[Illustration: Paul stood by her, looking down into her eyes, bendingover her, smiling, pressing, confident, masterful. (Page 96)]

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 THE SQUIRREL-CAGE

 By DOROTHY CANFIELD

 With Illustrations By JOHN ALONZO WILLIAMS

 New York HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1912

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 Copyright, 1911, 1912, By THE RIDGWAY COMPANY

 Copyright, 1912, By HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

 Published March, 1912

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 CONTENTS

 BOOK I

 THE FAIRY PRINCESS

 CHAPTER PAGE

 I An American Family 3 II American Beauties 12 III Picking up the Threads 22 IV The Dawn 32 V The Day Begins 42 VI Lydia's Godfather 55 VII Outside the Labyrinth 61 VIII The Shadow of the Coming Event 78 IX Father and Daughter 88 X Casus Belli 99

 BOOK II

 IN THE LOCOMOTIVE CAB

 XI What is Best for Lydia 115 XII A Sop to the Wolves 122 XIII Lydia Decides in Perfect Freedom 131 XIV Mid-Season Nerves 139 XV A Half-Hour's Liberty 154 XVI Engaged to be Married 165 XVII Card-Dealing and Patent Candles 177

 BOOK III

 A SUITABLE MARRIAGE

 XVIII Two Sides to the Question 193 XIX Lydia's New Motto 207 XX An Evening's Entertainment 215 XXI An Element of Solidity 226 XXII The Voices in the Wood 233 XXIII For Ariadne's Sake 244 XXIV "Through Pity and Terror Effecting a Purification of the Heart" 261 XXV A Black Mile-stone 270 XXVI A Hint from Childhood 277 XXVII Lydia Reaches Her Goal and has Her Talk with Her Husband 289 XXVIII "The American Man" 307 XXIX ". . . . . . . . . In Tragic Life, God Wot, No Villain Need be. Passions Spin the Plot" 318 XXX Tribute to the Minotaur 328

 BOOK IV

 BUT IT IS NOT TOO LATE FOR ARIADNE

 XXXI Protection from the Minotaur 337 XXXII As Ariadne Saw It 342 XXXIII What is Best for the Children? 351 XXXIV Through the Long Night 359 XXXV The Swaying Balance 365 XXXVI Another Day Begins 369

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 ILLUSTRATIONS

Paul stood by her, looking down into her eyes, bending over her, smiling, pressing, confident, masterful (Page 96) Frontispiece

 PAGE

"You say beautiful things!" he replied quietly. "Myrough quarters are glorified for me" 69

"No, no; I can't--see him--I can't stand any more--" 137

"I see everything now, " she went on. "He could not stop. " 272

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 THE SQUIRREL-CAGE

 BOOK I

 THE FAIRY PRINCESS

CHAPTER I

AN AMERICAN FAMILY

The house of the Emery family was a singularly good example of thecapacity of wood and plaster and brick to acquire personality. It wasthe physical symbol of its owners' position in life; it was the historyof their career, written down for all to see, and as such they felt init the most justifiable pride. When Mr. And Mrs. Emery, directly aftertheir wedding in a small Central New York village, had gone West to Ohiothey had spent their tiny capital in building a small story-and-a-halfcottage, ornamented with the jig-saw work and fancy turning popular in1872, and this had been the nucleus of their present rambling, picturesque, many-roomed home. Every step in the long series of changeswhich had led from its first state to its last had a profound andgratifying significance for the Emerys, and its final condition, prosperous, modern, sophisticated, with the right kind of woodwork inevery room that showed, with the latest, most unobtrusively artisticeffects in decoration, represented their culminating well-earnedposition in the inner circle of the best society of Endbury. 

Moreover, they felt that just as the house had been attained witheffort, self-denial and careful calculations, yet still withoutincurring debt, so their social position had been secured by unremittingdiligence and care, but with no loss of self-respect or even of dignity. They were honestly proud both of their house and of their list ofacquaintances and saw no reason to regard them as less worthyachievements of an industrious life than their four creditable grown-upchildren or Judge Emery's honorable reputation at the bar. In theiryouth they had conceived of certain things as worth attaining. They hadworked hard for these things and their unabashed pleasure in possessingthem had the vivid and substantial quality which comes from a keenmemory of battles with a world none too ready to grant human desires. 

The two older children, George and Marietta, could remember those earlystruggling days with almost as fresh an emotion as that of theirparents. Indeed, Marietta, now a competent, sharp-eyed matron ofthirty-two, could not see the most innocuous colored lithograph withoutan uncontrollable wave of bitterness, so present to her mind was theperiod when they painfully groped their way out of chromos. 

The date of that epoch coincided with the date of their firstacquaintance with the Hollisters. The Hollisters were Endbury's FirstFamily; literally so, for they had come up from their farm in Kentuckyto settle in Endbury when it was but a frontier post. It was a part oftheir superiority over other families that their traditions tookcognizance of the time when great stumps from the primeval forest stoodin what was now Endbury's public square, the hub of interurban trolleytraffic, whence the big, noisy cars started for their infinitelyradiating journeys over the flat, fertile country about the little city. The particular Mrs. Hollister who, at the time the Emerys began topierce the upper crust, was the leader of Endbury society, had discardedchromos as much as five years before. Mrs. Emery and Marietta, newlyadmitted to the honor of her acquaintance, wondered to themselves at thecold monotony of her black and white engravings. The artlessness of thiswonder struck shame to their hearts when they chanced to learn that thelady had repaid it with a worldly-wise amusement at their ownhighly-colored waterfalls and snow-capped mountain-peaks. Mariettacould recall as piercingly as if it were yesterday, in how crestfallen achagrin she and her mother had gazed at their parlor after thisincident, their disillusioned eyes open for the first time to thefutility of its claim to sophistication. As for the incident that hadled to the permanent retiring from their table of the monumentalsalt-and-pepper "caster" which had been one of their most prized weddingpresents, the Emerys refused to allow themselves to remember it, sointolerably did it spell humiliation. 

Even the oldest son, prosperous, well-established manufacturer that hewas, could not recall without a shudder his first dinner-party. A branchof the Hollisters had moved next door to the Emerys and, to Mrs. Emery'sgreat satisfaction, an easy neighborly acquaintance had sprung upbetween the two families. Secure in this familiarity, and notdistinguishing the immense difference between a chance invitation todrop in to dinner and a formal invitation to dine, the youngbusiness-man had almost forgotten the date for which he had been bidden. Remembering it with a start, he had gone straight from his office to thehouse of his hosts, supposing that he would be able, as he had done manytimes before, to wash his face and hands in the bath-room and brush hishair in the room of the son of the house. 

The sight of a black man in evening dress, who opened the door to himinstead of the usual maid, sent a vague apprehension through hispreoccupied mind, but it was not until he found himself in the room setapart for the masculine guests and saw everyone arrayed in"swallow-tails, " as he thought of them, that he realized what he haddone. The emotion of the moment was one that made a mark on his life. 

He had an instant's wild notion of making some excuse to go home anddress, for his plight was by no means due to necessity. He had a correctoutfit of evening clothes, bought at the urgent command of his mother, which he had worn several times at public dinners given by the cityBoard of Trade and once at a dancing party at the home of the head ofhis firm. However, the hard sense which made him successful in hisbusiness kept him from a final absurdity now. He had been seen, and hedecided grimly that he would be, on the whole, a shade more laughable ifhe appeared later in a changed costume. 

He was twenty-one years old at that time; he considered himself a mangrown. He had been in business for five years and his foot was alreadyset firmly on the ladder of commercial success on which he was to mounthigh, but not for nothing had he felt about him all his life theinextinguishable desire of his family to outgrow rusticity. He chidedhimself for unmanly pettiness, but the fact remained that throughout theinterminable evening the sight of his gray striped trousers or coloredcuffs affected him to a chagrin that was like a wave of physical nausea. Four years later he had married a handsome young lady from among theHollister connections, and, moving away to Cleveland, where no memory ofhis antecedents could handicap him, had begun a new social career aseminently successful as his rapid commercial expansion. He forcedhimself sometimes to think of that long-past evening as one presses on ascar to learn how much soreness is left in an old wound, and he smiledat the little tragedy of egotism it had been to him. But it was a wrysmile. 

A brighter recollection to all the Emerys was the justly complacent andsatisfied remembrance of the house grounds during the first reallysuccessful social event they had achieved. It was a lawn-fête, given forthe benefit of St. Luke's church, which Mrs. Emery and Marietta hadrecently joined. Socially, it was the first fruits of their conversionfrom Congregationalism. The weather was fine, the roses were out, thevery best people were there, the bazaar was profitable, and the dowagerof the Hollister matrons had spoken warm words of admiration of thecompetent way in which the occasion had been managed to Mrs. Emery, smiling and flushed in an indomitably self-respecting pleasure. Theolder Emerys still sometimes spoke of that afternoon and evening asparents remember the hour when their baby first walked alone, withsomething of the same mixture of pride in the later achievements of thechild and of tenderness for its early weakness. 

The youngest of the Emerys, many years the junior of her brothers andsister, knew nothing at all of the anxious bitter-sweet of these earlyendeavors for sophistication. By the time she came to conscious, individual life the summit had been virtually reached. It is not to bedenied that Lydia had witnessed several abrupt changes in the familyideal of household decoration or of entertaining, but since they wereexactly contemporaneous with similar changes on the part of theHollisters and other people in their circle, these revolutions of tastebrought with them no sense of humiliation. Such, for instance, was thesubstitution for carpets of hardwood floors and rugs as oriental as thepurse would allow. Lydia could remember gorgeously flowered carpets onevery Emery floor, but since they also covered all the prosperous floorsin town at the same time, it was not more painful to have found themattractive than to have worn immensely large sleeves or preposterouslyblousing shirt waists, to have ridden bicycles, or read E. P. Roe, oranything else that everybody used to do and did no more. She couldremember, also, when charades and book-parties were considered amusingpastimes for grown-ups, but in passing beyond these primitive tastes theEmerys had been well abreast of their contemporaries. The last charadeparty had not been held in _their_ parlors, they congratulatedthemselves. 

A philosophic observer who had known the history of Mrs. Emery's lifemight have found something pathetic in her pleasure at Lydia'slight-hearted jesting at the funny old things people used to thinkpretty and the absurd pursuits they used to think entertaining. It wasto her a symbol that her daughter had escaped what had caused her somuch suffering, the uneasy, self-distrusting dread lest she might stillbe finding pretty things that up-to-date people thought grotesque; lestsuddenly what she had toiled so painfully to obtain should somehow turnout to be not the "right thing" after all. Marietta did not recall morevividly than did her mother the trying period that had elapsed betweentheir new enlightenment on the subject of chromos and the day when anunexpected large fee from a client of Mr. Emery (not yet Judge) enabledthem to hang their Protestant walls with engravings of pagan gods andRoman Catholic saints. For their problem had never been the simple oneof merely discovering the right thing. There had always been added to itthe complication of securing the right thing out of an income by nomeans limitless. The head of the household had enjoyed the success thatmight have been predicted from his whole-souled absorption in hisprofession, but Judge Emery came of old-fashioned rural stock withinelastic ideas of honesty, and though he was more than willing to toilearly and late to supply funds for his family and satisfy whatever formof ambition his women-folk might decree to be the best one, he was notwilling to take advantage of the perquisites of his position, and never, as the phrase in the town ran, "made on the side. " Of his temptationsand of his stout resistance to them, his wife and children knew no more, naturally, than of any of the other details of his professional life, which, according to the custom of their circle, were as remote andhidden from them as if he had departed each morning after his heartyearly breakfast into another planet; but his wife was proud of theintegrity which she divined in her husband and, as she often declaredroundly to Marietta, would not have exchanged his good name for a muchlarger income. 

Indeed, the acridity which for Marietta lingered about the recollectionof their efforts to make themselves over did not exist in the more amplysatisfied mind of her mother. The difference showed itself visibly inthe contrast between the daughter's face, stamped with a certain tired, unflagging intensity of endeavor, and the freshness of the older woman. At thirty-two, Marietta looked, perhaps, no older than her age, butobviously more worn by the strain of life than her mother at fifty-six. Sometimes, as she noted in her mirror the sharp lines of a fatigue thatwas almost bitterness, she experienced a certain unnerving uncertainty, a total lack of zest for what she so eagerly struggled to attain, andshe envied her mother's single-minded satisfaction in getting what shewanted. 

Mrs. Emery had enjoyed the warfare of her life heartily; the victoriesfor their own sake, the defeats because they had spurred her on to freshand finally successful efforts, and the remembrance of both was sweet toher. She loved her husband for himself and for what he had been able togive her, and she loved her children ardently, although she had beensorely vexed by her second son's unfortunate marriage. He had alwaysbeen a discordant note in the family concert, the veiled, unconscious, uneasy skepticism of Marietta bursting out openly in Henry as acareless, laughing cynicism, excessively disconcerting to his mother. She sometimes thought he had married the grocer's daughter out of"contrariness. " The irritation which surrounded that event, and the playof cross-purposes and discord which had filled the period until themisguided young people had voluntarily exiled themselves to the FarWest, remained more of a sore spot in Mrs. Emery's mind than any blowgiven or taken in her lifelong campaign for distinction. She admittedfrankly to herself that it was a relief that Harry was no longer nearher, although her mother's heart ached for the Harry he had seemed toher before his rebellion. She fancied that she would enjoy him as of oldif the litter of inconvenient persons and facts lying between them couldbut be cleared away; with a voluntary blindness not uncommon in parents, refusing to recognize that these superficial differences were only theoutward expression of a fundamental alienation within. At all events, itwas futile to speculate about the matter, since the width of thecontinent and her son's intense distaste for letter-writing separatedthem. She had come, therefore, to turn all her attention and proudaffection on her youngest child. 

It seemed to her sometimes that Lydia had been granted her by amerciful Providence in order that she might make that "fresh start allover again" which is the never-realized ideal of erring humanity. Marietta had been a young lady fourteen years before, and fourteen yearsmeant much--meant everything to people who progressed as fast as theEmerys. Uncertain of themselves, they had not ventured to launchMarietta boldly upon the waves of a society the chart of which was sonew to them. She had no coming-out party. She simply put on long skirts, coiled her black hair on top of her head, and began going to eveningparties with a few young men who were amused by the tart briskness ofher tongue and attracted by the comeliness of her healthful youth. Shehad married the first man who proposed to her--a young insurance agent. Since then they had lived in a very comfortable, middling state ofharmony, apparently on about the same social scale as Marietta'sparents. That this feat was accomplished on a much smaller income wasdue to Marietta's unrivaled instinct and trained capacity for keeping upappearances. 

All this history had been creditable, but nothing more; and Mrs. Emeryoften looked at her elder daughter with compunction for her own earlierignorance and helplessness. She could have done so much more forMarietta if she had only known how. Mrs. Mortimer was, however, a ratherprickly personality with whom to attempt to sympathize, and in generalher mother felt the usual -in-law conclusion about her daughter's life:that Marietta could undoubtedly have done better than to marry herindustrious, negligible husband, but that, on the whole, she might havedone worse; and it was much to be hoped that her little boy wouldresemble the Emerys and not the Mortimers. 

No such philosophical calm restrained her emotions about Lydia. She wasin positive beauty and charm all that poor Marietta had not been, andshe was to have in the way of backing and management all that poorMarietta had lacked. It seemed to Mrs. Emery that her whole life hadbeen devoted to learning what to do and what not to do for Lydia. As thetime of action drew nearer she nerved herself for the campaign with afinely confident feeling that she knew every inch of the ground. Herexpectancy grew more and more tense as her eagerness rose. During thelong year that Lydia was in Europe, receiving a final gloss, even higherthan that imparted by the expensive and exclusive girls' school whereshe had spent the years between fourteen and eighteen, Mrs. Emery laidher plans and arranged her life with a fervent devotion to one end--thesuccess of Lydia's first season in society. Every room in the houseseemed to her vision to stand in a bright vacancy awaiting the arrivalof the débutante. 

CHAPTER II

AMERICAN BEAUTIES

On the morning of Lydia's long-expected return, as Mrs. Emery movedrestlessly about the large double parlors opening out on a veranda wherethe vines were already golden in the September sunlight, it seemed toher that the very walls were blank in hushed eagerness and that thechairs and tables turned faces like hers, tired with patience, towardthe open door. She had not realized until the long separation was almostover how unendurably she had missed her baby girl, as she still thoughtof the tall girl of nineteen. She could not wait the few hours that wereleft. Her fortitude had given way just too soon. She must have the dearchild now, now, in her arms. 

She moved absently a spray of goldenrod which hid a Fra Angelico angelover the mantel and noted with dramatic self-pity that her hand wastrembling. She sat down suddenly, and lost herself in a vain attempt torecall the well-beloved sound of Lydia's fresh young voice. A knot camein her throat, and she covered her face with her large, white, carefully-manicured hands. 

Marietta came in briskly a few moments later, bringing a bouquet ofasters from her own garden. She was dressed, as always, with a severereticence in color and line which, though due to her extreme need foreconomy, nevertheless gave to the rather spare outlines of her tallfigure a distinction, admired by Endbury under the name of stylishness. Her rapid step had carried her half-way across the wide room before shesaw to her surprise that her mother, usually so self-contained, wasgiving way to an inexplicable emotion. 

"Good gracious, Mother!" she began in the energetic fashion which wasapt to make her most neutral remarks sound combative. 

Mrs. Emery dried her eyes with a gesture of protest, adjusted her graypompadour deftly, and cut off her daughter's remonstrance, "Oh, youneedn't tell me I'm foolish, Marietta. I know it. I just suddenly got soimpatient it didn't seem as though I could wait another minute!"

The younger woman accepted this explanation of the tears with a murmuredsound of somewhat enigmatic intonation. Her thin dark face settled intoa repose that had a little grimness in it. She began putting the flowersinto a vase that stood between the reproduction of a Giotto Madonna anda Japanese devil-hunt, both results of the study of art taken up duringthe past winter by her mother's favorite woman's club. Mrs. Emerywatched the process in the contemplative relief which follows anemotional outbreak, and her eyes wandered to the objects on either sidethe vase. The sight stirred her to speech. "Oh, Marietta, how _do_ yousuppose the house will seem to Lydia after she has seen so much? I hopeshe won't be disappointed. I've done so much to it this last year, perhaps she won't like it. And Oh, I _was_ so tried because we weren'table to get the new sideboard put up in the dining-room yesterday!"

Mrs. Mortimer glanced without smiling at a miniature of her sister, blooming in a shrine-like arrangement on her mother's writing-desk. Sheshook her dark head with a gesture like her father's, and said with hisblunt decisiveness, "Really, Mother, you must draw the line about Lydia. She's only human. I guess if the house is good enough for you and fatherit is good enough for her. "

She crossed the room toward the door with a brisk rattle of starchedskirts, but as she passed her mother her hand was caught and held. "That's just it, Marietta--that's just what came over me! _Is_ what'sgood enough for us good enough for Lydia? Won't anything, even the best, in Endbury be a come-down for her?"

The slightly irritated impatience with which Mrs. Mortimer had listenedto the first words of this speech gave way to a shrewd amusement. "Youmean that you've put Lydia up on such a high plane to begin with thatwhichever way she goes will be a step down, " she asked. 

"Yes, yes; that's just it, " breathed her mother, unconscious of anyirony in her daughter's accent. She fixed her eyes, which, in spite ofher having long since passed the half-century mark, were still veryclear and blue, anxiously upon Marietta's opaque dark ones. She felt notonly a need to be reassured in general by anyone, but a reluctant faithin the younger woman's judgment. 

Marietta released herself with a laugh that was like a light, mockingtap on her mother's shoulder. "Well, folks that haven't got real worrieswill certainly manufacture them! To worry about Lydia's future inEndbury! Aren't you afraid the sun won't rise some day? If ever therewas any girl that had a smooth road in front of her--"

The door-bell rang. "They've come! They've come!" cried Mrs. Emerywildly. 

"Lydia wouldn't ring the bell, and her train isn't due till ten, " Mrs. Mortimer reminded her. 

"Oh, yes. Well, then, it's the new sideboard. I am so--"

"It's a boy with a big pasteboard box, " contradicted Mrs. Mortimer, looking down the hall to the open front door. 

Seeing someone there to receive it, the boy set the box inside thescreen door and started down the steps. 

"Bring it here! Bring it here!" called Mrs. Mortimer, commandingly. 

"It's for Lydia, " said Mrs. Emery, looking at the address. She spokewith an accent of dramatic intensity, and a flush rose to her faircheeks. 

Her olive-skinned daughter looked at her and laughed. "What did youexpect?"

"But he didn't care enough about her coming home to be in town to-day!"Mrs. Emery's maternal vanity flared up hotly. 

Mrs. Mortimer laughed again and began taking the layers of crumpledwax-paper out of the box. "Oh, that was the trouble with you, was it?That's nothing. He had to be away to see about a new electrical plant inDayton. Did you ever know Paul Hollister to let anything interfere withbusiness?" This characterization was delivered with an intonation thatmade it the most manifest praise. 

Her mother seconded it with unquestioning acquiescence. "No, that's afact; I never did. "

Mrs. Mortimer in her turn had an accent of dramatic intensity as shecried out, "Oh! they are American Beauties! The biggest I ever saw!"

The two women looked at the flowers, almost awestruck at their size. 

"Have you a vase?" Mrs. Mortimer asked dubiously. 

Mrs. Emery rose to the occasion. "The Japanese umbrella stand. "

There was a pause as they reverently arranged the great sheaf ofenormous flowers. Then Mrs. Emery began, "Marietta--" She hesitated. 

"Well, " Mrs. Mortimer prompted her, a little impatiently. 

"Do you really think that he--that Lydia--?"

Marietta accepted with a somewhat pinched smile her mother's boundarylines of reticence. "Of course. Did you ever know Paul Hollister to giveup anything he wanted?"

Her mother shook her head. 

Mrs. Mortimer rose with a "Well, then!" and the air of one who has saidall there is to be said on a subject, and again crossed the room towardthe door. Her mother drifted aimlessly in that direction also, as thoughswept along by the other's energy. 

"Well, it's a pity he is not here now, anyhow, " she said, adding in aspirited answer to her daughter's expression, "Now, you needn't lookthat way, Marietta. You know yourself that Lydia is very romantic andfanciful. It would be a very different matter if she were like MadeleineHollister. She wouldn't need any managing. "

Mrs. Mortimer smiled at the idea. "Yes, I'd like to see somebody try tomanage Paul's sister, " she commented. 

"They wouldn't _have_ to, " her mother pointed out, "she's solevelheaded and sane. But Lydia's different. It's part of herloveliness, of course, only you do have to manage her. And she'll be ina very unsettled state for the first week or two after she gets homeafter such a long absence. The impressions she gets then--well, I wishhe were here!"

Mrs. Mortimer waved her hand toward the roses. 

"Of course, of course, " assented her mother, subsiding peaceably downthe scale from anxiety to confidence with the phrase. She looked at themonstrous flowers with the gaze of acquired admiration so usual in hereyes. "They don't look much like roses, do they?" she remarkedirrelevantly. 

Mrs. Mortimer turned in the doorway, her face expressing an extremesurprise. "Good gracious, no, " she cried. "Why, of course not. They costa dollar and a half apiece. "

She did not stop to hear her mother's vaguely assenting reply. Mrs. Emery heard her firm, rapid tread go down the hall to the front door andthen suddenly stop. Something indefinable about the pause that followedmade the mother's heart beat thickly. "What is it, Marietta?" shecalled, but her voice was lost in Mrs. Mortimer's exclamation ofsurprise, "Why it can't be--why, _Lydia_!"

As from a great distance, the mother heard a confused rush in the hall, and then, piercing through the dreamlike unreality of the moment, camethe sweet, high note of a girl's voice, laughing, but with the liquiduncertainty of tears quivering through the mirth. "Oh, Marietta! Where'sMother? Aren't you all slow-pokes--not a soul to meet us at thetrain--where's Mother? Where's Mother? Where's--" The room swam aroundMrs. Emery as she stood up looking toward the door, and the girl whocame running in, her dark eyes shining with happy tears, was not morereal than the many visions of her that had haunted her mother'simagination during the lonely year of separation. At the clasp of theyoung arms about her face took light as from an inner source, andbreath came back to her in a sudden gasp. She tried to speak, but theonly word that came was "Lydia! Lydia! Lydia!"

The girl laughed, a half-sob breaking her voice as she answeredwhimsically, "Well, who did you expect to see?"

Mrs. Mortimer performed her usual function of relieving emotionaltension by putting a strong hand on Lydia's shoulder and spinning herabout. "Come! I want to see if it _is_ you--and how you look. "

For a moment the ardent young creature stood still in a glowing quiet. She drank in the dazzled gaze of admiration of the two women with aninnocent delight. The tears were still in Mrs. Emery's eyes, but she didnot raise a hand to dry them, smitten motionless by the extremity of herproud satisfaction. Never again did Lydia look to her as she did at thatmoment, like something from another sphere, like some bright, unimaginably happy being, freed from the bonds that had always weighedso heavily on all the world about her mother. 

Before she could draw breath, Lydia moved and was changed. Her mothersaw suddenly, with that emotion which only mothers know, reminiscencesof little-girlhood, of babyhood, even of long-dead cousins and aunts, inthe lovely face blooming under the wide hat. She felt the sweetmomentary confusion of individuality, the satisfied sense of completeownership which accompanies a strong belief in family ties. Lydia wasnot only altogether entrancing, but she was of the same stuff with thosewho loved her so dearly. It gave a deeper note to her mother's passionof affectionate pride. 

The girl turned with a pretty, defiant tilt of her head. "Well, and how_do_ I look?" she asked; and before she could be answered she flew atMrs. Mortimer with a gentle roughness, clasping her arms around herwaist until the matron gasped. "_You_ look too good to be true--both ofyou--if you are such lazybones that you wouldn't go to the station tomeet the prodigal daughter!"

"Well, if you will come on an earlier train than you telegraphed--"began Mrs. Mortimer, "Everybody's getting ready to meet you with a brassband. What did you do with Father?"

The girl moved away, putting her hands up to her hat uncertainly asthough about to take out the hat-pins. There was between the three amoment of that constraint which accompanies the transition fromemotional intensity down to an everyday level. In Lydia's voice therewas even a little flatness as she answered, "Oh, he put me in the hackand went off to see about business. I heard him 'phoning something tosomebody about a suit. We got through the customs sooner than we thoughtwe could, you see, and caught an earlier train. "

Mrs. Emery turned her adoring gaze from Lydia's slim beauty and lookedinquiringly at her elder daughter. Mrs. Mortimer understood, and nodded. 

"What are you two making faces about?" Lydia turned in time to catch theinterchange of glances. 

Mrs. Emery hesitated. Marietta spoke with a crisp straightforwardnesswhich served as well in this case as nonchalance for keeping her remarkwithout undue significance. "We were just wondering if now wasn't a goodtime to show you what Paul Hollister did for your welcome home. Hecouldn't be here himself, so he sent those. " She nodded toward thebouquet. 

As Lydia turned toward the flowers her two elders fixed her with theunscrupulously scrutinizing gaze of blood-relations; but theirmicroscopic survey showed them nothing in the girl's face, alreadyflushed and excited by her home-coming, beyond a sudden amused surpriseat the grotesque size of the tribute. 

