longed for Eve that she grew out of his longing and becamesomething separate from himself, so that he could see her withoutseeing himself all the time; and it shone upon the garden inSolomon's Song, and the roses of Sharon, and the lilies of thevalley, and the land flowing with milk and honey, " said she, in achildish tone of levity which had an undercurrent of earnestness init. All her emotional nature and her pride arose against Pyramids andOld Testament battle-fields, when she had only been conscious thatthe moon shone upon Horace and herself. She was shamed and angry asshe had never been shamed and angry before. 

Horace leaned forward and gazed eagerly at her. After all, was hemistaken? He was shrewd enough, although he did not understand themoods of women very well, and it did seem to him that there wassomething distinctly encouraging in her tone. Just then the nightwind came in strongly at the window beside which they were sitting. An ardent fragrance of dewy earth and plants smote them in the face. 

"Do you feel the draught?" asked Horace. 

"I like it. "

"I am afraid you will catch cold. "

"I don't catch cold at all easily. "

"The wind is very damp, " argued Horace, with increasing confidence. He grew very bold. He seized upon one of her little white hands. "Iwon't believe it unless I can feel for myself that your hands are notcold, " said he. He felt the little soft fingers curl around his handwith the involuntary, pristine force of a baby's. His heart beattumultuously. 

"Oh--" he began. Then he stopped suddenly as Rose snatched her handaway and again gazed at the moon. 

"It is a beautiful night, " she remarked, and the harmless deceit ofwoman, which is her natural weapon, was in her voice and manner. 

Horace was more obtuse. He remained leaning eagerly towards the girl. He extended his hand again, but she repeated, in her soft, deceitfulvoice, "Yes, a perfectly beautiful night. "

Then he observed Sylvia Whitman standing beside them. "It is a nicenight enough, " said she, "but you'll both catch your deaths of coldat this open window. The wind is blowing right in on you. "

She made a motion to close it, stepping between Rose and Horace, butthe young man sprang to his feet. "Let me close it, Mrs. Whitman, "said he, and did so. 

"It ain't late enough in the season to set right beside an openwindow and let the wind blow in on you, " said Sylvia, severely. Shedrew up a rocking-chair and sat down. She formed the stern apex of atriangle of which Horace and Rose were the base. She leaned back androcked. 

"It is a pleasant night, " said she, as if answering Rose's remark, "but to me there's always something sort of sad about moonlightnights. They make you think of times and people that's gone. I daresay it is different with you young folks. I guess I used to feeldifferent about moonlight nights years ago. I remember when Mr. Whitman and I were first married, we used to like to set out on thefront door-step and look at the moon, and make plans. "

"Don't you ever now?" asked Rose. 

"Now we go to bed and to sleep, " replied Sylvia, decisively. Therewas a silence. "I guess it's pretty late, " said Sylvia, in a meaningtone. "What time is it, Mr. Allen?"

Horace consulted his watch. "It is not very late, " said he. It didnot seem to him that Mrs. Whitman could stay. 

"It can't be very late, " said Rose. 

"What time is it?" asked Sylvia, relentlessly. 

"About half-past ten, " replied Horace, with reluctance. 

"I call that very late, " said Sylvia. "It is late for Rose, anyway. "

"I don't feel at all tired, " said Rose. 

"You must be, " said Sylvia. "You can't always go by feelings. "

She swayed pitilessly back and forth in her rocking-chair. Horacewaited in an agony of impatience for her to leave them, but she hadno intention of doing so. She rocked. Now and then she made somemaddening little remark which had nothing whatever to do with thesituation. Then she rocked again. Finally she triumphed. Rose stoodup. "I think it is getting rather late, " said she. 

"It is very late, " agreed Sylvia, also rising. Horace rose. There wasa slight pause. It seemed even then that Sylvia might take pity uponthem and leave them. But she stood like a rock. It was quite evidentthat she would settle again into her rocking-chair at the slightestindication which the two young people made of a disposition to remain. 

Rose gave a fluttering little sigh. She extended her hand to Horace. "Good-night, Mr. Allen, " she said. 

"Good-night, " returned Horace. "Good-night, Mrs. Whitman. "

"It is time you went to bed, too, " said Sylvia. 

"I think I'll go in and have a smoke with Mr. Whitman first, " saidHorace. 

"He's going to bed, too, " said Sylvia. "He's tired. Good-night, Mr. Allen. If you open that window again, you'll be sure and shut it downbefore you go up-stairs, won't you?"

Horace promised that he would. Sylvia went with Rose into her room tounfasten her gown. A lamp was burning on the dressing-table. Rosekept her back turned towards the light. Her pretty face was flushedand she was almost in tears. Sylvia hung the girl's gown upcarefully, then she looked at her lovingly. Unless Rose made thefirst advance, when Sylvia would submit with inward rapture butoutward stiffness, there never were good-night kisses exchangedbetween the two. 

"You look all tired out, " said Sylvia. 

"I am not at all tired, " said Rose. She was all quivering withimpatience, but her voice was sweet and docile. She put up her facefor Sylvia to kiss. "Good-night, dear Aunt Sylvia, " said she. 

"Good-night, " said Sylvia. Rose felt merely a soft touch of thin, tightly closed lips. Sylvia did not know how to kiss, but she wasglowing with delight. 

When she joined Henry in their bedroom down-stairs he looked at herin some disapproval. "I don't think you'd ought to have gone inthere, " he said. 

"Why not?"

"Why, you must expect young folks to be young folks, and it was onlynatural for them to want to set there in the moonlight. "

"They can set in there in the moonlight if they want to, " saidSylvia. "I didn't hinder them. "

"I think they wanted to be alone. "

"When they set in the moonlight, I'm going to set, too, " said Sylvia. She slipped off her gown carefully over her head. When the heademerged Henry saw that it was carried high with the same rigiditywhich had lately puzzled him, and that her face had that sameexpression of stern isolation. 

"Sylvia, " said Henry. 

"Well?"

"Does anything worry you lately?"

Sylvia looked at him with sharp suspicion. "I'd like to know why youshould think anything worries me, " she said, "as comfortable as weare off now. "

"Sylvia, have you got anything on your mind?"

"I don't want to see young folks making fools of themselves, " saidSylvia, shortly, and her voice had the same tone of deceit which Rosehad used when she spoke of the beautiful night. 

"That ain't it, " said Henry, quietly. 

"Well, if you want to know, " said Sylvia, "she's been pestering mewith wanting to pay board if she stays along here, and I've put myfoot down; she sha'n't pay a cent. "

"Of course we can't let her, " agreed Henry. Then he added, "This wasall her own aunt's property, anyway, and if there hadn't been a willit would have come to her. "

"There was a will, " said Sylvia, fastening her cotton night-gowntightly around her skinny throat. 

"Of course she's going to stay as long as she's contented, and sheain't going to pay board, " said Henry; "but that ain't the trouble. Have you got anything on your mind, Sylvia?"

"I hope so, " replied Sylvia, sharply. "I hope I've got a littlesomething on my mind. I ain't a fool. "

Henry said no more. Neither he nor Sylvia went to sleep at once. Themoon's pale influence lit their room and seemed disturbing in itself. Presently they both smelled cigar smoke. 

"He's smoking, " said Sylvia. "Well, nothing makes much difference toyou men, as long as you can smoke. I'd like to know what you'd do inmy place. "

"Have you got anything on your mind, Sylvia?"

"Didn't I say I hoped I had? Everybody has something on her mind, unless she's a tarnation fool, and I ain't never set up for one. "

Henry did not speak again. 

Chapter XIV

The next morning at breakfast Rose announced her intention of goingto see if Lucy Ayres would not go to drive with her. 

"There's one very nice little horse at the livery-stable, " said she, "and I can drive. It is a beautiful morning, and poor Lucy did notlook very well yesterday, and I think it will do her good. "

Horace turned white. Henry noticed it. Sylvia, who was servingsomething, did not. Henry had thought he had arrived at a knowledgeof Horace's suspicions, which in themselves seemed to him perfectlygroundless, and now that he had, as he supposed, proved them to beso, he was profoundly puzzled. Before he had gone to Horace'sassistance. Now he did not see his way clear towards doing so, andsaw no necessity for it. He ate his breakfast meditatively. Horacepushed away his plate and rose. 

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Sylvia. "Don't you feel well, Mr. Allen?"

"Perfectly well; never felt better. "

"You haven't eaten enough to keep a sparrow alive. "

"I have eaten fast, " said Horace. "I have to make an early start thismorning. I have some work to do before school. "

Rose apparently paid no attention. She went on with her plans for herdrive. 

"Are you sure you know how to manage a horse?" said Sylvia, anxiously. "I used to drive, but I can't go with you because thewasherwoman is coming. "

"Of course I can drive, " said Rose. "I love to drive. And I don'tbelieve there's a horse in the stable that would get out of a walk, anyway. "

"You won't try to pass by any steam-rollers, and you'll look out forautomobiles, won't you?" said Sylvia. 

Horace left them talking and set out hurriedly. When he reached theAyres house he entered the gate, passed between the flowering shrubswhich bordered the gravel walk, and rang the bell with vigor. He wasdesperate. Lucy herself opened the door. When she saw Horace sheturned red, then white. She was dressed neatly in a little bluecotton wrapper, and her pretty hair was arranged as usual, with theexception of one tiny curl-paper on her forehead. Lucy's hand wentnervously to this curl-paper. 

"Oh, good-morning!" she said, breathlessly, as if she had beenrunning. 

Horace returned her greeting gravely. "Can I see you a few moments, Miss Lucy?" he said. 

A wild light came into the girl's eyes. Her cheeks flushed again. Again she spoke in her nervous, panting voice, and asked him in. Sheled the way into the parlor and excused herself flutteringly. She wasback in a few moments. Instead of the curl-paper there was a little, soft, dark, curly lock on her forehead. She had also fastened theneck of her wrapper with a gold brooch. The wrapper sloped well fromher shoulders and displayed a lovely V of white neck. She sat downopposite Horace, and the simple garment adjusted itself to her slimfigure, revealing its tender outlines. 

Lucy looked at Horace, and her expression was tragic, foolish, and ofalmost revolting wistfulness. She was youth and womanhood in its mosthelpless and pathetic revelation. Poor Lucy could not help herself. She was a thing always devoured and never consumed by a flame ofnature, because of the lack of food to satisfy an inborn hunger. 

Horace felt all this perfectly in an analytical way. He sympathizedin an analytical way, but in other respects he felt that curiousresentment and outrage of which a man is capable and which is fiercerthan outraged maidenliness. For a man to be beloved when his ownheart does not respond is not pleasant. He cannot defend himself, noreven recognize facts, without being lowered in his own self-esteem. Horace had done, as far as he could judge, absolutely nothingwhatever to cause this state of mind in Lucy. He was self-exoneratedas to that, but the miserable reason for it all, in his mereexistence as a male of his species, filled him with shame for himselfand her, and also with anger. 

He strove to hold to pity, but anger got the better of him. Anger andshame coupled together make a balking team. Now the man was really ata loss what to say. Lucy sat before him with her expression ofpitiable self-revelation, and waited, and Horace sat speechless. Nowhe was there, he wondered what he had been such an ass as to comefor. He wondered what he had ever thought he could say, would say. Then Rose's face shone out before his eyes, and his impulse ofprotection made him firm. He spoke abruptly. "Miss Lucy--" he began. Lucy cast her eyes down and waited, her whole attitude was that ofutter passiveness and yielding. "Good Lord! She thinks I have comehere at eight o'clock in the morning to propose!" Horace thought, with a sort of fury. But he did not speak again at once. He actuallydid not know how to begin, what to say. He did not, finally, sayanything. He rose. It seemed to him that he must prevent Rose fromgoing to drive with Lucy, but he saw no way of doing so. 

When he rose it was as if Lucy's face of foolish anticipation of joywas overclouded. "You are not going so soon?" she stammered. 

"I have to get to school early this morning, " Horace said, in a harshvoice. He moved towards the door. Lucy also had risen. She now lookedaltogether tragic. The foolish wistfulness was gone. Instead, clawsseemed to bristle all over her tender surface. Suddenly Horacerealized that her slender, wiry body was pressed against his own. Hewas conscious of her soft cheek against his. He felt at once in thegrip of a tiger and a woman, and horribly helpless, more helplessthan he had ever been in his whole life. What could he say or do?Then suddenly the parlor door opened and Mrs. Ayres, Lucy's mother, stood there. She saw with her stern, melancholy gaze the wholesituation. 

"Lucy!" she said. 

Lucy started away from Horace, and gazed in a sort of fear and wrathat her mother. 

"Lucy, " said Mrs. Ayres, "go up to your own room. "

Lucy obeyed. She slunk out of the door and crept weakly up-stairs. Horace and Mrs. Ayres looked at each other. There was a look of doubtin the woman's face. For the first time she was not altogether sure. Perhaps Lucy had been right, after all, in her surmises. Why hadHorace called? She finally went straight to the point. 

"What did you come for, Mr. Allen?" said she. 

Suddenly Horace thought of the obvious thing to say, the explanationto give. "Miss Fletcher is thinking of coming later to take Miss Lucyfor a drive, " said he. 

"And you called to tell her?" said Mrs. Ayres. 

Horace looked at her. Mrs. Ayres understood. "Miss Fletcher must comewith a double-seated carriage so that I can go, " said she. "Mydaughter is very nervous about horses. I never allow her to go todrive without me. "

She observed, with a sort of bitter sympathy, the look of reliefoverspread Horace's face. "I will send a telephone message from Mrs. Steele's, next door, so there will be no mistake, " she said. 

"Thank you, " replied Horace. His face was burning. 

Mrs. Ayres went on with a melancholy and tragic calm. "I saw what Isaw when I came in, " said she. "I have only to inform you that--anydoubts which you may have entertained, any fears, are altogethergroundless. Everything has been as harmless as--the candy you atelast night. "

Horace started and stared at her. In truth, he had lain awake until alate hour wondering what might be going to happen to him. 

"I made it, " said Mrs. Ayres. "I attend to everything. I haveattended to everything. " She gazed at him with a strange, patheticdignity. "I have no apologies nor excuses to make to you, " she said. "I have only this to say, and you can reflect upon it at yourleisure. Sometimes, quite often, it may happen that too heavy aburden, a burden which has been gathering weight since the first ofcreation, is heaped upon too slender shoulders. This burden may bendinnocence into guilt and modesty into shamelessness, but there is nomore reason for condemnation than in a case of typhoid fever. Any manof good sense and common Christianity should take that view of it. "

"I do, " cried Horace, hurriedly. He looked longingly at the door. Hehad never felt so shamed in his life, and never so angrilysympathetic. 

"I will go over to Mrs. Steele's and telephone immediately, " saidMrs. Ayres, calmly. "Good-morning, Mr. Allen. "

"Good-morning, " said Horace. There was something terrible about theface of patient defiance which the woman lifted to his. 

"You will not--" she began. 

Horace caught her thin hand and pressed it heartily. "Good God, Mrs. Ayres!" he stammered. 

She nodded. "Yes, I understand. I can trust you, " she said. "I amvery glad it happened with you. "

Horace was relieved to be out in the open air. He felt as if he hadescaped from an atmosphere of some terrible emotional miasma. Hereflected that he had heard of such cases as poor Lucy Ayres, but hehad been rather incredulous. He walked along wondering whether it wasa psychological or physical phenomenon. Pity began to get the betterof his shame for himself and the girl. The mother's tragic face camebefore his eyes. "What that woman must have to put up with!" hethought. 

When he had commenced the morning session of school he found himselfcovertly regarding the young girls. He wondered if such cases werecommon. If they were, he thought to himself that the man who threwthe first stone was the first criminal of the world. He realized thehelplessness of the young things before forces of nature of whichthey were brought up in so much ignorance, and his soul rebelled. Hethought to himself that they should be armed from the beginning withwisdom. 

He was relieved that at first he saw in none of the girl-faces beforehim anything which resembled in the slightest degree the expressionwhich he had seen in Lucy Ayres's. These girls, most of thembelonging to the village (there were a few from outside, for this wasan endowed school, ranking rather higher than an ordinaryinstitution), revealed in their faces one of three interpretations ofcharacter. Some were full of young mischief, chafing impatiently atthe fetters of school routine. They were bubbling over with innocentanimal life; they were longing to be afield at golf or tennis. Theyhated their books. 

Some were frankly coquettish and self-conscious, but in a mosthealthy and normal fashion. These frequently adjusted stray locks ofhair, felt of their belts at their backs to be sure that thefastenings were intact, then straightened themselves with charminglittle feminine motions. Their flowerlike faces frequently turnedtowards the teacher, and there was in them a perfect consciousness ofthe facts of sex and charm, but it was a most innocent, evenchildlike consciousness. 

The last type belonged to those intent upon their books, soberlyadjusted to the duties of life already, with little imagination oremotion. This last was in the minority. 

"Thank God!" Horace thought, as his eyes met one and another of thegirl-faces. "She is not, cannot be, a common type. " And then he feltsomething like a chill of horror as his eyes met those of a newpupil, a girl from Alford, who had only entered the school the daybefore. She was not well dressed. There was nothing coquettish abouther, but in her eyes shone the awful, unreasoning hunger which he hadseen before. Upon her shoulders, young as they were, was the sameburden, the burden as old as creation, which she was required to bearby a hard destiny, perhaps of heredity. There was something horriblypathetic in the girl's shy, beseeching, foolish gaze at Horace. Shewas younger and shyer than Lucy and, although not so pretty, immeasurably more pathetic. 

"Another, " thought Horace. It was a great relief to him when, only aweek later, this girl found an admirer in one of the schoolboys, who, led by some strange fascination, followed her instead of one of theprettier, more attractive girls. Then the girl began to look morenormal. She dressed more carefully and spent more time in arrangingher hair. After all, she was very young, and abnormal instincts maybe quieted with a mere sop at the first. 

When Horace reached home that day of the drive he found that Rose hadreturned. Sylvia said that she had been at home half an hour. 

"She went to Alford, " she said, "and I'm afraid she's all tired out. She came home looking as white as a sheet. She said she didn't wantany dinner, but finally said she would come down. "

At the dinner-table Rose was very silent. She did not look at Horaceat all. She ate almost nothing. After dinner she persisted inassisting Sylvia in clearing away the table and washing the dishes. Rose took a childish delight in polishing the china with herdish-towel. New England traits seemed to awake within her in this NewEngland home. Sylvia was using the willow ware now, Rose was sopleased with it. The Calkin's soap ware was packed away on the topshelf of the pantry. 

"It is perfectly impossible, Aunt Sylvia, " Rose had declared, andSylvia had listened. She listened with much more docility than atfirst to the decrees of sophistication. 

"The painting ain't nearly as natural, " she had said, feebly, regarding the moss rosebuds on a Calkin's soap plate with fluctuatingadmiration which caused her pain by its fluctuations. 

"Oh, but, Aunt Sylvia, to think of comparing for one minute ware likethat with this perfectly wonderful old willow ware!" Rose had said. 

"Well, have your own way, " said Sylvia, with a sigh. "Maybe I can getused to everything all blue, when it ain't blue, after awhile. I knowyou have been around more than I have, and you ought to know. "

So the gold-and-white ware which had belonged to Sylvia's motherdecked the breakfast-table and the willow ware did duty for the restof the time. "I think it is very much better that you have no maid, "Rose said. "I simply would not trust a maid to care for china likethis. "

Rose took care of her room now, and very daintily. "She'll be realcapable after awhile, " Sylvia told Henry. 

"I didn't know as she'd be contented to stay at all, we live sodifferent from the way she's been used to, " said Henry. 

"It's the way her mother was brought up, and the way she lived, andwhat's in the blood will work out, " said Sylvia. "Then, too, I guessshe didn't care any too much about those folks she lived with. For mypart, I think it's the queerest thing I ever heard of that MissFarrel, if she took such a notion to the child, enough to do so muchfor her, didn't keep her herself. "

"Miss Farrel was a queer woman, " said Henry. 

"I guess she wasn't any too well balanced, " agreed Sylvia. 