"Why, for mercy's sake! Did you ever see such monsters! They are as bigas my head! Look!" She whirled her hat from the pretty disorder of herbrown hair and poised it on the topmost of the great flowers, steppingback to see the effect and laughing, "They don't look any more likeroses, do they?" she added, turning to her mother. Mrs. Emery's answerrose so spontaneously to her lips that she was not aware that she wasechoing Marietta. "Good gracious, no; of course not. They cost a dollarand a half apiece. "

Lydia neither assented to nor dissented from this apothegm. It startedanother train of thought in her mind. "As much as all that! Why, Pauloughtn't to be so extravagant! He can't afford it, and I should haveliked something else just as--"

Her sister broke in with an ample gesture of negation. "You don't knowPaul. If he goes on the way he's started--he's district sales managerfor southern Ohio already. "

Lydia paid to this information the passing tribute of a moment'suncomprehending surprise. "Think of that! The last time Paul told meabout himself he was working day and night in Schenectady, learning thebusiness, and getting--oh, I don't know--fifty cents an hour, or somesuch starvation wages. "

Mrs. Mortimer's bitterly acquired sense of values revolted at this. "What are you talking about, Lydia? Fifty cents an hour starvationwages!"

"Well, perhaps it was five cents an hour. I don't remember. And heworked with his hands and was always in danger of getting shot throughwith a million volts of electricity or mashed with a breaking fly-wheelor something. He said electricians were the soldiers of moderncivilization. I told that to a German woman we met on the boat when shesaid Americans have no courage because they don't fight duels. Theidea!"

She began pulling off her gloves, with a quick energetic gesture. Mrs. Mortimer went on, "Well, he certainly has a brilliant future beforehim. Everybody says that--" She stopped, struck by her rather heavyemphasis on the theme and by a curious look from Lydia. The girl did notblush, she did not seem embarrassed, but for a moment the childlikeclarity of her look was clouded by an expression of consciousness. 

Mrs. Emery made a rush upon her, drawing her away toward the door with adispleased look at Marietta. "Never mind about Paul's prospects, " shesaid. "With Lydia just this minute home, to begin gossiping about theneighbors! Come up to your room, darling, and see the little outdoorsitting-room we've had fixed over the porch. "

Mrs. Mortimer was not given to bearing chagrin, even a passing one, withundue self-restraint. She threw into the intonation of her next sentenceher resentment at the rebuke from her mother. "I still live, you know, even if Lydia has come home!" As Mrs. Emery turned with a look ofapology, she added, "Oh, I only wanted to make you turn around so that Icould tell you that I am going to bring my two men-folks over hereto-night, to the gathering of the clans, and that I must go home untilthen. Dr. Melton and Aunt Julia are coming, aren't they?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Lydia. "It doesn't seem to me I can wait to seeGodfather. I sort of half hoped he might be here now. "

"Well, _Lydia_!" her mother reproached her jealously. 

"Oh, you might as well give in, Mother, Lydia likes the little olddoctor better than any of the rest of us. "

"He talks to me, " said Lydia defensively. 

"_We_ never say a word, " commented Mrs. Mortimer. 

Lydia broke away from her mother's close clasp and ran back to hersister. She was always running, as though to keep up with the rapidityof her swift impulses. She held her subtly-curved cheek up to theother's strongly-marked face. "You just kiss me, Etta dear, " she pleadedsoftly, "and stop teasing. "

Mrs. Mortimer looked long into the clear dark eyes with an unmovedcountenance. Then her face melted suddenly till she looked like hermother. She put her arms about the girl with a fervent gesture oftenderness. "Dear little Lydia, " she murmured, with a quaver in hervoice. 

CHAPTER III

PICKING UP THE THREADS

After she was alone she looked again at the miniature of Lydia. Theyouthful radiance of the face had singularly the effect of a perfectflower. Mrs. Mortimer glanced at the hat still drooping its wide brimover the rose where Lydia had forgotten it, and stood still in a reveriethat had, from her aspect, something of sadness in it. After a momentshe sighed out, "Poor little Lydia!"

"What's the matter with Lydia?" asked someone behind her. 

She turned and faced a dark, elderly personage, the robust dignity ofwhose bearing was now tempered with shamefacedness. Mrs. Mortimer's facesharpened in affectionate malice. "What are you doing here at this hourof the morning?" she asked with a humorously exaggerated air ofamazement. "No self-respecting man is ever seen in his house duringbusiness hours!" She went on, "Oh, I know well enough. You let Motherhave her first to make up for her being sick and not able to go to meether ship; but you can't stay away. "

The Judge waved her raillery away with a smile. The physical resemblancebetween father and daughter was remarkable. "I asked you what was thematter with Lydia, " he repeated. 

Mrs. Mortimer's face clouded. "Oh, it's a hateful, horrid sort of worldwe're all so eager to push her into. It's like a can full of angleworms, everlastingly squirming and wriggling to get to the top. I was justthinking that it would be better for her, maybe, if she could alwaysstay a little girl and travel 'round to see things. "

"Why, Etta! I tell you _I'm_ glad to have Lydia get through with hertraveling 'round. Maybe I can see something of her if I hurry up and doit now before your mother gets things going. I won't after that, ofcourse. I never have. "

To this his daughter had one of her abrupt, disconcerting responses. "You'd better hurry and do it before you get so deep in some importanttrial that you wouldn't know Lydia from a plaster image. There are morereasons than just Mother and card parties why you don't see much of her, I guess. "

Judge Emery forbore to argue the point. "Where are they now?" he asked. 

"Oh, upstairs, out of my way. Mother's usual state of mind about Lydiais more so than ever, I warn you. She thought I wasn't refined enoughcompany. "

"Now, Etta, you know your mother never thought any such thing. "

"Well, I know she was inconsistent, whatever she thought. While we werehere alone she was speculating about Paul Hollister like anything. Andyet, because I just happened to mention to Lydia that he is getting onin the world, I got put down as if I'd tried to make her marry him forhis prospects. "

There was an edge in her voice which her father deprecated, rubbing hisshaven chin mildly. He deplored the appearance of a flaw in the smoothsurface of harmony he loved to see in his family. 

"Well, you know, Marietta, we aim to have everything about right forLydia. She's all we've got left now the rest of you are settled. "

The deepening of the careworn lines in the woman's face seemed ajustification for the undisguised bitterness of her answer. "I don't seewhy nobody must breathe a word to her about what everybody knows is so. What's the use of pretending that we'd be satisfied or she'd becomfortable a minute if Paul didn't promise to be a money-maker--or atleast to have a good income?"

She turned away and walked rapidly down the hall, followed by herfather, half apologetic, half reproachful. "Why, Daughter, you don'tgrudge your sister! We couldn't do so much for you; but we're better offsince you were a young lady and we want Lydia to have the benefit. "

Mrs. Mortimer paused on the veranda and stood looking in a troubledsilence at the broad, well-kept lawn, stretching down to the asphaltstreet, shaded by vigorous young maples. Her father waited for her tospeak, too good a lawyer to spoil by superfluous words the effect of awell-calculated appeal. 

Finally she turned to him contritely. "I'm hateful, Dad, and I'm sorry. Of course I don't grudge dear little Lydia anything. Only I have apretty hard time of it scratching along, and when I'm awfully tired ofcontriving and calculating how to manage somehow and anyhow, it's hardto come up to the standard of saying everything's lovely that you andMother want for Lydia. "

"Anything the trouble specially?" asked her father guardedly. 

"Oh, no; same old thing. Keeping up a two-maid and a man establishmenton a one-maid income, and mostly not being able to hire the one maid. There aren't _any_ girls to be had lately. It means I have to be theother maid and the man all of the time, and all three, part of thetime. " She was starting down the step, but paused as though she couldnot resist the relief that came from expression. "And the cost ofliving--the necessities are bad enough, but the other things--the thingsyou have to have not to be out of everything! I lie awake nights. Ithink of it in church. I can't think of anything else but the way theexpenses mount up. Everybody's getting so reckless and extravagant and I_won't_ go into debt! I'll come to it, though. Everybody else does!We're the only people that haven't oriental rugs now. Why, theGilberts--and everybody knows how much they still owe Dr. Melton forEllen's appendicitis, and their grocer told Ralph they owe him severalhundred dollars--well, they have just got an oriental rug that they paida hundred and sixty dollars for. Mrs. Gilbert said they 'just _had_ tohave it, and you can always have what you have to have. ' It makes mesick! Our parlor looks so common! And the last dinner party we gavecost--" She detected a wavering in her father's attention, as though hewere listening for sounds inside the house, and broke off abruptly witha hurt and impatient "Oh, well, no matter!" and ran down the steps. 

Judge Emery called after with a relieved belittling of her complaints, "Oh, if that's all you mean. Why, that's half the fun. I remember whenyou were a baby your mother did the washings so that we could have anurse to take you out with the other children and their nurses. "

Mrs. Mortimer was palpably out of earshot before he finished hisexhortation, so he wasted no more breath but turned back eagerly inresponse to a call from Lydia, who came skimming down the hall. "Oh, Daddy dearest, it's a jewel of a little sitting-room, the one you fixedup for me--and Mother says we can serve punch there the night of mycoming-out party. "

Mrs. Emery was at her heels. Her husband laughed at his wife'sexpression, and drew her toward him. "Here, Mother, stop staring atLydia long enough to welcome me home, too. " He bent over her and rubbedhis cheek against hers. "Come, tell me the news. Are you feelingbetter?" He gave her a little playful push toward the door of theparlor. "Here, let's go in and visit for a while. I'm an old fool! Ican't do any work this morning. I kept Lydia from telling me a thing allthe way from New York, so that we could hear it together. "

Lydia protested. "Tell you! After those monstrous great letters I'vewritten! There's nothing you don't know. There's nothing much to tell, anyhow. I've been museumed and picture-galleried, and churched, andcultured generally, till I'm full--up to there!" She drew her handacross her slim white throat and added cheerfully, "But I forgot themost of that the last three months in Paris. Nearly every girl in theparty was going home to come out in society, and of course we justconcentrated on clothes. You don't mind, do you?"

As she hesitated, with raised eyebrows of doubt, her mother, heedless ofwhat she was saying, was suddenly overcome by her appealing look anddrew her close with a rush of little incoherent tender cries choked withtears. It was as though she were seeing her for the first time. JudgeEmery twice tried to speak before his husky voice was under control. Hepatted his wife on the shoulder. "There, there, Mother, " he saidvaguely. To Lydia he went on, "You've been gone quite a while, you know, and--well, till you have a baby-girl of your own I guess you won't havemuch notion of how we feel. "

Lydia's dark eyes filled, responsive to the emotion about her. "I'm justabout distracted, " she cried. "I love everybody and everything so, Ican't stand it! I want to kiss you both and I can't make up my mindwhich to kiss first--and it's that way about everything! It's all sogood I don't know what to begin on. " She brought their faces togetherand achieved a simultaneous kiss with a shaky laugh. "Now, look here! Ifwe stand here another minute we'll all cry. Come and show me the house. I want to see every single thing. All the old things, and all the newones Mother's been writing about. " She seized their hands and pulledthem into the parlor. "I've been in this room already, but I didn't seeit. I don't believe I even touched the floor when I walked, I was soexcited. Oh, it's lovely--it's lovely!"

She darted about the room like a humming-bird, recognizing what wasfamiliar with fond little exclamations. "Oh, that darling little wickerchair!--the picture of the dog!--oh! oh! here's my china lamb!" andcrying out in admiration over new acquisitions. 

"Oh, Mother, what a perfectly lovely couch--sofa--what do you call it?Why, it is so beautifully _different_! Wherever did you get that?"

Mrs. Emery turned to her husband. "There, Nathaniel, what did I tellyou?" she triumphed. 

"That's one of your mother's latest extravagances, " explained JudgeEmery. "There's a crazy fad in Endbury for special handmade furniture. Maybe it's all right, but I can't see it's so much better than what youbuy in the department stores. Grand Rapids is good enough for me. "

"He doesn't like the man who made it, " said Mrs. Emery accusingly. 

"What's the matter with him?" asked Lydia, rubbing her hand luxuriouslyover the satin-smooth, lusterless wood of the sofa's high back. 

Judge Emery replied, with his laugh of easy, indifferent tolerance foreverything outside the profession of the law, "Oh, I never said I didn'tlike him; I only said he struck me as a crack-brained, self-willed, conceited--"

Lydia laughed. She thought her father's dry, ironic turns very witty. 

"I never saw anything conceited about him, " protested Mrs. Emery, admitting the rest of the indictment. 

Judge Emery sat down on the sofa in question and pulled his tie intoshape. "Well, folks are always conceited who find the ordinary ways ofdoing things not good enough for them. Lydia, what do you think of thistie? Nobody pays a proper attention to my ties but you. "

"I've brought you some beauties from London, " said Lydia. Then revertingwith a momentary curiosity to the subject they had left, "Whatever doesthis man do that's so queer?"

"Oh, he's just one of the back-to-all-fours faddists, " said her father. 

"Back-to-all-fours?" Lydia was dim as to his meaning, but willing to beamused. 

"That's just your father's way, " exclaimed Mrs. Emery, who had not herdaughter's fondness for the Judge's tricks of speech. 

"He lives as no Dago ditch-digger with a particle of get-up-and-get inhim would be willing to, " said Judge Emery finally. 

Lydia turned to her mother. 

"Why, it's nothing that would interest you in the least, dear, " said thematron, taking in admiringly Lydia's French dress. "Only for a littlewhile everybody was talking about how strangely he acted. He was aninsurance man, like Marietta's husband, and getting on finely, when allof a sudden, for no reason on earth, he threw it all up and went to livein the woods. Do you mean to say you only paid twenty dollars for thatdress?"

"In the woods!" repeated Lydia. 

"Yes; the real woods. His father was a farmer, and left him--why youknow, you've been there ever so many times--the Black Rock woods, thepicnic woods. He has built him a little hut there and makes hisfurniture out of the trees. "

Lydia's passing curiosity had faded. "Not quite twenty, even--onlyninety-two francs, " she at last answered her mother's question. "Younever saw anything like the bargains there in summertime. Well, I shouldthink your carpenter man _was_ crazy. " She glanced down withsatisfaction at the hang of her skirt. 

"Oh, not dangerous, " her mother reassured her; "just socialistic, Isuppose, and all that sort of thing. "

"Well, who's crazier than a socialist?" cried her father genially. Headded, "Where are you going, Daughter?"

Lydia stopped in the doorway, with a look of apology for her lack ofinterest in their talk. "I thought I'd just slip into the hall and seeif there's anything new there. There's so much I want to see--all atonce. "

Her fond impatience brought her parents forward with a start ofpleasure, and the tour of inspection began. She led them from one roomto another, swooping with swallow-like motions upon them for suddencaresses, dazzling them with her changing grace. She liked itall--all--she told them, a thousand times better than she remembered. She liked the new arrangement of the butler's pantry; she loved thelibrary for being all done over new; she adored the hall for being leftexactly the way it was. The dining-room was the best of all, shedeclared, with so much that was familiar and so much that was new. "Onlyno sideboard, " she commented. "Have they gone out of fashion while I wasaway?"

Mrs. Emery, whose delight at Lydia's approval had been mounting withevery breath, looked vexed. "I knew you'd notice that!" she said. "Wetried so hard to get the new one put in before you got back, but Mr. Rankin won't deliver a thing till it's just so!"

"Rankin!" cried Lydia, stopping so short in one of her headlong rushesacross the room that she gave the impression of having encountered aninvisible obstacle, "Who's that?"

"Oh, that's the crazy cabinet-maker we were talking about. The onewho--"

"Why, I've met a Mr. Rankin, " said Lydia, with more emphasis than thestatement seemed to warrant. 

"It's a common enough name, " said her mother, struck oddly by heraccent. 

"But here, in Endbury. Only it can't be the same person. He wasn'tqueer; he was awfully nice. I met him once when a crowd of us were outskating that last Christmas I was home from school; the time when youand Father were in Washington and left me at Dr. Melton's with AuntJulia. I used to see him there a lot. He used to talk to the doctor bythe hour, and Aunt Julia and I were doing that set of doilies inHardanger work and we used to sit and sew and count threads and listen. "

"That's the one, " said her father. "Melton has one of his flightynotions that the man is something wonderful. "

"But he wasn't queer or anything then!" protested Lydia. "He nevertalked to me any, of course, I was such a kid, but it was awfullyinteresting to hear him and Godfather go on about morals, and theuniverse, and the future of man, and such--I never heard such talkbefore or after--but it can't be that one!" Lydia broke off to marvelincredulously at the possibility. "He was--why, he was awfully nice!"she fell back on reiteration to help out her affirmation. 

"They say there's queer blood in the family, and I guess he's got hisshare, " Judge Emery summed up and dismissed the case with a gesture offinality. He glanced up at a tall clock standing in the corner, comparedits time with his watch, exclaimed impatiently, "Slow again!" andaddressed himself with a householder's seriousness to setting it right. 

A new aspect of the matter they had been discussing struck Lydia. "Butwhat does he--what do people do about him?" she asked. 

This misty inquiry was as intelligible to her mother as a cipher to theholders of a key. "Oh, he's very nice about that. He has dropped out ofsociety completely and keeps out of everybody's way. Of course you seehim when he comes to set up a piece of his furniture or to take anorder, but that's all. And he used to be so popular!" The regret in thelast clause was that of a thrifty person before waste of any kind. "Iunderstand he still goes to Dr. Melton's a good deal, but that justcounts him in as one of the doctor's collection of freaks; it doesn'tmean anything. You know how your godfather goes on about--" She brokeoff to look out the window. "Oh, Lydia! your trunks are here. Quick!where are your keys? It seems as though I couldn't wait to see yourdresses!" She hurried to the door and vanished. 

Lydia did not stir for a moment. She was looking down at the table, absorbed in watching the dim reflections of her pink finger-tips as shepressed them one after another upon the dark polished wood. Her fatheropened the door of the clock with a little click, but she did not heedit. She drew her hand away from the table and inspected her finger-tipsintently, as though to detect some change in them. When her fatherclosed the clock-door and turned away she started, as though she hadforgotten his presence. Her gaze upon him gave him an odd feeling ofwonder, which he took to be apologetic realization that he had spent alonger time oblivious of her than he had meant. His explanation had alittle compunction in it. "I have a time with that pendulum always. Ican't seem to get it the right length!"

Lydia continued to look at him blankly for a moment. Then she drew along breath and took an aimless step away from the table. "Well, if thatisn't too queer for anything!" she exclaimed. 

Judge Emery stared. "Why, no; it's quite common in pendulum clocks, " hetold her. 

CHAPTER IV

THE DAWN

The morning after her return from Europe, Lydia awoke with a start, asthough in answer to a call. The confusion of the last days had been suchthat she had for a moment the not uncommon experience of an entireblankness as to her whereabouts and identity. Realization of where andwho she was came back to her with much more than the usual neutralrelief at slipping into one's own personality as into the firstprotection available against the vague horror of nihility. After aninstant's uncomfortable wandering in chaos, Lydia found herself with athrill of exultation. She was not negatively relieved that she wassomebody; she rejoiced to find herself Lydia Emery. She pounced on herown personality with a positive joy which for a moment moved her to adevout thanksgiving. 

It all seemed, as she said to herself, too good to be true--certainlymore than she deserved. Among her unmerited blessings she quaintlyplaced being herself, but this was the less naïve in that she placedamong her blessings nearly everything of which she was conscious in herworld. Her world at this time was not a large one, and every element init seemed to her ideal. Her loving, indulgent father, who always had asmile for her as he looked up over his newspaper at the table, and who, though she knew he was too good to be wealthy, always managed somehow topay for dresses just a little prettier than other girls' clothes; herdevoted, idolizing mother, whose one thought was for her daughter'spleasure; her rich big Brother George in Cleveland, whom she saw soseldom, but whose handsome presents testified to an affection that wasto be numbered among the objects of her gratitude; good, sharp-tonguedSister Etta, who said such quick, bright things and ran her house sowonderfully; Aunt Julia, dear, dear Aunt Julia, whose warm heart was oneof Lydia's happiest homes, and Aunt Julia's brother, Dr. Melton--ah, howcould anyone be grateful enough for such an all-comprehending, quick-helping, ever-ready ally, teacher, mentor, playmate, friend andcomrade as her godfather!

As she lay in her soft white bed and looked about her pretty room withan ineffable sense of well-being, it seemed to her that everything thathad happened to her was lovely and that the prospect of her future couldcontain only a crescendo of good-fortune. It was not that she imaginedfor herself a future remarkably different in detail from what was thepast of the people about her. Even now at what she felt was thebeginning of the first chapter, she knew the general events of the storybefore her; but this morning she was penetrated with the keenest senseof the unfathomable difference it made in those events in that they wereabout to happen to her. She had been passively watching the excitedfaces of people hurling themselves down-hill on toboggans, but now shewas herself poised on the crest of the slope, tense with an excitementnot only more real, but somehow more vital to the scheme of things, thanthat felt by other people who had made the thrilling trip before her. 

She lay still for a few moments, luxuriating in the innocent egotism ofthis view of her future, which was none the less absorbing for being soentirely unterrifying, and then sprang up, impatient to begin it. No oneelse in the house was awake. She saw with surprise that it was barelyfive o'clock. She wondered that she felt so little sleepy, since she hadbeen up late the night before. All the family and connections hadgathered, and she had talked with an eager breathlessness and hadlistened as eagerly to pick up all those details of home news which donot go into letters; those insignificant changes and events that make upthe physiognomy of an existence, without which one cannot again becomean integral part of a life once familiar. It had been a fatiguing, illuminating evening. 

A change of mood had come in the night. As she dressed she felt that, insome way, neither the fatigue nor the illumination had lasted on throughthe blankness of her sound young sleep. She felt restlessly fresh andvigorous, like a creature born anew with the morning light, and she didnot feel herself as yet an integral part of the busy, absorbing life towhich she had returned. The countless tendrils of Endbury feelings, standards, activities, brushed against her, but had not as yet laid holdon her. Europe had never been more real to her young-lady eyes than animmense World's Exposition, rather overwhelmingly full of objects to beinspected, and now, here in Ohio, even that impression was dim andremote. But so, also, was Endbury; she had left the one, she had not yetarrived at the other. She felt herself for the moment in a neutralterritory that was scarcely terrestrial. 

The silent house was a kingdom of delight to be rediscovered. Shewandered about it, enchanted with the impressions which her solitudegave her leisure to savor and digest. She threw open a window, and wasstruck with the sweet freshness of the morning air, as though it were ajoy new in the history of the world. She looked out on the lawn, withits dew-studded cobwebs, and felt her heart contract with pleasure. Whenshe stepped out on the veranda, the look of the trees, the breath of thelight wind across her cheek, the odor of dawn, all the indefinablepersonality of that early hour was like an enchantment about her. 

She ran out to her favorite arbor and plucked one of the heavy clustersof purple grapes, finding their cool acidity an exquisite surprise. Sheraised her face to the sky with wonder. She had never, it seemed to her, seen so pure yet colorful a sky. The horizon was still faintly flushedwith the promise of a dawn already fulfilled in the fresh splendor ofthe sunbeams slanting across the fresh splendor of her own youth. 

Never again did Lydia see the things she saw that morning. Never againdid she have so unquestioningly the happy child's conception of thewhole world as magically centered in indulgent kindness about herself. As she looked up the clean, empty street stretching away under the shadeof its thrifty young trees, it seemed made only to lead her forward intothe life for which she had been so long preparing herself. Endbury, withits shops, its bustle of factories so unmeaning to her, the great bulkof its inexplicable "business, " existed only as the theater upon thestage of which she was to play the leading rôle in the drama oflife--she almost consciously thought of it in those terms--which, aftersome exciting and pleasurable incidents and a few thrilling situations, was to have a happy ending, none the less actual to her mind becauselost in so vague a golden shimmer. Her father's house, as familiar toher as her hand, took on a new and rich dignity as the background forthe unfolding of that wonderful creature, herself; that unknown, future, grown-up self, which was to be all that everyone who loved her expected, and more than she in her inexperience knew how to expect. 

She was in a little heaven, made up of the most ingenuous aspirations, the innocence of which seemed to her a guarantee of their certainfulfillment. Her fervent desire to be good was equal to and of the samequality as her desire to be a successful débutante. It would make herfamily so happy to have her both. These somewhat widely diverging aimswere all a part of the current of her life, the impulse to be what thoseshe loved would like to have her. It was not that she was willing togive up her own individuality to gratify the impulse, but rather thatshe did not for an instant conceive of the necessity for such asacrifice. It was part of her immense happiness that she had alwaysloved to be what it pleased everyone to have her, and that, apparently, people wished to have her only what she wished to be. She was like achild guarded by her elders from any knowledge of forbidden food. Allthe goodies of which she had ever heard were hers for the asking. Insuch a carefully arranged nursery it would be perversity to doubt theeverlasting quality of the coincidence between one's desires and one'sobedience. It was no more remarkable a coincidence than that both dewand sunshine were good for the grass over which she now ran lightly toanother corner of the grounds about her parents' house. Here, justoutside the circle of deep shade cast by an exuberantly leaved maple, she stood for a moment, her hands full of grapes, her eyes wanderingabout the green, well-kept double acres called diversely in the family"the grounds" (Mrs. Emery's name) and "the yard. " Lydia always clung toher father's name; she had very little inborn feeling for the finershades of her mother's vocabulary. Mrs. Emery rejoiced in the carelessunconsciousness of the importance of such details, but she felt thatLydia should be cautioned against going too far. It was one of thegirl's odd ways to be fond of the few phrases left over in the Emerydictionary from their simpler earlier days. She always called the twoservants "the girls" or "the help" instead of "the maids, " spoke of the"washwoman" instead of the "laundress, " and, as did her father, calledthe man who took care of the grounds, ran the furnace, and drove theEmery's comfortable surrey, the "hired man" instead of the "gardener" orthe "coachman, " or, in Mrs. Emery's elegantly indefinite phrase, "ourman. "

Lydia explained this whimsical reaction rather incoherently by sayingthat those nice old words were so much more fun than the others, and inspite of remonstrance she clung to her fancy with so lightly laughing anobstinacy that neither she nor anyone suspected it of being a surfaceindication of a significant tendency. 

She had occasionally other droll little ways of differing from thefamily, which were called indulgently "Lydia's notions. " Her motherwould certainly have thus named this flight out into the early morning. She would have found extravagant, and a little disconcerting, thecompleteness of Lydia's content in so simple a thing as standing in thefirst sunshine of an early morning in September, and she would havebeen unquestionably disturbed, perhaps even a little alarmed, by thebeatific expression of Lydia's face as she gazed fixedly up into thesky, the tempered radiance of which was as yet not too bright for herclear gaze. 

All the restless joy of a few minutes before, which had driven her aboutfrom one delight to another, fused under the sun's first warmth into atrance-like quiet. She stood still in the sunshine, a slow flush, like areflection of dawn, rising to her cheeks, her lips parted, her eyesbright and vacant. An old person coming upon her at this moment wouldhave been painfully moved by that tragic pity which age feels for theunreasoning joy of youth. She looked a child, open-eyed and breathlessbefore the fleeting beauties of a bubble, most iridescent when about todisappear. 

It was a man by no means old who swung suddenly into sight around thecorner, walking swiftly and noiselessly upon the close-cut grass, andthe startled expression with which he found himself close to Lydia wasby no means one of pity. He fell back a step, and in the instant beforethe girl was aware of his presence his gaze upon her was that of a mandazzled by an incredible vision. 

She brought her eyes down to him, and for the space of a breath theexpression was hers as well. The sunlight glowing about them seemed thereflection of their faces. Then, for a moment longer, though mutualrecognition flashed into their eyes, they did not speak, looking at eachother long and seriously. 

Finally, with a nymph-like stir of all her slender body, Lydia rousedherself. "Well, I can speak--can you?" she asked whimsically. "Don't youremember me?"

The man drew a long breath and took off his cap, showing close-croppedauburn hair gleaming, like his beard, red in the sun. "You took mybreath away!" he exclaimed. 

"What was the matter with me?" asked Lydia, prettily confident of acompliment to follow. 

It came in so much less direct a form than she had expected that beforeshe recognized it she had returned it with naïve impulsiveness. 

"I didn't think you could be real, " said the man, "you looked so exactlythe way this glorious morning made me feel. "

"Why, that's just how you looked to me!" she cried, and flushed at thesignificance of her words. 

Before her confusion the other turned away his quiet gray eyes, and saidlightly, "Well, that's because we are the only people in all the worldwith sense enough to get up so early on a morning like this. I've beenout tramping since dawn. "

Lydia explained herself also. "I just couldn't sleep, it seemed solovely. It's my first morning home, you know. "

"Is it?" responded the man, with a vagueness he made no effort toconceal. 

It came over Lydia with a shock that he did not know she had been away. She felt hurt. It seemed ungracious for anyone in Endbury not to havemissed her, not to share in the joyful excitement of her final return. "I've been in Europe for a year, " she told him, with a dignity that wasa reproach. 

"Oh, yes, yes; I remember now hearing Dr. Melton speak of it, " heanswered, with no shade of apology for his forgetfulness. He looked ather speculatively, as if wondering what note to strike for thecontinuation of their talk. Apparently he decided on the note oflightness. "Well, you're the most important person there is for meto-day, " he told her unexpectedly. 

Lydia arched her dark eyebrows inquiringly. She was always sensitivelyresponsive, and now had forgotten, like a sweet-tempered child, hermomentary pique. 

He smiled suddenly, moved, as people often were, to an apparentlyirrelevant tenderness for her. His voice softened into a playfulnesslike that of a person speaking to an imaginative little girl. "Why, didn't you learn in school that all wise old nations have the beliefthat the first person you meet after you go out in the morning decidesthe fortune of the day for you? Now, what kind of a day are you goingto give me?"

Lydia laughed. "Oh, you must tell first! You forget you're the firstperson I've seen this morning. I'll see what I can do for you after I'veseen what you are going to do for me. " She added, with a solemnity onlyhalf jocular, "But it's ever so much more important in my case, foryou're the first person I meet as I begin my life in Endbury. Think whata responsibility for you! You ought to give me something extra nicebeside, for not remembering me any better and never noticing that I hadbeen away. " She broke into a sunny mitigation of her own severity, "Butyou can have some grapes, even if you are not very flattering. "

The man took the cluster she held out to him, but only eyed them as heanswered, "Oh, I remember you very well. You're a niece of Mrs. Sandworth's, or of her husband's, and Mrs. Sandworth is Dr. Melton'ssister. You're the big-eyed little girl who used to sit in a corner andsew while the doctor and I talked, and now, " he brought it out rotundly, "you've been to Europe for a year, and you're grown-up. "

Lydia hung her head laughingly at his good-natured caricature. "Well, but I _have_, really and truly, " she protested, "all of that. And I justguess you haven't had two such interesting things happen to you in sucha short time as--" She stopped short, struck dumb by a suddenrecollection. "Oh, I beg your pardon, " she murmured; "I forgot aboutwhat they said you had--"

Her expression was so altered, she looked at him with so curious achange from familiarity to strangeness, that his steady eyes wavered amoment in startled surprise. "What's that?" he asked sharply; "I didn'tcatch what you said. "

"Why, nothing--nothing--only they were telling me yesterday about howyou--why, it just came over me that you _had_ had a great deal happen toyou this last year, as well as I. "

He looked a relieved and slightly annoyed comprehension of the case. "Oh, that!" he summed it up for her with a grave brevity. "I have lostmy father, and I have started life on a new footing during the pastyear. "

Lydia fumbled for words that would be applicable and not wounding. "Iwas so sorry to hear that--about your father, I mean. And about theother--it must be very--_interesting_, I'm sure. "

His silence and enigmatic gaze upon her moved her to a fluttered fearlest she seem ungracious. She added, with a droll little air of lettinghim see that she was not of the enemy, "I do hope some day you'll tellme all about it; it sounds so romantic. "

The young man gave an inarticulate sound, and stroked his ruddy beard toconceal a smile. "It's not, " he said briefly. He put his cap back on hishead and looked down the street as though his thoughts were alreadyaway. 

His lack of responsiveness came, Lydia thought, from her having woundedhis feelings. "Oh, I'm sure you must have some good reason for doingsuch a _queer_ thing, " she said hurriedly. Then, appalled by the wordson which the haste of her good intentions had carried her, "Oh, I meanthat it's very brave, heroic, of you to have the courage--perhapssomething very sad happened to you, and to forget it you--"

The other broke into the laugh he had been trying to suppress. His grayeyes lighted up brilliantly with his mirth. "You're very kind, " he said, "you're very kind, but rather imaginative. It doesn't take any courage;quite the reverse. And it's not a picturesque way of doing a retreatfrom active life. I hope and pray that it's to be a way of getting intoit. "

The girl's face of bewilderment at his tone moved him to add, a rippleof amusement still in his voice, "Ah, don't try to make me out. I don'tbelong in your world, you know; I'm real. "

Lydia continued to look at him blankly. The obscurity of his remarks wasin no way lessened by this last addition, but he vouchsafed no furtherexplanation. "You've given me my breakfast, " he said, holding up thegrapes; "I mustn't keep you any longer from yours. "

He waited for a moment for Lydia to respond to this speech, struck by asudden realization that it might sound like an unceremonious hint to herto retire, rather than the dismissal of himself he intended. When shemade no answer, he turned away with a somewhat awkward gesture ofleave-taking. Lydia looked after him in silence. 

CHAPTER V

THE DAY BEGINS

She watched him until he was out of sight, and although the vigorous, rhythmic swing of his broad shoulders was like another manifestation ofthe morning's joyous, buoyant spirit, it did not move her to aresponsive alertness. After he had turned a corner, she lowered her eyesto the cluster of grapes she still held; a moment after, without anychange in expression, she relaxed her grasp on them and let them fall, turning away and walking soberly back to the house. The dew had alreadydisappeared from the grass. There was now no hint of the dawn'scoolness; the day had begun. 

Her father met her at the door with an exclamation about her earlyhours. He would really see something of her, he said, if she kept upthis sort of thing. It would be too good to be true if he couldbreakfast with her every morning. Whereupon he rang for the coffee andunfolded his newspaper. Lydia did not notice his absorption in the newsof the day, partly because she was trained from childhood up to considerreading the newspaper as the main occupation of a man at home, but morebecause on this occasion she was herself preoccupied. When Mrs. Mortimercame in on an errand and was prevailed upon to sit down for somebreakfast with her father and sister, there was a little moreconversation. 

Mrs. Emery had not come down stairs. A slight indisposition which shehad felt for several days seemed to have been augmented by theexcitement of Lydia's return. She had slept badly, and was quiteuncomfortable, she told her husband, and thought she would stay in bedand send for Dr. Melton. It seemed foolish, she apologized, but nowthat Lydia was back, she wanted to be on the safe side and lose no time. After these facts had been communicated to her older daughter, Mrs. Mortimer asked, "How in the world does it happen that you're up at thishour?"

Lydia answered that she had been inspecting the yard, which she had notseen the day before. She described quite elaborately her tour ofinvestigation, without any mention of her encounter with her earlycaller, and only after a pause added carelessly, "Who do you supposecame along but that Mr. Rankin you were all talking about yesterday?"

Judge Emery laid down his paper. "What under the sun was he prowlingabout for at that hour?"

"He wasn't prowling, " said Lydia. "He was fairly tearing along past thehouse so fast that he 'most ran over me before I saw him. I'd forgottenhe is so handsome. "

"Handsome!" Mrs. Mortimer cried out at the idea. "With that beard!"

"I like beards, sometimes, " said Lydia. 

"It makes a man look like a barbarian. I'd as soon wear a nose-ring ashave Ralph wear a beard. "

"Why, everybody who is anybody in Europe wears a beard, or a mustache, anyhow, " opposed Lydia. "I got to liking to see them. "

"Oh, of course if they do it in Europe, we provincial stay-at-homeshaven't a word to say. " Mrs. Mortimer had invented a peculiar tone whichshe reserved for speeches like this, the neutrality of which gave asharper edge to the words. 

"Now, Marietta, that's mean!" Lydia defended herself very energetically;"you know I didn't say it for that. " There was a moment's pause, ofwhich Marietta did not avail herself for a retraction, and then Lydiawent on pensively, "Well, he may be handsome or not, but he's certainlynot very polite. "

"He didn't say anything to you, did he?" asked her father in surprise, laying down the paper he had raised again during the passage between thesisters. 

Lydia hastily proffered an explanation. "He couldn't help speaking; healmost ran into me, you know. I was standing under the maple tree in thecorner as he came around from Garfield Avenue. He just took off his capand said good morning, and what a fine day it was, and a few words likethat. "

"I don't see anything so impolite in that. Perhaps he wasn't European inhis manners, " suggested Mrs. Mortimer dryly. She had evidently arisen inthe grasp of a mood, not uncommon with her, when an apparently causelessirritability drove her to say things for which she afterward suffered anhonest but fruitless remorse. Dr. Melton had recently evolved for thischaracteristic of hers one of the explanations which the Emerys found soenigmatic. "Marietta, " he said critically, "is in a perpetual state ofnervous irritation from eye-strain. She has naturally excellent andnormal eyesight, but she has always been trained to wear other people'sspectacles. It puts her out of focus all the time, and that makes hersnappy. "

She had answered explicitly to this vague diagnosis, "Nonsense! Thething that makes me snappy is the lack of an oriental rug in ourparlor. "

"You're looking at that through Mrs. Gilbert's magnifying glasses, "suggested the doctor. 

"I'm not looking at it at all, and that's the trouble, " Marietta hadassured him. 

"Absence makes the heart--" the doctor had the last word. 

Lydia tried this morning at breakfast to obtain the same advantage overher sister. She flushed with a mixture of emotions and tried in aresentful silence to think of some definable cause for her accusationagainst Rankin's manners. Finally, "Well, I gave him a bunch of grapes, and he never so much as said thank you. He just took them and marchedoff. "

"Perhaps he doesn't like grapes, " suggested Mrs. Mortimer, grim to thelast. 

After breakfast, when Mrs. Mortimer and her father disappeared, Lydiafound herself with a long morning before her. The doctor telephoned thathe could not come before noon. Judge Emery, after his proprietarygood-by kiss, advised her to be quiet and rest. She looked a littlepale, he thought, and he was afraid that, after her cool ocean voyage, she would find the heat of an Ohio September rather trying. Indeed, asLydia idled for a moment over the dismantled breakfast table she was byno means moved to activity. Dark shades were everywhere drawn down andthe house was like a dimly-lighted cave, but through this attempt atprotection the sun was making itself felt in a slowly rising, breathless, moist heat. 

Lydia climbed the stairs to her mother's room. She was looking forwardto a long visit, but finding the invalid asleep she turned away from thedoor rather blankly. She was as yet too much a stranger in her own hometo have at hand the universal trivial half-dozen unfinished tasks thatsave idle women from the perils of uninterrupted thought. The ribbonswere all run in her pretty underwear; she owed no notes to anyone, because she had been at home too short a time to have received anyletters; her hair had been washed the last day on the steamer, and hernew dresses needed no mending. Her trunks had been unpacked the daybefore by her mother's competent hands, which had also arranged everydetail of her tasteful room until to touch it would disturb the effect. 

Lydia began to experience that uneasy, unsettling discomfort that comesto modern people in ordinary modern life if some unusual circumstancethrows them temporarily on their own resources. She lingered aimlesslyfor some time at the head of the stairs, and then, leaning heavilyagainst the rail, began to descend slowly, one step at a time, toprolong the transit. Where the stairs turned she noticed a stain on thecrisp sleeve of her white dress. It came, evidently, from one of thegrapes she had eaten that morning under the maple tree. A current ofcool air blew past her. It was the first relief from the stagnation ofthe sultry day and, sitting down on the landing, she lost herself inprolonged meditation. 

In the obscurity of the darkened hall she was scarcely visible save as aspot of light showing dimly through the balustrade, and she sat so stillthat the maid, stepping about below, did not see her. On her part, Lydianoticed but absently this slight stir of domestic activity, nor, after atime, louder but muffled noises from the dining-room. Even when the doorto the dining-room opened and quick, light steps came to the foot of thestairs, she did not heed them. A confused, hushed sound of someone busyabout various small operations did not rouse her, and it was not untilthe fall of a large object, clattering noisily on the floor, that shebecame conscious that someone beside the maid was in the hall. Sheleaned forward, and saw that the object which had fallen was thenewel-post of the stairs. It had evidently been detached from itsfastenings by the workman who, with his back to her, now knelt over atool-box, fumbling among the tools with resultant little metallic clicks. 

Lydia ran down the stairs, finger on lip. "Hush! Don't make any morenoise than you can help. Mother's still asleep. " At his gaze ofstupefaction she broke into her charming light laugh, "Why, I alwaysseem to strike you speechless. What's the matter with me now?"

The other emerged from his surprise with a ready, smiling acceptance ofher tone, "I was wondering if I oughtn't to apologize to you--if Ishould ever see you again--for being so curt this morning. And then youspring up out of the ground before me. Well, so I will apologize. I do. I'm very sorry. "

They adopted, as in the first part of their earlier talk, thehalf-humorous familiarity of people surprised in an unconventionalsituation, but, in spite of this, the young man's apology was notwithout the accent of serious sincerity. 

Lydia responded heartily in kind. "Oh, it was I who was horrid. And--wasn't it funny--I was just thinking--wondering if I should everhave a chance to try to make you see that I didn't mean to be so--" shehesitated, and fell back on iteration again--"so horrid. "

The fashionable Endbury boarding-school had not provided its graduatewith any embarrassment of riches in the way of expression for variousshades of meaning. He answered, lowering his voice as she did, "Oh, youwere all right, but I was most objectionable with my impertinent laugh. I'm sorry. "

She challenged his sincerity, "Are you really, really?"

"Oh, really, really, " he assured her. 

"And you want to do something nice to make it up to me?"

"Anything, " he promised, smiling at her as at a child. 

"You've promised! You've promised!" She indulged herself in a noiselesshand-clasp. "Well, then, the forfeit is to tell me all about it. "

"All about what?"

"Goodness gracious! Don't you remember? That's what we were both horridabout. I asked you to tell me about it, and you--"

He remembered, evidently with an amusement not entirely free fromannoyance. "Oh, I'm safe. I'll never see you to tell you. "

She sat down on the bottom step and drew her white skirts about her. "What's the matter with right now?" she asked, smiling. 

"I've got to earn my living right now, " he objected, beginning with aswift deftness to bore a tiny hole. 

She was diverted for an instant. "What are you doing to our nice oldnewel-post?" she asked. "I thought they said you were going to set upthe new sideboard. "

"Oh, that's no job at all; it's done. Didn't you hear me pushing andbanging things around? Now I've the job before me of fitting the verylatest thing in newel-posts in place of your old one. "

The girl returned to her first attack. "Well, anyhow, if it's a longjob, it's all the better. Go ahead and talk at the same time. You won'tfeel you're wasting time. "

Their low-toned talk and the glimmering light of the hall made them seemoddly intimate. Lydia expressed this feeling while Rankin stood lookingdoubtfully at her, a little daunted by the pretty relentlessness of herinsistence. "You see, you're not nearly so much a stranger to me as I amto you. Remember how I sewed and listened. I'm a grown-up littlepitcher, and my ears are still large. I was remembering just now, beforeyou came in, how strangely you used to talk to Dr. Melton, and I thoughtit wasn't so surprising, after all, your doing 'most anything queer. "

Rankin laughed as he bent over his tools. "Little pitchers have tongues, too, I see. "

Either Lydia felt herself more familiar with her interlocutor thanbefore, or one result of her meditation had been the loss of herexcessive fear of wounding his feelings. She spoke now quiteconfidently, "But, honestly, what in the world did you do it for?"

"It?" He made her define herself. 

"Oh, you know! Give up everything--lose your chance in society, and pokeoff into the woods to be a common--" In spite of her new boldness shefaltered here. 

He supplied the word, with a flash of mirth. "Don't be afraid to say itright out--even such an awful term as workman, or carpenter. I can bearit. "

"I knew it!" Lydia exclaimed. "As I was thinking it over on the stairsjust now, I said to myself that probably you weren't a bit apologeticabout it; probably you had some queer reason for being proud of yourselffor doing it. "

He cast a startled look at her. "You're the only person in Endbury withimagination enough to guess that. "

"But why? why? why?" she urged him, her flexible eyebrows raised in theeagerness of her inquiry. "I feel just as though I were going to hearthe answer to a perfectly maddeningly unanswerable riddle. "

He had another turn in his attempt at evasion. "It wouldn't be polite totell you the answer, for what I'm trying to do is to get out of beingwhat everybody you know thinks is the only way to be--except Dr. Melton, of course. "

"What's the matter with 'all the people I know, '" she challenged himexplicitly. 

He laughed and shook his head. "Oh, I've nothing new to say about them. Everybody has said it, from Ecclesiastes to Tolstoi. "

"They never say anything about just ordinary folks in Endbury that Iknow. "

Rankin looked at her whimsically. "Oh, _don't_ they?"

"_Do_ they?" Lydia wondered at the possibility. Presently she broughtout, as a patently absurd supposition, "You don't mean to say thatEndbury people are wicked?"

"Do you think that none but wicked people are written about in seriousbooks? No; Lord, no! I don't think they are wicked--just mistaken. "

"What about? Now we're getting warm. I'll guess in a minute. "

He looked a little sadly down at her bright, eager face. "I'm afraid youwould never guess. It's all gone into your blood. You breathe it in andout as you live, every minute. "

"What? what? what? You can't say it, you see, when it comes right downto the matter. "

"Oh, yes, I can; I can ask you if it wouldn't be a tragedy if theyshould all be killing themselves to get what they really don't want anddon't need, and starving for things they could easily have by justputting out their hands. "

Lydia's blankness was immense. 

He said, with ironic triumph: "You see, when I do say it you can't makeanything out of it. " After this he turned for a time all his attentionto his work. 

He had evidently reached a critical point in his undertaking. Lydiawatched in silence the deft manipulations of his strong, brown fingers, wondering at the eager, almost sparkling, alertness with which he wentfrom one step to another of the process that seemed unaccountablycomplicated to her. After he had finally lifted the heavy piece of woodinto place, handling its great weight with assurance, and had submittedthe joint to the closest inspection, he gave a low whistle ofsatisfaction with himself, and stepped back to get the general effect. As he did so he happened to glance at the girl, drooping ratherlistlessly on the stair. He paused instantly, with an exclamation ofdismay. 

"No; I'm not going to cry, " Lydia told him with a very small smile, "butit would serve you right if I did. "

The workman wiped his forehead and surveyed her in perplexity. "What, can I do for you?" he asked. 

"If you're really serious in asking that, " said Lydia with dignity, "I'll tell you. You can take for granted that I am not an idiot or achild and talk to me sensibly. Dr. Melton does. And you can tell me whatyou started out to--the real reason why you are a common carpenterinstead of in the insurance business. Of course if you think it is noneof my concern, that's another matter. But you said you would. "

Rankin looked a little abashed by the grave seriousness of this appeal, although he smiled at its form. "You speak as though I had my reasontied up in a package about me, ready to hand, out. "

Lydia said nothing, but did not drop her earnest eyes. 

He thrust his hands into his pockets and returned this intent gaze, anew expression on his face. Then picking up a tool, and drawing a longbreath, he said, with the accent of a man who takes an unexpectedresolution: "Well, I _will_ tell you. "

He returned to his work, tightening various small screws under therailing, speaking, as he did so, in a reasonable, quiet tone, with noneof the touch of badinage which had thus far underlain his manner to thegirl. "It's very simple--nothing romantic or sudden about it all. I didnot like the insurance business as I saw it from the inside, and themore I saw of it, the less I liked it. I couldn't see how I could earnmy living at it and arrive at the age of forty with an honest scrupleleft. Not that the insurance business is, probably, any worse than anyother--only I knew about it from the inside. So far as I could guessthe businesses my friends were in weren't very different. At least, Ididn't think I could improve things by changing to them. Also, it wasgoing to grow more and more absorbing--or, at least, that was the way itaffected the older men I knew--so that at forty I shouldn't have anyother interests than getting ahead of other people in the line ofinsurance. 

"Now, what was I to do about it? I can't make speeches, and nobody butcrack-brained soreheads like me would listen to them if I did. I'm not agreat philosopher, with a cure for things. But I didn't want to fight sohard to get unnecessary things for myself that I kept other people fromhaving the necessaries, and didn't give myself time to enjoy things thatare best worth enjoying. What could I do? I bothered the life out of Dr. Melton and myself for ages before it occurred to me that the thing todo, if I didn't like the life I was in, was to get out of it and dosomething harmless, at least, if I didn't have gumption enough to thinkof something worth while, that might make things better. 

"I like the cabinet-maker's trade, and I couldn't see that practicing itwould interfere with my growing all the honest scruples that were in me. Oh, I know that it's the easiest thing in the world for a carpenter toturn out bad work for the sake of making a little more money every day;I haven't any illusions about the sanctity of the hand-crafts. But, anyhow, I saw that as a maverick cabinet-maker I could be pretty much myown master. If I had strength of mind enough I could be honest withoutendless friction with partners, employers, banks, creditors, employés, and all the rest of the spider web of business life. At any rate, itlooked as though there were a chance for me to lead the life I wanted, and I had an idea that if I started myself in square and straight, maybeafter a little while I could see clearer about how to help other peopleto occupations that would let them live a little as well as make money, and let them grow a few scruples into the bargain. 

"You see, there's nothing mysterious about it--nor interesting. Justordinary. I'm living the way I do because I'm not smart enough to thinkof a better way. But one advantage of it is that I have a good deal oftime to think about things. Maybe I'll think of a way to help, later. And, anyway, just to look at me is proof that you don't _have_ to getground up in the hopper like everybody else or shut the door of theindustrial squirrel-cage on yourself in order not to starve. Perhapsthat'll give some cleverer person the courage to start out on his owntangent. "

Lydia drew a long breath at the conclusion of this statement. "Well--"she said, inconclusively; "_well!_" After a pause she advanced, "Mysister's husband is in the insurance business. "

"You see, " said the workman, drilling a hole with great rapidity, "yousee I ought not to talk to you. I can't without being impolite. "

Lydia seemed in no haste to assure him that he had not been. She pulledabsently a loose lock of hair--a little-girl trick that came back to herin moments of abstraction--and looked down at her feet. When she lookedup, it was to say with a bewildered air, "But a man has to earn hisliving. "

Rankin made a gesture of impatience, and stopped working to answer thisremark. "A living isn't hard to earn. Any healthy man can do that. It'searning food for his vanity, or his wife's, that kills the average man. It's coddling his moral cowardice that takes the heart out of him. Don'tyou remember what Emerson says--Melton's always quoting it--'Most of ourexpense is for conformity to other men's ideas? It's for cake that theaverage man runs in debt. ' He must have everything that anyone else has, whether he wants it or not. A house ever so much bigger and finer thanhe needs, with ever so many more things in it than belong there. He mustkeep his wife idle and card-playing because other men's wives are. Hemust have his children do what everyone else's children do, whether it'sbad for their characters or not. Ah! the children! That's the worst ofit all! To bring them up so that these futile complications will beessentials of life to them! To teach them that health and peace of mindare not too high a price for a woman to pay for what is called socialdistinction, and that a man must--if he can get it in no other way--payhis self-respect and the life of his individuality for what is calledsuccess--"

Lydia broke in with a sophisticated amusement at his heat. "Why, you'retalking about Newport, or the Four Hundred of New York--if there is anysuch thing! The rest of America--why, any European would say we're asprimitive as Aztecs! They do say so! Endbury's not complicated. Goodgracious! A little, plain, middle-western town, where everybody that isanybody knows everybody else!"

"No; it's not complicated compared with European standards, but it'smore so than it was. Why, in Heaven's name, should it strain every nerveto make itself as complicated as possible as fast as it can? We're freeyet--we're not Europeans so shaken down into a social rut that only ared revolution can get us out of it. Why can't we decide on arational--" He broke off to say, gloomily: "The devil of it is that wedon't decide anything. We just slide along thinking of something else. If people would only give, just once in their lives, the same amount ofserious reflection to what they want to get out of life that they giveto the question of what they want to get out of a two-weeks' vacation, there aren't many folks--yes, even here in Endbury that seems soharmless to you because it's so familiar--who wouldn't be horrified atthe aimless procession of their busy days and the trivial falsestandards they subscribe to with their blood and sweat. "

"My goodness!" broke in Lydia. 

The exclamation came from her extreme surprise, not only at theextraordinary doctrine enunciated, but at the experience, new to her, ofhearing convictions spoken of in ordinary conversation. The workman tookit, however, for a mocking comment on his sudden fluency. He gave awhimsical grimace, and said, as he began picking up his tools, "Ah, Ishouldn't have given in to you. When I get started I never can stop. "His expression altered darkly. "But I hate all that sort of thing so! I_hate_ it!"

Lydia shrank back from him, startled, but aroused. "Well, I hate hate!"she cried with energy. "It's horrid to hate anything at all, but most ofall what's wrong and doesn't know it's wrong. That needs help, nothate. "

He had slung his tool-box on his shoulder before she began speaking, andnow stood, ready for departure, looking at her intently. Even in the dimlight of the hall she was aware of a wonderful change in his face. Shewas startled and thrilled by the expression of his eyes in the moment ofsilence that followed. 

Finally, "You've given me something to remember, " he said, his voicevibrating, and turned away. 

CHAPTER VI

LYDIA'S GODFATHER

Lydia stood where he left her, listening to the sound of his footstepsdie down the walk outside. She was still standing there when, some timelater, the door to the dining-room behind her opened and a tiny elderlyman trotted across the hall to the stairs. Lydia recognized him beforehe saw that she was there, so that he exclaimed in surprise and pleasureas she came running toward him, her face quivering like a child's aboutto weep. 

"Oh, dear Godfather!" she cried, as she flung herself on him; "I'm soglad you've come! I never wanted so much to see you!"