"What do you suppose tired Rose out so much this morning?" askedHenry. "It isn't such a very long ride to Alford. "

"I don't know. She looked like a ghost when she got home. I'm gladshe's laying down. I hope she'll get a little nap. "

That was after dinner, when the house had been set in order, andSylvia was at one front window in the cool sitting-room, with abasket of mending, and Henry at another with a library book. Henrywas very restless in these days. He pottered about the place and wasplanning to get in a good hay crop, but this desultory sort ofemployment did not take the place of his regular routine of toil. Hemissed it horribly, almost as a man is said to miss a pain of longstanding. He knew that he was better off without it, that he ought tobe happier, but he knew that he was not. 

For years he had said bitterly that he had no opportunity for readingand improving his mind. Now he had opportunity, but it was too late. He could not become as interested in a book as he had been during thefew moments he had been able to snatch from his old routine of toil. Some days it seemed to Henry that he must go back to the shop, thathe could not live in this way. He had begun to lose all interest inwhat he had anticipated with much pleasure--the raising of grass onAbrahama White's celebrated land. He felt that he knew nothing aboutsuch work, that agriculture was not for him. If only he could standagain at his bench in the shop, and cut leather into regular shapes, he felt that while his hands toiled involuntarily his mind couldwork. Some days he fairly longed so for the old familiar odor oftanned hides, that odor which he had once thought sickened him, thathe would go to the shop and stand by the open door, and inhale thewarm rush of leather-scented air with keen relish. But he never toldthis to Sylvia. 

Henry was not happy. At times it seemed to him that he really wishedthat he and Sylvia had never met with this good-fortune. Once heturned on Sidney Meeks with a fierce rejoinder, when Sidney hadrepeated the sarcasm which he loved to roll beneath his tongue like ahoneyed morsel, that if he did not want his good-fortune it was theeasiest thing in the world to relinquish it. 

"It ain't, " said Henry; "and what's more, you know it ain't. Sylviadon't want to give it up, and I ain't going to ask her. You know Ican't get rid of it, but it's true what I say: when good things areso long coming they get sour, like most things that are kept toolong. What's the use of a present your hands are too cramped to hold?"

Sidney looked gravely at Henry, who had aged considerably during thelast few weeks. "Well, I am ready to admit, " he said, "that sometimesthe mills of the gods grind so slow and small that the relish is outof things when you get them. I'm willing to admit that if I hadto-day what I once thought I couldn't live without, I'd give up beat. Once I thought I'd like to have the biggest law practice of anylawyer in the State. If I had it now I'd be ready to throw it all up. It would come too late. Now I'd think it was more bother than it wasworth. How'd I make my wines and get any comfort out of life? Yes, Iguess it's true, Henry, when Providence is overlong in giving a manwhat he wants, it contrives somehow to suck the sweetness out of whathe gets, though he may not know it, and when what he thought hewanted does come to him it is like a bee trying to make honey out ofa flower that doesn't hold any. Why don't you go back to the shop, Henry, and have done with it?"

"Sylvia--" began Henry. 

But Sidney cut in. "If you haven't found out, " said he, "that in thelong-run doing what is best for yourself is doing what's best for thepeople who love you best, you haven't found out much. "

"I don't know, " Henry said, in a puzzled, weary way. "Sometimes itseems to me I can't keep on living the way I am living, and live atall; and then I don't know. "

"I know, " said Sidney. "Get back to your tracks. "

"Sylvia would feel all cut up over it. She wouldn't understand. "

"Of course she wouldn't understand, but women always end in settlingdown to things they don't understand, when they get it through theirheads it's got to be, and being just as contented, unless they're thekind who fetch up in lunatic asylums, and Sylvia isn't that kind. Theinevitable may be a hard pill for her to swallow, but it will neverstick in her throat. "

Henry shook his head doubtfully. He had been thinking it over since. He had thought of it a good deal after dinner that day, as he satwith the unread book in his lap. Sylvia's remarks about Rose divertedhis attention, then he began thinking again. Sylvia watched himfurtively as she sewed. "You ain't reading that book at all, " shesaid. "I have been watching you, and you 'ain't turned a single pagesince I spoke last. "

"I don't see why I should, " returned Henry. "I don't see why anybodybut a fool should ever open the book, to begin with. "

"What is the book?"

Henry looked at the title-page. "It is Whatever, by Mrs. FaneRaymond, " he said, absently. 

"I've heard it was a beautiful book. "

"Most women would like it, " said Henry. "It seems to be a lot writtenabout a fool woman that didn't know what she wanted, by another foolwoman who didn't know, either, and was born cross-eyed as to rightand wrong. "

"Why, Henry Whitman, it ain't true!"

"I suppose it ain't. "

"No book is true--that is, no story. "

"If it ain't true, so much the less reason to tell such a pack ofstupid lies, " said Henry. He closed the book with a snap. 

"Why, Henry, ain't you going to finish it?"

"No, I ain't. I'm going back to the shop to work. "

"Henry Whitman, you ain't!"

"Yes, I am. As for pottering round here, and trying to get up aninterest in things I ought to have begun instead of ended in, andsetting round reading books that I can't keep my mind on, and if Ido, just get madder and madder, I won't. I'm going back to work withmy hands the way I've been working the last forty years, and then Iguess I'll get my mind out of leading-strings. "

"Henry Whitman, be you crazy?"

"No, but I shall be if I set round this way much longer. "

"You don't need to do a mite of work. "

"You don't suppose it's the money I'm thinking about! It's the work. "

"What will folks say?"

"I don't care what they say. "

"Henry Whitman, I thought I knew you, but I declare it seems as if Ihave never known you at all, " Sylvia said. She looked at him with herpuzzled, troubled eyes, in which tears were gathering. She was stillvery pale. 

A sudden pity for her came over Henry. After all, he ought to try tomake his position clear to her. "Sylvia, " he said, "what do you thinkyou would do, after all these years of housekeeping, if you had tostand in a shoe-shop, from morning till night, at a bench cuttingleather?"

Sylvia stared at him. "Me?"

"Yes, you. "

"Why, you know I couldn't do it, Henry Whitman!"

"Well, no more can I stand such a change in my life. I can't go tofarming and setting around after forty years in a shoe-shop, any morethan you can work in a shoe-shop after forty years of housekeeping. "

"It ain't the same thing at all, " said Sylvia. 

"Why not?"

"Because it ain't. " Sylvia closed her thin lips conclusively. This, to her mind, was reasoning which completely blocked all argument. 

Henry looked at her hopelessly. "I didn't suppose you wouldunderstand, " he said. 

"I don't see why you thought so, " said Sylvia. "I guess I have a mindcapable of understanding as much as a man. There is no earthly sensein your going to work in the shop again, with all our money. Whatwould folks say, and why do you want to do it?"

"I have told you why. "

"You haven't told me why at all. "

Henry said no more. He looked out of the window with a miserableexpression. The beautiful front yard, with its box-borderedflower-beds, did not cheer him with the sense of possession. He hearda bird singing with a flutelike note; he heard bees humming over theflowers, and he longed to hear, instead, the buzz and whir ofmachines which had become the accompaniment of his song of life. Aterrible isolation and homesickness came over him. He thought of thehumble little house in which he and Sylvia had lived so many years, and a sort of passion of longing for it seized him. He felt that forthe moment he fairly loathed all this comparative splendor with whichhe was surrounded. 

"What do you think she would say if you went back to the shop?" askedSylvia. She jerked her head with an upward, sidewise movement towardsRose's room. 

"She may not be contented to live here very long, anyway. It's likelythat when the summer's over she'll begin to think of her fine friendsin New York, and want to lead the life she's been used to again, "said Henry. "It ain't likely it would make much difference to her. "

Sylvia looked at Henry as he had never seen her look before. Shespoke with a passion of utterance of which he had never thought hercapable. "She is going to stay right here in her aunt Abrahama'shouse, and have all she would have had if there hadn't been anywill, " said she, fiercely. 

"You would make her stay if she didn't want to?" said Henry, gazingat her wonderingly. 

"She's got to want to stay, " said Sylvia, still with the same strangepassion. "There'll be enough going on; you needn't worry. I'm goingto have parties for her, if she wants them. She says she's been usedto playing cards, and you know how we were brought up about cards--tothink they were wicked. Well, I don't care if they are wicked. If shewants them she's going to have card-parties, and prizes, too, thoughI 'most know it's as bad as gambling. And if she wants to havedancing-parties (she knows how to dance) she's going to have them, too. I don't think there's six girls in East Westland who know how todance, but there must be a lot in Alford, and the parlor is bigenough for 'most everything. She shall have every mite as much goingon as she would have in New York. She sha'n't miss anything. I'mwilling to have some dinners with courses, too, if she wants them, and hire Hannah Simmons's little sister to wait on the table, with awhite cap on her head and a white apron with a bib. I'm willing Roseshall have everything she wants. And then, you know, Henry, there'sthe church sociables and suppers all winter, and she'll like to go tothem; and they will most likely get up a lecture and concert course. If she can't be every mite as lively here in East Westland as in NewYork, if I set out to have her, I'll miss my guess. There's lots ofbeautiful dresses up-stairs that belonged to her aunt, and I'm goingto have the dressmaker come here and make some over for her. It's nouse talking, she's going to stay. "

"Well, I am sure I hope she will, " said Henry, still regarding hiswife with wonder. 

"She is going to, and if she does stay, you know you can't go back towork in the shop, Henry Whitman. I'd like to know how you think youcould set down to the table with her, smelling of leather the way youused to. "

"There might be worse smells. "

"That's just because you are used to it. "

"That's just it, " cried Henry, pathetically. "Can't you get itthrough your head, Sylvia? It is because I'm used to it. Can't yousee it's kind of dangerous to turn a man out of his tracks after he'sbeen in them so long?"

"There ain't any need for you to work in the shop. We've got plentyof money without, " said Sylvia, settling back immovably in her chair, and Henry gave it up. 

Sylvia considered that she had won the victory. She began sewingagain. Henry continued to look out of the window. 

"She is a delicate little thing, and I guess it's mighty lucky forher that she came to live in the country just as she did, " Sylviaobserved. 

"I suppose you know what's bound to happen if she and Mr. Allen stayon in the same house, " said Henry. "As far as I am concerned, I thinkit would be a good arrangement. Mr. Allen has a good salary, and shehas enough to make up for what he can't do; and I would like to keepthe child here myself, but I somehow thought you didn't like theidea. "

Again Sylvia turned white, and stared at her husband almost withhorror. "I don't see why you think it is bound to happen, " said she. 

Henry laughed. "It doesn't take a very long head to think so. "

"It sha'n't happen. That child ain't going to marry anybody. "

"Sylvia, you don't mean that you want her to be an old maid!"

"It's the best thing for any girl, if she only thought so, to be anold maid, " said Sylvia. 

Henry laughed a little. "That's a compliment to me. "

"I ain't saying anything against you. I've been happy enough, and Isuppose I've been better off than if I'd stayed single; but Rose hasgot enough to live on, and what any girl that's got enough to live onwants to get married for beats me. "

Henry laughed again, a little bitterly this time. "Then you wouldn'thave married me if you had had enough to live on?" he said. 

Sylvia looked at him, and an odd, shamed tenderness came into herelderly face. "There's no use talking about what wasn't, anyway, "said she, and Henry understood. 

After a little while Sylvia again brought up the subject of Horaceand Rose. She was evidently very uneasy about it. "I don't see whyyou think because a young man and girl are in the same house anythinglike that is bound to happen, " said she. 

"Well, perhaps not; maybe it won't, " said Henry, soothingly. He sawthat it troubled Sylvia, and it had always been an unwritten maximwith him that Sylvia should not be troubled if it could be helped. Heknew that he himself was about to trouble her, and why should she bevexed, in addition, about an uncertainty, as possibly this incipientlove-affair might be. After all, why should it follow that because ayoung man and a girl lived in the same house they should immediatelyfall in love? And why should it not be entirely possible that theymight have a little love-making without any serious consequences?Horace had presumably paid a little attention to girls before, and itwas very probable that Rose had received attention. Why bother aboutsuch a thing as this when poor Sylvia would really be worried overhis, Henry's, return to his old, humble vocation?

For Henry, as he sat beside the window that pleasant afternoon, wasbecoming more and more convinced it must happen. It seemed to himthat his longing was gradually strengthening into a purpose which hecould not overcome. It seemed to him that every flutelike note of abird in the pleasance outside served to make this purpose moreunassailable, as if every sweet flower-breath and every bee-hum, every drawing of his wife's shining needle through the white garmentwhich she was mending, all served to render his purpose so settled athing that any change in it was as impossible as growth in a graniteledge. That very day Henry had been approached by the superintendentof Lawson & Fisher's, where he had worked, and told that his place, which had been temporarily filled, was vacant and ready for him. Hehad said that he must consider the matter, but he had known in hisheart that the matter admitted of no consideration. He looked gloomyas he sat there with his unread book in his hand, yet gradually aneager, happy light crept into his eyes. 

After supper he told Sylvia he was going down to the store. He didgo, but on his way he stopped at the superintendent's house and toldthat he would report for work in the morning. 

Rose had not come down to supper. Henry had wondered why, andsympathized in part with Sylvia's anxiety. Still, he had a vaguefeeling that a young girl's not coming down to supper need not betaken very seriously, that young girls had whims and fancies whichsignified nothing, and that it was better to let them alone untilthey got over them. He knew that Sylvia, however, would take thegreatest comfort in coddling the girl, and he welcomed the fact asconducing to his making his arrangements for the next day. He thoughtthat Sylvia would not have the matter in mind at all, since she hadthe girl to fuss over, and that she would not ask him any questions. On his way home he stopped at Sidney Meeks's. He found the lawyer ina demoralized dining-room, which had, nevertheless, an air of homelycomfort, with its chairs worn into hollows to fit human anatomies, and its sideboard set out with dusty dishes and a noble ham. Meekswas a very good cook, although one could not confidently assert thatdust and dirt did not form a part of his ingredients. One of histriumphs was ham cooked in a manner which he claimed to haveinvented. After having been boiled, it was baked, and frequentlybasted in a way which Meeks kept as secret as the bouquet of hisgrape wine. Sidney sat at the table eating bread and ham spread withmustard, and there were also a mysterious pie in reserve and a bottleof wine. "Draw up, Henry, " said Sidney. 

"I've had supper. "

"What?"

"Sylvia had chicken salad and flapjacks and hot biscuits. "

Sidney sniffed. "Cut a slice off that ham, " he ordered, "and draw achair up. Not that one; you'll go through. Yes, that's right. Bringover another wineglass while you're about it. This is daisy wine, tenyears old. I've got a pie here that I'll be willing to stake yourfortune you can't analyze. It's after the pattern of the cold pastiesyou read about in old English novels. You shall guess what's in it. Draw up. "

Henry obeyed. He found himself sitting opposite Sidney, eating anddrinking with intense enjoyment. Sidney chuckled. "Good?" said he. 

"I don't know when my victuals have tasted right before, " said Henry. He received a large wedge of the pie on his plate, and his whole facebeamed with the first taste. 

Sidney leaned across the table and whispered. "Squabs, " said he, "and--robins, big fat ones. I shot 'em night before last. It's allnonsense the fuss folks make about robins, and a lot of other birds, as far as that goes--damned sentiment. Year before last I hadn't abushel of grapes on my vines because the robins stole them, and not ahalf-bushel of pears on that big seckel-pear-tree. If they'd eatenthem up clean I wouldn't have felt so bad, but there the ground wouldbe covered with pears rotted on account of one little peck. They areenough sight better to be on women's bonnets than eating up folks'substance, though I don't promulgate that doctrine abroad. And onething I ain't afraid to say: big fat robins ought to be made some useof. This pie is enough sight more wholesome for the bodies of men whohave immortal souls dependent a little on what is eaten, in spite ofthe preaching, than Western tainted beef. I made up my mind that piewas the natural destiny of a robin, and I make squab-and-robin piesevery week of my life. The robins are out of mischief in that pie, and they are doing us good. What makes you look so, though, Henry?There's something besides my pie and ham and wine that gives thatlook to your face. "

"I'm going back to the shop to-morrow, " said Henry. 

Sidney looked at him. "Most folks would say you were an uncommonfool, " said he. "I suppose you know that. "

"I can't help it, " said Henry, happily. Along with the savory pie inhis mouth came a subtler relish to his very soul. The hunger of thehonest worker who returns to his work was being appeased. 

Chapter XV

While Henry was at Sidney Meeks's, Horace sat alone smoking andreading the evening paper. He kept looking up from the paper andlistening. He was hoping that Rose, in spite of the fact that she hadnot been able to come down to supper, might yet make her appearance. He speculated on her altered looks and manner at dinner. He could nothelp being a little anxious, in spite of all Mrs. Ayres's assurancesand the really vague nature of his own foreboding. He asked himselfif he had had from the beginning anything upon which to basesuspicion. Given the premises of an abnormal girl with a passion forhimself which humiliated him, an abnormal woman like Miss Farrel witha similar passion, albeit under better control, the melodramaticphases of the candy, and sudden death, and traces of arsenicalpoison, what should be the conclusion?

He himself had eaten some of presumably the same candy with no illeffects. Mrs. Ayres had assured him of her constant watchfulness overher daughter, who was no doubt in an alarmingly nervous state, butwas she necessarily dangerous? He doubted if Mrs. Ayres had left thetwo girls a moment to themselves during the drive. What possiblereason, after all, had he for alarm?

When he heard Sylvia mounting the stairs, and caught a glimpse of alittle tray borne carefully, he gave up all hope of Rose's comingdown. Presently he went out and walked down the village street, smoking. As he passed out of the yard he glanced up at Rose'swindows, and saw the bright light behind the curtains. He felt gladthat the girl had a woman like Sylvia to care for her. 

As he looked Sylvia's shadow passed between the window and the light. It had, in its shadowy enlargement, a benignant aspect. There was anangelic, motherly bend to the vague shoulders. Sylvia was really inher element. She petted and scolded the girl, whom she found flungupon her bed like a castaway flower, sobbing pitifully. 

"What on earth is the matter?" demanded Sylvia, in a honeyed tone, which at once stung and sweetened. "Here you are in the dark, cryingand going without your victuals. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. "

As she spoke Sylvia struck a match and lit the lamp. Rose buried herface deeper in the bed. 

"I don't want any lamp, " she gasped. 

"Don't want any lamp? Ain't you ashamed of yourself? I should thinkyou were a baby. You are going to have a lamp, and you are going tosit up and eat your supper. " Sylvia drew down the white shadescarefully, then she bent over the girl. She did not touch her, butshe was quivering with maternal passion which seemed to embracewithout any physical contact. "Now, what is the matter?" she said. 

"Nothing. "

"What is the matter?" repeated Sylvia, insistently. 

Suddenly Rose sat up. "Nothing is the matter, " she said. "I am justnervous. " She made an effort to control her face. She smiled atSylvia with her wet eyes and swollen mouth. She resolutely dabbed ather flushed face with a damp little ball of handkerchief. 

Sylvia turned to the bureau and took a fresh handkerchief from thedrawer. She sprinkled it with some toilet water that was on thedressing-table, and gave it to Rose. "Here is a clean handkerchief, "she said, "and I've put some of your perfumery on it. Give me theother. "

Rose took the sweet-smelling square of linen and tried to smileagain. "I just got nervous, " she said. 

"Set down here in this chair, " said Sylvia, "and I'll draw up thelittle table, and I want you to eat your supper. I've brought upsomething real nice for you. "

"Thank you, Aunt Sylvia; you're a dear, " said Rose, pitifully, "but--I don't think I can eat anything. " In spite of herself thegirl's face quivered again and fresh tears welled into her eyes. Shepassed her scented handkerchief over them. "I am not a bit hungry, "she said, brokenly. 

Sylvia drew a large, chintz-covered chair forward. "Set right down inthis chair, " she said, firmly. And Rose slid weakly from the bed andsank into the chair. She watched, with a sort of dull gratitude, while Sylvia spread a little table with a towel and set out the tray. 

"There, " said she. "Here is some cream toast and some of those newpease, and a little chop, spring lamb, and a cup of tea. Now you justeat every mite of it, and then I've got a saucer of strawberries andcream for you to top off with. "

Rose looked hopelessly at the dainty fare. Then she looked at Sylvia. The impulse to tell another woman her trouble got the better of her. If women had not other women in whom to confide, there are times whentheir natures would be too much for them. "I heard some news thismorning, " said she. She attempted to make her voice exceedingly lightand casual. 

"What?"