He was startled to feel that she was trembling and that her cheekagainst his forehead, for she was taller than he, was burning hot. "Goodgracious, my dear!" he said, in the shrill voice his size indicated, "anybody'd think you were the patient I came to see. "

His voice, though high, was very sweet--a quality that made it alwayssound odd, almost foreign, in the midst of the neutral, colorlessmiddle-western tones about him. He spoke with a Southern accent, dropping his _r's_, clipping some vowels and broadening others, butthere was no Southern drawl in the clicking, telegraphic speed of hisspeech. He now looked up at his tall godchild and said without a smile:"If you'll kindly come down here where I can get at you, I'll shake youfor being so foolish. You needn't be alarmed about your mother. "

Lydia recoiled from the little man as impulsively as she had rushed uponhim. "Why, how _awful_!" she accused herself, horrified. "I'd_forgotten_ Mother!"

Dr. Melton took off his hat and laid it on the hall shelf. "I willclimb up on a chair to shake you, " he continued cheerfully, "if already, in less than twenty-four hours, you're indulging in nerves, as thesebroken and meaningless ejaculations seem to indicate. "

He picked up a palm-leaf fan, lost himself in a big hall-chair, andbegan to fan himself vigorously. He looked very hot and breathless, buthe flowed steadily on. 

"I can't diagnose you yet, you know, without looking at you, the way Ido your mother, so you'll have to give me some notion of what's theoccasion of these alternate seizures and releases of a defenselessLilliputian godfather. " He made a confident gesture toward the upperpart of the house with his fan. "About your mother--I know without goingupstairs that she is floored with one or another manifestation of thegreat disease of social-ambitionitis. But calm yourself. It's not so badas it seems when you've got the right doctor. I've practiced for thirtyyears among Endbury ladies. They can't spring anything new on me. I'vetaken your mother through doily fever induced by the change fromtable-cloths to bare tops, through portière inflammation, throughafternoon tea distemper, through _art-nouveau_ prostration and missionfurniture palsy, not to speak of a horrible attack of acute insanityover the necessity for having her maids wear caps. I think you can trustme, whatever dodge the old malady is working on her. "

He had run on volubly, to give Lydia time to recover herself, his keenblue eyes fixing her, and now, as she wavered into something like asmile at his chatter, he shot a question at her with a complete changeof manner: "But what's the matter with _you_?"

Lydia started as though he had suddenly clapped her on the shoulder. "I--why, I--just--" she hesitated, "why, I don't know what _is_ thematter with me. " She brought it out with the most honest surprise in theworld. 

Dr. Melton's approval of this answer was immense. "Why, Lydia, I'm proudof you! You're one in a thousand. You'll break the hearts of everyonewho knows you by turning out a sensible woman if you don't look out. Idon't believe there's another girl in Endbury who would have had thenerve to tell the truth and not fake up a headache, or a broken heart, or _Weltschmerz_, or some such trifle, for a reason. " He pulled himselfup to his feet. "Of course, you don't know what's the matter with you, my dear. _I_ do. _I_ know everything, and can't do a thing. That's me!Physically, you're upset by Endbury heat after an ocean voyage, andmentally it's the reaction caused by your subsidence into private lifeafter being the central figure of the returned traveler. Last evening, now, with that mob of friends and the family pawing at you and trying tocram-jam you back into the Endbury box and shut the lid down--_that_ wasenough to kill anybody with a nerve in her body. What's the history ofthe morning? I hope you slept late. "

Lydia shook her head. "No; I was up ever so early. --Marietta came overto borrow the frames for drying curtains, and stayed to breakfast. "

Something about her accent struck oddly on the trained sensitiveness ofthe physician's ear. Her tone rang empty, as with something kept back. 

"Marietta's been snapping at you, " he diagnosed rapidly. 

"Well, a little, " Lydia admitted. 

The doctor laid the palm-leaf fan aside and took Lydia's slim fingers inboth his firm, sinewy hands. "My dear, I'm going to do as I have alwaysdone with you, and talk with you as though you were a grown-up personand could take your share in understanding and bearing family problems. Your sister Marietta is not a very happy woman. She has too many of yourfather's brains for the life she's been shunted into. She might bedamming up a big river with a finely constructed concrete dam, and whatshe is giving all her strength to is trying to hold back a muddy littletrickle with her bare hands. The achievement of her life is to give on atwo-thousand-a-year income the appearance of having five thousand likeyour father. She does it; she's a remarkably forceful woman, but itfrets her. She ought to be in better business, and she knows it, thoughshe won't admit it. So, don't you mind if she's sharp-tongued once in awhile. It's when she feels the muddy water oozing through her fingers. "

He fancied that Lydia's eyes on his were a little blank, perhaps absent, and broke off with a short laugh. He was quite hardened to the fact thatpeople never understood his fanciful metaphors, but Lydia, as a child, had used to have a curious intuitive divination of his meaning. Afterhis laugh he sighed and turned the talk. 

"Well, and has Flora Burgess been after you to get your impression ofEndbury as compared with Europe? Your mother said she wanted aninterview with you for next Sunday's _Society Notes_. "

Lydia smiled. The subject was an old joke with them. "No; she hasn'tappeared yet. I haven't seen her--not since my birthday a year ago, thetime she described the supper-table as a 'glittering, scintillating massof cut-glass and silver, and yet without what could really be calledostentation. ' Isn't she delicious! How is the little old thing, anyway?"

"Still trotting industriously about Endbury back yards sowing thedragon's teeth of her idiotic ideas and standards. "

"Oh, I remember, you don't like her, " said Lydia. "She always seems justfunny to me--funny and pathetic. She's so dowdy, and reverential tofolks with money, and enjoys other people's good times so terrifically. "

"She's like some political bosses--admirable in private life, but amenace to the community just the same. "

Lydia laughed involuntarily, in spite of her preoccupation. "FloraBurgess a menace to the community!"

The doctor turned away and began to mount the stairs. "Me andCassandra!" he called over his shoulder in his high, sweet treble. "Justyou wait and see!"

He disappeared down the upper hall, finding his way about the darkenedhouse with a familiarity that betokened long practice. 

Lydia sat down on the bottom step to wait for his return. The clock inthe dining-room struck twelve. It came over her with a clap that buthalf a day had passed since she had run out into the dawn. For aninstant she had the naïve, melodramatic instinct of youth to deck outits little events in the guise of crises. She began to tell herself withgusto that she had passed some important turning-point in her life;when, as was not infrequent with her, she lost the thread of her thoughtin a sudden mental confusion which, like a curtain of fog, shut her offfrom definite reflection. Complicated things that moved rapidly alwaystired Lydia. She had an enormous capacity for quiet and tranquillity. To-day she felt that more complicated things were moving rapidly insideher head than ever before--as though she had tried to keep track of therevolutions of a wheel and had lost her count and could now only starestupidly at the spokes, whirling till they blended into one blur. Whatwas this Endbury life she had come back to? What in the world had thatman been talking about? What a strange person he was! How very brighthis eyes were when he looked at you--as though he were, somehow, seeingyou more than most people did. What did the doctor mean by all thatabout Marietta? It had never occurred to her that the life of anyoneabout her might have been different from what it was. What else wasthere for people to do but what everybody else did? It was all veryunsettling and, in this heat and loneliness, daunting. 

Through this vague discomfort there presently pierced a positiveapprehension of definite unpleasantness. She would have to tell hermother that she had spent the whole morning talking to Mr. Rankin, andher mother would be cross, and would say such--Lydia remembered as in adistant dream her supreme content with life of only a few hours earlier. It seemed a very bewildering matter to her now. 

Ought she so certainly to tell her mother? She lingered for a momentover this possibility. Then, "Oh, of course!" she said aloud, flushingwith an angry shame at her moment's parley with deceit. 

She heard her mother's door open and turned to see the doctor runningdown the stairs, his wrinkled little face very grave. "You were right, Lydia, to be anxious about your mother, and I am an old fool! There isno fool like a fluent fool! I'm afraid she's in for quite a siege. There's no danger, thank Heaven! but I don't believe she can be aboutfor a month or more. I'm going to 'phone for a trained nurse. Just seethat nobody disturbs her, will you?"

He darted away, leaving Lydia leaning against the newel-post, gasping. The clock in the dining-room chimed the quarter-hour. She cried out toherself, as she climbed the stairs heavily, that she could not stand itto have things happen to her so fast. If all Endbury days were going tobe like this one--

She was for a moment brought to a standstill by a realization of depthswithin herself that she had not dreamed of. She realized, horrified, that on hearing the doctor's verdict her first thought--gone before itwas formulated, but still her first thought--had been one of relief thatnow she need not tell her mother. 

It had not occurred to her at all, nor did it now, that she eithershould or should not tell her father. 

CHAPTER VII

OUTSIDE THE LABYRINTH

The Black Rock woods lay glowing under the cloudy autumn sky like a heapof live coals, the maples still quivering in scarlet, the chestnuts sunkinto a clear yellow flame, the oaks, parched by the September heat, burnt out into rusty browns. Above them, the opalescent haze of Octoberrose like a faint blue smoke, but within the woods the subdued light wasrichly colored, like that which passes through the stained glass of agreat cathedral. The first of the fallen leaves lay in pools of gold inthe hollows of the brown earth, where the light breezes had driftedthem. 

It was, for the moment, singularly quiet, so, that, as Lydia walkedquickly along the footpath, the pleasant rustle of her progress was theonly sound she heard. Under a large chestnut she paused, gathering heramber-colored draperies about her and glancing uncertainly ahead towhere the path forked. She looked a yellow leaf blown by some current ofthe air unfelt by the rest of the forest and caught against the roughbark of the tree. After hesitating for a moment, she drifted slowlyalong the right-hand path, looking about her with dreamy, dazzled eyes. From time to time, she stopped and lifted her face to the light andcolor above her, and once she stood a long time leaning against a tree, stirring with the tip of her parasol a heap of burning maple leaves. Under her drooping hat her face was almost vacant in a wide beatitude ofharmony with the spirit of day. When she walked on again it was with alighter and lighter step, as though the silence had come to have alovely meaning for her which she feared to disturb. 

The path turned sharply after passing through a thicket of ruddybrambles, and she found herself in a little clearing which the haze ofthe upper air descended to fill. The yellow chestnuts stood in a ringabout the sunburnt grass. It was like a golden cup filled with somemagic, impalpable draught. 

Through this she now saw a rough little house, brown as an oak leaf, with a wide veranda, under which, before a work-bench, sat DanielRankin. His tanned arms moved rhythmically backward and forward, but hisruddy head was high, and his eyes, roving about the leafy walls of theclearing, caught sight of Lydia as soon as she had turned the corner. She stopped short, with a startled gesture, on the edge of the woods, but remained standing quietly while Rankin sprang up from his seat andwalked toward her smiling. 

"Oh, Miss Emery, " he called welcomingly. "I didn't recognize you for aminute. Every once in a while a young lady or a child loses her way froma picnic in the woods and stumbles into my settlement. I always have tohurry to show them there's no danger of the wild man who lives in thathouse eating them up. " He came up to her now, and put out his hand witha frank pleasure. 

"I wasn't afraid, " said Lydia; "I was startled for a minute, but I knewright away it must be your house. You described it to me, you know. "

"It's very much flattered that you remember its portrait, " said theowner. "Won't you honor it some more by sitting down in its veranda fora while? Or must I take you back to your picnic party at once?"

Lydia moved on, looking about her at the piles of boards, half hidden byvines, at the pool of clear water welling up through white sand in frontof the house, and at the low rough building, partly covered withwoodbine ruby-red against the weather-beaten wood. 

"My picnic party's gone home, " she explained. "It was only Marietta andher little boy, anyhow. My sister thought it was going to rain, and tookthe quickest way home. I told Marietta I'd walk across and take theGarfield Avenue trolley line. I must have taken a wrong turn in thepath. "

They had reached the veranda now, and Lydia sank into the chair whichRankin offered her. She smiled her thanks silently, her face stillsteeped in quiet ecstasy, and for a long time she said nothing. Thequick responsiveness that was at all times her most markedcharacteristic answered this rare mood of Nature with an intensityalmost frightening in its visible joy. 

Rankin also said nothing, looking at her reflectively and stroking hisclose-clipped red beard. Above the faded brown of his work-shirt, hisface glowed with color. In the silent interval of the girl's slowemergence from her reverie, his gaze upon her was so steady that whenLydia finally glanced up at him he could not for a moment look away. Thelimpid unconsciousness of her eyes changed into a startled look ofinquiry, as though he had spoken and she had not understood. Then aflush rose to her cheeks, she looked down and away in a momentaryconfusion, moved in her chair, and began to talk at random. 

"So this is where you live. It's lovely. It looks like a fairystory--the little house in the wood, you know--nothing seems realto-day--the woods--it makes me want to cry, they are so beautiful. I'vebeen wondering and wondering what outdoors was looking like. You knowpoor Mother is sick, and though she's not so awfully sick, and of coursewe've a trained nurse for her, still I've had to be housekeeper and Ihaven't had time to breathe. The second girl left right off because ofthe extra work she thought sickness would make, but it seems to me we'vehad a million new second girls in the three weeks. It's been awful! Ihaven't had time to get out at all or to see anybody. "

She was quite herself now, and confided her troubles with a naïveastonishment, as though they were new to humanity. 

"Yes; I've heard ladies say before that it's quite awful, " agreed hercompanion gravely. He swung himself up to sit on his work-bench, hislong legs stretched before him, just reaching the ground. "Envy me, " hewent on, smiling; "I don't have to have a second girl, or a first one, either. "

"What _do_ you do?" asked Lydia, not waiting, however, for an answer, but continuing her relieved outpouring of her own perplexities. "It'sperfectly desperate at home. I haven't had a minute's peace. Thisafternoon I just got wild, and said I _would_ get away from it for aminute, and just ran away. Father's nice about it, but he does looksomething fierce when he comes home and finds another one left. He saysthat Mother doesn't have to change more than two or three times a year!"She presented this as the superlative of stability. 

Rankin laughed again. Lydia felt more and more at her ease. He wasevidently thinking of her pretty looks and ways rather than of what shewas saying, and, like all of her sisterhood, this was treatment whichshe thoroughly understood. For the moment she forgot that he was the manwho had startled and almost shocked her by his unabashed presentation, in a conversation with a young lady, of ideas and convictions. Sheleaned back in her chair and put on some of the gracefully imperiousairs of regnant American young-ladyhood. "You must show me all about howyou live, and everything, " she commanded prettily. "I've been so curiousabout it--and now here I am. "

She was enchantingly unconscious of the possibility of her having seemedto seek him out. "What a perfectly beautiful piece of wood you have inthat chair-back. " She laid her ungloved, rosy finger-tips on a darkpiece of oak. "And so this is where you work?"

"I work everywhere, " he told her. "I do all that's done, you see. "

"You must have to walk quite a ways to get your meals, don't you?" Lydiaturned her white neck to glance inside the house. 

Rankin's mouth twitched humorously. "You'll never understand me, " hesaid lightly. "I get my meals myself, here. "

Lydia turned on him sharply. "You don't _cook_!" she cried out. 

"And wash dishes, and make my bed, and sweep my floor, and, once in agreat while, dust. "

The romantic curiosity died out of the girl's eyes into a shockedwonder. She glanced at his large brown hands, and seemed about to speak. Nothing came from her lips finally, however, beyond the pregnant "Well!"which seemed the only expression in her vocabulary for extreme surprise. Rankin threw back his head, showing a triangle of very white throatabove his loose collar, and laughed aloud. The sound of his mirth was soinfectious that Lydia laughed with him, though half uneasily. 

"It's so funny, " he explained, "to see the picture of myself I gatherfrom your shocked and candid eyes. I'm so used to my queer ideasnowadays that I forget that what seems perfectly natural to me stillseems perfectly crazy to others. "

"Well, not _crazy_. " Lydia proffered this negation in so halting anaccent that Rankin burst into another peal of laughter. "But it must behorrid for you to wash dishes and cook!" protested Lydia, feelingresentful that her inculcated horror of a man's "lowering himself" towoman's work should be taken with so little seriousness. She tried torearrange a mental picture which the other was continually destroying. "But I suppose it's very picturesque. You cook over an open fire, Iimagine. "

There was a humorous glint in his eye, "I cook over the best brand ofoil-stove that money can buy, " he told her, relentlessly, watching herwince from the sordid image. "I have all the conveniences I can thinkof. All I'm trying to do is to get myself fed with the least expenditureof gray matter and time on my part, and as things are now arranged inthis particular corner of the country I find I can do it best this way. It's more work trying to persuade somebody who doesn't want to wait onme than to jump up and do it myself. Also, having brains, I cancertainly cook like a house afire. "

At this, Lydia was overcome by that openness to conviction fromunexpected sources which gave her mother one of her great anxieties forher. "Well, honestly, do you know, " she said unexpectedly, "there is alot in that. I've thought ever so many times in the last two weeks thatif Father would let me wait on the table, for instance, I could get onever so much easier. "

"And I'll just warrant, " the man went on, "that I've had more time tomyself lately than you have, for all I've my living to earn as well asthe housework. "

"My goodness!" cried Lydia, repudiating the comparison. "That needn't besaying much for you, for I haven't had a minute--not even to sit withMother as much as I ought. "

"What did you have to do that kept you from that?"

"Oh, you're no housekeeper, that's evident, or you wouldn't ask. A man_never_ has any idea about the amount of work there is to do in a house. Why, set the table, and sweep the parlors, and change the flower vases, and dust, and pick up, and dust--I don't know what makes things get sodusty. We've got an awfully big house, you know, and of course I want tokeep everything as nice as if Mother were up. Everybody expects me to dothat!"

"I had a great-aunt, " began Rankin with willful irrelevancy, "a verywonderful old woman who taught me most of what I value. She wasconsidered cracked, so maybe that's why I am a freak, and she was aswise as wise! And she had stories that fitted every occasion. One thatshe used to tell was about a farmer cousin of hers, who had a team ofspirited young horses that he was breaking. Everybody warned him that ifthey ever ran away they'd be spoiled for life, and he got carefuller andcarefuller of them. One day he and his father were haying beside ariver, and the father, who couldn't swim a stroke, fell in. The horseswere frightened by the splash and began to prance, and the son ran totheir heads, beside himself with fear. The old man came to the top andscreamed, 'Help! help!' and the son answered, fairly jumping up and downin his anguish of mind over his poor old father's fate, 'Oh, help, somebody! Somebody come and help! I can't leave my horses!'"

He stopped. Lydia slid helplessly into the naïve question, "Well, didhis father drown?" before the meaning of the little parable struck her. She began to laugh, with her gay, sweet inability to resent a joke madeat her own expense. "Don't you think you are a good hand atsermon-making!" she mocked him. "It's all very well to preach, but justyou tell me what you would have done in my place. "

"I should have left those big rooms, filled with things to dust, and letthe dust lie on them--even such an awful thing as that!"

Lydia considered this with honest surprise. "Why, do you know, it neveroccurred to me I could do that!"

Rankin nodded. "It's a common hallucination, " he explained. "I've hadit. I have to struggle against it still. "

"Hallucination?"

"The notion that you belong to the things that belong to you. "

Lydia looked at him sidewise out of her clear dark eyes. She wasbeginning to feel more at home in his odd repertory of ideas. "Iwonder, " she mused, "if that's why I always feel so much freer andhappier in old clothes--that I don't forget that they're for me and I'mnot for them. But really, you know, dressmakers and mothers and folksget you to thinking that you are for clothes--you're made to show themoff. " Rankin vouchsafed no opinion as to this problem of young-ladyhood. "Here's your sister's rain, " he said instead, pointing across theclearing, where against the dark tree-trunks fine, clear lines slanteddown to the dry grass. Lydia rose in some agitation. "Why, I didn'treally think it would rain! I thought it was just Marietta's--" Sheglanced down in dismay at her thin low shoes and the amber-colored silkof her ruffled skirt. 

Rankin stood up eagerly. "Ah, I've a chance to do you a service. Juststep in, won't you, a moment and let me skirmish around and see what abachelor's establishment can offer to a beautiful young lady who mustn'tget wet. "

Lydia moved into the wide, low room, saying deprecatingly, "It wouldn'thurt _me_ to get wet, you know. But this dress just came from Paris, andI haven't had a chance to show it to anybody yet. "

Rankin laughed, hastening to draw up a chair before the hearth, where afew embers still glowed, their presence explained by the autumnal chillwhich now struck sharply across the room from the open door as the rainbegan to patter on the roof. The girl looked about her in silence, apparently with surprise. 

"Well, how do you like it?" asked the master of the house, throwing somedry twigs on the fire so that the flame, leaping up, lighted thecorners, already dusky with the approach of evening. "It's not verytidy, is it?" He began rummaging in a recess in the wall, tumbling outcoats and shoes and hats in his haste. Finally, "There!" he cried intriumph, shaking out a rain-coat, "That will keep your pretty Frenchfinery dry. "

He turned back to the girl, who was sitting very straight in her chair, peering about her with wide eyes and a strange expression on her face. "Why, what's the matter?" he asked. 

[Illustration: "You say beautiful things!" he replied quietly. "Myrough quarters are glorified for me. "]

Lydia stood up, with a quick indrawn breath. "I don't know, " she said, "what it is. It seems as though I'd been here before. It looks sofamiliar to me--so good--" She went closer to where, still holding outthe rain-coat, he stood on the other side of a table strewn with papers. She leaned on this, fingering a pen and looking at him with a shyeagerness. She was struggling, as so often, with an indefinable feelingwhich she had no words to express. "Don't you know, " she went on, "everyonce in a while you see somebody--an old man or woman, perhaps, on thestreet cars, in the street--and somehow the face goes home to you. Itseems as though you'd been waiting to see that face again. Well, it'sjust so with this room. It has a face. I like it very--" She broke off, helplessly inarticulate before the confusion of her thoughts, and lookedtimidly at the man. She was used to kindly, amused laughter when shetried, stumblingly, to phrase some of the quickly varying impressionswhich made her life so full of invisible incidents. 

But Rankin did not laugh, even kindly. His clear eyes were more thanserious. They seemed to show him moved to an answering emotion. "You saybeautiful things!" he replied quietly. "My rough quarters are glorifiedfor me. I've been fond of them before--they're the background to a goodmany inward struggles and a considerable amount of inward peace, butnow--" He looked about him with new eyes, noting the dull gleam of goldwith which the chestnut ceiling answered the searching flicker of thefire, the brighter sparkles which were struck out from the gildedlettering on the books which lined the walls, and the diamond-likeflashes from the polished steel of the tools on the work-bench at theother end of the room. There was a pause in which the silence within thehouse brought out the different themes composing the rich harmony of therain, the steady, resonant downpour on the roof, the sweet whispers ofthe dried grass under the torrent, the muted thuddings of the big dropson the beaten earth of the veranda floor, and the hurried liquidoverflow of the eaves. It was still light enough to see the fine colorof the leather that covered the armchairs, and the glossy black of apiano, heaped with a litter of music. Near the piano, leaning againstthe wall, a violoncello curved its brown crook-neck over the shapelessbag that sheltered it. 

Lydia pointed to it. "You're musical!" she said, as if she had made animportant discovery. 

Rankin roused himself, followed the direction of her gaze, and shookhis head. "No; I can't play a note, " he said cheerfully, laying therain-coat down and going to look over the pile of overshoes in a box;"but I like it. My queer old great-aunt left me that 'cello. It hadbelonged to her grandfather. I believe being so old makes it quitevaluable. The piano belongs to an old German friend of mine who has seenbetter days and has now no place to keep it. Two or three times a weekhe comes out here with an old crony who plays the 'cello, and they makemusic till they get to crying on each other's necks. "

"Do you cry, too?" Lydia smiled at the picture. 

Rankin came back to the fire with a pair of rubbers in his hand. "No;I'm an American. I only blow my nose hard, " he said gravely. 

"Well, it must be lovely!" She sighed this out ardently, sinking back inher chair. "I love music so it 'most kills me, but I don't get very muchof it. I took piano lessons when I was little, but there were always somany other things to do I never got time to practice as much as I wantedto, and so I didn't get very far. Anyhow, after I heard a good orchestraplay, my little tinklings were worse than nothing. I wish I could hearmore. But perhaps it's just as well, Mother says. It always gets me soexcited. I'm sure I should cry, along with the Germans. "

"They would like that, " observed her host, "above everything. "

"Father keeps talking about getting one of those player-pianos, butMother says they are so new you can't tell what they are going to be. She says they may get to be too common. "

Rankin looked at her hard. "Would you like one?" He asked this trivialquestion with a singular emphasis. 

"Why, I haven't really thought, " said Lydia, considering the matter. 

The man looked oddly anxious for her answer. 

Finally, "Why, it depends on how much music you can make with them. Ifthey are really good, I should want one, of course. "

Rankin smiled, drew a long breath, and fell sober again as if at asudden thought. 

"I don't see any oil-stove, " said the girl, skeptically, looking abouther. 

"Oh, I have a regular kitchen. It's there, " he nodded back of him; "andtwo rooms beside for me and for Dr. Melton or my Germans, or some of myother freak friends when they stay too long and miss the last trolley into town. Oh, I have lots of room. "

"It looks really rather nice, now I'm here and all, " Lydia vaguelyapproved; "though I don't see why you couldn't have gone on more likeother folks and just changed some things--not been so _awfully_ queer!"

Rankin was kneeling before her, holding out a pair of rubbers. At thisremark he sat back on his heels, and began: "My great-aunt said thatthere was a man in her town who had such a terrible temper that his wifewas in perfect terror of him, and finally actually died of fear. Everybody was paralyzed with astonishment when, two or three yearsafter, one of the nicest girls in town married him. People told her shewas crazy, but she just smiled and said she guessed she could get alongwith him all right. Everything went well for a week or two, and then oneday he said the tea was cold and not fit for a pig to drink, and threwthe cup on the floor. She threw hers down and broke it all to smash. Hestared and glared, and threw his plate down. She set her lips and bangedher own plate on the hearth. He threw his knife and fork through thewindow. She threw hers after, and added the water-pitcher for goodmeasure. "

Lydia's astonishment at this point was so heartfelt that the raconteurbroke off, laughed, and ended hastily, "I spare you the rest of thedinner-service. The upshot of it was that every dish in the house wassmashed and not a word spoken. Then the man called for his carriage (hewas a rich man--that sort usually is), drove to the nearest china-store, bought a new set, better than the old, took it back, and lived in peaceand harmony with his wife ever after. And here is the smallest pair ofrubbers I can find, and I shall have to tie these on!"

Lydia watched the operation in silence. As he finished it and rose tohis feet again, "What was that all about?" she inquired simply. 

"Compromise, " he answered. "There are occasions when it doesn't do anygood. "

"Does it do such a lot of good to go off in the woods by yourself and doyour own cooking?" asked Lydia with something of her father's shrewdhome-thrusting accent. "What would happen if everybody did that?"

Rankin laughed. "Everybody'd have a good time, for one thing, " heanswered, adding, more seriously, "The house of Rimmon may be all rightfor some people, but _my_ head isn't clear enough. "

Lydia looked frankly at a loss. She did not belong to the alert, quickly"bluffing" type of young lady. "Rimmon?" she asked. 

"He's in the Bible. "

"That's a good reason why I've never heard of him, " she said ruefully. 