"I heard about Mr. Allen's engagement. "

"Engagement to who?"

"To--Lucy. "

"Lucy!"

"Lucy Ayres. She seems to be a very sweet girl. She is very pretty. Ihope she will make him very happy. " Rose's voice trembled with sadhypocrisy. 

"Who told you?" demanded Sylvia. 

"She told me herself. "

"Did her mother hear it?"

"She did, but I think she did not understand. Lucy spoke in French. She talks French very well. She studied with Miss Farrel, you know. Ithink Lucy has done all in her power to fit herself to become a goodwife for an educated man. "

"What did she tell you in French for? Why didn't she speak inEnglish?"

"I don't know. "

"Well, I know. She did it so her mother wouldn't hear, and say inEnglish that she was telling an awful whopper. Mr. Allen is no moreengaged to Lucy Ayres than I am. "

Rose gazed at Sylvia with sudden eagerness. "What makes you think so, Aunt Sylvia?"

"Nothing makes me think what I know. Mr. Allen has never paid anyattention to Lucy Ayres, beyond what he couldn't help, and she's madea mountain out of a mole-hill. Lucy Ayres is man-crazy, that's all. You needn't tell me. "

"Then you don't think--?"

"I know better. I'll ask Mr. Allen. "

"If you asked him it would make it very hard for him if it wasn'tso, " said Rose. 

"I don't see why. "

"Mr. Allen is a gentleman, and he could not practically accuse awoman of making an unauthorized claim of that sort, " said Rose. 

"Well, I won't say anything about it to him if you think I had betternot, " said Sylvia, "but I must say I think it's pretty hard on a manto have a girl going round telling folks he's engaged to her when heain't. Eat that lamb chop and them pease while they're hot. "

"I am going to. They are delicious. I didn't think I was hungry atall, but to have things brought up this way--"

"You've got to eat a saucer of strawberries afterwards, " said Sylvia, happily. 

She watched the girl eat, and she was in a sort of ecstasy, whichwas, nevertheless, troubled. After a while, when Rose had nearlyfinished the strawberries, Sylvia ventured a remark. 

"Lucy Ayres is a queer girl, " said she. "I've known all about her forsome time. She has been thinking young men were in love with her, when they never had an idea of such a thing, ever since she was sohigh. "

Sylvia indicated by her out-stretched hand a point about a foot and ahalf from the floor. 

"It seems as if she must have had some reason sometimes, " said Rose, with an impulse of loyalty towards the other girl. "She is verypretty. "

"As far as I know, no young man in East Westland has ever thought ofmarrying her, " said Sylvia. "I think myself they are afraid of her. It doesn't do for a girl to act too anxious to get married. She justcuts her own nose off. "

"I have never seen her do anything unbecoming, " began Rose; then shestopped, for Lucy's expression, which had caused a revolt in her, wasdirectly within her mental vision. 

It seemed as if Sylvia interpreted her thought. "I have seen hermaking eyes, " said she. 

Rose was silent. She realized that she, also, had seen poor Lucymaking eyes. 

"What a girl is so crazy to get married for, anyway, when she has agood mother and a good home, I can't see, " said Sylvia, leadingdirectly up to the subject in the secret place of her mind. 

Rose blushed, with apparently no reason. "But she can't have hermother always, you know, Aunt Sylvia, " said she. 

"Her mother's folks are awful long-lived. "

"But Lucy is younger. In the course of nature she will outlive hermother, and then she will be all alone. "

"What if she is? 'Ain't she got her good home and money enough to beindependent? Lucy won't need to lift a finger to earn money if she'scareful. "

"I always thought it would be very dreadful to live alone, " Rosesaid, with another blush. 

"Well, she needn't be alone. There's plenty of women always in wantof a home. No woman need live alone if she don't want to. "

"But it isn't quite like--" Rose hesitated. 

"Like what?"

"It wouldn't seem quite so much as if you had your own home, wouldit, as if--" Rose hesitated again. 

Sylvia interrupted her. "A girl is a fool to get married if she's gotmoney enough to live on, " said she. 

"Why, Aunt Sylvia, wouldn't you have married Uncle Henry if you hadhad plenty of money?" asked the girl, exactly as Henry had done. 

Sylvia colored faintly. "That was a very different matter, " said she. 

"But why?"

"Because it was, " said Sylvia, bringing up one of her impregnableramparts against argument. 

But the girl persisted. "I don't see why, " she said. 

Sylvia colored again. "Well, for one thing, your uncle Henry is oneman in a thousand, " said she. "I know every silly girl thinks she hasfound just that man, but it's only once in a thousand times she does;and she's mighty lucky if she don't find out that the man in athousand is another woman's husband, when she gets her eyes open. Then there's another thing: nothing has ever come betwixt us. "

"I don't know what you mean. "

"I mean we've had no family, " said Sylvia, firmly, although her colordeepened. "I know you think it's awful for me to say such a thing, but look right up and down this street at the folks that got marriedabout the same time Henry and I did. How many of them that's hadfamilies 'ain't had reason to regret it? I tell you what it is, child, girls don't know everything. It's awful having children, andstraining every nerve to bring them up right, and then to have themgo off in six months in consumption, the way the Masons lost theirthree children, two boys and a girl. Or to worry and fuss until youare worn to a shadow, the way Mrs. George Emerson has over her son, and then have him take to drink. There wasn't any consumption in theMason family on either side in a straight line, but the threechildren all went with it. And there ain't any drink in the Emersonfamily, on her side or his, all as straight as a string, but Mrs. Everson was a Weaver, and she had a great-uncle who drank himself todeath. I don't believe there's a family anywhere around that hasn'tgot some dreadful thing in it to leak out, when you don't expect it, in children. Sometimes it only leaks in a straight line, andsometimes it leaks sidewise. You never know. Now here's my family. Iwas a White, you know, like your aunt Abrahama. There's consumptionin our family, the worst kind. I never had any doubt but what Henryand I would have lost our children, if we'd had any. "

"But you didn't have any, " said Rose, in a curiously naive andhopeful tone. 

"We are the only ones of all that got married about the time we didwho didn't have any, " said Sylvia, in her conclusive tone. 

"But, Aunt Sylvia, " said Rose, "you wouldn't stop everybody's gettingmarried? Why, there wouldn't be any people in the world in a shorttime. "

"There's some people in the world now that would be a good sightbetter off out of it, for themselves and other folks, " said Sylvia. 

"Then you don't think anybody ought to get married?"

"If folks want to be fools, let them. Nothing I can say is going tostop them, but I'll miss my guess if some of the girls that getmarried had the faintest idea what they were going into they wouldstop short, if it sent them over a rail-fence. Folks can't tell girlseverything, but marriage is an awful risk, an awful risk. And I say, as I said before, any girl who has got enough to live on is a fool toget married. "

"But I don't see why, after all. "

"Because she is, " replied Sylvia. 

This time Rose did not attempt to bruise herself against the elderwoman's imperturbability. She did not look convinced, but again thetroubled expression came over her face. 

"I am glad you relished your supper, " said Sylvia. 

"It was very nice, " replied Rose, absently. Suddenly the look ofwhite horror which had overspread her countenance on the night of herarrival possessed it again. 

"What on earth is the matter?" cried Sylvia. 

"I almost remembered, then, " gasped the girl. "You know what I toldyou the night I came. Don't let me remember, Aunt Sylvia. I think Ishall die if I ever do. "

Sylvia was as white as the girl, but she rose briskly. "There'snothing to remember, " she said. "You're nervous, but I'm going tomake some of that root-beer of mine to-morrow. It has hops in it, andit's real quieting. Now you stop worrying, and wait a minute. I'vegot something to show you. Here, you look at this book you've beenreading, and stop thinking. I'll be back in a minute. I've just gotto step into the other chamber. "

Sylvia was back in a moment. She never was obliged to hesitate for asecond as to the whereabouts of any of her possessions. She had somelittle boxes in her hand, and one rather large one under her arm. Rose looked at them with interest. "What is it, Aunt Sylvia?" saidshe. 

Sylvia laughed. "Something to show you that belongs to you, " she said. 

"Why, what have you got that belongs to me, Aunt Sylvia?"

"You wait a minute. "

Sylvia and Rose both stood beside the white dressing-table, andSylvia opened the boxes, one after another, and slowly andimpressively removed their contents, and laid them in orderly rows onthe white dimity of the table. The lamplight shone on them, and thetable blazed like an altar with jewelled fires. Rose gasped. "Why, Aunt Sylvia!" said she. 

"All these things belonged to your aunt Abrahama, and now they belongto you, " said Sylvia, in a triumphant tone. 

"Why, but these are perfectly beautiful things!"

"Yes; I don't believe anybody in East Westland ever knew she hadthem. I don't believe she could have worn them, even when she was agirl, or I should have heard of them. I found them all in her bureaudrawer. She didn't even keep them under lock and key; but then shenever went out anywhere, and if nobody even knew she had them, theywere safe enough. Now they're all yours. "

"But they belong to you, Aunt Sylvia. "

Sylvia took up the most valuable thing there, a really good pearlnecklace, and held it dangling from her skinny hand. "I should lookpretty with this around my neck, shouldn't I?" she said. "I wanted towear that pink silk, but when it comes to some things I ain't quiteout of my mind. Here, try it on. "

Rose clasped the necklace about her white, round throat, and smiledat herself in the glass. Rose wore a gown of soft, green China silk, and the pearls over its lace collar surrounded her face with softgleams of rose and green. 

"These amethysts are exquisite, " said Rose, after she had doneadmiring herself. She took up, one after another, a ring, a bracelet, a necklace, a brooch, and ear-rings, all of clear, pale amethysts inbeautiful settings. 

"You could wear these, " she said to Sylvia. 

"I guess I sha'n't begin to wear jewelry at my time of life, "declared Sylvia. Her voice sounded almost angry in its insistence. "Everything here is yours, " she said, and nodded her head and set hermouth hard for further emphasis. 

The display upon the dressing-table, although not of great value, wasin reality rather unusual. All of the pieces were, of course, old, and there were more semi-precious than precious stones, but thesettings were good and the whole enough to delight any girl. Rosehung over them in ecstasy. She had not many jewels. Somehow herincome had never seemed to admit of jewels. She was pleased as achild. Finally she hung some pearl ear-rings over her ears by bits ofwhite silk, her ears not being pierced. She allowed the pearlnecklace to remain. She clasped on her arms some charming cameobracelets and a heavy gold one set with a miniature of a lady. Shecovered her slender fingers with rings and pinned old brooches allover her bosom. She fastened a pearl spray in her hair, and a heavyshell comb. Then she fairly laughed out loud. "There!" said she toSylvia, and laughed again. 

Sylvia also laughed, and her laugh had the ring of a child's. "Don'tyou feel as if you were pretty well off as you are?" said she. 

Rose sprang forward and hugged Sylvia. "Well off!" said she. "Welloff! I never knew a girl who was better off. To think of my beinghere with you, and your being as good as a mother to me, and UncleHenry as good as a father; and this dear old house; and to see myselffairly loaded down with jewels like a crown-princess. I never knew Iliked such things so much. I am fairly ashamed. "

Rose kissed Sylvia with such vehemence that the elder woman startedback, then she turned again to her mirror. She held up her hands andmade the gems flash with colored lights. There were several very gooddiamonds, although not of modern cut; there was a fairly superbemerald, also pearls and amethysts and green-blue turquoises, on herhands. Rose made a pounce upon a necklace of pink coral, and claspedit around her neck over the pearls. 

"I have them all on now, " she said, and her laugh rang out again. 

Sylvia surveyed her with a sort of rapture. She had never heard of"Faust, " but the whole was a New England version of the "Jewel Song. "As Marguerite had been tempted to guilty love by jewels, so Sylviawas striving to have Rose tempted by jewels to innocent celibacy. Butshe was working by methods of which she knew nothing. 

Rose gazed at herself in the glass. A rose flush came on her cheeks, her lips pouted redly, and her eyes glittered under a mist. Shethrust her shining fingers through her hair, and it stood up like agolden spray over her temples. Rose at that minute was wonderful. Something akin to the gleam of the jewels seemed to have waked withinher. She felt a warmth of love and ownership of which she had neverknown herself capable. She felt that the girl and her jewels, thegirl who was the greatest jewel of all, was her very own. For thefirst time a secret anxiety and distress of mind, which she hadconfided to no one, was allayed. She said to herself that everythingwas as it should be. She had Rose, and Rose was happy. Then shethought how she had found the girl when she first entered the room, and had courage, seeing her as she looked now, to ask again: "Whatwas the matter? Why were you crying?"

Rose turned upon her with a smile of perfect radiance. "Nothing atall, dear Aunt Sylvia, " she cried, happily. "Nothing at all. "

Sylvia smiled. A smile was always somewhat of an effort for Sylvia, with her hard, thin lips, which had not been used to smiling. Sylviahad no sense of humor. Her smiles would never be possible except forsudden and unlooked-for pleasures, and those had been rare in herwhole life. But now she smiled, and with her lips and her eyes. "Rosewasn't crying because she thought Mr. Allen was going to marryanother girl, " she told herself. "She was only crying because a girlis always full of tantrums. Now she is perfectly happy. I am able tomake her perfectly happy. I know that all a girl needs in this worldto make her happy and free from care is a woman to be a mother toher. I am making her see it. I can make up to her for everything. Everything is as it should be. "

She stood gazing at Rose for a long moment before she spoke. "Well, "said she, "you look like a whole jewelry shop. I don't see, for mypart, how your aunt came to have so many--why she wanted them. "

"Maybe they were given to her, " said Rose. A tender thought of thedead woman who had gone from the house of her fathers, and left herjewels behind, softened her face. "Poor Aunt Abrahama!" said she. "She lived in this house all her life and was never married, and shemust have come to think that all her pretty things had not amountedto much. "

"I don't see why, " said Sylvia. "I don't see that it was any greathardship to live all her life in this nice house, and I don't seewhat difference it made about her having nice things, whether she gotmarried or not. It could not have made any difference. "

"Why not?" asked Rose, looking at her with a mischievous flash ofblue eyes. A long green gleam like a note of music shot out from theemerald on her finger as she raised it in a slight gesture. "To haveall these beautiful things put away in a drawer, and never to haveanybody see her in them, must have made some difference. "

"It wouldn't make a mite, " said Sylvia, stoutly. 

"I don't see why. "

"Because it wouldn't. "

Rose laughed, and looked again at herself in the glass. 

"Now you had better take off those things and go to bed, and try togo to sleep, " said Sylvia. 

"Yes, Aunt Sylvia, " said Rose. But she did not stir, except to turnthis way and that, to bring out more colored lights from the jewels. 

Sylvia had to mix bread that night, and she was obliged to go. Rosepromised that she would immediately go to bed, and kissed her againwith such effusion that the older woman started back. The soft, impetuous kiss caused her cheek to fairly tingle as she wentdown-stairs and about her work. It should have been luminous from thelight it made in her heart. 

When Henry came home, with a guilty sense of what he was to do nextday, and which he had not courage enough to reveal, he looked at hiswife with relief at her changed expression. "I declare, Sylvia, youlook like yourself to-night, " he said. "You've been looking kind ofcurious to me lately. "

"You imagined it, " said Sylvia. She had finished mixing the bread, and had washed her hands and was wiping them on the roller-towel inthe kitchen. 

"Maybe I did, " admitted Henry. "You look like yourself to-night, anyhow. How is Rose?"

"Rose is all right. Young girls are always getting nervous kinks. Itook her supper up to her, and she ate every mite, and now I havegiven her her aunt's jewelry and she's tickled to pieces with it, standing before the looking-glass and staring at herself like alittle peacock. " Sylvia laughed with tender triumph. 

"I suppose now she'll be decking herself out, and every young man inEast Westland will be after her, " said Henry. He laughed, but alittle bitterly. He, also, was not altogether unselfish concerningthe proprietorship of this young thing which had come into hiselderly life. He was not as Sylvia, but although he would have deniedit he privately doubted if even Horace was quite good enough for thisgirl. When it came to it, in his heart of hearts, he doubted if anybut the fatherly love which he himself gave might be altogether goodfor her. 

"Rose is perfectly contented just the way she is, " declared Sylvia, turning upon him. "I shouldn't be surprised if she lived out her dayshere, just as her aunt did. "

"Maybe it would be the best thing, " said Henry. "She's got us as longas we live. " Henry straightened himself as he spoke. Since hisresolve to resume his work he had felt years younger. Lately he hadbeen telling himself miserably that he was an old man, that hislife-work was over. To-night the pulses of youth leaped in his veins. He was so pleasantly excited that after he and Sylvia had gone to bedit was long before he fell asleep, but he did at last, and just intime for Rose and Horace. 

Rose, after Sylvia went down-stairs, had put out her light and satdown beside the window gazing out into the night. She still wore herjewels. She could not bear to take them off. It was a beautifulnight. The day had been rather warm, but the night was one ofcoolness and peace. The moon was just rising. Rose could see itthrough the leafy branches of an opposite elm-tree. It seemed to becaught in the green foliage. New shadows were leaping out of thedistance as the moon increased. The whole landscape was dotted withwhite luminosities which it was bliss not to explain, just to leavemysteries. Wonderful sweetnesses and fresh scents of growing things, dew-wet, came in her face. 

Rose was very happy. Only an hour before she had been miserable, andnow her whole spirit had leaped above her woe as with the impetus ofsome celestial fluid rarer than all the miseries of earth and of anecessity surmounting them. She looked out at the night, and it wasto her as if that and the whole world was her jewel-casket, and thejewels therein were immortal, and infinite in possibilities of givingand receiving glory and joy. Rose thought of Horace, and a deliciousthrill went over her whole body. Then she thought of Lucy Ayres, andfelt both pity and a sort of angry and contemptuous repulsion. "How agirl can do so!" she thought. 

Intuitively she knew that what she felt for Horace was a far noblerlove than Lucy's. "Love--was it love, after all?" Rose did not know, but she gave her head a proud shake. "I never would put him in such aposition, and lie about him, just because--" she said to herself. 

She did not finish her sentence. Rose was innately modest even as toher own self-disclosures. Her emotions were so healthy that she hadthe power to keep them under the wings of her spirit, both to guardand hold the superior place. She had a feeling that Lucy Ayres's lovefor Horace was in a way an insult to him. After what Sylvia had said, she had not a doubt as to the falsity of what Lucy had told herduring their drive. She and Lucy had been on the front seat of thecarriage, when Lucy had intimated that there was an understandingbetween herself and Horace. She had spoken very low, in French, andRose had been obliged to ask her to repeat her words. ImmediatelyLucy's mother's head was between the two girls, and the bunch ofviolets on her bonnet grazed Rose's ear. 

"What are you saying?" she had asked Lucy, sharply. And Lucy hadlied. "I said what a pleasant day it is, " she replied. 

"You said it in French. "

"Yes, mother. "

"Next time say it in English, " said Mrs. Ayres. 

Of course, if Lucy had lied to her mother, she had lied to her. Shehad lied in two languages. "She must be a very strange girl, " thoughtRose. She resolved that she could not go to see Lucy very often, anda little pang of regret shot through her. She had been very ready tolove poor Lucy. 

Presently, as Rose sat beside the window, she heard footsteps on thegravel sidewalk outside the front yard, and then a man's figure cameinto view, like a moving shadow. She knew the figure was a manbecause there was no swing of skirts. Her heart beat fast when theman opened the front gate and shut it with a faint click. Shewondered if it could be Horace, but immediately she saw, from theslightly sidewise shoulders and gait, that it was Henry Whitman. Sheheard him enter; she heard doors opened and closed. After a time sheheard a murmur of voices. Then there was a flash of light across theyard, from a lighted lamp being carried through a room below. Thelight was reflected on the ceiling of her room. Then it vanished, andeverything was quiet. Rose thought that Sylvia and Henry had retiredfor the night. She almost knew that Horace was not in the house. Shehad heard him go out after supper and she had not heard him enter. Hehad a habit of taking long walks on fine nights. 

Rose sat and wondered. Once the suspicion smote her that possibly, after all, Lucy had spoken the truth, that Horace was with her. Thenshe dismissed the suspicion as unworthy of her. She recalled whatSylvia had said; she recalled how she herself had heard Lucy lie. Sheknew that Horace could not be fond of a girl like that, and he hadknown her quite a long time. Again Rose's young rapture and belief inher own happiness reigned. She sat still, and the moon at last sailedout of the feathery clasp of the elm branches, and the wholelandscape was in a pale, clear glow. Then Horace came. Rose startedup. She stood for an instant irresolute, then she stole out of herroom and down the spiral stair very noiselessly. She opened the frontdoor before Horace could insert his key in the latch. 

Horace started back. 

"Hush, " whispered Rose. She stifled a laugh. "Step back out in theyard just a minute, " she whispered. 

Horace obeyed. He stepped softly back, and Rose joined him after shehad closed the door with great care. 

"Now come down as far as the gate, out of the shadows, " whisperedRose. "I want to show you something. "

The two stole down to the gate. Then Rose faced Horace in full glareof moonlight. 

"Look at me, " said she, and she stifled another laugh of pure, childish delight. 

Horace looked. Only a few of the stones which Rose wore caught themoonlight to any extent, but she was all of a shimmer and gleam, likea creature decked with dewdrops. 

"Look at me, " she whispered again. 

"I am looking. "

"Do you see?"

"What?"

"They are poor Aunt Abrahama's jewels. Aunt Sylvia gave them to me. Aren't they beautiful? Such lovely, old-fashioned settings. You can'thalf see in the moonlight. You shall see them by day. "

"It is beautiful enough now, " said Horace, with a sort of gasp. "Those are pearls around your neck?"

"Yes, really lovely pearls; and such carved pink coral! And look atthe dear old pearl spray in my hair. Wait; I'll turn my head so themoon will show on it. Isn't it dear?"

"Yes, it is, " replied Horace, regarding the delicate spray of seedpearls on Rose's head. 

"And only look at these bracelets and these rings; and I had to tiethe ear-rings on because my ears are not pierced. Would you have thempierced and wear them as they are--I believe ear-rings are cominginto vogue again--or would you have them made into rings?"

"Rings, " said Horace, emphatically. 

"I think that will be better. I fancy the ear-rings dangling make mea little nervous already. See all these brooches, and the rings. "

Rose held up her hands and twirled her ring-laden fingers, andlaughed again. 

"They are pretty large, most of the rings, " said she. "There is onepearl and one emerald that are charming, and several of the dearestold-fashioned things. Think of poor Aunt Abrahama having all theselovely things packed away in a bureau drawer and never wearing them. "

"I should rather have packed away my name, " said Horace. 

"So should I. Isn't it awful? The Abrahama is simply dreadful, andthe way it comes down with a sort of whack on the White! Poor AuntAbrahama! I feel almost guilty having all her pretty jewels and beingso pleased with them. "

"Oh, she would be pleased, too, if she knew. "

"I don't know. She and my mother had been estranged for years, eversince my mother's marriage. Would she be pleased, do you think?"

"Of course she would, and as for the things themselves, they arefulfilling their mission. "

Rose laughed. "Maybe jewels don't like to be shut up for years andyears in a drawer, away from the light, " said she. "They do seemalmost alive. Look, you can really see the green in that emerald!"

Horace was trembling from head to foot. He could hardly reply. 

"Why, you are shivering, " said Rose. "Are you cold?"

"No--well, perhaps yes, a little. It is rather cool to-night afterthe hot day. "

"Where have you been?"

"I walked to Tunbury and back. "

"That is seven miles. That ought to have warmed you. Well, I think wemust go in. I don't know what Aunt Sylvia would say. "

"Why should she mind?"

"I don't know. She might not think I should have run out here as Idid. I think all these jewels went to my head. Come. Please walk verysoftly. "

Horace hesitated. 

"Come, " repeated Rose, imperatively, and started. 

Horace followed. 

The night before they had been on the verge of a love scene, now itseemed impossible, incongruous. Horace was full of tender longing, but he felt that to gratify it would be to pass the impossible. 

"Please be very still, " whispered Rose, when they had reached thehouse door. She herself began opening it, turning the knob by slowdegrees. All the time she was stifling her laughter. Horace felt thatthe stifled laughter was the main factor in prohibiting thelove-making. 

Rose turned the knob and removed her hand as she pushed the dooropen; then something fell with a tiny tinkle on the stone step. Bothstopped. 

"One of my rings, " whispered Rose. 

Horace stooped and felt over the stone slab, and finally his handstruck the tiny thing. 

"It's that queer little flat gold one, " continued Rose, who was nowserious. 

A sudden boldness possessed Horace. "May I have it?" he said. 

"It's not a bit pretty. I don't believe you can wear it. "

Horace slipped the ring on his little finger. "It just fits. "

"I don't care, " Rose said, hesitatingly. "Aunt Sylvia gave me thethings. I don't believe she will care. And there are two more flatgold rings, anyway. She will not notice, only perhaps I ought to tellher. "

"If you think it will make any trouble for you--"

"Oh no; keep it. It is interesting because it is old-fashioned, andas far as giving it away is concerned, I could give away half ofthese trinkets. I can't go around decked out like this, nor begin towear all the rings. I certainly never should have put that ring onagain. "

Horace felt daunted by her light valuation of it, but when he was inthe house, and in his room, and neither Sylvia nor Henry had beenawakened, he removed the thing and looked at it closely. All theinner surface was covered with a clear inscription, very clear, although of a necessity in minute characters--"Let love abidewhate'er betide. "

Horace laughed tenderly. "She has given me more than she knows, " hethought. 

Chapter XVI

Henry Whitman awoke the next morning with sensations of delight andterror. He found himself absolutely unable to rouse himself up tothat pitch of courage necessary to tell Sylvia that he intended toreturn to his work in the shop. He said to himself that it would bebetter to allow it to become an accomplished fact before she knew it, that it would be easier for him. Luckily for his plans, the familybreakfasted early. 

Directly after he had risen from the table, Henry attempted to slipout of the house from the front door without Sylvia's knowledge. Hehad nearly reached the gate, and had a sensation of exultation like achild playing truant, when he heard Sylvia's voice. 

"Henry!" she called. "Henry Whitman!"

Henry turned around obediently. 

"Where are you going?" asked Sylvia. 

She stood under the columns of the front porch, a meagre littlefigure of a woman dressed with severe and immaculate cheapness in apurple calico wrapper, with a checked gingham apron tied in a primbow at her back. Her hair was very smooth. She was New Englandausterity and conservatism embodied. She was terrifying, although itwould have puzzled anybody to have told why. Certain it was that noman would have had the temerity to contest her authority as she stoodthere. Henry waited near the gate. 

"Where are you going?" asked Sylvia again. 

"Down street, " replied Henry. 

"Whereabouts down street?"

Henry said again, with a meek doggedness, "Down street. "

"Come here, " said Sylvia. 

Henry walked slowly towards her, between the rows of box. He wasabout three feet away when she spoke again. "Where are you going?"said she. 

"Down street. "

Sylvia looked at Henry, and he trembled inwardly. Had she anysuspicion? When she spoke an immense relief overspread him. "I wishyou'd go into the drug store and get me a quarter of a pound ofpeppermints, " said she. 

Then Henry knew that he had the best of it. Sylvia possessed what sheconsidered an almost guilty weakness for peppermints. She neverbought them herself, or asked him to buy them, without feelinghumiliated. Her austere and dictatorial manner vanished at the momentshe preferred the request for peppermints. 

"Of course I'll get them, " said Henry, with enthusiasm. He mentallyresolved upon a pound instead of a quarter. 

"I don't feel quite right in my stomach, and I think they're good forme, " said Sylvia, still abjectly. Then she turned and went into thehouse. Henry started afresh. He felt renewed compunction at hisdeceit as he went on. It seemed hard to go against the wishes of thatpoor, little, narrow-chested woman who had had so little in life thata quarter of a pound of peppermints seemed too much for her to desire. 

But Henry realized that he had not the courage to tell her. He wenton. He had just about time to reach the shop before the whistle blew. As he neared the shop he became one of a stream of toilers pressingtowards the same goal. Most of them were younger than he, and it wassafe to assume none were going to work with the same enthusiasm. There were many weary, rebellious faces. They had not yet come toHenry's pass. Toil had not yet gotten the better of their freedom ofspirit. They considered that they could think and live to betterpurpose without it. Henry had become its slave. He was his true selfonly when under the conditions of his slavery. He had toiled a fewyears longer than he should have done, to attain the ability to keephis head above the waters of life without toil. The mechanical motionof his hands at their task of years was absolutely necessary to him. He had become, in fact, as a machine, which rusts and is good fornothing if left long inactive. Henry was at once pitiable andterrible when he came in sight of the many-windowed building whichwas his goal. The whistles blew, and he heard as an old war-horsehears the summons to battle. But in his case the battle was all fornaught and there was no victory to be won. But the man was happierthan he had been for months. His happiness was a pity and a shame tohim, but it was happiness, and sweet in his soul. It was the onlyhappiness which he had not become too callous to feel. If only hecould have lived in the beautiful old home, and spent the rest of hislife in prideful wrestling with the soil for goodly crops, in tastingthe peace of life which is the right of those who have worked long!

But it all seemed too late. When a man has become welded to toil hecan never separate himself from it without distress and loss of hisown substance of individuality. What Henry had told Sidney Meeks wasentirely true: good-fortune had come too late for him to reap thephysical and spiritual benefit from it which is its usual dividend. He was no longer his own man, but the man of his life-experience. 

When he stood once more in his old place, cutting the leather whichsmelled to him sweeter than roses, he was assailed by many a gibe, good-natured in a way, but still critical. 

"What are you to work again for, Henry?" "You've got money enough tolive on. " "What in thunder are you working for?"

One thing was said many times which hit him hard. "You are taking thebread out of the mouth of some other man who needs work; don't youknow it, Henry?" That rankled. Otherwise Henry, at his old task, withhis mind set free by the toil of his hands, might have been entirelyhappy. 

"Good Lord!" he said, at length, to the man at his side, amiddle-aged man with a blackened, sardonic face and a forehead linedwith a scowl of rebellion, "do you suppose I do it for the money? Itell you it's for the work. "

"The work!" sneered the other man. 

"I tell you I've worked so long I can't stop, and live. "

The other man stared. "Either you're a damned fool, or the men or thesystem--whatever it is that has worked you so long that you can'tstop--ought to go to--" he growled. 

"You can't shake off a burden that's grown to you, " said Henry. 

The worker on Henry's other side was a mere boy, but he had a bulgingforehead and a square chin, and already figured in labor circles. 

"As soon try to shake off a hump, " he said, and nodded. 

"Yes, " said Henry. "When you've lived long enough in one sort of aworld it settles onto your shoulders, and nothing but death can easea man from the weight of it. "

"That's so, " said the boy. 

"But as far as keeping the bread from another man goes--" said Henry. Then he hesitated. He was tainted by the greed for unnecessary money, in spite of his avowal to the contrary. That also had come to be apart of him. Then he continued, "As far as that goes, I'm willing togive away--a--good part of what I earn. "

The first man laughed, harshly. "He'll be for giving a library toEast Westland next, to make up to men for having their money andfreedom in his own pockets, " he said. 

"I 'ain't got so much as all that, after all, " said Henry. "Becausemy wife has had a little left to her, it don't follow that we aremillionaires. "

"I guess you are pretty well fixed. You don't need to work, and youknow it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. There's my wife'sbrother can't get a job. "

"Good reason why, " said the boy on the other side. "He drinks. "

"He drinks every time he gets out of work and gets cleandiscouraged, " retorted the man. 

"Well, " said the boy, "you know me well enough to know that I'm withmy class every time, but hanged if I can see why your wife's brother'ain't got into a circle that there's no getting him out of. We'vegot to get out of work sometimes. We all know it. We've got to if wedon't want humps on all our shoulders; and if Jim can't live up tohis independence, why, he's out of the running, or, rather, in hisown running so neither God nor man can get him out of it. You knowthe time that last strike was on he was in the gutter every day, whenhe could beg enough money to keep him there. Now, we can't have thatsort of thing. When a man's got so he can't work nor fight neither, why, he's up against it. If Henry here gave up his job, Jim couldn'tget it, and you know it. "

Henry went on. He hardly heard now what they were saying. His mindwas revelling in its free flights of rebellion against everything. Henry, for a man who kept the commandments, was again as wicked as hecould be, and revelling in his wickedness. He was like a drinkerreturned to his cups. His joy was immense, but unholy. However, theaccusation that he was taking bread from another man who needed itmore than he still rankled. He could, after all, rise somewhat abovemere greed. He resolved that he would give, and no one should know ofhis giving, to the family of the man Jim who had no work. 

During the morning Henry did not trouble himself about Sylvia andwhat she would think about it all. Towards noon, however, he began todread going home and facing her. When he started he felt fairlycowardly. He stopped at the drug store and bought a pound ofpeppermints. 

Albion Bennet waited on him. Albion Bennet was an intenselyblack-haired man in his forties. His black hair was always sleek witha patent hair-oil which he carried in his stock. He always wore a redtie and an old-fashioned scarf-pin set with a tiny diamond, and hiscollars were made of celluloid. 

"I have gone back to the hotel to board, " he informed Henry, whiletying up the parcel. He colored a little under his black, bristlingcheeks as he spoke. 

"I thought you left, " said Henry. 

"So I did. I went to board at the Joneses', but--I can't stand a girlright in my face and eyes all the time. When I want to get married, and see the right one, then I want to do the courting; but hang it ifI can stand being courted, and that's what I've been up against eversince I left the hotel, and that's a fact. Susy Jones was enough, butwhen it came to Fanny Elliot getting thick with her, and both of themon hand, it was too much. But I stuck it out till Susy began to dothe cooking and her mother made me eat it. "

"I have heard Miss Hart wasn't a very good cook, " said Henry. 

"Well, she ain't anything to brag of; but say, a man can standregulation cooking done bad, but when it comes to new-fangled messesdone bad, so a man don't know what he's eating, whether it's cats orpoisonous mushrooms, I draw the line. Miss Hart's bread is moregenerally saleratusy and heavy, but at least you know it's heavybread, and I got heavy stuff at the Joneses and didn't know what itwas. And Miss Hart's pies are tough, but you know you've got toughpies, and at the Joneses' I had tough things that I couldn't give aname to. Miss Hart's doughnuts are greasy, but Lord, the greasythings at the Joneses' that Susy made! At least you know what you'vegot when you eat a greasy doughnut, and if it hurts you you know whatto tell the doctor, but I had to give it up. I'd rather have badcooking and know what it is than bad cooking and know what it isn't. Then there were other things. I like, when I get home from the store, to have a little quiet and read my paper, and Susy and Fanny, if Ididn't stay in the parlor, were banging the piano and singing at meall the time to get me down-stairs. So I've gone back to the hotel, and I'm enough sight better off. Of course, when that matter of MissFarrel came up I left. A man don't want to think he may get a littlearsenic mixed in with the bad cooking, but now I'm convinced that'sall right. "

"How do you know?" asked Henry, paying for the peppermints. "I neverthought Miss Hart had anything to do with it myself, but of courseshe wasn't exactly acquitted, neither she nor the girl. You saidyourself that she bought arsenic here. "

"So she did, and it all went to kill rats, " said Albion. "Lots offolks have bought arsenic here to kill rats with. They didn't all ofthem poison Miss Farrel. " Albion nodded wisely and mysteriously. "No, Lucinda's all right, " he said. "I ain't at liberty to say how I know, but I do know. I may get bad cooking at the hotel, but I won't get noarsenic. "

Henry looked curiously at the other man. "So you've found outsomething?" he said. 

"I ain't at liberty to say, " replied Albion. "It's a pretty nice day, ain't it? Hope we ain't going to have such a hot summer as last, though hot weather is mighty good for my business, since I put in thesoda-fountain. "

Henry, walking homeward with his package of peppermints, speculated alittle on what Albion Bennet had said; then his mind reverted to hisanxiety with regard to Sylvia, and her discovery that he had returnedto the shop. He passed his arm across his face and sniffed at hiscoat-sleeve. He wondered if he smelled of leather. He planned to goaround to the kitchen door and wash his hands at the pump in the yardbefore entering the house, but he could not be sure about theleather. He wondered if Rose would notice it and be disgusted. Hisheart sank as he neared home. He sniffed at his coat-sleeve again. Hewondered if he could possibly slip into the bedroom and put onanother coat for dinner before Sylvia saw him. He doubted if he couldmanage to get away unnoticed after dinner. He speculated, if Sylviaasked him where he was going again, what he could say. He consideredwhat he could say if she were to call him to account for his longabsence that forenoon. 

When he reached the house he entered the side yard, stopped at thepump, washed his hands and dried them on his handkerchief, and drankfrom the tin cup chained to the pump-nose. He thought he might enterby the front door and steal into his bedroom and get the other coat, but Sylvia came to the side door. 

"Where in the world have you been?" she said. Henry advanced, smiling, with the peppermints. "Why, Henry, " she cried, in a voice ofdismay which had a gratified ring in it, "you've been and bought awhole pound! I only said to buy a quarter. "

"They're good for you, " said Henry, entering the door. 

Sylvia could not wait, and put one of the sweets in her mouth, and tothat Henry owed his respite. Sylvia, eating peppermint, was obliviousto leather. 

Henry went through into the bedroom and put on another coat before hesat down at the dinner-table. 

Sylvia noticed that. "What did you change your coat for?" said she. 

Henry shivered as if with cold. "I thought the house seemed kind ofdamp when I came in, " he said, "and this coat is some heavier. "

Sylvia looked at him with fretful anxiety. "You've got cold. I knewyou would, " she said. "You stayed out late last night, and the dewwas awful heavy. I knew you would catch cold. You had better stop atthe drug store and get some of those pellets that Dr. Wallace putsup. "

Again was Henry's way made plain for him. "Perhaps I had, " said he, eagerly. "I'll go down and get some after dinner. "

But Horace innocently offered to save him the trouble. "I go past thedrug store, " said he. "Let me get them. "

But Sylvia unexpectedly came to Henry's aid. "No, " she said. "I thinkyou had better not wait till Mr. Allen comes home from school. Dr. Wallace says those pellets ought to be taken right away, just as soonas you feel a cold, to have them do any good. "

Henry brightened, but Rose interposed. "Why, I would love to run downto the drug store and get the medicine, " she said. "You lie downafter dinner, Uncle Henry, and I'll go. "

Henry cast an agonizing glance at Horace. The young man did notunderstand in the least what it meant, but he came to the rescue. 

"The last time I took those pellets, " he said, "Mr. Whitman got themfor me. It was one Saturday, and I was home, and felt the cold comingon, and I lay down, just as you suggest Mr. Whitman's doing, and gotasleep, and awoke with a chill. I think that if one has a cold thebest thing is to keep exercising until you can get hold of a remedy. I think if Mr. Whitman walks down to the drug store himself and getsthe pellets, and takes one, and keeps out in the open air afterwards, as it is a fine day, it will be the very best thing for him. "

"That is just what I think myself, " said Henry, with a grateful lookat Horace. 

Henry changed his coat again before leaving, on the plea that it wasbetter for him to wear a lighter one when walking and the heavier onewhen he was in the house. He and Horace walked down the streettogether. They were out of sight of the house when Henry spoke. 

"Mrs. Whitman don't know it yet, " said he, "but there's no reason whyyou shouldn't. I 'ain't got any cold. I'll get the pellets to satisfyher, but I 'ain't got any cold. I wanted to get out again and nottell her, if I could help it. I didn't want a fuss. I'm going to putit off as long as I can. Mrs. Whitman's none too strong, and whenanything goes against her she's all used up, and I must save her aslong as possible. "

Horace stared at Henry with some alarm. "What on earth is it?" hesaid. 

"Nothing, only I have gone back to work in the shop. "

Horace looked amazed. "But I thought--"

"You thought we had enough so I hadn't any need to work, and you areright, " said Henry, with a pathetic firmness. "We have got propertyenough to keep us, if nothing happens, as long as we live, but I hadto go back to that infernal treadmill or die. "

Horace nodded soberly. "I think I understand, " said he. 

"I'm glad you do. "

"But Mrs. Whitman--"

"Oh, poor Sylvia will take it hard, and she won't understand. Womendon't understand a lot of things. But I can't help it. I'll keep itfrom her for a day or two. She'll have to hear of it before long. Youdon't think Rose will mind the leather smell?" concluded Henry. 