"All I meant by him was that people who conform outwardly to a standardthey don't really believe in, are in danger of getting most awfullymixed up. And certainly they don't stand any chance of convincinganybody else that there's anything the matter with the standard. What'sneeded isn't to upset everything in a heap, but to call people'sattention to the fact that things could be a lot better than they are. And that's hard to do. And who ever called more people's attention tothat fact than an impractical, unbalanced nobleman who took to cobblingshoes for the peace of his soul? There wasn't a particle of sense towhat Tolstoi _did_, but--" He stopped, hesitating in an uncertainty thatLydia understood with a touching humility. 

"Oh, you needn't explain who Tolstoi is. I've heard of him. "

"Well, you mustn't imagine I'm anything like Tolstoi!" cried the youngman, laughing aloud at the idea, "for I don't take a bit of stock inhis deification of working with your muscles. That was an exaggerationhe fell into in his old age because he'd been denied his fair share ofmanual work when he was young. If he'd had to split kindlings and toteashes and hoe corn when he was a boy, I bet he wouldn't have thoughtthere was anything so sanctifying about callouses on your hands!"

"Oh, dear! You're awfully confusing to me, " complained Lydia. "Youalways seem to be making fun of something I thought just the minutebefore you believed in. "

Rankin looked intensely serious. "There isn't an impression I'd besorrier to give you, " he said earnestly. "Perhaps the trouble is thatyou don't as yet know much about the life I've got out of. "

"I've lived in Endbury all my life, " protested Lydia. 

"There may still be something for you to learn about the lives of itsmen, " suggested her companion. 

"If you think it's so wrong, why don't you reform it?" Lydia launchedthis challenge suddenly at him with the directness characteristic of hernation. 

"I have to begin with reforming myself, " he said, "and that's job enoughto last me a long while. I have to learn not to care about beingconsidered a failure by all the men of my own age who are passing me by;and I don't mind confessing to you that that is not always easy--thoughyou mustn't tell Dr. Melton I'm so weak. I have to train myself to seethat they are not really getting _up_ so fast, but only _scrambling_fast over slipping, sliding stones; and then I have to try to find somefirm ground where I can make a path of my own, up which I can plod in myown way. "

The tone of the young people, as they talked with their innocentgrandiloquence of these high matters, might have been taken for that ofa couple deep in some intimate discussion, so honestly serious and movedwas it. There was a silence now, also like the pause in a profoundlypersonal talk, in which they looked long into each other's eyes. 

The clock struck five. Lydia sprang to her feet. "Oh, I must hurry on!I told Marietta to telephone home that I'd be there at six. "

She still preserved her charming unconsciousness of theunconventionality of her situation. A European girl, brought up in thestrictest ignorance of the world, would still have had intuitions tomake her either painfully embarrassed or secretly delighted with thisimpromptu visit to a young bachelor; but Lydia, who had been allowed toread "everything" and the only compromise to whose youth had been fitfulattempts of the family to remember "not to talk too much about thingsbefore Lydia, " was clad in that unearthly innocence which the advancingtide of sophistication has still left in some parts of the UnitedStates--that sweet, proud, pathetic conviction of the American girl thatevil is not a vital force in any world that she knows. The young manbefore her smiled at her in as artless an unconsciousness as her own. They might have been a pair of children. 

"You've plenty of time, " he assured her. "Though I live so far out ofthe world, the Garfield Avenue trolley line is only five minutes' walkaway. Oh, I'm prosaic and commonplace, with my oil-stove and trolleycars. There's nothing of the romantic reactionary about me, I'm afraid. "He wrapped the rain-coat about her and took an umbrella. 

"Don't you lock up your house when you go away?" asked Lydia. 

"The poor man laughs in the presence of thieves, " quoted Rankin. 

They stood on the veranda now, looking out into the blue twilight. Therain drummed noisily on the roof and the soft swish of its descent intothe grass rose to a clear, sibilant note. The wind had died downcompletely, and the raindrops fell in long, straight lines like anopaque, glistening wall, which shut them off from the rest of the world. Back of them, the fire lighted up the empty chair that Lydia had left. She glanced in, and, moved by one of her sudden impulses, ran back fora moment to cast a rapid glance about the quiet room. 

When she returned to take Rankin's arm as he held the open umbrella, shelooked up at him with shining eyes. "I have made friends with it--yourliving-room, " she said. 

As they made their way along the footpath, she went on, "When I get intothe trolley car I shall think I have dreamed it--the little house in theclearing--so peaceful, so--just look at it now. It looks like a littlehouse in a child's fairy-tale. " They paused on the edge of the clearingand looked back at the pleasant glow shimmering through the windows, then plunged into the strip of forest that separated the clearing fromthe open farming country and the main road to Endbury. 

Neither of them spoke during this walk. The rain pattered swiftly, varying its monotonous refrain as it struck the umbrella, the leaves, the little brook that ran beside them, or the stony path. Lydia clung toRankin's arm, peering about her into the dim caves of twilight with ahappy, secure excitement. After her confinement to the house for thelast fortnight, merely to be out of doors was an intoxication for her, and ever since she had left her sister and begun her wanderings in thepainted woods she had felt the heroine of an impalpable adventure. Thesilent flight through the dripping trees was a fitting end. Except forbreaking in upon the music of the rain, she would have liked to singaloud. 

She thought, flittingly, how Marietta would laugh at her manufacturinganything romantic out of the commonplace facts of the insignificantepisode, but even as she turned away from her sister's imagined mockingsmile, she felt an odd certainty that to Rankin there was also a glamourabout their doings. It was as though the occasional contact of theirbodies as they moved along the narrow path were a wordlesscommunication. 

He said nothing, but as they emerged upon the long treeless road, stretching away over the flat country to where the lights of Endburyglowed tremulously through the rain, he looked at his companion with aquick intensity, as though it were the first time he had really seenher. 

It was that man's look which makes a woman's heart beat faster, even ifshe is as inexperienced as Lydia. She was already tingling with anundefined emotion, and the shock of their meeting eyes made her faceglow. It shone through the half-light as though a lamp had been lightedwithin. 

They stood silently waiting for the car which flashed a headlight towardthem far down the track. As it drew near, bounding over the rails, humming like a great insect, and bringing visibly nearer and nearer theend of their time together, Lydia was aware that Rankin was in the graspof an emotion that threatened to become articulate. The steady advanceof the car was forcing him to a speech against which he struggled invain. Lydia began to quiver. She felt an expectancy of something lovely, moving, new to her, which grew tenser and tenser, as though her nerveswere the strings of an instrument being pulled into tune for a melody. Standing there in the cold, rainy twilight, she had a moment of theexultation she had thought was to be so common in her Endbury career. She felt warmed through with the consciousness of being lovely, admired, secure, supremely fortunate, just as she had thought she would feel; butshe had not been able to imagine the extraordinary happiness that this, or some unrecognized element of the moment, gave to her. 

The car was almost upon them; the blinding glare of the headlight showedtheir faces with startling suddenness. She saw in Rankin's eyes atenderness that went to her heart. She leaned to him from the steps ofthe car to which he swung her--she leaned to him with a sweet, unconscious eagerness. In the instant before the car moved forward, ashe stood gazing up at her, he spoke at last. 

The words hummed meaningless in Lydia's ears, and it was not until sometime after, in the garish white brilliance of the car, that sheconvinced herself that she had heard aright. Even then, though she stillsaw his face raised to hers, the raindrops glistening on his hair andbeard, even though she still heard the fervor of his voice, she remainedincredulous before the enigma of his totally unexpected words. He hadsaid, with a solemn note of pity in his voice: "Ah, my poor child, I amso horribly, horribly sorry for you!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE SHADOW OF THE COMING EVENT

Judge Emery looked tired and old as he sat down heavily at hisdinner-table opposite his pretty daughter. The discomfort andirregularity of the household for the last two weeks had worn on thenerves of a very busy man who needed all of his strength for his work. It seemed an evil fate of his, he reflected as he took his napkin out ofits ring, that whenever he was particularly hard-pressed in hisprofession, domestic turmoil was sure to set in. He was now presidingover a suit between the city and the electric railway company, involvingmany intricate details of electrical engineering and accounting methods. Until that suit was settled, he felt that it was unreasonable for hisfamily to expect him to give time or attention to anything else. 

In the absence of other vital interests in his life, he had come tofocus all his faculties on his profession. On the adroitness of cleverattorneys he expended the capacity for admiration which, as his life wasarranged, found no other outlet; and, belonging to the generation beforegolf and bridge and tennis had brought games within the range ofserious-minded adults, he had the same intent curiosity about theoutcome of a legal contest that another man might have felt in theoutcome of a Newport tournament. His wife had long ago learned, so shesaid, that any attempt to catch his mental eye while an interestingtrial was in progress was as unavailing as to try to call a street gaminaway from a knot-hole in a fence around a baseball field. 

She knew him and all his capabilities very well, his wife told herself, and so used was she to the crystallized form in which she had for somany years beheld him, that she dismissed, as typically chimerical"notions, " the speculations of her doctor--also a lifelong friend ofher husband's--as to what Judge Emery might have become if--the doctorspoke in his usual highly figurative and fantastic jargon--"he had nothad to hurry so with that wheel in his cage. " "When I first knew NatEmery, " he once said, "he was sitting up till all hours reading _LesMiserables_, and would knock you down if you didn't bow your head at themention of Thackeray. He might have liked music, too. An American isn'tinherently incapable of that, I suppose. " At which he had turned onsixteen-year-old Lydia with, "Which would you rather have, Lyddy; ahusband with a taste for Beethoven or one that'd make you five thousanda year?" Lydia had shudderingly made the answer of sixteen years, thatshe never intended to have a husband of any kind whatever, and Mrs. Emery had rebuked the doctor later for "putting ideas in girls' heads. "It was an objection at which he had laughed long and loud. 

Mrs. Emery liked her doctor in spite of not understanding him; but sheloved her husband because she knew him through and through. In his turn, Judge Emery bestowed on his wife an esteem the warmth of which was nottempered by his occasional amusement at her--an amusement which Mrs. Emery was far from suspecting. He did heartily and unreservedly admireher competence; though he never did justice to her single-handed battleagainst the forces of ignorance and irresponsibility in the kitchenuntil an illness of hers showed that the combat must be continuous, though his wisdom in selecting an ambitious wife had shielded him, as arule, from the uproar of the engagement. 

This evening, as he looked across the white table-cloth at his daughter, he had a sudden qualm of doubt, not unusual in parents, as to thecapacity of the younger generation to carry on the work begun by theolder. Of course, he reassured himself, this had scarcely been a fairtrial. The child had been plunged into the business the day after herreturn, with the added complication of her mother's illness; but, evenmaking all allowances, he had been dismayed by the thorough-goingdomestic anarchy that had ensued. He was partly aware that what alarmedhim most was Lydia's lack of zest in the battle, an unwillingness torecognize its inevitability and face it; a strange, apparently willful, blindness to the value of victory. Her father was disturbed by thisfailure to acquiesce in the normal, usual standard of values. Herecalled with apprehension the revolutionary sayings and doings of hissecond son, which had been the more disconcerting because they flowedfrom the young reactionary in such a gay flood of high spirits. Harryhad no more shared the reverent attitude of his family toward householdæsthetics than toward social values. A house was a place to keep theweather from you, he had said laughingly. If you could have it prettyand well-ordered without too much bother, well and good; but might theLord protect him from everlastingly making omelets to look at and not toeat. 

Lydia, to be sure, had ventured no irreverent jokes, and, so far as herfather could see, had never conceived them; but a few days before shehad suggested seriously, "Why can't we shut up all of the house we don'treally use, and not have to take care of those big parlors and thelibrary when you and I are always in the dining-room or upstairs withMother, now she's sick?"

Judge Emery had thought of the grade of society which keeps its "bestroom" darkened and closed, of the struggles with which his wife haddragged the family up out of that grade, and was appalled at Lydia'sunconscious reversion to type. "Your mother would feel dreadfully tohave you do that; you know she thinks it very bad form--very green. "

Lydia had not insisted; it ran counter to every instinct in Lydia toinsist on anything. She had succumbed at the first of his shocked tonesof surprise; but the suggestion had shown him a glimpse of workings inher mind which made him uneasy. 

However, to-night there were several cheering circumstances. The doctorhad left word that, in all probability, Mrs. Emery would be quiteherself in ten days--a shorter time than he had feared. Lydia was reallycharming in a rose-colored dress that matched the dewy flush in hercheeks; the roast looked cooked as he liked it, and he had heard somewarm words that day about the brilliancy of young Paul Hollister'sprospects. He took a drink of ice-water, tucked his napkin in the top ofhis vest--a compromise allowed him by his wife at family dinners, andsmiled at his daughter. "Your mother tells me that you've had a letterfrom Paul, saying that he'll be back shortly, " he said with a jocoselysignificant emphasis. "I suppose we shall hardly be able to get aglimpse of you after he's in town again. "

At this point, beginning to carve the roast, he had a sinkingpremonition that it was going to be very tough, and though he heroicallyresisted the ejaculation of embittered protest that rose to his lips, this magnanimity cost him so dear that he did not think of Lydia againtill after he had served her automatically, dashing the mashed potato onher plate with the gesture of an angry mason slapping down a trowelfulof mortar. It seemed to him at the moment that the past three weeks hadbeen one succession of tough roasts. He took another drink of ice-waterbefore he gloomily began on his first mouthful. It was worse than hefeared, and he was in no mood to be either very imaginative or veryindulgent to a girl's whims when Lydia said, suddenly and stiffly, "Iwish you wouldn't speak so about Paul. I don't know what makes everybodytease me so about him!"

Her father was chewing grimly. "I don't know why they shouldn't, I'msure, " he said. "Young folks can't expect everybody to keep their eyesshut and draw no conclusions. Of course I understand Paul's not sayinganything definite till now, on account of your being so young. "

Something of Marietta's unsparing presentation of facts was inheritedfrom her father, though, under his wife's tutelage, he usually sparedLydia when he thought of it. At this time he was speaking almostabsently, his attention divided between the exceptions to his rulingstaken by the corporation counsel and the quality of his dinner; bothdisturbing to his quiet. He finally gave up the attempt at masticationand swallowed the morsel bodily, with a visible gulp. As he felt theconsequent dull lump of discomfort, he allowed himself his firstarticulate protest. "Good Heavens! What meat!"

Lydia had grown quite pale. She pushed back her plate and looked at herfather with horrified eyes. "Father! What a thing to say!" she finallycried out. "You make me ashamed to look him--to look anybody in theface. Why, I never dreamed of such a thing! I never--"

Judge Emery was very fond of his pretty daughter, and at this appealfrom what he felt to be a very mild expression of justified discontent, he melted at once. "Now, never mind, Lydia, it won't kill me. Only assoon as your mother gets about again, for the Lord's sake have her takeyou to a butcher shop and learn to select meats. "

Lydia looked at him blankly. She had the feeling that her father was soremote from her that she could hardly see him. She opened her lips tospeak, but at that moment the maid--the latest acquisition from theemployment agency, a slatternly Irish girl--went through the dining-roomon her way to answer the door-bell, and her father's amused comment cuther short. "Lydia, you'll have your guests thinking they're at a lunchcounter if you let that girl go on wearing that agglomeration of hair. "

The maid reappeared, sidling into the room, half carrying, half dragginga narrow, tall green pasteboard box, higher than herself but still notlong enough for its contents, which protruded in leafy confusion fromone end. "It's for you, " she said bluntly, depositing it beside Lydiaand retreating into the kitchen. 

Lydia looked at it in wonder, turning to crimson confusion when herfather said: "From Paul, I suppose. Very nice, I'm sure. Ring the bellfor dessert before you open it. Of course you're in a hurry to read thecard. " He smiled with a tender amusement at the girl, who met his eyeswith a look of fright. She opened the box, from which arose a column ofstrong, spicy odor, almost like something visible, and naïvely read thecard aloud: "To the little girl grown up at last--to the young lady I'vewaited so long to see. "

She laid the card down beside her plate and kept her eyes upon it, hanging her head in silence. Her father began to consume his dessertrapidly. The cream in it was delicious, and he ate with appreciation. Tohim, as to many middle-aged Americans, the two vital parts of a mealwere the meat and the dessert. The added pleasures or comfortingconsolations of soup, salads, vegetables, entrées, made dishes, were notfor him. He ate them, but with a robust indifference. "Meat's business, "he was wont to say, "and dessert's fun. The rest of one's victuals issociety and art and literature and such--things to leave to the women. "

He now stopped his consumption of his dessert and recalled himself withan effort to his daughter's impalpable difficulties. She was murmuring, "But, Father--you must be mistaken-- Why, nobody so much as hinted atsuch a--"

"That's your mother's doings. She'd be furious now if she knew I'dspoken right out. But you don't want to be treated like a little girlall your life, do you?" He laughed at her speechless embarrassment witha kind obtuseness to the horror of youth at seeing its shy fastnesses ofreserve laid open to indifferent feet. Divining, however, through hisaffection for her, that she was really more than pleasantly startled byhis bluntness, he began to make everything smooth by saying: "Therearen't many girls in Endbury who don't envy my little Lydia, I guess. Paul is considered--"

At this point Lydia rose hurriedly and actually ran away from the soundof his voice. She fled upstairs so rapidly that he heard the click ofher heel on the top step before he could draw his breath. He laugheduneasily, finished his dessert in one or two huge mouthfuls, andfollowed her. He was recalled by the ringing of the telephone bell, andwhen he went upstairs again he was smiling broadly. With his lawyer'scaution, he waited a moment outside his wife's room, where he heardLydia's voice, to see if her mother had hit upon some happy inspirationto quiet the girl's exaggerated maidenly shyness. He had the tenderestindulgence to his daughter's confusion, but he was not without ahumorous, middle-aged realization of the extremely transitory nature ofthis phase of youth. He had lived long enough to see so many blushinggirls transformed into matter-of-fact matrons that the inevitable end ofthe business was already present to his mind. He was vastly relievedthat Lydia had a mother to understand her fancies, and upon his wife, whom he would not have trusted to undertake the smallest businesstransaction without his advice, he transferred, with a sigh of content, the entire responsibility of wisely counseling their daughter. "Thankthe Lord, that's not my job!" he had often said about some knotty pointin the up-bringing of the children. Mrs. Emery had always answered thatshe could not be too thankful for a "husband who was not a meddler. "

The Judge now listened at the door to the conversation between the twowomen with a grin of satisfaction. 

"Why, my dear, what is there so terrible in having the handsomest andmost promising young man in Endbury devoted to you? You don't need tomarry him for years and years if you don't want to--or never, if youdon't like him enough. " She laughed a little, teasingly, "Perhaps it'sall just our nonsense, and he never has thought of you in that way. Maybe when he comes to see you he'll tell you about a beautiful girl inUrbana or Cincinnati that he's engaged to--and _then_ what would yoursilly father say?"

"Oh, if I could only think that, " breathed Lydia, as though she had beenreprieved from a death sentence. "Of course! Father was just joking. Buthe startled me so!"

"He was probably thinking of his horrid law business, darling. When abig trial is on he wouldn't know me from Eve. He says _anything_ at suchtimes. "

Judge Emery laughed noiselessly, and quite without resentment at thiswifely characterization. 

Lydia went on: "It wasn't so much what he said, you know--as--oh, theway he took it for granted--"

"Well, don't think about it any more, dear; just be your sweet naturalself when Paul comes to see you the first time--and don't let's talk anymore now. Mother gets tired so easily. "

Lydia's remorseful outcry over having fatigued her mother seemed a goodoccasion for Judge Emery's entrance into the room and for hisannouncement. He felt that she would make an effort to control anyagitation she might feel, and indeed, beyond a startled gasp, she madeno comment on his news. Mrs. Emery herself was more obviously stirred toemotion. "To-night? Why, I didn't think he'd be in town for several daysyet. "

"He only got in at five o'clock this afternoon, he said. "

The two parents exchanged meaning glances over this chronology, and Mrs. Emery flushed and smiled. "Now, Lydia, " she said, "it's a perfect shameI'm not well enough to be there when he comes. It would make it easierfor you. But I wish you'd say honestly whether you'd rather have yourfather there or see Paul alone. "

Judge Emery's face took on an aggrieved look of alarm. "Good gracious, my dear! What good would I be? You know I can't be tactful. Besides, I've got an appointment with Melton. "

Lydia rose from where she knelt by the bed. Her chin was quivering. "Why, you make me feel so--so queer! Both of you!--As though it wereanything--to see Paul--when I've known him always. "

Her mother seized on the rôle opened to them by this speech, and saidquickly: "Why, of course! Aren't we silly! I don't know what possessesus. When he comes you just run along and see him, and say your fatherand I are sorry not to be there. "

During the next half-hour she made every effort, heroically thoughobviously seconded by her husband, to keep the conversation in a lightand casual vein, but when the door-bell rang, they all three heard itwith a start. Mrs. Emery said, very carelessly, "There he is, dear. Runalong and remember me to him. " But she pulled Lydia down to her, straightened a bow on her waist with a twitch, loosened a lock of thegirl's shining dark hair, and kissed her with a sudden yearning fervor. 

After they were alone, Judge Emery laughed aloud. "You're just as bad asI am, Sarah. You don't _say_ anything, but--"

"Oh, I know, " his wife said; "I can't help it!" She deliberatedunresignedly over the situation for a moment, and then, "It seems asthough I couldn't have it so, to be sick just now, when I'm needed somuch. This first month is so important! And Lydia's getting such adifferent idea of things from what I meant, having this awful time withservants, and all. I have a sort of feeling once in a while that she'sgetting notions!" She pronounced the word darkly. 

"Notions?" Judge Emery asked. He had never learned to interpret hiswife's obscurities when the mantle of intuitions fell on her. 

"Oh, don't ask me what kind! I don't know. If I knew I could dosomething about it. But she speaks queerly once in a while, and theevening of the day she was out with Marietta in the Black Rock woods shewas-- Do you know, I think it's not good for Lydia to be outdoors toomuch. It seems to go to her head so. She gets to looking likeHarry--almost reckless, and like some little scampering wild animal. "

Judge Emery rose and buttoned his coat about his spare figure. "Maybeshe takes a back track, after some of my folks. You know there's oneline in my mother's family that was always crazy about the woods. Mygrandfather on my mother's side used to go off just as regular as themonth of May came around, and--"

Mrs. Emery interrupted him with the ruthless and justifiable impatienceof people at the family history of their relations by marriage. "Oh, goalong! And stop and speak to Paul on your way out. Just drop in as youpass the door. We don't want to really chaperone her. Nobody does thatyet--but--the Hollisters are so formal about their girls--well, you stopin, anyhow. It's borne in on me that that'll look better, after all. "

CHAPTER IX

FATHER AND DAUGHTER

In the midst of his conference with Dr. Melton, an hour later, it cameupon Judge Emery with a clap that he had forgotten this behest of hiswife's, plunged deep in legal speculations as he had been, the instanthe turned from her door. He brought his hand down on the table. 

"What's the matter?" asked the little doctor, peering up at him. 

"Oh, nothing important--women's cobwebs. I'm afraid I'll have to go, though. We can take this up again to-morrow, can't we?"

"At your service, " said the doctor; but he pulled with some exasperationat a big pile of pamphlets still to be examined. 

"It's something about Lydia's receiving a call from Paul Hollister, andher mother wanting me to stop in as I left the house and saygood-evening--sort of represent the family--do the proper thing. Don'tit tickle you to see women who used to sleigh-ride from seven to elevenevery evening in a little cutter just big enough for one and a half, begin to wonder if they hadn't better chaperone their girls when theyhave callers in the next room?"

He stirred up the pamphlets with a discontented look. "Confound it, Iwish I could stay! Which one of those has the statistics about theaccidents when the men aren't allowed one day in seven?"

"See here, Emery!" In spite of his evident wish to exhort, the doctorcontinued sitting as he spoke. He was so short that to rise could havegiven him no perceptible advantage over the tall lawyer. "See here; doyou know that you have a most unusual girl for a daughter?"

"I have heard people say that I have a glimmering notion of her merits, "said the other with a humorous gravity. 

"Oh, I don't mean pretty, and appealing, and with a good complexion, andall that--and I don't mean you don't spoil her most outrageously. I meanshe's got the oddest make-up for a modern American girl--she's simple. "

"I don't see anything odd about her--or simple!" Her father resented theadjectives with some warmth. 

Dr. Melton answered with his usual free-handed use of language: "Well, it's because, like everybody else old and spoiled and stodgy andsettled, you've no eyes in your head when it comes to somethingimportant, like young people. Because they're all smooth and rosy youthink they're all alike. " He rushed on, delivering himself as alwayswith restless vivacity of gesture, "I tell you youth is one of the mostwastefully ignored forces in the world! Talk about our neglecting to getthe good out of our water-power! The way we shut off the capacity ofyouth to see things as they are, before it gets purblind with our owncowardly unreason--why, it's as if we tried to make water run uphillinstead of turning our mill-wheels with its natural energy. "

Judge Emery had listened to a word or two of this harangue and then hadlooked for and found his hat and coat, with which he had investedhimself, and now stood ready for the street, one hand on the knob of thedoor. "Well, good-night to you, " he said pleasantly, as though thedoctor were not speaking; "I'll try to see you to-morrow. "

Dr. Melton jumped to his feet, laughing, ran across the room and caughtat the other's arm. "Don't blame me. Much preaching of true gospel todeaf ears has made me yell all the time. You know you don't really hearme, any more than anyone else. "

"There's no doubt about that, I don't!" acquiesced the Judge frankly. 

"I will run on, though I know it never does any good. How'd I beginthis time? What started me off? What was I saying?"

"You were saying that Lydia was queer and half-witted, " said the Judgemoderately. 

"I said she was simple--and by that I mean she's so wise you'd betterlook out or she'll find you out. She's as dangerous as a bomb. She has ascent for essentials. She can tell 'em from all our flummery. I'm afraidof her, and I'm afraid _for_ her! Remember the fate of the father in the_Erl-King_! He thought, I dare say, that he was doing a fine thing forhis child, to hurry it along to a nice, warm, dry, safe place!"

Judge Emery broke in, impatient of this fantastic word-bandying. "Oh, come, Melton, I can't stand here while you spin your paradoxes. I've gotto get home before young Hollister leaves or my wife won't like it. "

"I'll go with you, then, " cried the little doctor, clapping on his hat. "You sha'n't escape me that way. I'm in full cry after the best figureof speech I've hit on in months. "

"Good Lord!" The lawyer looked down laughingly at his friend as the twoset off, a stork beside a sparrow. "You and your figures!"

"It came over me with a bang the other day that in Lydia we have in ourmidst that society-destroying child in _The Kaiser's New Clothes_. "

"Eh?" said Lydia's father blankly. 

"You remember the last scene in that inimitable tale? Where the Kaiserwalks abroad with all the people shouting and hurrahing for the newclothes, and not daring to trust their own eyes, and suddenly a littlechild's voice is heard, 'But the Kaiser has nothing on!'"

"I don't know what you're talking about, " said the Judge with a patientindifference. 