"I wouldn't worry about that. There is nothing very disagreeableabout it, " Horace replied, laughing. 

"I will always change my coat and wash my hands real particularbefore I set down to the table, " said Henry, wistfully. Then headded, after a second's hesitation: "You don't think she will thinkany the less of me? You don't suppose she won't be willing to live inthe house because I work in the shop?"

"You mean Rose--Miss Fletcher?"

"Yes; of course she's been brought up different. She don't knowanything about people's working with their hands. She's been broughtup to think they're beneath her. I suppose it's never entered intothe child's head that she would live to set at the same table with aman who works in a shoe-shop. You don't suppose it will set heragainst me?"

"I think even if she has been brought up differently, as you say, that she has a great deal of sense, " replied Horace. "I don't thinkyou need to worry about that. "

"I'm glad you don't. I guess it would about break Sylvia's heart tolose her now, and I've got so I set a good deal by the child myself. Mr. Allen, I want to ask you something. "

Henry paused, and Horace waited. 

"I want to ask you if you've noticed anything queer about Sylvialately, " Henry said, at last. 

Horace looked at him. "Do you mean in her looks or her manners?"

"Both. "

Horace hesitated in his turn. "Now you speak of it--" he began. 

"Well, " said Henry, "speak out just what you think. "

"I have not been sure that there was anything definite, " Horace said, slowly. "I have not been sure that it was not all imagination on mypart. "

"That's just the way I've been feeling, " Henry said, eagerly. "Whatis it that you've been noticing?"

"I told you I am not sure that it is not all imagination, but--"

"What?"

"Well, sometimes your wife has given me the impression that she wasbrooding over something that she was keeping entirely to herself. Shehas had a look as if she had her eyes turned inward and was worryingover what she saw. I don't know that you understand what I mean bythat?"

Henry nodded. "That's just the way Sylvia's been looking to me. "

"I don't know but she looks as well as ever. "

"She's grown thin. "

"Maybe she has. Sometimes I have thought that, but what I havenoticed has been something intangible in her manner and expression, that I thought was there one minute and was not at all sure about thenext. I haven't known whether the trouble, or difference, as perhapsI had better put it, was with her or myself. "

Henry nodded still more emphatically. "That's just the way it'sseemed to me, and we 'ain't either of us imagined it. It's so, " saidhe. 

"Have you any idea--"

"No, I haven't the least. But my wife's got something on her mind, and she's had something on her mind for a long time. It ain'tanything new. "

"Why don't you ask her?"

"I have asked her, and she says that of course she's got something onher mind, that she ain't a fool. You can't get around Sylvia. Shenever would tell anything unless she wanted to. She ain't like mostwomen. "

Just then Horace turned the corner of the street leading to hisschool, and the conversation ceased, with an enjoinder on his part toHenry not to be disturbed about it, as he did not think it could beanything serious. 

Henry's reply rang back as the two men went their different ways. "Idon't suppose it can be anything serious, " he said, almost angrily. 

Horace, however, was disposed to differ with him. He argued that awoman of Sylvia Whitman's type does not change her manner and growintrospective for nothing. He was inclined to think there might besomething rather serious at the bottom of it all. His imagination, however, pictured some disease, which she was concealing from allabout her, but which caused her never-ceasing anxiety and perhapspain. 

That night he looked critically at her and was rather confirmed inhis opinion. Sylvia had certainly grown thin, and the lines in herface had deepened into furrows. She looked much older than she haddone before she had received her inheritance. At the same time shepuzzled Horace by looking happier, albeit in a struggling sort offashion. Either Rose or the inheritance was the cause of thehappiness. Horace was inclined to think it was Rose, especially sinceshe seemed to him more than ever the source of all happiness andfurther from his reach. 

That night he had found in the post-office a story of whoseacceptance he had been almost sure, accompanied by the miserablelittle formula which arouses at once wrath and humiliation. Horacetore it up and threw the pieces along the road. There was athunder-shower coming up. It scattered the few blossoms remaining onthe trees, and many leaves, and the bits of the civilly hypocriticalnote of thanks and rejection flew with them upon the wings of thestorm wind. 

Horace gazed up at the clouds overhead, which looked like the rapidsof some terrible, heavenly river overlapping each other in shell-likeshapes and moving with intense fury. He thought of Rose, and firsthoped that she was in the house, and then reflected that he might aswell give up all hope of ever marrying her. The returned manuscriptin his pocket seemed to weigh down his very soul. He recalled variousstories which he had read in the current magazines of late, and itseemed to him that his compared very favorably with them. He tried tothink of the matter judicially, as if the rejected story were not hisown, and felt justified in thinking well of it. He had a sickeningsense of being pitted against something which he could not gainsay, which his own convictions as to the privilege of persons in authorityto have their own opinions forbade him to question. 

"The editors had a perfect right to return my story, even if it isevery whit as worthy of publication, even worthier, than anythingwhich has appeared in their magazine for a twelvemonth, " he toldhimself. 

He realized that he was not dependent upon the public concerning themerit of his work--he could not be until the work appeared inprint--but he was combating the opinions (or appealing to them) of afew men whose critical abilities might be biassed by a thousandpersonal matters with which he could not interfere. He felt thatthere was a broad, general injustice in the situation, but absoluteright as to facts. These were men to whom was given the power toaccept or refuse. No one could question their right to use thatpower. Horace said to himself that he was probably a fool toentertain for a moment any hope of success under such conditions. 

"Good Lord! It might depend upon whether the readers hadindigestion, " he thought; and at the same time he accepted thesituation with a philosophic pride of surrender. 

"It's about one chance in a good many thousand, " he told himself. "IfI don't get the chance some other fellow does, and there's no mortalway but to make the best of it, unless I act like a fool myself. "Horace was exceedingly alive to the lack of dignity of one who kickedagainst the pricks. He said to himself that if he could not marryRose, if he could not ask her why, he must accept his fate, notattack it to his own undoing, nor even deplore it to his ignominy. 

In all this he was, rather curiously, leaving the girl and herpossible view of the matter entirely out of the question. Horace, while he was not in the least self-deprecatory, and was disposed tobe as just in his estimate of himself as of other men, was notegotistical. It did not really occur to him that Rose's fancy, too, might have been awakened as his own had been, that he might cause hersuffering. It went to prove his unselfishness that, upon entering thehouse, and seeing Rose seated beside a window with her embroidery, his first feeling was of satisfaction that she was housed and safefrom the fast-gathering storm. 

Rose looked up as he entered, and smiled. 

"There's a storm overhead, " remarked Horace. 

"Yes, " said Rose. "Aunt Sylvia has just told me I ought not to use aneedle, with so much lightning. She has been telling me about a womanwho was sewing in a thunder-storm, and the needle was driven into herhand. " Rose laughed, but as she spoke she quilted her needle into herwork and tossed it on a table, got up, and went to the window. 

"It looks almost wild enough for a cyclone, " she said, gazing up atthe rapid scud of gray, shell-like clouds. 

"Rose, come right away from that window, " cried Sylvia, entering fromthe dining-room. "Only last summer a woman in Alford got struckstanding at a window in a tempest. "

"I want to look at the clouds, " said Rose, but she obeyed. 

Sylvia put a chair away from the fireplace and out of any draught. "Here, " said she. "Set down here. " She drew up another chair closebeside Rose and sat down. There came a flash of lightning and aterrible crash of thunder. A blind slammed somewhere. Out in thegreat front yard the rain swirled in misty columns, like ghostlydancers, and the flowering shrubs lashed the ground. Horace watchedit until Sylvia called him, also, to what she considered a place ofsafety. "If you don't come away from that window and set on the sofaI shall have a conniption fit, " she said. Horace obeyed. As he satdown he thought of Henry, and without stopping to think, inquiredwhere he was. 

"He went down to Mr. Meeks's, " replied Sylvia, with calm decision. 

Horace stared at her. He wondered if she could possibly be lying, orif she really believed what she said. 

He did not know what had happened that afternoon; neither did Rose. Rose had gone out for a walk, and while Sylvia was alone a caller, Mrs. Jim Jones, had come. Mrs. Jim Jones was a very small, angry-looking woman. Nature had apparently intended her to be plumpand sweet and rosy, and altogether comfortable, but she had flown inthe face of nature, like a cross hen, and had her own way withherself. 

It was scarcely conceivable that Mrs. Jim Jones could be all the timein the state of wrath against everything in general which her sharptongue and her angry voice evinced, but she gave that impression. Herlittle blond face looked like that of a doll which has been coveredwith angry pin-scratches by an ill-tempered child. Whenever she spokethese scratches deepened. 

Mrs. Jim Jones could not bring herself to speak of anything without ashow of temper, whether she really felt it or not. She fairly lashedout at Sylvia when the latter inquired if it was true that AlbionBennet had left her house and returned to the hotel. 

"Yes, it is true, and thank the Lord for His unspeakable mercy to thechildren of men. I couldn't have stood that man much longer, andthat's the gospel truth. He ate like a pig, so there wasn't a mite ofprofit in it. And he was as fussy as any old maid I ever saw. If Ihave to choose between an old maid and an old batch for a boarder, give me the old maid every time. She don't begin to eat so much, andshe takes care of her room. Albion Bennet about ruined my sparechamber. He et peanuts every Sunday, and they're all ground into thecarpet. Yes, I'm mighty glad to get rid of him. Let alone everythingelse, the way he pestered my Susy was enough to make me sick of mybargain. There that poor child got so she tagged me all over thehouse for fear Albion Bennet would make love to her. I guess Susyain't going to take up with a man like Albion Bennet. He's too oldfor her anyhow, and I don't believe he makes much out of his drugstore. I rather guess Susy looks higher than that. Yes, he's gone, and it's 'good riddance, bad rubbish. '"

"If you feel so about it I'm glad he's gone back to Lucinda, " saidSylvia. "She didn't have many steady boarders, and it did sort oflook against her, poor thing, with all the mean talk there's been. "

"I guess there wasn't quite so much smoke without a little fire, "said Mrs. Jim Jones, and her small face looked fairly evil. 

Then Sylvia was aroused. "Now, Mrs. Jones, you know better, " saidshe. "You know as well as you want to that Lucinda Hart was no moreguilty than you and I were. We both went to school with her. "

Mrs. Jim Jones backed down a little. There was something about SylviaWhitman when she was aroused that a woman of Mrs. Jones's type couldnot face with impunity. "Well, I don't pretend to know, " said she, with angry sullenness. 

"You pretended to know just now. If folks don't know, it seems to methe best thing they can do is to hold their tongues, anyhow. "

"I am holding my tongue, ain't I? What has got into you, SylviaWhitman?"

"No, you didn't hold your tongue when you said that about there notbeing so much smoke without some fire. "

"Well, there always is fire when there's smoke, ain't there?"

"No, there ain't always, not on the earth. Sometimes there's smokethat folks' wicked imaginations bring up out of the other place. I dobelieve that. "

"Why, Sylvia Whitman, how you do talk! You're almost swearing. "

"Have it swearing if you want to, " said Sylvia. "I know I'm glad thatAlbion Bennet has gone back to Lucinda's. Everybody knows how mortalscared he is of his own shadow, and if he's got grit enough to goback there it's enough to about satisfy folks that there wasn'tanything in the story. "

"Well, it's 'good riddance, bad rubbish, ' as far as I'm concerned, "said Mrs. Jim Jones. There had been on her face when she firstentered an expression of peculiar malignity. Sylvia knew it of old. She had realized that Mrs. Jones had something sweet for her owntongue, but bitter for her, in store, and that she was withholding itas long as possible, in order to prolong the delight of anticipation. "You've got two boarders, ain't you?" inquired Mrs. Jim Jones. 

"I've got one boarder, " replied Sylvia, with dignity, "and we keephim because he can't bear to go anywhere else in East Westland, andbecause we like his company. "

"I thought Abrahama White's niece--"

"She ain't no boarder. She makes her home here. If you think we'dtake a cent of money from poor Abrahama's own niece, you're mistaken. "

"I didn't know. She takes after her grandmother White, don't she? Shewas mortal homely. "

Then Sylvia fairly turned pale with resentment. "She doesn't look anymore like old Mrs. White than your cat does, " said she. "Rose is abeauty; everybody says so. She's the prettiest girl that ever setfoot in this town. "

"Everybody to their taste, " replied Mrs. Jim Jones, in the villageformula of contempt. "I heard Mr. Allen, your boarder, was going tomarry her, " she added. 

"He ain't. "

"I'm glad to hear it from headquarters, " said Mrs. Jim Jones. "I saidI couldn't believe it was true. "

"Mr. Allen won't marry any girl in East Westland, " said Sylvia. 

"Is there anybody in Boston?" asked Mrs. Jim Jones, losing herself-possession a little. 

Sylvia played her trump card. "I don't know anything--that is, Iain't going to say anything, " she replied, mysteriously. 

Mrs. Jim Jones was routed for a second, but she returned to theattack. She had not yet come to her particular errand. She felt thatnow was the auspicious moment. "I felt real sorry for you when Iheard the news, " said she. 

Sylvia did not in the least know what she meant. Inwardly shetrembled, but she would have died before she betrayed herself. Shewould not even disclose her ignorance of what the news might be. Shedid not, therefore, reply in words, but gave a noncommittal grunt. 

"I thought, " said Mrs. Jim Jones, driven to her last gun, "that youand Mr. Whitman had inherited enough to make you comfortable forlife, and I felt real bad to find out you hadn't. "

Sylvia turned a little pale, but her gaze never flinched. She gruntedagain. 

"I supposed, " said Mrs. Jim Jones, mouthing her words with intensestrelish, "that there wouldn't be any need for Mr. Whitman to work anymore, and when I heard he was going back to the shop, and when I sawhim turn in there this morning, I declare I did feel bad. "

Then Sylvia spoke. "You needn't have felt bad, " said she. "Nobodyasked you to. "

Mrs. Jim Jones stared. 

"Nobody asked you to, " repeated Sylvia. "Nobody is feeling at all badhere. It's true we've plenty, so Mr. Whitman don't need to lift hisfinger, if he don't want to, but a man can't set down, day in and dayout, and suck his thumbs when he's been used to working all his life. Some folks are lazy by choice, and some folks work by choice. Mr. Whitman is one of them. "

Mrs. Jim Jones felt fairly defrauded. "Then you don't feel bad?" saidshe, in a crestfallen way. 

"Nobody feels bad here, " said Sylvia. "I guess nobody in EastWestland feels bad unless it's you, and nobody wants you to. "

After Mrs. Jim Jones had gone, Sylvia went into her bedroom and satdown in a rocking-chair by the one window. Under the window grew asweetbrier rose-bush. There were no roses on it, but the soothingperfume of the leaves came into the room. Sylvia sat quite still fora while. Then she got up and went into the sitting-room with hermouth set hard. 

When Rose had returned she had greeted her as usual, and in reply toher question where Uncle Henry was, said she guessed he must be atMr. Meeks's; there's where he generally was when he wasn't at home. 

It did not occur to Sylvia that she was lying, not even when, laterin the afternoon, Horace came home, and she answered his question asto her husband's whereabouts in the same manner. She had resolvedupon Sidney Meeks's as a synonyme for the shoe-shop. She knew herselfthat when she said Mr. Meeks's she in reality meant the shoe-shop. She did not worry about others not having the same comprehension asherself. Sylvia had a New England conscience, but, like all NewEngland consciences, it was susceptible of hard twists to bring itinto accordance with New England will. 

The thunder-tempest, as Sylvia termed it, continued. She keptglancing, from her station of safety, at the streaming windows. Shewas becoming very much worried about Henry. At last she saw a figure, bent to the rainy wind, pass swiftly before the side windows of thesitting-room. She was on her feet in an instant, although at thatminute the room was filled with blue flame followed by a terrificcrash. She ran out into the kitchen and flung open the door. 

"Come in quick, for mercy's sake!" she called. Henry entered. He wasdripping with rain. Sylvia did not ask a question. "Stand right whereyou are till I bring you some dry clothes, " she said. 

Henry obeyed. He stood meekly on the oil-cloth while Sylvia hurriedthrough the sitting-room to her bedroom. 

"Mr. Whitman has got home from Mr. Meeks's, and he's dripping wet, "she said to Horace and Rose. "I am going to get him some dry thingsand hang the wet ones by the kitchen stove. "

When she re-entered the kitchen with her arms full, Henry cast ascared glance at her. She met it imperturbably. 

"Hurry and get off those wet things or you'll catch your death ofcold, " said she. 

Henry obeyed. Sylvia fastened his necktie for him when he was readyfor it. He wondered if she smelled the leather in his drenchedclothing. His own nostrils were full of it. But Sylvia made no sign. She never afterwards made any sign. She never intimated to Henry inany fashion that she knew of his return to the shop. She was, ifanything, kinder and gentler with him than she had been before, butwhenever he attempted, being led thereto by a guilty conscience, toundeceive her, Sylvia lightly but decidedly waved the revelationaside. She would not have it. 

That day, when she and Henry entered the sitting-room, she said, socalmly that he had not the courage to contradict her: "Here is youruncle Henry home from Mr. Meeks's, and he was as wet as a drownedrat. I suppose Mr. Meeks didn't have any umbrella to lend. Oldbachelors never do have anything. "

Henry sat down quietly in his allotted chair. He said nothing. It wasonly when the storm had abated, when there was a clear streak of goldlow in the west, and all the wet leaves in the yard gave out greenand silver lights, when Sylvia had gone out in the kitchen to getsupper and Rose had followed her, that the two men looked at eachother. 

"Does she know?" whispered Horace. 

"If she does know, and has taken a notion never to let anybody knowshe knows, she never will, " replied Henry. 

"You mean that she will never mention it even to you?"

Henry nodded. He looked relieved and scared. He was right. Hecontinued to work in the shop, and Sylvia never intimated to him thatshe knew anything about it. 

Chapter XVII

When Henry had worked in the shop before Sylvia's inheritance, he hadalways given her a certain proportion of his wages and himselfdefrayed their housekeeping bills. He began to do so again, andSylvia accepted everything without comment. Henry gradually becamesure that she did not touch a dollar of her income from her newproperty for herself. One day he found on the bureau in their bedrooma book on an Alford savings-bank, and discovered that Sylvia hadopened an account therein for Rose. Sylvia also began to give Roseexpensive gifts. When the girl remonstrated, she seemed so distressedthat there was nothing to do but accept them. 

Sylvia no longer used any of Abrahama White's clothes for herself. Instead, she begged Rose to take them, and finally induced her tosend several old gowns to her dressmaker in New York for renovation. When Rose appeared in these gowns Sylvia's expression of worriedsecrecy almost vanished. 

The time went on, and it was midsummer. Horace was spending his longvacation in East Westland. He had never done so before, and Sylviawas not pleased by it. Day after day she told him that he did notlook well, that she thought he needed a change of air. Henry becamepuzzled. One day he asked Sylvia if she did not want Mr. Allen tostay with them any longer. 

"Of course I do, " she replied. 

"Well, you keep asking him why he doesn't go away, and I began tothink you didn't, " said Henry. 

"I want him to stay, " said Sylvia, "but I don't want any foolishness. "

"Foolishness?" said Henry, vaguely. 

It was a very hot afternoon, but in spite of the heat Rose and Horacewere afield. They had been gone ever since dinner. It was Saturday, and Henry had come home early from the shop. The first question heasked had been concerning the whereabouts of the young people. "Offtogether somewhere, " Sylvia had replied. Then the conversation hadensued. 

"Yes, foolishness, " repeated Sylvia, with a sort of hystericalviolence. She sat out on the front porch with some mending, and shesewed feverishly as she spoke. 

"I don't know what you mean by foolishness, I guess, Sylvia. "

Henry sat on the porch step. He wore a black mohair coat, and histhin hair was well brushed. 

"It does seem, " said Sylvia, "as if a young man and a young womanmight live in the same house and behave themselves. "

Henry stared at her. "Why, Sylvia, you don't mean--"

"I mean just what I said--behave themselves. It does seem sometimesas if everything any girl or young man thought of was falling in loveand getting married, " Sylvia said--"falling in love and gettingmarried, " with a bitter and satirical emphasis. 