"Well, you will know when you hear Lydia say that some day. Sheknows--she'll know! Perhaps you've done well to send her to that idioticfinishing school. "

"Don't lay it to me!" cried the Judge, laughing; "_I_ didn't sendher--or not send her. If you were married you'd know that fathers neverhave anything to say about what their daughters do. "

"More fools they!" rejoined the doctor pointedly. "But in this casemaybe it's all right. She's as ignorant as a Hottentot, of course, butperhaps any real education might have spoiled her innate capacity to--"

"Oh, pshaw!" The Judge was vaguely uneasy. "You let Lydia alone. Talkyour nonsense about something else. There's nothing queer about Lydia, thank heavens! She's just like all young ladies. "

"That's a horrible thing to say about one's own daughter!" cried thedoctor, falling immediately into the lightly mournful, satirical veinthat was the alternative to his usual racing talk. "There won't beanything queer about her long, that's fact. In real life the child isnever really allowed to complete that sentence. A hundred hands areclapped over its mouth, and it's hustled, and shaken, and frightened, and scolded, till it thinks there's something the matter with itseyesight. And Lydia's a sweet, gentle child, who'll want to say whateverpleases people she loves--that'll be another bandage over her eyes. Andshe's not dowered with an innate fondness for shrieking outcontradictions at the top of her voice, and unless you've a real passionfor that you get silenced early in life. "

The lawyer laughed with the good-natured contempt of a large, silent manfor a small, voluble one. "That's a tragedy you can't know much aboutfrom experience, Melton. No cruel force ever silenced you. "

He paused at the walk leading to his house. A big street light glowedand sputtered over their heads. "Come in, won't you, and see Lydia?"

"No; no cruel force has ever _silenced_ me, " the doctor mused, puttinghis hands slowly into his pockets, "but it has bound me hand and foot. Italk, and I talk, but do you ever see me doing anything different fromthe worst fools of us all?"

"Are you coming in?" The Judge spoke with his absent tolerance of hisdoctor's fancies. 

"No, thank you, as the farmer said to the steeple-climber. I'm goinghome to my lonely office to give thanks to Providence that I'm notresponsible for a daughter. "

The Judge frowned. "Nonsense! Look at Marietta. "

"I do, " said the doctor. 

"Well--?" The lawyer was challenging. In the long run the doctor rubbedhim the wrong way. 

"I hope you make a better job of bandaging Lydia's eyes than you didhers. "

The Judge had turned toward the house. At this he stopped and made anirritated gesture. "Melton, you are enough to give a logical man brainfever. You're always proclaiming that parents have no real influenceover their children's lives--that it's fate, or destiny, ortemperament--and now--you blame me because Marietta's discontented overher husband's small income. "

The doctor looked up quickly, his face twitching. "You think that's thecause of Marietta's discontent? By Heaven, I wish Lydia could go into aconvent. "

Suddenly his many-wrinkled little face set like a mask of tragedy. "Oh, Nat, you know what Lydia's always been to me--like my own--asprecious--Oh, take care of her! take care of her! See, Lydia can'tfight. She can't, even if she knew what was going on to fight against--"His voice broke. He looked up at his tall friend and shivered. 

Judge Emery clapped him on the shoulder with a rough friendliness. "Nowonder you do miracles in curing women, Marius. You must know theirinsides. You talk like a mother in a fit of the nerves over a sickchild. In the Lord's name, what has Lydia to fight against? If there wasever a creature with a happy, successful life before her-- Besides, don't we all stand ready to do her fighting for her?"

Though the night was cool, the doctor took off his hat and wiped hisforehead. He looked up once as though he were about to speak, but inthe end he only put his hat back on his head, nodded, and went his way, his quick, light, uneven tread waking a faint echo in the empty street. 

As the Judge let himself in at the front door, a murmur of voices fromthe brightly-lighted parlor struck gratefully on his ear. He was not toolate. "How are you, Hollister?" he called as he pulled off his overcoat. "Glad to see you back. Let's hear all about the Urbana experience. "

Hollister's dramatic interest in each engagement of his battle forsuccess was infectious. Those who knew him, whether they liked him ornot, waited for news of the results of his latest skirmish as theywaited for the installments of an exciting serial story. 

As the older man entered, the tall, quick-moving young fellow came overto the door and shook his hand with energy. The Judge reflected thatnobody but Hollister could so convey the effect that he was being madekindly welcome in his own house; but he did not dislike this vigor ofpersonality. He sat down on the chair which his young guest indicated asa suitable one, and rubbed his chin, smiling at his daughter. "Dr. Melton sent his love to you, but he wouldn't come in. "

Paul looked brightly at Lydia. "I should hope not! My first evening withher! To share it with anybody! Except her father, of course!" He addedthe last as an afterthought, more with the air of putting the Judge athis ease than of excusing himself for an ungraceful slip of the tongue. 

The Judge laughed, restraining an impulse to call out, "You're a wonder, young man!" and said instead, "Well, let's hear the news. "

Lydia said nothing, but her aspect, always vividly expressive of hermood, struck her father as odd. As he glanced at her from time to timeduring the ready, spirited narrative of the young "captain in the armyof electricity, " as he had once called himself, Lydia's father felt aqualm of uneasiness. Her lips were very red and a little open, as thoughshe were breathless from some exertion, and a deep flush stained hercheeks. She looked at Paul while he talked animatedly to her father, butwhen he addressed himself to her she looked down or away, meeting herfather's eyes with a curious effect of not seeing him at all. The Judge, moved by the oblique, harassing intimations he had been forced to hearfrom the doctor as to the possibility of his not understanding all thatwas in his daughter's mind, was oppressed by that most nightmarish ofemotions for a man of clear-cut intellectual interests--an apprehension, like an imperceptible, clinging cobweb, not to be brushed away. Hewished heartily that the next year were over and Lydia "safely married. "Daughters were so much more of a responsibility than sons. They forcedon one the reality of a world of intangible conditions which one could, somehow, comfortably ignore with sons. And yet, how about Harry? Perhapsif some one had not ignored with him--

"I should have been back ten days ago, " Paul drew to the end of hisstory, "but I simply had to wait to oversee those tests myself. SinceI've adopted that rule of personally checking the inspector's work, we've been able to report forty per cent. Fewer complaints of newlyinstalled dynamos to the general office. And you see in this case, fromthe accident, what might have happened. "

"By the Lord!" cried the lawyer, moved in spite of his preoccupations bythe story of danger the other had been relating, "I should think itwould turn your hair white every time a dynamo's installed. How did youfeel when the fly-wheel broke?"

"The fly-wheel isn't on the dynamo, of course, " corrected Paul, "so Idon't feel responsible for it in a business way, and that's everything. As for being frightened, why, it's all over so quickly. You don't havetime to take in what's happening. You're there or you're not. And if youare, the best thing is to get busy with repairs, " he added, with asimple, manly depreciation of his courage. "You mustn't think it oftenhappens, you know; it's supposed never to. "

He spoke of the personal side of the matter with a dry brevity whichcontrasted effectively with the unconscious eloquence with which he hadpreviously brought before their eyes the tense excitement in the newpower-house when the wheels first stir to life in incredibly rapidrevolutions and the mysterious modern genii begins to rush through thewires. At no time did Lydia's suitor show to better advantage than inspeaking of his profession. The alertness of his face and the promptdecision of his speech suited the subject. His mouth fell into lines ofgrimly fixed purpose which expressed even more than his words when hespoke of the rivalry in endurance, patience and daring in the army ofyoung electrical engineers, all set, as he was, on crowding one anotherout of the rapidly narrowing road to preferment and the few great goldenprizes of the profession. 

This evening he was more than usually fervent. Judge Emery thought hedetected in him traces of the same excitement that flamed from Lydia'scheeks. "I tell you, Judge, I was wrong when I spoke of the 'army' ofelectricity. In the army advancement comes only from somebody's death, and with us it's simply a question of who's got the most to give. Hegets the most back--and that's all there is to it. The company's boundto have the man it can get the most work out of. If you can do twoordinary men's work, you get two men's pay. See? There's no limit to theapplication of that principle. Why, our field organizer on the PacificCoast is only a little older than I, and, by Jove! the work they sayhe'll turn off is something marvelous! You wouldn't believe it. But youcan train yourself to it, like everything else. To be able toconcentrate--not to lose a detail--to put every ounce of your force intoit--that's the thing. "

He brought one hand down inside the other, and sat for a moment insilence as tense with stirring possibilities to the others as tohimself. The Judge felt moved to a most unusual sensation, as if he werea loosened bowstring beside this twanging, taut intensity. He feltslightly dismayed to have his unspoken principles carried to this _n_thpower. He had given the best of himself, all his thoughts, illusions, hopes, endeavors, to his ideal of success, but his ambition had neverbeen concentrated enough to serve as a lens through which the rays ofhis efforts might focus themselves into the single beam of devastatingheat on which Paul counted so certainly to burn away the obstaclesbetween himself and success. Various protesting comments rose to hislips, which he kept back, disconcerted to find how much they resembledcertain remarks of Dr. Melton's. 

The young man stirred, looked at Lydia, and smiled brilliantly. "Imustn't keep this little sick-nurse up any later, I suppose, " he said;but for a moment he made no movement to go. He and Lydia exchanged agaze as long and silent as if they had been alone. It occurred to theJudge that they both looked dazzled. When Paul rose he drew a longbreath and shook his head half humorously at his host. "You and I willhave to look to our guns, during the next season, to hold our own, won'twe? I've been making Lydia promise to reserve me three dances at everysingle ball this winter, and I think I'm heroic not to insist onmore--but her first season--!"

Lydia said, with her pretty, light laugh, a little shaking now, "Butsuppose you're out of town, setting up some new dynamo or something andyour three dances come along?"

Paul crossed the room to her, as if drawn irresistibly by the sound ofher voice. He stood by her, looking down into her eyes (he was verytall), bending over her, smiling, pressing, confident, masterful. "You're to sit out those three dances and think of me, and think ofme--of course! I shall be thinking of you. "

Lydia's little tremulous air of archness dropped under this point-blankrejoinder. She flushed, and looked at her father. That unimaginativeperson started toward her as though she had called to him for help, andthen, ashamed of his inexplicable impulse, turned away confusedly anddisappeared into the hall. 

Paul took this movement as a frank statement of the older man's desireto be, for the moment, rid of him. "Oh, I _am_ going, Judge, " he calledafter him, unabashed; "it is just a bit hard to tear myself away--I'vebeen waiting so long for her to get back!" To Lydia he went on, "I'vegrown thin and pale waiting for you, while you--look at yourself, youheartless little witch!"

He pointed across to a tall mirror in which they were reflected againstthe rich background of his roses. For a moment both the beautiful youngcreatures looked each into his own eyes, mysterious with youth's totalignorance of its own meaning. Paul took Lydia's hand in his, and pointedagain to their reflections as they stood side by side. He tried tospeak, but for once his ready tongue was silent. Judge Emery came backto the door, a weary patience on his white, tired face. 

The young man turned away with a sigh and a smile. "Yes, yes, Judge, I'moff. Good-night, Lydia. Don't forget the theater Wednesday night. "

He crossed the room with a rapid, even step, shook hands with the Judge, and got himself out of the room with an easy briskness which the olderman, mindful of his own rustic youth, was half-inclined to envy. 

After he and Lydia were left alone he did not venture a word of comment, lest he hit on the wrong thing. He went silently about, putting out thelights, and locking the windows. Lydia stood where Paul had left her, looking at her bright image in the mirror. When the last bulb went out, the room was in a flickering twilight, the street arc-light blinkinguncertainly into the windows. Judge Emery stood waiting for his daughterto move. He could scarcely see her form--her face not at all, but thereflashed suddenly upon him the memory of her appealing look toward himearlier. It shook him as it had then. His heart yearned over her. Hewould have given anything he possessed for the habit of intimate talkwith her. He put out his hands, but in the twilight she did not see thegesture. He felt shy, abashed, horribly ill at ease, torn by histenderness, by his sense of remoteness. He said, uncertainly, "Lydia--Lydia dear--"

She started. "Oh, yes, of course. It's late. " She passed, brushedlightly against him, as he stood trembling with the sense of herdearness to him. She began to ascend the stairs. He had felt from herthe emanation of excitement, guessed that she was shivering like himselfbefore a crisis--and he could find no word to say. 

She had passed him as though he were a part of the furniture. He hadnever talked to her about--about things. He stood at the foot of thestairs in the darkness, listening to her light, mounting footfall. Oncehe opened his mouth to call to her, but the habit of a lifetime closedit. 

"She will talk to her mother, " he told himself; "her mother will knowwhat to say. " When he followed her up the stairs he was consciouschiefly that he was immeasurably tired. Melton, perhaps, had somethingon his side with his everlasting warnings about nervous breakdowns. Hecould not stand long strains as he used to do. 

He fell asleep tracing out the thread of the argument presented that dayby the counsel for the defense. 

CHAPTER X

CASUS BELLI

Dr. Melton looked up in some surprise from his circle of lamplight ashis goddaughter came swiftly into the room. "Your mother worse?" hequeried sharply. 

"No, no, dear Godfather. I just thought I'd come over and see you for awhile. I had a little headache--Marietta's back from Cleveland to-day, and she and Flora Burgess are at the house--"

"You've said enough. I'm thankful that you have this refuge to fly tofrom such--"

"Oh, Flora's not so bad as you make her out, the queer, kind little olddowdy--only I didn't feel like talking 'parties, ' and 'who's who, 'to-night--and their being with Mother made it all right for me to leaveher. "

The doctor took off his eye-shade and showed his little wizened facerather paler than usual. "That's a combination that would kill _me_, andyour mother not well yet--still, many folks, many tastes. "

He looked at Lydia penetratingly. She had taken a chair before thesoft-coal fire and was staring at it rather moodily. "Well, Lydia, mydear, and how does Endbury strike you now? Speaking of many tastes, whatare yours going to be like, I wonder?"

"I wonder, " she repeated absently. 

"Well, at least you know whether the young man who called on you lastnight is to your taste?"

Lydia turned her face away and made a nervous gesture. "Oh, don't, Godfather!"

"Very well, I won't, " he said cheerfully, turning to his books with theinstinct of one who knows his womankind. 

There was a long silence, broken only by the purring of the coal. ThenLydia gave a laugh and went to sit on the arm of his chair. "Of coursethat was what I came to see you about, " she admitted, her sensitive lipsquivering into a smile that was not light-hearted; "but now I'm here Ifind I haven't anything to say. Perhaps you'd better give me a pink pilland send me home to forget all about everything. "

Dr. Melton took her fingers and held them closely in his thin, sinewyhands. "Oh, if I could--if I only could do something for you!" Hesearched her face anxiously. "What did young Hollister say that makesyou so troubled?"

She sat down on the edge of his writing-table and reflected. "It wasn'tanything he _said_, " she admitted. "He was all right, I guess. Fatherhad scared the life out of me before he came, by sort of taking it forgranted--Oh, you know--the silly way people do--"

"Yes. "

"Well, Paul was as nice as could be about that, so far as words go-- Hedidn't say a thing embarrassing or--or hard to answer, but he let me_see_--all the same! He kept saying what an immense help I'd be to anambitious man. He said he didn't see why I shouldn't grow into theleader of Endbury society, like the Mrs. Hollister, his aunt, that heand his sister live with, you know. "

"I suppose he's right, " conceded the doctor, reluctantly. 

"Well, while he was talking about it, it seemed all very well--you knowthe way he goes at things--how he makes you feel as though he were alocomotive going sixty miles an hour and you were inside the engine cab, holding on for dear life?"

Dr. Melton shook his head. "Paul has given me a great variety ofsensations, " he admitted, "but I can't say that he ever gave me quitethis locomotive-cab illusion you speak of. "

"Well, he has me, lots of times, " persisted Lydia. "It's awfullyexciting--you don't know where you're going, and you can't stop tothink, everything tears past you so fast and your breath is so blown outof you. You feel like screaming. You forget everything else, you getso--so stirred up and excited. But after it's over there's always a timewhen things are flat. And this morning, and all day long, I've feltvery--different about what he wants and all. I don't believe I'm verywell, perhaps--or maybe--" she broke off, to say with emotion, "Oh, Godfather, wouldn't it be too awful if I should turn out to be withoutambition. " She pronounced the word with the reverence for its meaningthat had been drilled into her all her life, and looked at Dr. Meltonwith troubled eyes. 

He thrust his lips out with a grimace habitual to him in moments offeeling, and for an instant said nothing. When he spoke his voice brokeon her name, as it had the night before when he had stood looking up ather windows. "Oh, Lydia!--Oh, my dear, I'm terribly afraid of yourfuture!"

"I'm a little scared of it myself, " she said tremulously, and hid herface on his shoulder. 

She was the first to speak. "Wouldn't Marietta just scream with laughterat us?" she reminded him. "We _are_ foolish, too! There's nothing in theworld you could lay your finger on. There's nothing anyhow, I guess, butnerves. I wouldn't dare breathe it to anybody else, but you always knowhow I'm feeling, anyhow. It's as though--here I am, grown up, andthere's nothing for me to do that's worth while--even if--evenif--Paul--"

The doctor took a sudden resolution. "Why don't you talk to your father, Lydia? Why don't you ask him about--"

He was cut short by Lydia's gesture of utter wonder. "_Father_? Don'tyou know that there's a big trial on? He couldn't tell without figuringup, if you should ask him quick, whether I'm fourteen or nineteen--ornine! Mother wouldn't let me, anyhow, even if he could have any idea ofwhat I was driving at. She never let us bother him the least bit whenthere was something big happening in his lawyering. I remember thattime I had pneumonia and nearly died, when I was a little girl, that shetold him I had just a cold; and he never knew any different for yearsafterward, when I happened to say something about it. She didn't wanthim worried when he needed all his wits for some important business. "

The doctor looked at her with frowning intensity, and then down at hispapers. He seemed on the point of some forcible utterance, which herestrained with many twitchings of his mouth. Finally he got up and wentto a window, staring out silently. 

"I think I'll go and look up dear Aunt Julia, " said Lydia. 

"Very well, my dear, " said the doctor over his shoulder. "She's in herroom, I think. " In exactly the same mild tone, he added, "Damnation!"

"What did you say?" asked Lydia. 

He turned toward her, and took up a book from the table. "I saidnothing, dear Lydia--I've nothing to say, I find. "

Lydia broke into a light, mocking laugh--the doctor's volubility was anold joke--and began to speak, when a woman's voice called, "Oh, Marius, here's Mr. ---- why, Lydia, how did you get in without my seeing you?"

She entered the room as she spoke--a middle-aged woman, with large blueeyes and graying fair hair, who evidently did her duty by the prevailingstyles in dress with a comfortable moderation of effort. Lydia's mother, as the sister of Mrs. Sandworth's long-dead husband, thought itnecessary, from time to time, to endeavor to stir her sister-in-law upto a keener sense of what was due the world in the matter of personalappearance; but Mrs. Sandworth, born a Melton, had the irritatingunconcern for social problems of that distinguished Kentucky family. Shecared only to please her brother Marius, she said, and he never caredwhat she had on, but only what was in her mind--a remark that had oncecaused Judge Emery to say, in a fit of exasperation with her wanderingwits, that if she ever had as little on as she had in her mind, heguessed Melton would sit up and take notice. 

Lydia now rushed at her aunt, exclaiming, "Oh, Aunt Julia, how _good_you do look to me! The office door was open and I slipped in that way, without ringing the bell. "

"It's four years old, and never been touched, not even the sleeves, "said the other deprecatingly. 

Her brother laughed. "Who did you say was here--Oh, it's you, Rankin;come in, come in. "

The newcomer was half-way across the room before he saw Lydia. Hestopped, with a look of extreme pleasure and surprise, which Lydiaanswered with a frank smile. 

"Why, have you met my niece?" asked Mrs. Sandworth, looking from one tothe other. 

"Oh, yes; Mr. Rankin's my oldest new friend in Endbury. I met him thefirst day I was back. "

"And when I set up the newel-post--"

"And I ran on to his house by accident the day Marietta and I were outwith little Pete, when it rained and I borrowed his overcoat andumbrella--"

"And then I had to call to take them away, of course--"

They intoned their confessions like a gay antiphonal chant. A brightcolor had come up in Lydia's cheeks. She looked very sunny andgood-humored, like a cheerful child, an expression which up to that yearhad been habitual to her. Dr. Melton looked at her without speaking. 

"So, you see, " she concluded, "not to speak of several othertimes--we're very well acquainted. "

"Well, Marius! Did you ever!" Mrs. Sandworth appealed to her brother. 

"Oh, I've known about it all along. Rankin and I have discussed Lydia aswell as other weighty matters, a great many times. "

Mrs. Sandworth's easily diverted mind sped off into another channel. "Yes, how you do discuss. I'm going to look right at the clock everyminute from now on, so's to be sure to remind you of that engagement atJudge Emery's office at half-past nine. I know what happens when you andMr. Rankin get to talking. "

"I'll not stay long; Miss Emery has precedence. "

"Oh, don't mind me, " said Lydia. 

"They won't--nor anything else, " her aunt assured her. 

Rankin laughed at this characterization. The doctor did not seem tohear. He was brooding, and drumming on the table. From this reverie hewas startled by the younger man's next statement. 

"I've got an apprentice, " he announced. 

"Eh?" queried the doctor with unexpected sharpness. 

"The fifteen-year-old son of my neighbor, Luigi Carfarone, who works onthe railroad. The boy's been bad--truant--street gamin--all that sort ofthing, and his mother, who comes in to clean for me sometimes, has beenawfully anxious about him. But it seems he has a passion fortools--maybe his ancestors were mediæval craftsmen. Anyhow, he's beenworking for me lately, doing some of the simpler jobs, and reallylearning fast. And he's been so interested he's forgotten all hisdeviltry. So, yesterday, didn't he and his father and his mother andabout a dozen littler brothers and sisters all come in solemnprocession, dressed in their best, to dedicate him to me and myprofession, as they grandly call it. "

"Oh, how perfectly lovely!" cried Lydia. 

The doctor resumed his drumming morosely. "Of course you know the end ofthat. "

"You mean he'll get tired of it, and take to robbing chicken-roostsagain?"

"Not much! He'll like it, and stick to it, and bring others, and you'llextend operations and build shops, and in no time you'll go the way ofall the world--a big factory, running night and day; you on the keenjump every minute; dust an inch thick over your books and music; nervestaut; head humming with business schemes to beat your competitors;forget your wife most of the time except to give her money; makingprofits hand over fist; suborning legislators to wink at your gettingspecial railroad rates for your stuff; can't remember how many childrenyou have; grand success; notable example of what can be done byattention to business; nervous prostration at forty-five; Bright'sdisease at fifty; leave a million. "

Rankin burst into a great roar of boyish laughter at this propheticflight. The doctor gnawed his lower lip, and looked at him withoutsmiling. "I've got ten million blue devils on my back to-night, " hesaid. 

"So I see--so I see. " Rankin was still laughing, but as he continued tolook into his old friend's face his own grew grave by reflection. "Youdon't believe all that?"

"Oh, you won't mean to. It'll come gradually. " He broke out suddenly, "Good Heavens, Rankin, give me a serious answer. "

"Answer!" The cabinet-maker's bewilderment was immense. "Have you askedme anything?"

The doctor turned away to his desk with the pettish gesture of a womanwhose inner thoughts are not divined. 

"He makes me feel very thick-witted and dense, " Rankin appealed to thetwo women. 

Mrs. Sandworth exonerated him from blame. "Oh, nobody ever can make outwhat he's driving at. I never try. " She took out a piece of crochetwork. "Lydia, they're at it now. I know the voice Marius gets on. _Would_ you make this in shell stitch? It's much newer, of course, butthey say it don't wash so well. " As Lydia's attention wavered, "Oh, there's not a particle of use in trying to make out what they're saying. They just go on and on. "

Rankin was addressing himself to the doctor's back. "I don't, you know, see anything wicked in making a lot of chairs by machinery instead of afew by hand. I'm no handcraft faddist. I did that in the beginning onlybecause I had to begin somehow to earn my living honestly without beingtoo tied up to folks, and I couldn't think of any other way. But Ithink, now that you've put the idea into my head--I think it would be agood thing to gather the boys of the neighborhood around me--and, bygracious! the girls too! That's one of my convictions--that girls needvery much the same treatment as boys. And if it should develop into alarge business (which I doubt strongly), what's the harm? The motivelying back of it would be different from what I so fear and hate in bigbusinesses. You can bet your last cent on one thing, and that is thatthe main idea would not be to make as much furniture as fast aspossible, as cheap as possible, but to make it good, and to make only asmuch as would leave me and every last one of the folks that work for metime and strength to live--'leisure to be good. ' Who said that, anyway?It's fine. "

"_Hymn to Adversity_, " supplied the doctor, who was better read in thepoets than the younger generation. He added, skeptically, "Could you, though, do any such thing? Wouldn't it run _you_, once you got togoing?"

"Well, if worst came to worst--" began Rankin, then changing front, hebegan again: "My great-aunt--"

The doctor fell back in his chair with a groan and a laugh. 

"Yes; the same one you may have heard me mention before. She told methat all through her childhood her family was saving and pullingtogether to build a fine big house. They worked along for years until, when she was a young lady, they finally accomplished it; built a bigthree-story house that was the admiration of the countryside. Then theymoved in. And it took the women-folks every minute of their time, andmore, to keep it clean and in order; it cost as much to keep it up, heated, furnished, repaired, painted, and everything the way a finehouse should be, as their entire living used to cost. The fine biggrounds they had laid out to go with the mansion took so much time to--"

"You see. You see. That's just what I meant, " broke in the doctor. 

"Well, I'm a near relative of my great-aunt's. One day, when all therest of the family was away, she set fire to the house and burned it tothe ground, with everything in it. "

"She didn't!" broke in Mrs. Sandworth, who had been coaxed to a fitfulattention by the promise of a coherent story. 

Rankin laughed. "Well, that was the way she told it to me, and I don'tdoubt she _would_ have, " he amended. 

The doctor grunted, "Huh! But would _you_!" He went on, "You couldn'tcompete with your rivals, anyhow, if you didn't concentrate everythingon making chairs. Don't you know the successful business man's bestadvertisement? 'All of my life-strength I've put into the product Ioffer you, ' he says to the public, and it's true. "

"Oh, well, if I couldn't do business there'd be an end of the matter, and none of your horrible prophecies would come true. "

"Your wife wouldn't let you. "--Dr. Melton took up another line ofattack--"she'd want a motor-car and 'nice' associates and a fashionableschool for the children, and a home in the 'respectable' part of town. "

Rankin's easy-going manner changed. He sat up and frowned. "There youstep on one of my corns, Doctor"--he did not apologize for the rusticmetaphor--"I don't believe a single, solitary identical word of that. It's my most hotly held conviction that women are so much like humansthat you can't tell the difference with a microscope. I mean, if they'reinterested in petty, personal things it's because they're not given afair chance at big, impersonal things. Everybody's jumping on theAmerican woman because she knows more about bridge-whist than about herhusband's business. _Why_ does she? Because he's satisfied to haveher--you can take my word for it! He likes her to be absorbed in clubsand bridge and idiotic little dabblings in near-culture and pseudo-art, just for the reason that a busy mother gives her baby a sticky featherto play with. It keeps the baby busy. It keeps his wife's attention offhim. It's the American man just as much as the woman who's mortallyafraid of a sure-enough marriage with sure-enough shared interests. Hedoesn't want to bother with children, or with the servant problem or thequestions of family life, and he doesn't want his wife bothering him inhis business any more than she wants him interfering with hers. Thatidea of the matter is common to them both. "

"That's a fine, chivalric view of the situation, " said the doctorsardonically. "Maybe if you'd practiced as long in as many Americanfamilies as I have, you might have a less idealistic view of your femalecompatriots. "

"I don't idealize 'em, " cried Rankin. "Good Lord! Don't I say they'rejust like men? They amount to something if they're given something worthwhile to do--not otherwise. "

"Don't you call bringing up children worth while?"

"You bet I do. So much so that I'd have the fathers take their full halfof it. I'd have men do more inside the house and less outside, and thewomen the other way 'round. "

The doctor recoiled at this. "Oh, you're a visionary. It couldn't bedone. "

"It couldn't be done in a minute, " admitted Rankin. 

The doctor mused. "It's an interesting thought. But it's not for ourgeneration. A new idea is like a wedge. You have to introduce it by thethin edge. The only way to get it started is by beginning with thechildren. Adults are hopeless. There's never any use trying to changethem. "

"Oh, you can't fool children, " said Rankin. "It's no use teaching themsomething you're not willing to make a try at yourself. They see throughthat quick enough! What you're really after, is what they see and learnto go after themselves. If anything's to be done, the adults must takethe first step. "

"But, as society is organized, the idea is preposterous. "

"Society's been organized a whole lot of different ways in its time. Whotells me that it's bound to stay this way? I tell you right now, ithasn't got _me_ bluffed, anyhow! My wife--if I ever have one--is goingto be my sure-enough wife, and my children, _my_ children. I won't_have_ a business that they can't know about, or that doesn't leave mestrength enough to share in all their lives. I can earn enough growingpotatoes and doing odd jobs of carpentering for that!"

The doctor looked wonderingly at the other's kindling face. "Rankin, "he asked irrelevantly, "aren't there _ever_ moments when you despair ofthe world?"

The voice of the younger man had the fine tremor of sincerity as heanswered, "Why, good heavens, _no_, Doctor! That's why I dare criticizeit so. "

The doctor looked with an intensity almost fierce into the other'sconfident eyes. He laid his thin, sinewy hand on the other's big brownfist, as though he would fain absorb conviction by contact. "But I'msick with the slowness of the progress you talk of--believe in, " heburst out finally. "It comes too late--the advance from our tragicmaterialism; too late for so many that could have profited by it most. "He looked toward Lydia bending over her aunt's fancy work. Rankinfollowed the direction of his eyes. 

"Yes; that's what I mean, " said the doctor heavily, rising from hischair. "That and such thousands of others. Oh, for a Theseus to huntdown this Minotaur of false standards and wretched ideas of success! Isee them, the precious youths and maidens, going in by thousands to hisden of mean aspirations, and not a hand is raised to warn them. Theymust be silly and tragic because everyone else is!"

Rankin shook his head. "I think I'm proving that you don't have to gointo the labyrinth--that you can live in health and happiness outside. "

"There's rather more than that to be done, you'll admit, " said thedoctor with an uncompromising bitterness. 

Rankin colored. "I don't pretend that it's much of anything--what I'vedone. "

The doctor did not deny him. He thrust out his lips and rubbed his handnervously over his face. Finally, "But you have done it, at least, " hebrought out, "and I've only talked. As another doctor has said: 'I'venever taken a bribe; but there's a pale shade of bribery known asprosperity. '"

They fell into a silence, broken by Mrs. Sandworth's asking, "Lydia, have your folks got an old mythology book? I studied it at school, ofcourse, but it has sort of passed out of my mind. Was it the Minotaurthat sowed teeth and something else very odd came up that you wouldn'texpect?"

Lydia did not smile. "I don't know whether we have the book or not, butMiss Slater told us the story of the Minotaur. There's a picture ofTheseus and Ariadne in Europe somewhere--Munich, I think--or maybeSiena. It was where one of the girls had a sore throat, I remember, andwe had to stay quite a while. Miss Slater told us about it then. "

The doctor stood up. "Julia, it's nearly half-past now. Who rememberedthis time? I'm off, all of you. Rankin, see that Lydia gets home safely, will you?"

"Oh, I must go too--now, with you. " The girl jumped up. "I didn'trealize it was so late. They'll be wondering at home. "

"Come along, then, both of you. I'll go with you to the corner where Itake my car. "

The chill of the night air sent them along at a brisk gait, Lydiaswinging easily between them, her head on a level with Rankin's, thedoctor's hat on a level with her ear. She said nothing, and the twotalked across her, disjointed bits of an argument apparently underendless discussion between them. 

The doctor flung down, with a militant despondency, "It'd be no usetrying to do anything, even if you weren't so slothful and sedentary asyou are! It moves in a vicious circle. Because material success is whatthe majority want, the majority'll go on wanting it. Hardy sayssomewhere that it's innate in human nature not to desire the undesiredof others. "

Rankin sang out a ringing "Aw, g'wan! It's innate in human nature tomurder and steal whenever it pleases, and I guess even Hardy'd admitthat those aren't the amusements of the majority quite so extensively asthey used to be--what? First thing you know people'll begin to desirethings because they're worth desiring and not because other folks havethem--even so astonishing a flight as that!" he made a boyishgesture--"and what a grand time that'll be to live in, to be sure!"

They were waiting at the corner for the doctor's street car, which nowcame noisily down toward them. He watched it advance, and proffered as avaledictory, his gloom untempered to the last, "You're a wild man thatlives in the woods. I've doctored everybody in the world for thirtyyears. Which knows human nature best?"

Rankin roared after him defiantly, waking the echoes and startling theoccupants of the car, "I do! I do! I do!"

The car bore the doctor away, a perversely melancholy little figure, contemplating the young people blackly. 

"Whatever do you suppose set him off so?" Rankin wondered aloud as theyresumed their rapid, swinging walk through the cold air. 

"I'm afraid I did, " Lydia surmised. "I had a wretched fit of the blues, and I guess he must have caught them from me. "

Rankin looked down at her keenly, his thoughts apparently quite alteredby her phrase. "Ah, he worries a great deal about you, " he murmured. 

Lydia laughed nervously, and said nothing. They walked swiftly insilence. The stars were thick above them in the wind-swept autumn night. Lydia tilted her head to look up at them once or twice. She saw Rankin'sface pale under the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat, his eyes meetinghers in an intent regard like a wordless speech. The fine, cold, austerewind swept them along like leaves, whipping their young pulses, chantingloudly in the leafless branches of the maples, and filling the darkspaces above with a great humming roar. They thrilled responsive to allthis and to the mood of high seriousness each divined in the other. 

Lydia's voice, breaking in upon the intimate silence, continued thetalk, but it was with another note. The mute interval, filled with windand darkness and the light of stars, had swung them up to a higherplane. She spoke with an artless sureness of comprehension--acertainty--they were close in spirit at that moment, and she was notfrightened, not even conscious of it. "Why should the doctor worry?_What is the matter?_ Marietta says the trouble with me is that I'mspoiled with having everything that I want. "

"_Have_ you everything you want?" Rankin's bluntness of interrogationwas unmitigated. 

Lydia looked up at him swiftly, keenly. In his grave face there was thatwhich made her break out with an open quivering emotion she had notshown even to the doctor's loving heart. "It's a weight on my verysoul--that there's nothing for me to look forward to--nothing, nothingthat's worth growing up to do. I haven't been taught anything--but Iknow I want to be something better than--perhaps I can't be--but I wantto try! I want to try! That's not much to ask--just a chance to try--ButI don't even know how to get that. I don't even dare to speakof--of--such things. People laugh and say it's Sunday-schooley fanciesthat'll disappear, that I'll forget as I get into living. But I don'twant to forget. I'm afraid I shall. I want to keep trying. I don'tknow--"

They did not slacken their swift advance as they talked. They looked ateach other seriously in the starlight. 

Rankin had given an indrawn exclamation as she finished, and after aninstant's pause he said, with a deep emotion, "Oh, perhaps--at least weboth want to try--_Be Ariadne for me!_ Help me to find the clue towhat's wrong in our lives, and perhaps--" He looked down at her, shaken, drawing quick breaths. She answered his gaze silently, her face asshining white as his. 

He went on: "You shall decide what Ariadne may be or may come to be--Iwill take whatever you choose to give--and bless you!"

She had a gesture of humility. "_I_ haven't anything to give. "

His accent was memorable as he cried, "You have yourself--you--you! Butyou are too gentle! It is hard for you--it will be too hard for you todo what you feel should be done. I could perhaps do the things if youwould tell me--help you not to forget--not to let life make you forgetwhat is worth doing and learning!"

She put back a mesh of her wind-blown hair to look at him intently, andto say again in wonder, "I'm not anything. What can you think I--whatcan you hope--"

They were standing now on the walk before her father's house. "I canhope--" his voice shook, "I can hope that you may make me into a manworthy to help you to be the best that's in you. "

Lydia put out her hand impulsively. It did not tremble. She looked athim with radiant, steady eyes. He raised the slim, gloved fingers to hislips. "Whether to leave you, or to try to--Oh, I would give my life toknow how best to serve you, " he said huskily. He turned away, the soundof his steps ringing loud in the silent street. 

Lydia went slowly up the walk and into the empty hall. She stood aninstant, her hands clasped before her breast, her eyes closed, her facestill and clear. Then she moved upstairs like one in a dream. 

As she passed her mother's door she started violently, and for aninstant had no breath to answer. Some one had called her namelaughingly. 

Finally, "Yes, " she answered without stirring. 

"Oh, come in, come in!" cried Marietta mockingly. "We know all abouteverything. We heard you come up the street, and saw you philandering onthe front walk. And for all it's so dark, we made out that Paul kissedyour hand when he went away. "

There was a silence in the hall. Then Lydia appeared in the door. Mrs. Emery gave a scream. "Why, Lydia! what makes you look so queer?"

They turned startled, inquiring, daunting faces upon her. It was thebaptism of fire to Lydia. The battle, inevitable for her, had begun. Shefaced it; she did not take refuge in the safe, silent lie which openedbefore her, but her courage was a piteous one. In her utter heartsickshrinking from the consequences of her answer she had a premonition ofthe weakness that was to make the combat so unequal. "It was not Paul, "she said, pale in the doorway; "it was Daniel Rankin. "

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 BOOK II

 IN THE LOCOMOTIVE CAB

CHAPTER XI

WHAT IS BEST FOR LYDIA

The girls who were to be débutantes that season, the "crowd" or (moreaccurately to quote Madeleine Hollister's racy characterization) "thegang, " stood before Hallam's drug store, chattering like a group ofbright-colored paroquets. They had finished three or four ice-creamsodas apiece, and now, inimitably unconscious that they were on thestreet corner, they were "getting up" a matinée party for theperformance of the popular actress whom, at that time, it was thefashion for all girls of their age and condition to adore. They hadworked themselves up to a state of hysteric excitement over theprospect. 

A tall brown-eyed blonde, with the physical development of a woman andthe facial expression of a child of twelve, cried out, "I feel as thoughI should swoon for joy to see that darling way she holds her hands whenthe leading man's making love to her--so sort of helpless--like this--"

"Oh, Madeleine, that's not a _bit_ the way. It's so!"

The first speaker protested, "Well, I guess I ought to be able to do it. I've practiced for _hours_ in front of the glass doing it. "

"For mercy's sake that's nothing. So have I. Who hasn't?"

Madeleine referred the question to Lydia, "Lyd has seen her later thananybody. She saw her in London. Just think of going to the theater inLondon--as if it was anywhere. She says they're crazy about her overthere. "

"_Oh, wild!_" Lydia told them. "Her picture's in every single window!"

"Which one? Which one?" they clamored, hanging on her answerbreathlessly. 

"That fascinating one with the rose, where she's holding her headsideways and--" Oh, yes, they had that one, their exclamation cut hershort, relieved that their collections were complete. 

"Lyd met a woman on the steamer coming back whose sister-in-law has thesame hairdresser, " Madeleine went on. 

They were electrified. "Oh, _honestly_? Is it her own?" They trembledvisibly before solution of a problem which had puzzled them, as theywould have said, "for eternities. "

"Every hair, " Lydia affirmed, "and naturally that color. "

Their enthusiasm was prodigious, "How grand! How perfectly grand!"

They turned on Lydia with reproaches. "Here you've been back two monthsand we haven't got a bit of good out of you. Think of your having knownthat, all this--"

"Her mother's sick, you know, " Madeleine Hollister explained. 

"She hasn't been so sick but what Lydia could get out to go buggy-ridingwith your brother Paul ever since he got back this last time. "

Lydia, as though she wished to lose herself, had been entering with afeverish intensity into the spirit of their lively chatter; but now, instead of responding with some prompt, defensive flippancy, she coloredhigh and was silent. A clock above them struck five. "Oh, I must geton, " she cried; "I'm down here, you know, to walk home with Father. "

They laughed loudly, "Oh, yes, we know all about this sudden enthusiasmfor Poppa's society. Where are you going to meet Paul?"

Lydia looked about at the crush of drays, trolley-cars, anddelivery-wagons jamming the busy street, "Well, not here down-town, " shereplied, her tone one of satisfied security. 

A confused and conscious stir among her companions and a burst of talkfrom them cut her short. They cried variously, according to theirtemperaments, "Oh, there he comes now!" "I think it's mean Lydia'sgobbling him up from under our noses!" "I used to have a ride or twobehind that gray while Lydia was away!" "My! Isn't he a good-looker!"

They had all turned like needles to the north, and stared as thespider-light wagon, glistening with varnish, bore down on them, lookingsingularly distinguished and costly among the dingy business-vehicleswhich made up the traffic of the crowded street. The young driver guidedthe high-stepping gray with a reckless, competent hand through the mostincredibly narrow openings and sent his vehicle up against theflower-like group of girls, laughing as he drew rein, at the open, humorous outcry against him. A chorus of eager recrimination rose to hisears, "Now, Mr. Hollister, this is the first time Lydia's been out withour crowd since she came home!" "You might let her alone!" "Go away, Paul, you greedy thing!" "I haven't asked Lydia a single thing about herEuropean trip!"

"Well, maybe you think, " he cried, springing out to the sidewalk, "thatI've been spending the last year traveling around Europe with Lydia! Ihaven't heard any more than you have. " He threw aside the lap-robe ofsupple broadcloth, and offered his hand to Lydia. A flash of resentmentat the cool silence of this invitation sprang up in the girl's eyes. There was in her face a despairing effort at mutiny. Her hands nervouslyopened and shut the clasp of the furs at her throat. She tried to lookunconscious, to look like the other girls, to laugh, not to know hismeaning, to turn away. 

The young man plunged straight through these pitiful cobwebs. "Why, comeon, Lydia, " he cried with a good-humored pointedness, "I've been allover town looking for you. " She backed away, looking over her shoulder, as if for a lane of escape, flushing, paling. "Oh, no, no thank you, Paul. Not _this_ afternoon!" she cried imploringly, with a soft fury ofprotest, "I'm on my way to Father's office. I want to walk home withhim. I want to see him. I thought it would be nice to walk home withhim. I see so little of him! I thought it would be nice to walk homewith him. " She was repeating herself, stammering and uncertain, butachieving nevertheless a steady retreat from the confident figurestanding by the wagon. 

This retreat was cut short by his next speech. "Oh, I've just come fromyour father. I went to his office, thinking you might be there. He saidto tell you and your mother that he won't be home to dinner to-night atall. He's got some citations on hand he has to verify. "

Lydia had stopped her actual recoil at his first words and now stoodstill, but she still tugged at the invisible chain which held her. Shewas panting a little. She shook her head. "Well--anyhow--I want to seehim!" she insisted with a transparently aimless obstinacy like afrightened child's. "I want to see my father. " Paul laughed easily, "Well, you'd better choose some other time if you want to get anythingout of him. He had turned everybody out and was just settling to workwith a pile of law-books before him. You know how your father looksunder those circumstances!" He held the picture up to her, relentlesslysmiling. 

Lydia's lips quivered, but she said nothing. 

Paul went on soothingly, "I've only come to take you straight home, anyhow. Your mother wants you. She said she had one of those faintingturns again. She said to be sure to bring you. "

At the mention of her mother's name, Lydia turned quite pale. She beganto walk slowly back towards the wagon. There was angry, helpless miseryin her dark eyes, but there was no longer any resistance. "Oh, if Motherneeds me--" she murmured. She took the offered hand, stepped into thewagon and even went through some fitful pretense of responding to thechorus of facetious good-bys which rose from the group they wereleaving. 

She said little or nothing in answer to the young man's kind, cheerfultalk, as they drove along one main thoroughfare after another, conspicuous by the brilliant, prosperous beauty of their well-fed youthand their handsome garb, pointed out by people on the sidewalks, constantly nodding in response to greetings from acquaintances. Lydiaflushed deeply at the first of these salutations, a flush which grewdeeper and deeper as these features of their processional advancerepeated themselves. She put her hand to her throat from time to time asthough it ached and when the red rubber-tired wheels turned noiselesslyin on the asphalt of her home street, she threw the lap-robe brusquelyback from her knees as though for an instant escape. 

The young man's pleasant chat stopped. "Look here, Lydia, " he said inanother tone, one that forced her eyes to meet his, "look here, don'tyou forget one thing!" His voice was deep with the sincerest sympathy, his eyes full of emotion, "Don't you forget, little Lydia, that nobody'ssorrier for you than I am! And I don't want anything that--" he criedout in sudden passion--"Good Lord, I'd be cut to bits before I'd even_want_ anything that wasn't best for you!" He looked away and masteredhimself again to quiet friendliness, "You know that, _don't you_, Lydia?You know that all I want is for you to have the most successful lifeanyone can?"

He leaned to her imploring in his turn. 

She drew a quick breath, and moved her head from side to siderestlessly. Then drawn by the steady insistence of his eyes, she said, as if touched by his patient, determined kindness, "Oh, yes, yes, Paul, I realize how awfully good you're being to me! I wish I could--but--yes, of course I see how good you are to me!"

He laid his hand an instant over hers, withdrawing it before she herselfcould make the action. "It makes me happy to have you know I want tobe, " he said simply, "now that's all. You needn't be afraid. I shan'tbother you. "

They were in front of the Emery house now. He did not try to detain herlonger. He helped her down, only repeating as she gave him her glovedhand an instant, "That's what I'm for--to be good to you. "

The wagon drove off, the young man refraining from so much as a backwardglance. 

The girl turned to the house and stood a moment, opening and shuttingher hands. When she moved, it was to walk so rapidly as almost to run upthe walk, up the steps, into the hall and into her mother's presence, where, still on the crest of the wave of her resolution, she cried, "Mother, did you really send Paul for me again. Did you _really_?"

"Why, yes, dear, " said Mrs. Emery, surprised, sitting up on the sofawith an obvious effort; "did somebody say I didn't?"

"I hoped you didn't!" cried Lydia bitterly; "it was--horrid! I was outwith all the girls in front of Hallam's--everybody was so--they alllaughed so when--they looked at me so!"

Mrs. Emery spoke with dignity, "Naturally I couldn't know where he wouldfind you. "

"But, Mother, you _did_ know that every afternoon for two weeksyou've--it's been managed so that I've been out with Paul. "

Mrs. Emery ignored this and went on plaintively, "I didn't see that itwas so unreasonable for an invalid to send whoever she could find afterher only daughter because she was feeling worse. "

Lydia's frenzy carried her at once straight to the exaggeration which isthe sure forerunner of defeat in the sort of a conflict which wasengaging her. "_Are_ you feeling any worse?" she cried in a despairingincredulity which was instantly marked as inhumanly unfilial by thescared revulsion on her face as well as Mrs. Emery's pale glare ofhorror. "Oh, I didn't mean that!" she cried, running to her mother;"I'm sorry, Mother! I'm sorry!"

The tears began running down Mrs. Emery's cheeks, "I don't know mylittle Lydia any more, " she said weakly, dropping her head back on thepillow. 

"I don't know myself!" cried Lydia, sobbing violently, "I'm so unhappy!"

Mrs. Emery took her in her arms with a forgiveness which dropped like anoose over Lydia's neck, "There, there, darling! Mother knows you didn'tmean it! But you must remember, Lydia dearest, if you're unhappy thesedays, so is your poor mother. "

"I'm making you so!" sobbed Lydia, "I know it! something like thishappens every day! It's why you don't get well faster! I'm making youunhappy!"

"It doesn't make any difference about me!" Mrs. Emery heroically assuredher, "I don't want you to be influenced by thinking about my feelings, Lydia. Above everything in the world, I don't want you to feel the_slightest_ pressure from me--or any one of the family. Oh, darling, allI want--all any of us want, is what is best for our little Lydia!"

CHAPTER XII

A SOP TO THE WOLVES

Six o'clock had struck when Mrs. Sandworth came wearily back from herChristmas shopping. It was only the middle of November, but each yearshe began her preparations for that day of rejoicing earlier andearlier, in a vain attempt to avoid some of the embittering desolationof confusion and fatigue which for her, as for all her acquaintances, marked the December festival. She let herself down heavily from thetrolley-car which had brought her from the business part of Endbury backto what was known as the "residential section, " a name bestowed on it tothe exclusion of several other much larger divisions of town devotedexclusively to the small brick buildings blackened by coal smoke inwhich ordinary people lived. 

As she walked slowly up the street, her arms were full of bundles, herheart full of an ardent prayer that she might find her brother eitherout or in a peaceable mood. She loved and admired Dr. Melton more thananyone else in the world, but there were moments when the sum total ofher conviction about him was an admission that his was not a reposefulpersonality. For the last fortnight, this peculiarity had beenaccentuated till Mrs. Sandworth's loyalty had cracked at every seam inorder not to find him intolerable to live with. Moreover, her own kindheart and intense partiality for peace in all things had sufferedacutely from the same suspense that had wrought the doctor to hiswretched fever of anxiety. It had been a time of torment foreverybody--everybody was agreed on that; and Mrs. Sandworth had feltthat life in the same house with Lydia's godfather had given her morethan her share of misery. 

On this dark November evening she was so tired that every inch of hersoft plumpness ached. She had not prospered in her shopping. Things hadnot matched. She let herself into the front door with a sigh of reliefat finding the hall empty. She looked cautiously into the doctor's studyand drew a long breath, peeped into the parlor and, almost smiling, wenton cheerfully upstairs to her room. From afar, she saw the welcomingflicker of the coal fire in her grate, and felt a glow of surprisedgratitude to the latest transient from the employment agency who was nowoccupying her kitchen. She did not often get one that was thoughtfulabout keeping up fires when nobody was at home. It would be delicious toget off her corset and shoes, let down her hair--there he was, boltupright before the fire, his back to the door. She took in thesignificance of his tense attitude and prepared herself for the worst, sinking into a chair, letting her bundles slide at various tangents fromher rounded surface, and surveying her brother with the utmostunresignation. "Well, what is it now?" she asked. 

He had not heard her enter, and now flashed around, casting in her facelike a hard-thrown missile, "Lydia's engaged. "

All Mrs. Sandworth's lassitude vanished. She flung herself on him in awild outcry of inquiry--"Which one? Which one?"

He answered her angrily, "Which do you suppose? Doesn't a steam-rollermake some impression on a rose?"

"Oh!" she cried, enlightened; and then, with widespread solemnity, "Well, think--of--that!"

"Not if I can help it, " groaned the doctor. 

"But that's not fair, " his sister protested a moment later as she tookin the rest of his speech. 

"Heaven knows it's not, " he agreed bitterly. 

She stared. "I mean that Paul hasn't been nearly so steam-rollery asusual. "

The doctor rubbed his face furiously, as though to brush off adisagreeable clinging web. "He hasn't had to be. There have been plentyof other forces to do his rolling for him. "

"If you mean her father--you know he's kept his hands off_religiously_. "

"He has that, damn him!" The doctor raged about the room. 

A silent prayer for patience wrote itself on Mrs. Sandworth's face. "You're just as inconsistent as you can be!" she cried. 

"I'm more than that, " he sighed, sitting down suddenly on a chair in thecorner of the room; "I'm heartsick. " He shivered, thrust his hands intohis pockets and surveyed his shoes gloomily. 

One of Mrs. Sandworth's cheerful capacities was for continuingtranquilly the minute processes of everyday life through everydisturbance in the region of the emotions. You _had_ to, she said, toget them done--anybody that lived with the doctor. She now tookadvantage of his silence to count over her packages, remove her wraps, loosen a couple of hooks at her waist and fluff up the roll of grayinghair over her forehead. The doctor looked at her. 

She answered him reasonably, "It wouldn't help Lydia any if I took itoff and threw it in the fire, would it? It's my best one, too; theother's at the hairdresser's, getting curled. "

"It's not, " the doctor broke out--"it's not, Heaven be my judge! that_I_ want to settle it. But I did want Lydia to settle it herself. "

"She has, at last, " Mrs. Sandworth reminded him, in a little surprise athis forgetting so important a fact. 

"She has _not_!" roared the doctor. 

His literal-minded sister looked aggrieved bewilderment. She felt abitterness at having been stirred without due cause. "Marius, you'reunkind. What did you tell me she had for--when I'm so tired it seems asif I could lie down and die if I--"

Dr. Melton knew his sister. He made a rapid plunge through theobscurity of her brain into her heart's warm clarity, and, "Oh, Julia, if you had seen her!" he cried. 

She leaned toward him, responsive to the emotion in his voice. "Tell meabout it, poor Marius, " she said, yearning maternally over his pain. 

"I can't--if you had seen her--"

"But how did you hear? Did she tell you? When did--"

"I was there at five, and her mother met me at the door. She took meupstairs, a finger on her lip, and there she and Marietta said theyguessed this afternoon would settle things. A week ago, she said, she'dhad an up-and-down talk with that dreadful carpenter and as good asforbade him the house--"

Mrs. Sandworth had a gesture of intuition. "Oh, if they've managed toshut Lydia off from seeing him--"

The doctor nodded. "That's what her mother counted on. She said shethought it a sign that Lydia was just infatuated with Rankin--her beingso different after she'd seen him--so defiant--so unlike Lydia! But nowshe hadn't seen him for a week, and her mother and Marietta had been'talking to her'--_Julia!_--and then Paul had come to see her everyevening, and had been just right--firm and yet not exacting, and ever sogentle and kind--and this afternoon when he came Lydia cried and didn'twant to go down, but her mother said she mustn't be childish, andMarietta had just taken her right down to the library and left her therewith Paul, and there she was now. " The doctor started up and beat histhin, corded hand on the mantel. He could not speak. His sister got upand laid a tender hand on his shoulder. "Poor Marius!" she said again. 

He drew a long breath. "I did not fly at their throats--I turned and ranlike mad down the stairs and into the library. It was Rankin I wanted tokill for letting his pride come in--for leaving her there alone withthose--I was ready to snatch Lydia up bodily and carry her off to--" Hestopped short and laughed harshly. "I reach to Lydia's shoulder, " hecommented on his own speech. "That's me. To see what's to be done and--"

"What _was_ to be done?" asked Mrs. Sandworth patiently. She was quiteused to understanding but half of what her brother said and had acquireda quiet art of untangling by tireless questionings the thread ofnarrative from the maze of his comments and ejaculations. 