"I don't see, " said Henry, "that there is very much against Mr. Allenand Rose's falling in love and getting married. I think he might doworse, and I think she might. Sometimes I've looked at the two ofthem and wondered if they weren't just made for each other. I can'tsee quite what you mean, Sylvia? You don't mean to say that you don'twant Mr. Allen ever to get married?"

"He can marry whoever he wants to, " said Sylvia, "but he sha'n'tmarry her. "

"You don't mean you don't want her ever to get married?"

"Yes, I do mean just that. "

"Why, Sylvia, are you crazy?"

"No, I ain't crazy, " replied Sylvia, doggedly. "I don't want her toget married, and I'm in the right of it. She's no call to getmarried. "

"I don't see why she 'ain't got a call as well as other girls. "

"She 'ain't. Here she's got a good home, and everything she needs, and more, too. She's got money of her own that she had when she comehere, plenty of it. I'm going over to Alford to-morrow and see if Ican't find some things in the stores there for her that I thinkshe'll like. And I'm going to get Jim Jones--he's a good hand--to seeif he can't get a good, safe horse and pretty carriage for her, soshe can ride out. "

Henry stared. "I dunno as I can take care of a horse, Sylvia, " hesaid, doubtfully. 

"Nobody wants you to. I can get Billy Hudson to come. He can sleep inthe chamber over the kitchen. I spoke to his mother about it, andshe's tickled to pieces. She says he's real handy with horses, andhe'll come for fifteen dollars a month and his board. Rose is goingto have everything she wants. "

"Does she want a horse and carriage?"

"I shouldn't think of it if I didn't s'pose she did. "

"What made me ask, " said Henry, "was, I'd never heard her speak ofit, and I knew she had money enough for anything if she did want it. "

"Are you grudging my spending money her own aunt left on her?"

Henry looked reproachfully at his wife. "I didn't quite deserve thatfrom you, Sylvia, " he said, slowly. 

Sylvia looked at him a moment. Her face worked. Then she glancedaround to be sure nobody saw, and leaned over and touched theshoulder of Henry's mohair coat with a little, skinny hand. "Henry, "she said, pitifully. 

"What, Sylvia?"

"You know I didn't mean anything. You've always been generous aboutmoney matters. We 'ain't never had ill feeling about such a thing asthat. I shouldn't have spoke that way if I hadn't been all wroughtup, and--" Suddenly Sylvia thrust her hand under her white apron andswept it up to her face. She shook convulsively. 

"Now, Sylvia, of course you didn't mean a blessed thing. I've knownyou were all wrought up for a long time, but I haven't known whatabout. Don't take on so, Sylvia. "

A little, hysterical sob came from Sylvia under the apron. Herscissors fell from her lap and struck the stone slab on which Henrywas sitting. He picked them up. "Here are your scissors, Sylvia, "said he. "Now don't take on so. What is it about? What have you goton your mind? Don't you think it would do you good to tell me?"

"I wish, " sobbed Sylvia, "that Abrahama White had left her propertywhere it belonged. I wish we'd never had a cent of it. She didn't doright, and she laid the burden of her wrong-doing onto us when sheleft us the property. "

"Is that what's troubling you, Sylvia?" said Henry, slowly. "Ifthat's all, " he continued, "why--"

But Sylvia interrupted him. She swept the apron from her face andshowed it grimly set. There was no trace of tears. "That ain'ttroubling me, " said she. "Nothing's troubling me. I'm kind ofnervous, that's all, and I hate to set still and see foolishness. Idon't often give way, and I 'ain't nothing to give way for. I'm jestall wrought up. I guess there's going to be a thunder-tempest. I'vefelt jest like it all day. I wish you'd go out in the garden and picka mess of green corn for supper. If you're a mind to you can husk it, and get that middling-sized kettle out from under the sink and putthe water on to boil. I suppose they'll be home before long now. Theyain't quite got to going without their victuals. "

Henry rose. "I'd admire to get the corn, " said he, and went aroundthe house towards the kitchen. Left to herself, Sylvia let her workfall in her lap. She stared at the front yard and the street beyondand the opposite house, dimly seen between waving boughs, and herface was the face of despair. Little, commonplace, elderlycountenance that it seemed, it was strengthened into tragedy by theterrible stress of some concealed misery of the spirit. Sylvia satvery stiffly, so stiffly that even the work in her lap, a mass ofsoft muslin, might have been marble, with its immovable folds. Sylviaherself looked petrified; not a muscle of her face stirred. She wassuffering the keenest agony upon earth, that agony of the spiritwhich strikes it dumb. 

She had borne it for months. She had never let slip the slightesthint of it. At times she had managed to quiet it with what she knewto be sophistries. She had been able to imagine herself almost happywith Rose and the new passion for her which had come into her life, but that passion was overgrown by her secret, like some hideousparasite. Even the girl's face, which was so beloved, was not to beseen without a pang to follow upon the happiness. Sylvia showed, however, in spite of her face of utter despair, an odd strength, acourage as if for battle. 

After awhile she heard Henry's returning footsteps, and immediatelyher face and whole body relaxed. She became flesh, and took up herneedlework, and Henry found her sewing placidly. The change had beenmarvellous. Once more Sylvia was a little, commonplace, elderly womanat her commonplace task. Even that subtle expression which at timesso puzzled Henry had disappeared. The man had a sensation of reliefas he resumed his seat on the stone step. He was very patient withSylvia. It was his nature to be patient with all women. Withoutrealizing it, he had a tenderness for them which verged on contempt. He loved Sylvia, but he never lost sight of the fact that she was awoman and he a man, and therefore it followed, as a matter of course, that she was by nature weaker and, because of the weakness, had asweet inferiority. It had never detracted from his love for her; ithad increased it. There might not have been any love in the beginningexcept for that. 

Henry was perhaps scarcely capable of loving a woman whom he might becompelled to acknowledge as his superior. This elderly New-Englanderhad in him none of the spirit of knight-errantry. He had been a good, faithful husband to his wife, but he had never set her on a pedestal, but a trifle below him, and he had loved her there and been patientwith her. 

But patience must breed a certain sense of superiority. That isinevitable. Henry's tender patience with Sylvia's moods and unreasonmade him see over her character, as he could see over her physicalhead. Lately this sense of mystery had increased, in a way, hiscomprehension of his own stature. The more mysterious Sylvia became, and the more Henry's patience was called into action, the taller heappeared to himself to become. 

While he had been getting the corn out in the garden, and preparingit to be cooked, he had reflected upon Sylvia's unaccountable emotionand her assertion that there was no reason for it, and he realizedhis masculine height. He knew that it would have been impossible forhim to lose control of himself and then declare that there was nocause; to sway like a reed driven by the wind. 

Henry was rather taken by this idea. When he had returned to hisstation on the porch he was thinking how women were reeds driven bythe winds of their emotions, and really, in a measure, irresponsible. If he had again found Sylvia with her apron over her face, he wasquite prepared to be very tender, but he was relieved to see that theparoxysm had passed. He did not smile as he sat down, neither didSylvia. It was rather unusual for them to smile at each other, butthey exchanged looks of peaceful accord, which really meant more thansmiles. 

"Well, " said Henry, "the kettle's on the stove. "

"How much corn did you get?"

"Well, I allowed three ears apiece. They're pretty good size. Ithought that was about right. "

Sylvia nodded. 

"The corn's holding out pretty well, " said Henry. "That other laterkind will be ready by the time the lima beans are ripe. "

"That 'll go nice for succotash, " said Sylvia, taking another stitch. 

"That's what I was thinking, " said Henry. 

He sat staring out upon the front yard, and he was in realitythinking, with pleasant anticipations, of the succotash. Now that hewas back in his old track at the shop, his appetite was better, andhe found himself actually dreaming about savory dishes like a boy. Henry's pleasures in life were so few and simple that they had to goa long way, and lap over onto his spiritual needs from his physicalones. 

Sylvia broke in upon his visions of succotash. She was straining hereyes to see the road beyond the front yard. "What time is it?" sheasked. "Do you know?"

"It was half-past five by the kitchen clock. "

"They ain't in sight yet. " Sylvia stared and frowned at the distance. "This house does set too far back, " she said, impatiently. 

"Now, Sylvia, I wouldn't give up a mite of this front yard. "

"I'd give it all up if I could see folks go past. A woman wants tosee something out of the window and from the doorstep besides flowersand box and trees. "

Sylvia glared at the yard, which was beautiful. The box grew lustily, framing beds of flowers and clusters of radiant bushes. There weretwo perfectly symmetrical horse-chestnut-trees, one on each side ofthe broad gravel walk. The yard looked like some wonderful mapwherein the countries were made of flowers, the design was socharmingly artificial and prim. 

"It's awful set, I think, " said Sylvia. "I'd rather have flowersgrowing where they want to instead of where they have to. And I neverdid like box. Folks say it's unhealthy, too. "

"It's been here for years, and the people who belonged here havenever been short-lived, " said Henry. "I like it. "

"I don't, " said Sylvia. She looked at the road. "I don't see wherethey can be. "

"Oh, they'll be along soon. Don't worry, Sylvia. "

"Well, " said Sylvia, in a strident voice, "I'm going in and getsupper, and when it's ready we'll set down and eat it. I ain't goingto wait one minute. I'm just sick of this kind of work. "

Sylvia got up, and her scissors dropped again onto the step. Henrypicked them up. "Here are your scissors, " said he. 

Sylvia took them and went into the house with a flounce. Henry hearda door slam and dishes rattle. "She's all wrought up again, " hethought. He felt very tall as he pitied Sylvia. He was sorry for her, but her distress over such a matter as the young folks' being lateseemed to him about as much to be taken seriously as the buzzing of abumblebee over a clump of lilies in the yard. 

He was watching the bumblebee when he heard the front gate click, andthought with relief that the wanderers had returned, then SidneyMeeks came into view from between the rows of box. Sidney came up thewalk, wiping his forehead with a large red handkerchief, and fanninghimself with an obsolete straw hat. 

"Hullo, " said Henry. 

"How are you?" said Meeks. "It's a corking hot day. "

"Yes, it is pretty hot, but I think it's a little cooler than it wasan hour ago. "

"Try walking and you won't think so. "

"Set down, " said Henry, pointing to the chair Sylvia had justvacated. "Set down and stay to supper. "

"I don't say I won't stay to supper, but I've got an errand first. I've struck a new idea about wine. Haven't you got a lot of wildgrapes down back here?"

"Yes, back of the orchard. "

"Well, I've got an idea. I won't say what it is now. I want to seehow it turns out first. Does Sylvia use wild grapes?"

"No, I know she won't. There are going to be bushels of Concords andDelawares. "

"Well, I want you to go down with me and let me look at your wildgrape-vines. I suppose the grapes must be set long ago. I just wantto see how many there are. I suppose I can make a deal with you forsome?"

"You can have them, and welcome. I know Sylvia will say so, too. "

"Well, come along. We can go around the house. "

Henry and Meeks skirted the house and the vegetable garden, thencrossed a field, and found themselves at one side of the orchard. Itwas a noble old orchard. The apple, pear, and peach trees, set ineven rows, covered three acres. Between the men and the orchard grewthe wild grapes, rioting over an old fence. Henry began to say therewas a gap in the fence farther down, but the lawyer's hand grippedhis arm with sudden violence, and he stopped short. Then he as wellas Meeks heard voices. They heard the tones of a girl, trembling withsweetness and delight, foolish with the blessed folly of life andyouth. The voice was so full of joy that at first it sounded no morearticulate than a bird's song. It was like a strophe from theprimeval language of all languages. Henry and Meeks seemed tounderstand, finally, what the voice said, more from some innersympathy, which dated back to their youth and chorded with it, thanfrom any actual comprehension of spoken words. 

This was what the sweet, divinely foolish girl-voice said: "I don'tknow what you can see in me to love. "

There was nothing in the words; it was what any girl might say; itwas very trite, but it was a song. Celestial modesty and pride werein it, and joy which looked at itself and doubted if it were joy. 

Then came the man's voice, and that sang a song also foolish andtrite, but divine and triumphant and new as every spring. 

Henry and Meeks saw gradually, as they listened, afraid to move lestthey be heard. They saw Horace and Rose sitting on the green turfunder an apple-tree. They leaned against its trunk, twisted withyears of sun and storm, and the green spread of branches wasoverhead, and they were all dappled with shade and light like thegold bosses of a shield. The man's arm was around the girl, and theywere looking at each other and seeing this world and that which is tocome. 

Suddenly Meeks gave Henry's arm another violent clutch. He pointed. Then they saw another girl standing in the tangle of wild grapes. Shewore a green muslin gown, and was so motionless that it was not easyto discern her readily. She was listening and watching the lovers, and her young face was terrible. It was full of an enormous, greedydelight, as of one who eats ravenously, and yet there was malignityand awful misery and unreason in it. Her cheeks were flushed and herblue eyes glittered. It was evident that everything she heard and sawcaused her the most horrible agony and a more horrible joy. She waslike a fanatic who dances in fire. 

Meeks and Henry looked at her for a long minute, then at each other. Henry nodded as if in response to a question. Then the two men, moving by almost imperceptible degrees, keeping the utmost silence, hearing all the time that love duet on the other side of thegrape-vines, got behind the girl. She had been so intent that therehad been no danger of seeing them. Horace and Rose were also sointent that they were not easily reached by any sight or soundoutside themselves. 

Meeks noiselessly and firmly clasped one of Lucy Ayres's arms. It wasvery slender, and pathetically cold through her thin sleeve. Henrygrasped the other. She turned her wild young face over her shoulder, and saw them, and yielded. Between them the two men half carried, half led the girl away across the fields to the road. When they wereon the road Henry released his grasp of her arm, but Meeks retainedhis. "Will you go quietly home?" said he, "or shall Mr. Whitman and Igo with you?"

"I will go, " Lucy replied, in a hoarse whisper. 

Meeks looked keenly at her. "Now, Lucy, " he said, in a gentle voice, "there's no use; you've got to go home. "

"Yes, " said Henry. "Go home to your ma, right away, like a good girl. "

Lucy remained motionless. Her poor young eyes seemed to see nothing. 

"Good Lord!" sighed Meeks, wiping his forehead with his disengagedhand. "Well, come along, Lucy. Now, Lucy, you don't want to make aspectacle of yourself on the street. I think we must go home withyou, because I can see right in your eyes that you won't budge a stepunless we make you, but we don't want to walk holding on to you. Sonow you just march along ahead, and we'll keep behind you, and wewon't have all the town up in arms. "

Lucy said nothing. Meeks wiped his forehead again, freed her, andgave her a gentle shove between her shoulders. "Now, march, " said he. 

Lucy began to walk; the two men kept behind her. Presently they met aboy, who evidently noticed nothing unusual, for he leaped past, whistling. 

"Thank the Lord it isn't far, " muttered Meeks, wiping his forehead. "It's d--n hot. "

Lucy walked on quite rapidly after awhile. They were nearly in sightof her home when Mrs. Ayres met them. She was almost running, and waspale and out of breath. 

"Lucy, " she began, "where--?" Then she realized that Meeks and Henrywere with the girl. 

"Henry, you just keep an eye on her, " said Meeks. Then he spoke toMrs. Ayres with old-fashioned ceremony. "Madam, " he said, "will yoube so kind as to step aside? I have a word I would like to say toyou. "

Mrs. Ayres, with a scared glance at Lucy, complied. 

"Just this way a moment, " he said. "Now, madam, I have a word ofadvice which you are at liberty to take or not. Your daughter seemsto be in a dangerously nervous state. I will tell you plainly wherewe found her. It seems that Mr. Allen and Miss Fletcher have fallenin love with each other, and have come to an understanding. Wehappened upon them, sitting together very properly, as lovers should, in the apple orchard back of Mr. Whitman's, and your daughter stoodthere watching them. She is very nervous. If you take my advice youwill lose no time in getting her away. "

Mrs. Ayres stood and listened with a cold, pale dignity. She waiteduntil Meeks had entirely finished, then she spoke slowly and evenly. 

"Thank you, Mr. Meeks, " she said. "Your advice is very good, so goodthat I have proved it by anticipating you. My daughter is in a verynervous condition. She never fully recovered from a severe attack ofthe grip. "

Mrs. Ayres lied, and Meeks respected her for it. 

"We are to start before long for St. Louis, where my brother lives, "continued Mrs. Ayres. "I am going to rent my house furnished. Mybrother is a widower, and wishes us to make our home with him, and wemay never return here. I was obliged to go on an errand to the store, and when I came home I missed Lucy and was somewhat anxious. I amvery much obliged to you. We are going away, and I have no doubt thatan entire change of scene will restore my daughter entirely. Yesterday she had a sick headache, and is still suffering somewhatfrom it to-day. "

"That woman lied like a gentleman, " Meeks said to Henry when theywere on their way home. "Good Lord! I was thankful to her. "

Henry was regarding him with a puzzled look. "Do you think the poorgirl is in love with Mr. Allen, too?" he asked. 

"I think she is in love with love, and nothing will cure that, " saidMeeks. 

Chapter XVIII

Henry looked more and more disturbed as they went down the street. "Ideclare, I don't know what Sylvia will say, " he remarked, moodily. 

"You mean about the pretty little love-affair?" said Meeks, walkingalong fanning himself with his hat. 

"Yes, she'll be dreadful upset. "

"Upset; why?"

"It beats me to know why. Who ever does know the why of a woman?"

"What in creation is the fellow, anyhow?" said Meeks, with a laugh. "Are all the women going daft over him? He isn't half bad looking, and he's a good sort, but I'm hanged if I can see why he should upsetevery woman who looks at him. Here we've just escorted that poorAyres girl home. I declare, her face made me shiver. I was glad therewasn't any pond handy for her. But if you mean to say that your good, sensible old wife--"

"Get out! You know better, " cried Henry, impatiently. "You knowSylvia better than that. She sets a lot by Mr. Allen; I do myself;but, as far as that goes, she'd give her blessing if he'd marry anygirl but Rose. That's where the hitch comes in. She doesn't want himto marry her. "

"Thinks he isn't good enough?"

"I don't believe it's that. I don't know what it is. She says shedon't want Rose to marry anybody. "

"Good Lord! Sylvia doesn't expect a girl with a face like that, andmoney to boot, to be an old maid! My only wonder is that she hasn'tbeen snapped up before now. "

"I guess Rose has had chances. "

"If she hasn't, all the men who have seen her have been stone blind. "

"I don't know what has got into Sylvia, and that's the truth, " Henrysaid. "I never saw her act the way she does lately. I can't imaginewhat has got into her head about Rose that she thinks she mustn't getmarried. "

"Maybe Sylvia is in love with the girl, " said Meeks, shrewdly. 

"I know she is, " said Henry. "Poor Sylvia loves her as if she was herown daughter, but I have always understood that mothers were crazy tohave their daughters married. "

"So have I, but these popular ideas are sometimes nonsense. I havealways heard that myself. "

"Sylvia and I have been happy enough together, " said Henry. "It can'tbe that her own life as a married woman makes her think it a betterplan to remain single. "

"That's stuff. "

"It seems so to me. Well, all the reason I can think of is, Sylviahas come to set so much by the girl that she's actually jealous ofher. "

"Do you suppose they'll tell her to-night?" asked Meeks. 

Henry regarded him with an expression of actual terror. "Seems as ifthey might wait, and let Sylvia have her night's sleep, " he muttered. 

"I guess I won't stay to supper, " said Meeks. 

"Stay, for the Lord's sake. "

Meeks laughed. "I believe you are afraid, Henry. "

"I hate to see a woman upset over anything. "

"So do I, for that matter. Do you think my staying might make it anybetter?"

"Yes, it might. Here we are in sight of the house. You ain't going toback out?"

Meeks laughed again, although rather uneasily. "All right, " he said. 

When he and Henry entered they found Sylvia moving nervously aboutthe sitting-room. She was scowling, and her starched apron-stringswere rampant at her slim back. 

"Well, " she said, with a snap, "I'm glad somebody has come. Supper'sbeen ready for the last quarter of an hour, and I don't know but thecorn is spoiled. How do you do, Mr. Meeks? I'll be glad to have youstay to supper, but I don't know as there's a thing fit to eat. "

"Oh, I'll risk it, " Sidney said. "You can't have anything worse thanI've got at home. I had to go to Alford about that confounded Amescase. I had a dinner there that wasn't fit for a dog to eat, and I'mdown to baker's bread and cheese. "

"Where have _you_ been?" demanded Sylvia of Henry. He cast anappealing glance at Meeks. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, asif confronted by a common foe of nervous and exasperated feminity. 

"I'm to blame for that, " said Meeks. "I wanted to see if you had anywild grapes to spare, and I asked Henry to go down to the orchardwith me. I suppose you can spare me some of those wild grapes?"

"Take all you want, and welcome, " said Sylvia. "Now, I'll put supperon the table, and we'll eat it. I ain't going to wait any longer foranybody. "

After Sylvia had gone, with a jerk, out of the room, the two menlooked at each other. "Couldn't you give Allen a hint to lay lowto-night, anyhow?" whispered Meeks. 

Henry shook his head. "They'll be sure to show it some way, " hereplied. "I don't know what's got into Sylvia. "

"It seems a pretty good sort of match, to me. "

"So it does to me. Of course Rose has got more money, and I know aswell as I want to that Horace has felt a little awkward about that;but lately he's been earning extra writing for papers and magazines, and it was only last Monday he told me he'd got a steady job for aNew York paper that wouldn't interfere with his teaching. He seemedmighty tickled about it, and I guess he made up his mind then to goahead and get married. "

"Come to supper, " cried Sylvia, in a harsh voice, from the next room, and the two men went out at once and took their seats at the table. Rose's and Horace's places were vacant. "I'd like to know what theythink, " said Sylvia, dishing up the baked beans. "They can eat thecorn cold. It's just as good cold as it is all dried up. Here it issix o'clock and they ain't come yet. "

"These are baked beans that are baked beans, " said Meeks. 

"Yes, I always have said that Sylvia knows just how to bake beans, "said Henry. "I go to church suppers, and eat other folks' bakedbeans, but they 'ain't got the knack of seasoning, or something. "

"It's partly the seasoning and partly the cooking, " said Sylvia, in asomewhat appeased voice. 

"This is brown bread, too, " said Meeks. His flattering tone wasalmost fulsome. 

Henry echoed him eagerly. "Yes, I always feel just the same about thebrown bread that Sylvia makes, " he said. 

But the brown bread touched a discordant tone. 

Sylvia frowned. "Mr. Allen always wants it hot, " said she, "and it'll be stone cold. I don't see where they went to. "

"Here they are now, " said Henry. He and Meeks cast an apprehensiveglance at each other. Voices were heard, and Horace and Rose entered. 

"Are we late?" asked Rose. She smiled and blushed, and cast her eyesdown before Sylvia's look of sharp inquiry. There was a wonderful newbeauty about the girl. She fairly glowed with it. She was a roseindeed, full of sunlight and dew, and holding herself, over hergolden heart of joy, with a divine grace and modesty. 

Horace did not betray himself as much. He had an expression ofsubdued triumph, but his face, less mobile than the girl's, was underbetter control. He took his place at the table and unfolded hisnapkin. 

"I am awfully sorry if we have kept you waiting, Mrs. Whitman, " hesaid, lightly, as if it did not make the slightest difference if shehad been kept waiting. 

Sylvia had already served Rose with baked beans. Now she spoke toHorace. "Pass your plate up, if you please, Mr. Allen, " she said. "Henry, hand Mr. Allen the brown bread. I expect it's stone cold. "

"I like it better cold, " said Horace, cheerfully. 

Sylvia stared at him, then she turned to Rose. "Where on earth haveyou been?" she demanded. 

Horace answered for her. "We went to walk, and sat down under a treein the orchard and talked; and we hadn't any idea how the time waspassing, " he said. 

Henry and Meeks cast a relieved glance at each other. It did notappear that an announcement was to be made that night. After supper, when Meeks left, Henry strolled down the street a little way with him. 

"I'm thankful to have it put off to-night, anyhow, " he said. "Sylviawas all wrought up about their being late to supper, and she wouldn'thave got a mite of sleep. "

"You don't think anything will be said to-night?"

"No, I guess not. I heard Sylvia tell Rose she'd better go to bedright after supper, and Rose said, 'Very well, Aunt Sylvia, ' in thatway she has. I never saw a human being who seems to take otherpeople's orders as Rose does. "

"Allen told me he'd got to sit up till midnight over some writing, "said Meeks. "That may have made a difference to the girl. Reckon sheknew spooning was over for to-day. "

Henry looked back at the house. There were two lighted windows on thesecond floor. "Rose is going to bed, " he said. "That light's in herroom. "

"She looked happy enough to dazzle one when she came in, poor littlething, " said Meeks. In his voice was an odd mixture of tenderness, admiration, and regret. "You've got your wife, " he said, "but Iwonder if you know how lonely an old fellow like me feels sometimes, when he thinks of how he's lived and what he's missed. To think of agirl having a face like that for a man. Good Lord!"

"You might have got married if you'd wanted to, " said Henry. 

"Of course; could get married now if I wanted to, but that isn't thequestion. I don't know what I'm such a d--n fool as to tell you for, only it's like ancient history, and no harm that I can see for eitherthe living or the dead. There was a time when, if Abrahama White hadworn a face like that for me--well--Poor girl, she got her heartturned the way it wasn't meant to go. She had a mean, lonesome lifeof it. Sometimes now, when I go into that house where she lived somany years, I declare, the weight of the burden she had to bear seemsto be on me. It was a cruel life for a woman, and here's your wifewanting that girl to live the same way. "

"Wouldn't she have you after Susy got married?" asked Henry. Thewords sounded blunt, but his voice was tender. 

"Didn't ask her. I don't think so. She wasn't that kind of woman. Itwas what she wanted or nothing with her, always was. Guess that waswhy I felt the way I did about her. "

"She was a handsome girl. "

"Handsome! This girl you've got is pretty enough, but there never wassuch a beauty as Abrahama. Sometimes when I call her face back beforemy eyes, I declare it sounds like women's nonsense, but I wonder if Ihaven't done better losing such a woman as that than marrying anyother. "

"She was handsome, " Henry said again, in his tone of futile, wondering sympathy. 

When Henry had left Sidney and returned home, he found, to hishorror, that Sylvia was not down-stairs. "She's up there with thegirl, and Rose 'll tell her, " he thought, uneasily. "She can't keepit to herself if she's alone with another woman. "

He was right. Sylvia had followed the girl to her room. She was stillangry with Rose, and filled with a vague suspicion, but she adoredher. She was hungry for the pleasure of unfastening her gown, ofseeing the last of her for the day. When she entered she found Roseseated beside the window. The lamp was not lit. 

Sylvia stood in the doorway looking into the shadowy room. "Are youhere?" she asked. She meant her voice to be harsh, but it rang sweetwith tenderness. 

"Yes, Aunt Sylvia. "

"Where are you?"

"Over here beside the window. "

"What on earth are you setting in the dark for?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd sit down here a few minutes. I was going tolight the lamp soon. "

Sylvia groped her way to the mantel-shelf, found the china match-box, and struck a match. Then she lit the lamp on the bureau and looked atthe girl. Rose held her face a little averted. The lighting of theroom had blotted out for her the soft indeterminateness of the summernight outside, and she was a little afraid to look at Sylvia with theglare of the lamp full upon her face. 

"You'll get cold setting there, " said Sylvia; "besides, folks canlook right in. Get up and I'll unhook your dress. "

Rose got up. Sylvia lowered the white window-shade and Rose stoodabout for her gown to be unfastened. She still kept her face awayfrom the older woman. Sylvia unfastened the muslin bodice. She lookedfondly at the soft, girlish neck when it was exposed. Her lips fairlytingled to kiss it, but she put the impulse sternly from her. 

"What were you and Mr. Allen talking about so long down in theorchard?" said she. 

"A good many things--ever so many things, " said Rose, evasively. 

Sylvia saw the lovely, slender neck grow crimson. She turned the girlaround with a sudden twist at the shoulders, and saw the faceflushing sweetly under its mist of hair. She saw the pouting lips andthe downcast eyes. 

"Why don't you look at me?" she said, in a hard whisper. 

Rose remained motionless. 

"Look at me. "

Rose raised her eyelids, gave one glance at Sylvia, then she droppedthem again. She was all one soft, rosy flush. She smiled a smilewhich she could not control--a smile of ecstasy. 

Sylvia turned deadly pale. She gasped, and held the girl from her, looking at her pitilessly. "You don't mean it?" she exclaimed. 

Then Rose spoke with a sudden burst of emotion. "Oh, Aunt Sylvia, "she said, "I thought I wouldn't tell you to-night. I made him promisenot to tell to-night, because I was afraid you wouldn't like it, butI've got to. I don't feel right to go to bed and not let you know. "

"Then it's so?"

Rose gave her a glance of ineffable happiness and appeal for sympathy. 

"You and him are planning to get married?"

"Not for a year; not for a whole year. He's absurdly proud becausehe's poor, and he wants to make sure that he can earn more than histeacher's salary. Not for a whole year. "

"You and him are planning to get married?"

"I wasn't sure till this afternoon, " Rose whispered. She put her armsaround Sylvia, and tried to nestle against her flat bosom with acuddling movement of her head, like a baby. "I wasn't sure, " shewhispered, "but he--told me, and--now I am sure. "

Then Rose wept a little, softly, against Sylvia's thin breast. Sylviastood like a stone. "Haven't you had all you wanted here?" she asked. 

"Oh, Aunt Sylvia, you know I have. You've been so good to me. "

"I had got my plans made to put in a bath-room, " said Sylvia. "I'vegot the carpenters engaged, and the plumber. They are going to beginnext week. "

"You've been as good as can be to me, Aunt Sylvia. "

"And I'm on the lookout for a carriage and horse you can drive, andI've been planning to have some parties for you. I've tried to thinkof everything that would make you feel happy and contented and athome. "

"Oh, you have; I know you have, dear Aunt Sylvia, " murmured Rose. 

"I have done all I knew how, " repeated Sylvia, in a stony fashion. She put the girl gently away and turned to go, but Rose caught herarm. 

"Aunt Sylvia, you aren't going like this!" she cried. "I was afraidyou wouldn't like it, though I don't know why. It does seem thatHorace is all you could ask, if I were your very own daughter. "

"You are like my very own daughter, " said Sylvia, stiffly. 

"Then why don't you like Horace?"

"I never said anything against him. "

"Then why do you look so?"

Sylvia stood silent. 

"You won't go without kissing me, anyway, will you?" sobbed Rose. 

This time she really wept with genuine hurt and bewilderment. 

Sylvia bent and touched her thin, very cold lips to Rose's. "Now goto bed, " she said, and moved away, and was out of the room in spiteof Rose's piteous cry to her to come back. 

Henry, after he had entered the house and discovered that Sylvia wasup-stairs with Rose, sat down to his evening paper. He tried to read, but could not get further than the glaring headlines about akidnapping case. He was listening always for Sylvia's step on thestair. 

At last he heard it. He turned the paper, with a loud rustle, to thecontinuation of the kidnapping case as she entered the room. He didnot even look up. He appeared to be absorbed in the paper. 

Sylvia closed the hall door behind her noiselessly; then she crossedthe room and closed the door leading into the dining-room. Henrywatched her with furtive eyes. He was horribly dismayed withoutknowing why. When Sylvia had the room completely closed she cameclose to him. She extended her right hand, and he saw that itcontained a little sheaf of yellowed newspaper clippings pinnedtogether. 

"Henry Whitman, " said she. 

"Sylvia, you are as white as a sheet. What on earth ails you?"

"Do you know what has happened?"

Henry's eyes fell before her wretched, questioning ones. "What do youmean, Sylvia?" he said, in a faint voice. 

"Do you know that Mr. Allen and Rose have come to an understandingand are going to get married?"

Henry stared at her. 

"She has just told me, " said Sylvia. "Here I have done everything inthe world I could for her to make her contented. "

"Sylvia, what on earth makes you feel so? She is only going to dowhat every girl who has a good chance does--what you did yourself. "

"Look at here, " said Sylvia, in an awful voice. 

"What are they?"

"I found them in a box up in the garret. They were cut fromnewspapers years ago, when Rose was nothing but a child, just afterher mother died. "

"What are they? Don't look so, Sylvia. "

"Here, " said Sylvia, and Henry took the little yellow sheaf ofnewspaper clippings, adjusted his spectacles, moved the lamp nearer, and began to read. 

He read one, then he looked at Sylvia, and his face was as white ashers. "Good God!" he said. 

Sylvia stood beside him, and their eyes remained fixed on eachother's white face. "I suppose the others are the same, " Henry said, hoarsely. 

Sylvia nodded. "Only from different papers. It's terrible how alikethey are. "

"So you've had this on your mind?"

Sylvia nodded grimly. 

"When did you find them?"

"We'd been living here a few days. I was up in the garret. There wasa box. "

Henry remained motionless for a few moments. Then he sighed heavily, rose, and took Sylvia by the hand. "Come, " he said. 

"What are you going to do?"

"Come. "

Sylvia followed, dragging back a little at her husband's leadinghand, like a child. They passed through the dining-room into thekitchen. "There's a fire in the stove, ain't there?" said Henry, asthey went. 

Sylvia nodded again. She did not seem to have many words for thisexigency. 

Out in the kitchen Henry moved a lid from the stove, and put thelittle sheaf of newspaper clippings, which seemed somehow to have asinister aspect of its own, on the bed of live coals. They leapedinto a snarl of vicious flame. Henry and Sylvia stood hand in hand, watching, until nothing but a feathery heap of ashes remained on topof the coals. Then he replaced the lid and looked at Sylvia. 

"Have you got any reason to believe that any living person besidesyou and I knows anything about this?" he asked. 

Sylvia shook her head. 

"Do you think Miss Farrel knew?"

Sylvia shook her head again. 

"Do you think that lawyer out West, who takes care of her money, knows?"

"No. " Sylvia spoke in a thin, strained voice. "This must be what sheis always afraid of remembering, " she said. 

"Pray God she never does remember, " Henry said. "Poor little thing!Here she is carrying a load on her back, and if she did but once turnher head far enough to get a glimpse of it she would die of it. It'slucky we can't see the other side of the moon, and I guess it's luckywe haven't got eyes in the backs of our heads. "

"You wondered why I didn't want her to get married to him, " saidSylvia. 

Henry made an impatient motion. "Look here, Sylvia, " he said. "I lovethat young man like my own son, and your feeling about it is rankidiocy. "

"And I love her like my own daughter!" cried Sylvia, passionately. "And I don't want to feel that she's marrying and keeping anythingback. "

"Now, look here, Sylvia, here are you and I. We've got this secretbetwixt us, and we've got to carry it betwixt us, and never let anyliving mortal see it as long as we both live; and the one thatoutlives the other has got to bear it alone, like a sacred trust. "

Sylvia nodded. Henry put out the kitchen lamp, and the two left theroom, moving side by side, and it was to each of them as if they werein reality carrying with their united strength the heavy, dead weightof the secret. 

Chapter XIX

Henry, after the revelation which Sylvia had made to him, became morepuzzled than ever. He had thought that her secret anxiety would bealleviated by the confidence she had made him, but it did not seem tobe. On the contrary, she went about with a more troubled air thanbefore. Even Horace and Rose, in the midst of their love-dream, noticed it. 

One day Henry, coming suddenly into the sitting-room, found Rose onher knees beside Sylvia, weeping bitterly. Sylvia was looking overthe girl's head with a terrible, set expression, as if she werelooking at her own indomitable will. For the first time Henry lostsight of the fact that Sylvia was a woman. He seemed to see her as aseparate human soul, sexless and free, intent upon her own ends, which might be entirely distinct from his, and utterly unknown to him. 

Rose turned her tear-wet face towards him. "Oh, Uncle Henry, " shesobbed, "Aunt Sylvia is worrying over something, and she won't tellme. "

"Nonsense, " said Henry. 

"Yes, she is. Horace and I both know she is. She won't tell me whatit is. She goes about all the time with such a dreadful face, and shewon't tell me. Oh, Aunt Sylvia, is it because you don't want me tomarry Horace?"

Sylvia spoke, hardly moving her thin lips. "I have nothing whateveragainst your marriage, " she said. "I did think at first that you werebetter off as you were, but now I don't feel so. "

"But you act so. " Rose stumbled to her feet and ran sobbing out ofthe room. 

Henry turned to his wife, who sat like a statue. "Sylvia, you oughtto be ashamed of yourself, " he said, in a bewildered tone. "Here youare taking all the pleasure out of that poor child's littlelove-affair, going about as you do. "

"There are other things besides love-affairs, " said Sylvia, in astrange, monotonous tone, almost as if she were deaf and dumb, andhad no knowledge of inflections. "There are affairs between the souland its Maker that are more important than love betwixt men andwomen. "

Sylvia did not look at Henry. She still gazed straight ahead, withthat expression of awful self-review. The thought crossed Henry'smind that she was more like some terrible doll with a mechanicalspeech than a living woman. He went up to her and took her hands. They were lying stiffly on her lap, in the midst of soft whitecambric and lace--some bridal lingerie which she was making for Rose. "Look here, Sylvia, " said Henry, "you don't mean that you arefretting about--what you told me?"

"No, " said Sylvia, in her strange voice. 

"Then what--?"

Sylvia shook off his hands and rose to her feet. Her scissors droppedwith a thud. She kept the fluffy white mass over her arm. Henrypicked up the scissors. "Here are your scissors, " said he. 

Sylvia paid no attention. She was looking at him with stern, angryeyes. 

"What I have to bear I have to bear, " said she. "It is nothingwhatever to you. It is nothing whatever to any of you. I want to belet alone. If you don't like to see my face, don't look at it. Noneof you have any call to look at it. I am doing what I think is right, and I want to be let alone. "

She went out of the room, leaving Henry standing with her scissors inhis hand. 

After supper that night he could not bear to remain with Sylvia, sewing steadily upon Rose's wedding finery, and still wearing thatterrible look on her face. Rose and Horace were in the parlor. Henrywent down to Sidney Meeks's for comfort. 

"Something is on my wife's mind, " he told Sidney, when the two menwere alone in the pleasant, untidy room. 

"Do you think she feels badly about the love-affair?"

"She says that isn't it, " replied Henry, gloomily, "but she goesabout with a face like grim death, and I don't know what to make ofit. "

"She'll tell finally. "

"I don't know whether she will or not. "

"Women always do. "

"I don't know whether she will or not. "

"She will. "

Henry remained with Meeks until quite late. Sylvia sewed and sewed byher sitting-room lamp. Her face never relaxed. She could hear the humof voices across the hall. 

After awhile the door of the parlor was flung violently open, and sheheard Horace's rushing step upon the stair. Then Rose came in, allpale and tearful. 

"I have told him I couldn't marry him, Aunt Sylvia, " she said. 

Sylvia looked at her. "Why not?" she asked, harshly. 

"I can't marry him and have you feel so dreadfully about it. "

"Who said I felt dreadfully about it?"

"Nobody said so; but you look so dreadfully. "

"I can't help my looks. They have nothing whatever to do with yourlove-affairs. "

"You say that just to pacify me, I know, " said Rose, pitifully. 

"You don't know. Do you mean to say that you have dismissed him?"

"Yes, and he is horribly angry with me, " moaned Rose. 

"I should think he would be. What right have you to dismiss a man toplease another woman, who is hardly any relation to you? I shouldthink he would be mad. What did he do?"

"He just slammed the door and ran. "

Sylvia laid her work on the table and started out of the room with anangry stride. 

"Where are you going?" asked Rose, feebly, but she got no reply. 

Soon Sylvia re-entered the room, and she had Horace by the arm. Helooked stern and bewildered. Sylvia gave him a push towards Rose. 

"Now look at here, both of you, " she said. "Once for all, I have gotnothing to say against your getting married. I am worrying aboutsomething, and it is nobody's business what it is. I am doing right. I am doing what I know is right, and I ain't going to let myself bepersuaded I ain't. I have done all I could for Rose, and I am goingto do more. I have nothing against your getting married. Now I amgoing into the parlor to finish this work. The lamp in there isbetter. You can settle it betwixt you. "

Sylvia went out, a long line of fine lace trailing in her wake. Horace stood still where she had left him. Rose looked at him timidly. 

"I didn't know she felt so, " she ventured, at last, in a small voice. 

Horace said nothing. Rose went to him, put her hand through his arm, and laid her cheek against his unresponsive shoulder. "I did think itwould about kill her if it went on, " she whispered. "I think I wasmistaken. "

"And you didn't mind in the least how much I was hurt, as long as shewasn't, " said Horace. 

"Yes, I did. "

"I must say it did not have that appearance. "

Rose wept softly against his rough coat-sleeve. "I wanted to do whatwas right, and she looked so dreadfully; and I didn't want to beselfish, " she sobbed. 

Horace looked down at her, and his face softened. "Oh Rose, " he said, "you are all alike, you women. When it comes to a question of rightor wrong, you will all lay your best-beloved on the altar ofsacrifice. Your logic is all wrong, dear. You want to do right somuch that the dust of virtue gets into your eyes of love and blindsthem. I should come first with you, before your aunt Sylvia, and yourown truth and happiness should come first; but you wanted to lay themall at her feet--or, rather, at the feet of your conscience. "

"I only wanted to do what was right, " Rose sobbed again. 

"I know you did, dear. " Horace put his arm around Rose. He drew herto a chair, sat down, and took her on his knee. He looked at heralmost comically, in return for her glance of piteous appeal. 

"Don't laugh at me, " she whispered. 

Horace kissed her. "I am not laughing at you, but at the eternalfeminine, dear, " he said. "There is something very funny about theeternal feminine. It is so earnest on the wrong tack, and hurtsitself and others so cruelly, and gets no thanks for it. "

"I don't know what you mean. I don't like your talking so to me, Horace. I only meant to do what was right. "

"I won't talk so any more, darling. "

"I don't think I have much of the eternal feminine about me, Horace. "

"Of course not, sweetheart. "

"I love you, anyway, " Rose whispered, and put up her face to bekissed again, "and I didn't want to hurt you. I only wanted to do myduty. "

"Of course you did, sweetheart. But now you think your duty is tomarry me, don't you?"

Rose laughed, and there was something angelic and innocent about thatlaugh of the young girl. Horace kissed her again, then both started. "She is talking to herself in there, " whispered Rose. "Horace, whatdo you suppose it is about? Poor Aunt Sylvia must be worryinghorribly about something. What do you think it is?"

"I don't know, darling, " replied Horace, soberly. 

They both heard that lamentable murmur of a voice in the other room, but the doors were closed and not a word could be understood. 

Sylvia was sewing rapidly, setting the most delicate and daintystitches, and all the time she was talking carrying on a horribleargument, as if against some invisible dissenter. 

"Ain't I doing everything I can?" demanded Sylvia. "Ain't I, I'd liketo know? Ain't I bought everything I could for her? Ain't I makingher wedding-clothes by hand, when my eyes are hurting me all thetime? Ain't I set myself aside and given her up, when God knows Ilove her better than if she was my own child? Ain't I doingeverything? What call have I to blame myself? Only to-day I've boughta lot of silver for her, and I'm going to buy a lot more. After theunderclothes are done I'm going about the table linen, though shedon't need it. I ain't using a mite of her aunt Abrahama's. I'msaving it all for her. I'm saving everything for her. I've made mywill and left all her aunt's property to her. What have I done? I'mdoing right; I tell you I'm doing right. I know I'm doing right. Anybody that says I ain't, lies. They lie, I say. I'm doing right. I--"

Henry opened the door. He had just returned from Sidney Meeks's. Sylvia was sewing quietly. 

Henry looked around the room. "Why, who were you talking to?" heasked. 

"Nobody, " replied Sylvia, taking another stitch. 

"I thought I heard you talking. "

"How could I be talking when there ain't anybody here to talk to?"

Chapter XX

It was not quite a year afterwards that the wedding-day of Rose andHorace was set. It was July, shortly after the beginning of thesummer vacation. The summer was very cool, and the country lookedlike June rather than July. Even the roses were not gone. 

The wedding was to be in the evening, and all day long women workeddecorating the house. Rose had insisted on being married in the oldWhite homestead. She was to have quite a large wedding, and peoplefrom New York and Boston crowded the hotel. Miss Hart was obliged toengage three extra maids. Hannah Simmons had married the winterbefore. She had married a young man from Alford, where she now lived, and came over to assist her former mistress. Lucinda had a look ofcombined delight and anxiety. "It's almost as bad as when theythought we'd committed murder, " she said to Hannah. 

"It was queer how we found that, " said Hannah. 

"Hush, " said Lucinda. "You remember what we agreed upon after we'dtold Albion Bennet that we'd keep it secret. "

"Of course I remember, " said Hannah; "but there ain't any harm in myreminding you how queer it was that we found the arsenic, that thepoor thing had been taking to make her beautiful complexion, in herroom. "

"It was awful, " said Lucinda. "Poor soul! I always liked her. Peopleought to be contented with what God has given them for complexions. "

"I wonder if she would have looked very dreadful if she hadn't takenit, " Hannah said, ruminatingly. She was passing the kitchenlooking-glass as she spoke, and glanced in it. Hannah considered thather own skin was very rough. "I suppose, " said she, "that it wouldnever have happened if she had been careful. I suppose lots of womendo use such things. "

Lucinda cast a sharp glance at Hannah. "It's downright wicked foolingwith them, " said she. "I hope you won't get any such ideas into yourhead. "

"No, I sha'n't, " replied Hannah. "I'm married. "

"I heard pretty straight this morning, " said Lucinda, "that LucyAyres had got married out West, and had done real well. "

"I'm mighty glad of it, " said Hannah, sharply. "She was crazy enoughto get married when she was here. "

Lucinda echoed her as sharply. "Guess you're right, " she said. "Albion Bennet told me some things. I shouldn't think she'd make muchof a wife, if she has got a pretty face. "

"She's just the kind to settle down and be a real sensible woman, after she's found out that she's on the earth and not in the clouds, "returned Hannah, with an air of wisdom. 

Then Albion Bennet came into the kitchen for some hot water forshaving. He was going to the wedding, and had closed his store early, and was about to devote a long time to preparations. Lucinda, also, was going. She had a new black silk for the occasion. 

When Albion left the kitchen he beckoned her to follow him. She madean excuse and went out into the corridor. "What is it?" she said toAlbion, who was waiting, holding his pitcher of hot water. 

"Nothing, " said he, "only I was over to Alford this morning and--Ibought some violets. I thought you'd like to wear them to thewedding. "

Lucinda stared at him. "What for?" asked she. 

Albion fidgeted and his pitcher of hot water tilted. 

"Look out, you're spilling the water, " said Lucinda. "What for?"

"I--thought you might like to wear them, you know, " said Albion. Hehad never before given violets to a woman, and she had never had anygiven her by a man. 

"Thank you, " she said, faintly. 

"I've ordered a hack to come for me at half-past seven, and--Ithought maybe you'd like to ride with me, " said Albion, further. 

Lucinda stared. "What for?" she said again. 

"I thought you might like to ride. "

Then Lucinda colored. "Why, folks would talk, " said she. 

"Let them. I don't care; do you?"

"Albion Bennet, I'm a lot older than you. I ain't old enough to beyour mother, but I'm a good deal older than you. "

"I don't care, " said Albion. "I know how old you are. I don't care. I'd enough sight rather have you than those young things that keepracing to my store. When I get you I shall know what I've got, andwhen I've got them I shouldn't know. I'd rather have heavy bread, ordry bread, and know it was bread, than new-fangled things that ain'ta mite more wholesome, and you don't know what you've got. I don'tknow how you feel, Lucinda, but I ain't one who could ever marrysomebody he hadn't summered and wintered. I've summered and winteredyou, and you've summered and wintered me. I don't know how muchfalling in love there is for either of us, but I reckon we can get ontogether and have a good home, and that's what love-making has towind up in, if the mainspring don't break and all the works bust. I'mmaking quite a little lot from my store. I suppose maybe the soda andcandy trade will fall off a little if I get married, but if it does Ican take a young clerk to draw it. You won't have to work so hard. You can let some of this big hotel, and keep rooms enough for us, andI'll hire a girl for the kitchen and you can do fancy-work. "

"Land!" said Lucinda. "I can do the work for only two. "

"You're going to have a hired girl, " said Albion, firmly. "I know ofone I can get. She's a real good cook. Are you going in the hack withme, Lucinda?"

Lucinda looked up at him, and her face was as the face of a younggirl. She had never had an offer, nor a lover. Albion Bennet lookedvery dear to her. 

"Good land!" said Albion, "you act as if you were a back number, Lucinda. You look as young as lots of the young women. You don't doup your hair quite like the girls that come for soda and candy, butotherwise--"

"I can do up my hair like them, if I want to, " said Lucinda. "It'sthick enough. I suppose I 'ain't fussed because I didn't realize thatanybody but myself ever thought about it one way or the other. "

"Then you'll go in the hack?" said Albion. 

Lucinda made a sudden, sharp wheel about. "I sha'n't get ready to goin a hack if I don't hurry and get these biscuits made for supper, "said she, and was gone. 

It is odd how individuality will uprear itself before its ownconsciousness, in the most adverse circumstances. Few in all thecompany invited to the wedding wasted a thought upon Albion Bennetand Lucinda Hart, but both felt as if they were the principal figuresof it all. Lucinda really did merit attention. She had taken anotherrole upon her stage of life. The change in her appearance savored ofmagic. Albion kept looking at her as if he doubted his very eyes. Lucinda did not wear the black silk which she had made for theoccasion. She had routed out an old lavender satin, which she hadworn years ago and had laid aside for mourning when her father died. It was made in one of those quaint styles which defy fashion. Lucindahad not changed as to her figure. She hesitated a little at theV-shape of the neck. She wondered if she really ought not to fillthat in with lace, but she shook her head defiantly, and fastenedaround her neck a black velvet ribbon with a little pearl pin. Thenshe tucked Albion's violets in the lavender satin folds of her waist. Her hair was still untouched with gray, and she had spoken the truthwhen she had said she could arrange it like a girl. She had puffed itlow over her temples and given it a daring twist in the back. 

Albion fairly gasped when he saw her. "Lord!" said he, "why ain't youbeen for candy and soda to the store, too?"

Few people at the wedding noticed Lucinda and Albion, but theynoticed each other to that extent that all save themselves seemedrather isolated from them. Albion whispered to Lucinda that she wouldmake a beautiful bride, and she looked up at him, and they were inlove. 

They stood well back. Neither Lucinda nor Albion were pushing. Lucinda considered that her wonderful city boarders belonged in thefront ranks, and Albion shared her opinion. It was a beautifulwedding. The old house was transformed into a bower with flowers andvines. Musicians played in the south room, which was like a grovewith palms. There was a room filled with the wedding-presents, andthe glitter of cut glass and silver seemed almost like anothermusical effect. 

The wedding was to be at eight o'clock. Everybody was there beforethat time. Meeks and Henry stood together in the hall by the spiralstaircase, which was wound with flowers and vines. Henry wore adress-suit for the first time in his life. Meeks wore an ancient one, in which he moved gingerly. "I believe I weigh fifty pounds more thanI did when the blamed thing was made, " he said to Henry, "and thebroadcloth is as thin as paper. I'm afraid to move. "

Henry looked very sober. "What's the matter, Henry?" asked Sidney. 

"It's Sylvia. "

"Sylvia? I thought--"

"Yes, I thought, too, that she had got what was on her mind off it, but she hasn't. I don't know what ails her. She ain't herself. I'mworried to death about her. "

Then the wedding-march was played and the bridal party came down thestairs. Rose was on the arm of the lawyer who had acted as hertrustee. He was to give her away. The task had been an impossible onefor Henry to undertake, although he had been the first one thought ofby Rose. Henry had told Meeks, and the two had chuckled together overit. "The idea of a man from a shoe-shop giving away a bride in reallace at a swell wedding, " said Henry. 

"She was the right sort to ask you, though, " said Meeks. 

"Bless her little heart, " said Henry, "she wouldn't care if UncleHenry smelled strong enough of leather to choke out the smell of theflowers. But I ain't going to make a spectacle of myself at my timeof life. If I stand that dress-suit I shall do well. Sylvia is goingto wear black lace with a tail to it. I know somebody will step onit. "

Sylvia, in her black lace, came down the stairs in the wake of thebridal party. She did not seem to see her husband as she passed him. 

"By Jove!" said the lawyer, in a whisper. "What does ail her, Henry?She looks as if she was going to jump at something. "

Henry did not answer. He made his way as quickly as possible afterSylvia, and Sidney kept with him. 

Horace and Rose, in her bridal white, stood before the clergyman. Themusic had ceased. The clergyman opened his mouth to begin thewedding-service, when Sylvia interrupted him. She pushed herself likea wedge of spiritual intent past the bridal pair and the bridesmaidsand best man, and stood beside the clergyman. He was a small, blondman, naturally nervous, and he fairly trembled when Sylvia put herhand on his arm and spoke. 

"I have something to say, " said she, in a thin, strained voice. "Youwait. "

The clergyman looked aghast at her. People pressed forward, craningtheir necks to hear more distinctly. Some tittered from nervousness. Henry made his way to his wife's side, but she pushed him from her. 

"No, " she said. "Stand back, Henry, and listen with the others. Youhad nothing to do with it. You ain't concerned in it. "

Then she addressed the assembly. "This man, my husband, " she said, "has known nothing of it. I want you all to understand that before Ibegin. " Sylvia fumbled in the folds of her black lace skirt, whilethe people waited. She produced a roll of paper and held it up beforethem. Then she began her speech. 

"I want, " said she, "before all this company, before my old friends, and the friends of these two young people who are about to bemarried, to make my confession. I have not had the courage before. Ihave courage now, and this is the fitting time and place, since itmetes out the fittest punishment and shame to me, who deserve somuch. You have assembled here to-night thinking that you were to beat my house at this wedding. It is not so. It is not my house. Noneof this property is mine. I have known it was not mine since a littlewhile after we came to live here. I have known it all belonged toRose Fletcher, Abrahama White's own niece. After Rose came to livewith us, I tried to put salve on my conscience by doing every singlething I could for her. When my husband went to work again, I spentevery cent that came from her aunt's property on Rose. I gave her allher aunt's jewelry. I tried to salve over my conscience and make itseem right--what I had done, what I was doing. I tried to make itseem right by telling myself that Rose had enough property of her ownand didn't need this, but I couldn't do it. I have been in torment, holding wealth that didn't belong to me, that has gnawed at my veryheart all the time. Now I am going to confess. Here is AbrahamaWhite's last will and testament. I found it in a box in the garretwith some letters. Abrahama wrote letters to her sister asking her toforgive her, and telling her how sorry she was, and begging her tocome home, but she never sent one of them. There they all were. Shehad tried to salve her conscience as I have tried to salve mine. Shecouldn't do it, either. She had to give it up, as I am doing. Thenshe made her will and left all her property to Rose. "

Sylvia unfolded the roll of paper and began reading. The will wasvery short and concise. It was as follows:

"I, Abrahama White, being in sound mind and understanding, and movedthereunto by a desire to make my peace with God for my sins before Igive up this mortal flesh, declare this to be my last will andtestament. I give and bequeath to my niece, Rose Fletcher, thedaughter of my beloved sister, deceased, my entire property, real andpersonal, to her and her heirs forever. And I hereby appoint SidneyMeeks, Esquire, as my executor. 

 "(Signed) Abrahama White. "

Sylvia read the will in her thin, strained voice, very clearly. Everyword was audible. Then she spoke again. "I have kept it secret allthis time, " said she. "My husband knew nothing of it. I kept it fromhim. I tried to hide from God and myself what I was doing, but Icould not. Here is the will, and Miss Rose Fletcher, who standsbefore you, about to be united to the man of her choice, is the ownerof this house and land and all the property which goes with it. "

She stopped. There was a tense silence. Then Sidney Meeks spoke. "Mrs. Whitman, " he said, "may I trouble you for the date of thatdocument you hold, and also for the names of the witnesses?"

Sylvia looked at Sidney in bewilderment, then she scrutinized thewill. "I don't see any date, " she said, at last, "and there is noname signed except just Abrahama's. "

Meeks stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen, " he said, "Mrs. Whitmanhas, I am pleased to say, been under quite unnecessary anxiety ofspirit. The document which she holds is not valid. It is neitherdated nor signed. I have seen it before. The deceased lady, MissAbrahama White, called me in one morning, shortly before her death, and showed me this document, which she had herself drawn up, merelyto make her wishes clear to me. She instructed me to make out a willunder those directions, and I was to bring it to her for hersignature, and produce the proper witnesses. Then, the next day, shecalled me in to inform me that there had been a change in her planssince she had heard of her niece's having a fortune, and gave medirections for the later will, which was properly made out, signed, witnessed, and probated after Miss White's decease. Mrs. Whitman isthe rightful heir; but since she has labored under the delusion thatshe was not, I am sure we all appreciate her courage and sense ofduty in making the statement which you have just heard from her lips. "

Sylvia looked at the lawyer, and her face was ghastly. "Do you meanto say that I have been thinking I was committing theft, when Iwasn't, all this time?" said she. 

"I certainly do. "

Henry went to Sylvia and took hold of her arm, but she did not seemto heed him. "I was just as guilty, " said she, firmly, "for I had theknowledge of sin in my heart and I held it there. I was just asguilty. "

She stared helplessly at the worthless will which she still held. Ayoung girl tittered softly. Sylvia turned towards the sound. "Thereis no occasion to laugh, " said she, "at one who thought she wassinning, and has had the taste of sin in her soul, even though shewas not doing wrong. The intention was there. "

Sylvia stopped. Rose had both arms around her, and was kissing herand whispering. Sylvia pushed her gently away. "Now, " she said to theminister, "you can go on with your marrying. Even if Mr. Meeks hadtold me before what he has just told me here in your presence, Ishould have had to speak out. I've carried it on my shoulders and inmy heart just as long as I could and live and walk and speak underit, let alone saying my prayers. I don't say I haven't got to carryit now, for I have, as long as I live; but telling you all about itwas the only way I could shift a little of the heft of it. Now I feelas if the Lord Almighty was helping me carry the burden, and alwayswould. That's all I've got to say. Now you can go on with yourmarrying. "

Sylvia stepped back. There was a hush, then a solemn murmur of onevoice, broken at intervals by other hushes and low responses. 

When it was over, and the bridal pair stood in the soft shadow oftheir bridal flowers--Rose's white garment being covered with alace-like tracery of vines and bride roses, and her head with itschaplet of orange-blossoms shining out clearly with a white radiancefrom the purple mist of leaves and flowers, which were real, yetunreal, and might have been likened to her maiden dreams--Henry andSylvia came first to greet them. 

Henry's dress-suit fitted well, but his shoulders, bent with hislife-work over the cutting-table, already moulded it. No tailor onearth could overcome the terrible, triumphant rigidity of that backfitted for years to its burden of toil. However, the man's face washappy with a noble happiness. He simply shook hands, with awkwardsolemnity, with the two, but in his heart was great, unselfishexultation. 

"This man, " he was saying to himself, "has work to do that won'tgrind him down and double him up, soul and body, like a dumb animal. He can take care of his wife, and not let her get bent, either, andthe Lord knows I'm thankful. "

He felt Sylvia's little nervous hand on his arm, and a greattenderness for her was over him. He had not a thought of blame orshame on her account. 

Instead, he looked at Rose, blooming under her bridal flowers, not somuch smiling as beaming with a soft, remote radiance, like a star, and he said to himself: "Thank the Lord that she will never get sowarped and twisted as to what is right and wrong by the need of moneyto keep soul and body together, that she will have to do what my wifehas done, and bear such a burden on her pretty shoulders. "

It seemed to Henry that never, not even in his first wedded rapture, had he loved his wife as he loved her that night. He glanced at her, and she looked wonderful to him; in fact, there was in Sylvia's facethat night an element of wonder. In it spirit was manifest, far aboveand crowning the flesh and its sordid needs. Her shoulders, under thefine lace gown, were bent; her very heart was bent; but she saw thegoal where she could lay her burden down. 

The music began again. People thronged around the bride and groom. There were soft sounds of pleasant words, gentle laughs, and happyrejoinders. Everybody smiled. They witnessed happiness with perfectsympathy. It cast upon them rosy reflections. And yet every one bore, unseen or seen, the burden of his or her world upon strainingshoulders. The grand, pathetic tragedy inseparable from life, whichAtlas symbolized, moved multiple at the marriage feast, and yet lovewould in the end sanctify it for them all. 

THE END