"There was nothing to be done. I was too late. "

"You didn't burst in on them while Paul was kissing her or anything, didyou?"

"Paul wasn't there. "

"Not there! Why, Marius, you're worse than usual. Didn't you tell me hermother said--"

"He had been there--one look at Lydia showed that. She sat there alonein the dim light, her face as white--and when I came in she said, without looking to see who it was, 'I'm engaged to Paul. ' She said it toher mother, who was right after me, of course, and then to Marietta. "

"Well--!" breathed Mrs. Sandworth as he paused; "so that was all therewas to it?"

"Oh, no; they did the proper thing. They kissed her, and cried, andcongratulated everybody, and her mother said, with an eye on me:'Darling, you're _not_ doing this just because you know it'll make us sovery happy, _are_ you?' Lydia said, 'Oh, no; she supposed not, ' andstarted to go upstairs. But when Marietta said she'd go and telephone toFlora Burgess to announce it, Lydia came down like a flash. It was _not_to be announced she told them; she'd _die_ if they told anybody! Paulhad promised solemnly not to tell anybody. Her mother said, of courseshe knew how Lydia felt about it. It _was_ a handicap for a girl in herfirst season. Lydia was half-way up the stairs again, but at that shelooked down at her mother--_God!_ Julia, if a child of mine had everlooked at me like that--"

Mrs. Sandworth patted him vaguely. "Oh, people always look white andqueer in the twilight, you know--even quite _florid_ complexions. "

The doctor made a rush to the door. 

"But dinner must be ready to put on the table, " she called after him. 

"Put it on, then, " he cried, and disappeared. 

A plain statement was manna to Mrs. Sandworth. She had finished hersoup, and was beginning on her hamburg steak when the doctor camesoberly in, took his place, and began to eat in silence. She took up theconversation where they had left it. 

"So it's all over, " she commented, watching his plate to see that he didnot forget to salt his meat and help himself to gravy. 

"Nothing's ever over in a human life, " he contradicted her. "Why do yousuppose she doesn't want it announced?"

"You don't suppose she means to break it off later?"

"I haven't any idea _what_ she means, any more than she has, poor child!But it's plain that this is only to gain time--a sop to the wolves. "

"Wolves!" cried poor Mrs. Sandworth. 

"Well, tigers and hyenas, perhaps, " he added moderately. 

"They're crazy about Lydia, that whole Emery family, " she protested. 

"They are that, " he agreed sardonically. "But I don't mean only herfamily. I mean unclean prowling standards of what's what, as well as--"

"They'd lie down and let her walk over them! You know they would--"

"If they thought she was going in the right direction. "

Mrs. Sandworth gave him up, and drifted off into speculation. "I wonderwhat she could have found in that man to think of! A girl brought up asshe's been!"

"Perhaps she was only snatching a little sensible talk where she couldget it. "

"But they _didn't_ talk sensibly. Marietta said Lydia tried, one of thetimes when they were going over it with her, Lydia tried to tell hermother some of the things they said that night when he took her homefrom here. Marietta said they were 'too sickish!' 'Flat Sunday-schoolcant about wanting to be good, ' and all that sort of thing. "

"That certainly wouldn't have tempted _Marietta_ from the path of virtueand sharp attention to a good match, " murmured the doctor. "Nobody canclaim that there's anything very seductive to the average young lady inRankin's fanaticism. "

"Oh, you admit he's a fanatic!" Mrs. Sandworth seized on a valuablepiece of driftwood which the doctor's tempest had thrown at her feet. 

"Everybody who's worth his salt is a fanatic. "

"Not Paul. Everybody says he's so sane and levelheaded. "

"There isn't a hotter one in creation!"

"Than _Paul_?"

"Than Paul. "

"Oh, Marius!" she reproached him for levity. 

"He's a fanatic for success. "

"Oh, I don't call _that_--"

"Nor nobody else in Endbury--but it is, all the same. And the onlywonder is that Lydia should have been attracted by Rankin's hereticalbrand and not by Paul's orthodox variety. It shows she's rare. "

"Good gracious, Marius! You talk as though it were a question of ideasor convictions. "

"That's a horrible conception, " he admitted gravely. 

"It's which one she's in love with!" Mrs. Sandworth emitted this withsolemnity. 

The doctor stood up to go. "She's not in love with either, " hepronounced. "She's never been allowed the faintest sniff at reality orlife or experience--how can she be in love?"

"Well, they're in love with her, " she triumphed for her sex. 

"I don't know anything about Paul's inner workings, and as for Rankin, Idon't know whether he's in love with her or not. He's sorry forher--he's touched by her--"

Mrs. Sandworth felt the ground slip from beneath her feet. "Goodgracious me! If he's not in love with her, nor she with him, what areyou making all this fuss about?"

The doctor thrust out his lips. "I'm only protesting in my usual feeble, inadequate manner, after the harm's all done, at idiots and egotistslaying their dirty hands on a sacred thing--the right of youth to itsown life--"

"Well, if you call that a feeble protest--!" she called after him. 

He reappeared, hat in hand. "It's nothing to what I'd like to say. Iwill add that Daniel Rankin's a man in a million. "

Mrs. Sandworth responded, rather neatly for her, that she should hope soindeed, and added, "But, Marius, she couldn't have married him--really!Mercy! What had he to offer her--compared with Paul? Everybody hasalways said what a _suitable_ marriage--"

Dr. Melton crammed his hat on his head fiercely and said nothing. 

"But it's so, " she insisted. 

"He hasn't anything to offer to Marietta, perhaps. "

"Marietta's _married_!" Mrs. Sandworth kept herself anchored fast to thefacts of any case under discussion. 

"_Is_ she?" queried the doctor with a sincerity of interrogation whichhis sister found distracting. 

"Oh, Marius!" she reproached him again; and then helplessly, "How did weget on to Marietta, anyhow? I thought we were talking of Lydia'sengagement. "

"I was, " he assured her. 

"And I was going to ask you really seriously, just straight out, whatyou are so down on the Emerys for? What have they done that's so bad?"

"They've brought her up so that now in her time of need she hasn't aweapon to resist them. "

"Oh, Ma--" began Mrs. Sandworth despairingly. 

"Well, then, I will tell you--I'll explain in words of one syllable. Mind you, I don't undertake to settle the question--Heaven forbid! Itmay be all right for Marietta Mortimer to kill herself body and soul byinches to keep what bores her to death to have--a social position inEndbury's two-for-a-cent society, but, for the Lord's sake, why do theymake such a howling and yelling just at the time when Lydia's got thetragically important question to decide as to whether that's what _she_wants? It's like expecting her to do a problem in calculus in the midstof an earthquake. "

Mrs. Sandworth had a mortal antipathy to figures of speech, acquired ofmuch painful experience with her brother's conversation. She sank backin her chair and waved him off. "Calculus!" she cried, outraged;"earthquakes! And I'm sure you're as unfair as can be! You can't say herfather's obscured any question. You _know_ he's not a dictatorialfather. His principle is not to interfere at all with his children. "

"Yes; that's his principle all right. His specialties are in otherlines, and they have been for a long time. His wife has seen to that. "

Mrs. Sandworth had one of her lucid divinations of the inner meaning ofa situation. "Oh, the poor Emerys! Poor Lydia! Oh, Marius, aren't youglad we haven't any children!"

"Every child that's not getting a fair chance at what it ought to have, should be our child, " he said. 

He went up to her and kissed her gently. "Good-night, " he said. 

"Where are you going?"

"To the Black Rock woods. "

"Tell him--" she was inspired--"tell him to try to see Lydia again. "

"I was going to do that. But she won't be allowed to. It's pretty latenow. She ought to have seen him a great many years ago--from the time hewas born. "

"But she's ever so much younger than he, " cried Mrs. Sandworth afterhim, informingly. 

CHAPTER XIII

LYDIA DECIDES IN PERFECT FREEDOM

The maid had announced to Mrs. Emery, finishing an unusually carefulmorning toilet, that Miss Burgess, society reporter of the Endbury_Chronicle_, was below. Before the mistress of the house could finishadjusting her well-matched gray pompadour, a second arrival washeralded, "The gentleman from the greenhouse, to see about Miss Lydia'sparty decorations. " And as the handsome matron came down the stairs athird comer was introduced into the hall--Mme. Boyle herself, the bestdressmaker in town, who had come in person to see about the refitting ofthe débutante's Paris dresses, the débutante having found the changeback to the climate of Endbury so trying that her figure had grown quitenoticeably thinner. 

"It was the one thing necessary to make Maddemwaselle's tournoor exactlyperfect, " Mme. Boyle told Mrs. Emery. Out of a sense of what was due herloyal Endbury customers, Mme. Boyle assumed a guileless coloring ofFrenchiness, which was evidently a symbol, and no more intended for apretense of reality than the honestly false brown front that surmountedher competent, kindly Celtic face. 

Mrs. Emery stopped a moment by the newel-post to direct Madame toLydia's room and to offer up a devout thanksgiving to the kindlyProvidence that constantly smoothed the path before her. "Oh, Madame, just think if it had been a season when hips were in style!" As shecontinued her progress to what she was beginning to contemplate callingher drawing-room, she glowed with a sense of well-being which buoyed herup like wings. In common with many other estimable people, she couldnot but value more highly what she had had to struggle to retain, andthe exciting vicissitudes of the last fortnight had left her with asweet taste of victory in her mouth. 

She greeted Miss Burgess with the careful cordiality due to an ally ofmany years' standing, and with a manner perceptibly but indefinablydifferent from that which she would have bestowed on a social equal. Mrs. Emery had labored to acquire exactly that tone in her dealings withthe society reporter, and her achievement of it was a fact which broughtan equal satisfaction to both women. Miss Burgess' mother was anEnglishwoman, an ex-housekeeper, who had transmitted to her daughter asense, rare as yet in America, of the beauty and dignity of classdistinctions. In her turn Miss Burgess herself, the hard-working, good-natured woman of fifty who for twenty years had reported the doingsof those citizens of Endbury whom she considered the "gentry, " hadtoiled with the utmost disinterestedness to build up a feeling, or, asshe called it, a "tone, " which, among other things, should exclude herfrom equality. When she began she was, perhaps, the only person in townwho had an unerring instinct for social differences; but, like a kindly, experienced actor of a minor rôle in theatricals, she had silently givenso many professional tips to the amateur principals in the play, and hadacted her own part with such unflagging consistency and good-will, thatshe had often now the satisfaction of seeing one of her pupils movethrough her rôle with a most edifying effect of having been born to it. 

Long ago she had taken the Emerys to her warm heart and she had rejoicedin all their upward progress with the sweet unenvious joy of an uglywoman in a pretty, much-loved sister's successes. Lydia was to her, asto Mrs. Emery, a bright symbol of what she would fain have been herself. Miss Burgess' feeling for her somewhat resembled that devout affectionwhich, she had read, was felt by faithful old servants of great Englishfamilies for the young ladies of the house. The pathetic completeness ofher own insignificance of aspect had spared her any uneasy ambitionsfor personal advancement, and it is probable that the vigor of hercharacter and her pleasure in industry were such that she had beenhappier in her daily column and weekly five-column _Society Notes_ thanif she had been as successful a society matron as Mrs. Emery herself. 

She lived the life of a creator, working at an art she had invented, ina workroom of her own contriving, loyally drawing the shutters to shadean unfortunate occurrence in one of the best families, setting forth apartial success with its best profile to the public, and flooding withlight real achievements like Mrs. Hollister's rose party (_the_ Mrs. Hollister--Paul's aunt, and Madeleine's). All that she wrote was read bynearly every woman in Endbury. She was a person of importance, and avery busy and happy old maid. 

Mrs. Emery had a great taste for Miss Burgess' conversation, admiringgreatly her whole-hearted devotion to Endbury's social welfare. She hadonce said of her to Dr. Melton, "There is what _I_ call apublic-spirited woman. " He had answered, "I envy Flora Burgess with thefierce embittered envy I feel for a cow"--an ambiguous compliment whichMrs. Emery had resented on behalf of her old ally. 

Now, as Mrs. Emery added to her greeting, "You'll excuse me just amoment, won't you, I must settle some things with my decorator, " MissBurgess felt a rich content in her hostess' choice of words. There_were_ people in Endbury society who would have called him, as had theperplexed maid, "the gentleman from the greenhouse. " Later, asked foradvice, she had walked about the lower floor of the house with Mrs. Emery and the florist, saturated with satisfaction in the process ofdeciding where the palms should be put that were to conceal the"orchestra" of four instruments, and with what flowers the mantelsshould be "banked. "

After the man had gone, they settled to a consideration of variousimportant matters which was interrupted by an impassioned call of MadameBoyle from the stairs, "Could she bring Maddemwaselle down to show this_perfect_ fit?"--and they glided into a rapt admiration of theunwrinkled surface of peach-colored satin which clad Lydia's slender andflexibly erect back. When she turned about so that Madame could showthem the truly exqueese effect of the trimming at the throat, her faceshowed pearly shadows instead of its usual flower-like glow. As Madameleft the room for a moment, Miss Burgess said, with a kind, respectfulfacetiousness, "I see that even fairy princesses find the emotions ofgetting engaged a little trying. "

Lydia started, and flushed painfully. "Oh, Mother--" she began. 

Her mother cut her short. "My _dear_! Miss Burgess!" she pointed out, aswho should deplore keeping a secret from the family priest, "You knowshe never breathes a word that people don't want known. And she had tobe told so she can know how to _put_ things all this winter. "

"I'm sure it's the most wonderfully _suitable_ marriage, " pronouncedMiss Burgess. 

A ring at the door-bell was instantly followed by the bursting open ofthe door and the impetuous onslaught of a girl, a tall, handsome, brown-eyed blonde about Lydia's age, who, wasting no time in greetingsto the older women, flung herself on Lydia's neck with a wild outcry ofjubilation. "My dear! Isn't it dandy! Perfectly _dandy_! Paul met me atthe train last night and when he told me I nearly swooned for joy! Ofall the tickled sisters-in-law! I wanted to come right over here lastnight, but Paul said it was a secret, and wouldn't let me. " A momentaryfailure of lung-power forced her to a pause in which she perceivedLydia's attire. She recoiled with a dramatic rush. "Oh, you've got oneof them _on_! Lydia, how insanely swell you do look! Why, Mrs. Emery"--she turned to Lydia's mother with a light-heartedunconsciousness that she had not addressed her before--"she doesn't look_real_, does she!"

There was an instant's pause as the three women gazed ecstatically atLydia, who had again turned her back and was leaning her foreheadagainst the window. Then the girl sprang at her again. "Well, mygoodness, Lydia! I just love you to pieces, of course, but if we were ofthe same complexion I should certainly put poison in your candy. As itis, me so blonde and you so dark--I tell you what--what we won't do thiswinter--" She ran up to her again, putting her arms around her neck frombehind and whispering in her ear. 

Miss Burgess turned to her hostess with her sweet, motherly smile. "Aren't girls the _dearest_ things?" she whispered. "I love to see themso young, and full of their own little affairs. I think it's dreadfulnowadays how so many of them are allowed to get serious-minded. "

Madeleine was saying to Lydia, "You sly little thing--to land Paulbefore the season even began! Where are you going to get your lingerie?Oh, _isn't_ it fun? If I go abroad I'll smuggle it back for you. Youhaven't got your ring yet, I don't suppose? Make him make it a ruby. That's ever so much sweller than that everlasting old diamond. He'ssomething to land, too, Paul is, if I do say it--not, of course, thatwe've either of us got any money, but, " she looked about the handsomelyfurnished house, "you'll have lots, and Paul'll soon be making it handover fist--and I'll be marrying it!" She ended with a triumphantpirouette her vision of the future, and encountered Madame Boyle, entering with a white and gold evening wrap which sent her into anotherparoxysm of admiration. The dressmaker had just begun to say that shethought another line of gold braid around the neck would--when Mrs. Emery, looking out of the window, declared the caterer to be approachingand that she _must_ have aid from her subordinates before he shouldenter. "I do _not_ want to have that old red lemonade and sweet crackerseverybody has, and slabs of ice-cream floating around on your plate. Think quick, all of you! What kind of crackers can we have?"

"Animal crackers, " suggested Madeleine, with the accent of a remarkintended to be humorous, drawing Lydia into a corner. "Now, don't makeLydia work. She's _It_ right now, and everything's to be done for her. Madame, come over here with that cloak and let's see about the--and Oh, you and Lydia, for the love of Heaven tell me what I'm to do about thisfashion for no hips, and me with a figure of eight! Lydia, the fit ofthat thing is _sublime_!"

"Maddemwaselle, don't you see how a little more gold right here--"

"Here, Lydia, " called her mother, "it wasn't the caterer after all; it'sflowers for you. Take it over there to the young lady in pink, " shedirected the boy. 

Madeleine seized on the box, and tore it open with one of her vigorous, competent gestures. "_Orchids!_" she shouted in a single volcanic burstof appreciation. "I never had orchids sent me in my life! Paul must havetelegraphed for them. You can't buy them in Endbury. And here's a notethat says it's to be answered at once, while the boy waits--Oh, my! Oh, my!"

"Lydia, dear, here's the caterer, after all. Will you just please sayone thing. Would you rather have the coffee or the water-ices servedupstairs--Oh, here's your Aunt Julia--Julia Sandworth, I never neededadvice more. "

Mrs. Sandworth's appearance was the chord which resolved into one burstof sound all the various motives emitted by the different temperamentsin the room. Every one appealed to her at once. 

"Just a touch of gold braid on the collar, next the face, don't you--"

"Why not a real supper at midnight, with creamed oysters and things, asthey do in the East?"

"Do _you_ see anything out of the way in publishing the details of MissLydia's dress the day before? It gives people a chance to know what tolook for. "

[Illustration: "No, no; I can't--see him--I can't see him any more--"]

"How can we avoid that awful jam-up there is on the stairs when peoplebegin to--"

Mrs. Sandworth made her way to the corner where Lydia stood, presentinga faultlessly fitted back to the world so that Madame Boyle might, witha fat, moist forefinger, indicate the spot where a "soupçon" of goldwas needed. 

"Please, ma'am, the gentleman said I was to wait for an answer, " saidthe messenger boy beside her. 

"And she hasn't _read_ it, yet!" Madeleine was horrified to rememberthis fact. 

"Turn around, Lydia, " said Mrs. Sandworth. 

Lydia's white lids fluttered. The eyes they revealed were lustrous andquite blank. Madeleine darted away, crying, "I'm going to get pen andpaper for you to write your note right now. "

"Lydia, " said Mrs. Sandworth, in a low tone, "Daniel Rankin wants tospeak with you again. Your godfather is waiting here in the hall to knowif you'll see him. He didn't want to _force_ an interview on you if youdidn't want it. He wants to see you but he wanted you to decide inperfect _freedom_--"

The tragic, troubled, helpless face that Lydia showed at this speech wasa commentary on the last word. She looked around the room, her eyebrowsdrawn into a knot, one hand at her throat, but she did not answer. Heraunt thought she had not understood. "Just collect your thoughts, Lydia--"

The girl beat one slim fist inside the other with a sudden nervousmovement. "But that's what I can't do, Aunt Julia. You know how easily Iget rattled--I don't know what I'm--I _can't_ collect my thoughts. "

As the older woman opened her lips to speak again she cut her short witha broken whispered appeal. "No, no; I can't--see him--? I can't standany more--tell him I guess I'll be all right--it's settled now--Mother'stold all these--I like Paul. I _do_ like him! Mother's told everybodyhere--no, no--I can't, Aunt Julia! I _can't_!"

Mrs. Sandworth, her eyes full of tears, opened her arms impulsively, butLydia drew back. "Oh, let me alone!" she wailed. "I'm so tired!"

Madame Boyle caught this through the clatter of voices. "Why, poorMaddemwaselle!" she cried, her kindly, harassed, fatigued face melting. "Sit down. Sit down. I can show the ladies about this collar just aswell that way--if they'll ever look. "

Mrs. Sandworth had disappeared. 

Madeleine, coming with the pen and ink, was laughing as she told them, "I didn't know Dr. Melton was in the house. I ran into him pacing up anddown in the hall like a little bear, and just now I saw him--isn't hetoo comical! He must have heard our chatter--I saw him running down thewalk as fast as he could go it, his fingers in his ears as if he weretrying to get away from a dynamite bomb before it went bang. "

"He hasn't much patience with many necessary details of life, " said Mrs. Emery with dignity. She turned her criticism of her doctor into acompliment to her brother's widow by adding, "Whatever he would dowithout Julia to look after him, I'm sure none of us can imagine. "

"He is a very original character, " said Miss Burgess, discriminatingly. 

Madeleine dismissed the subject with a compendious, "He's the mostkillingly, screamingly funny little man that ever lived!"

"Now, _ladies_, " implored Madame Boyle, "one more row--not solid--just asoupçon--"

CHAPTER XIV

MID-SEASON NERVES

"If I should wait and read my paper here instead of on the cars, do yousuppose Lydia would be up before I left?" asked the Judge as he put hisnapkin in the ring and pushed away from the breakfast table. 

Mrs. Emery looked up, smiling, from a letter, "'Of course such a greatfavorite as Miss Emery, '" she read aloud, "'will be hard to secure, butboth the Governor and I feel that our party wouldn't be complete withouther. We're expecting a number of other Endbury young people. ' And do youknow who writes that?" she asked triumphantly of her husband. 

"How should I?" answered the Judge reasonably. 

"Mrs. Ex-Governor Mallory, to be sure. It's their annual St. Valentine'sday house-party at their old family estate in Union County. "

The Judge got up, laughing. "Old family estate, " he mocked. 

"They are one of the oldest and best families in this State, " cried hiswife. 

"The Governor's an old blackguard, " said her husband tolerantly. 

"The Mallorys--the Hollisters--Lydia is certainly, " began Mrs. Emery, complacently. 

Lydia's father laughed again. "Oh, with you and Flora Burgess as managerand press agent--! You haven't answered my question about whether if Iwaited and--"

"No, she wouldn't, " said Mrs. Emery decisively. "After dancing so latenights, I want her to sleep every minute she's not wanted somewhere. _I_have the responsibility of looking after her health, you know. I hopeshe'll sleep now till just time to get up and dress for Marietta'slunch-party at one o'clock. "

The father of the family frowned. "Is Marietta giving anotherlunch-party for Lydia? They can't afford to do so much. Marietta's--"

"This is a great chance for Marietta--poor girl! she hasn't many suchchances--Lydia's carrying everything before her so, I mean. "

"How does Marietta get into the game?" asked her father obtusely. 

Mrs. Emery hesitated a scarcely perceptible instant, a hesitationapparently illuminating to her husband. He laughed again, the tolerant, indifferent laugh he had for his women-folks' goings-on. "She thinks shecan go up as the tail to Lydia's kite, does she? She'd better not be toosure. If I don't miss my guess, Paul'll have a word or two to say aboutcarrying extra weight. Gosh! Marietta's a fool some ways for a womanthat has her brains. "

He stated this opinion with a detached, impersonal irresponsibility, andbegan to prepare himself for the plunge into the damp cold of theEndbury January. His wife preserved a dignified silence, and in themiddle of a sentence of his later talk, which had again turned on hisgrievance about never seeing Lydia, she got up, went into the hall, andbegan to use the telephone for her morning shopping. Her conversationgave the impression that she was ordering veal cutlets, maidenhairferns, wax floor-polish, chiffon ruching, and closed carriages, from oneand the same invisible interlocutor, who seemed impartially unable tosupply any of these needs without rather testy exhortation. Mrs. Emerywas one of the women who are always well served by "tradespeople, " asshe now called them, "and a good reason why, " she was wont to explainwith self-gratulatory grimness. 

The Judge waited, one hand on the door-knob, squaring his jaw over hismuffler, and listening with a darkening face to the interminablesuccession of purchases. After a time he released the door-knob, loosened his muffler, and sat down heavily, his eyes fixed on his wife'sback. 

After an interval, Mrs. Emery paused in the act of ringing up anothernumber, looked over her shoulder, saw him there and inquired uneasily, "What are you waiting for? You'll catch cold with all your things on. Isn't Dr. Melton always telling you to be careful?"

She felt a vague resentment at his being there "after hours, " as shemight have put it, so definitely had long usage accustomed her to asense of solitary proprietorship of the house except at certain fixedand not very frequent periods. She almost felt that he was eavesdroppingwhile she "ran her own business. " There was also his remark aboutMarietta and kites, unatoned for as yet. She had not forgotten that she"owed him one, " as Madeleine Hollister light-heartedly phrased theconnubial balanced relationship which had come under her irreverent andkeen observation. A cumulative sharpness from all these causes was inher voice as she remarked, "Didn't I tell you that Lydia--"

Judge Emery's voice in answer was as sharp as her own. "Look-y here, Susan, I bet you've ordered fifty dollars' worth of stuff since youstood there. "

"Well, what if I have?" She was up in arms in an instant against hisbreaking a long-standing treaty between them--a treaty not tacit, butfrequently and definitely stated. 

They regulated their relations on a sound business basis, they were wontto say of themselves, the natural one, the right one. The husband earnedthe money, the wife saw that it was spent to the best advantage, andneither needed to bother his head or dissipate his energies about theother's end of the matter. They had found it meant less friction, theysaid; fewer occasions for differences of opinion. Once, when they hadbeen urging this system upon their son George, then about to marry, Dr. Melton had made the suggestion that there would be still fewerdifferences of opinion if married people agreed never to see each otherafter the ceremony in the church. There would be no friction at allwith that system, he added. It was one of his preposterous speecheswhich had become a family joke with the Emerys. 

"Well, what if I have?" Mrs. Emery advanced defiantly upon her husband, with this remark repeated. 

Judge Emery shared a well-known domestic peculiarity with otherestimable and otherwise courageous men. He retreated precipitatelybefore the energy of his wife's counter-attack, only saying sulkily, toconceal from himself the fact of his retreat, "Well, we're notmillionaires, you know. "

"Did I ever think we were?" she said, smiling inwardly at his change offront. "If you stand right up to men, they'll give in, " she oftencounseled other matrons. She began to look up another number in thetelephone book. 

"If you order fifty dollars' worth every morning, besides--"

"Three-four-four--Weston, " remarked his wife to the telephone. To herhusband she said conclusively, "I thought we were agreed to make Lydia'sfirst season everything it ought to be. And isn't she being worth it?There hasn't a girl come out in Endbury in _years_ that's been sopopular, or had so much--" She jerked her head around to thetelephone--"Three-four-four--Weston? Is this Mr. Schmidt? I want Mr. Schmidt himself. Tell him Mrs. Emery--"

The Judge broke in, with the air of launching the most startling ofarguments, "Well, my salary won't stand it; that's sure! If this keepsup I'll have to resign from the bench and go into practice again. "

His wife looked at him without surprise. "Well, I've often thought thatmight be a very good thing. " She added, with good-humored impatience, "Oh, go along, Nathaniel. You know it's just one of your biliousattacks, and you will catch cold sitting there with all your--Mr. Schmidt, I want to complain about the man who dished up the ice-cream atmy last reception. I am going to give another one next week, and I wanta different--"

"I won't be back to lunch, " said her husband. The door slammed. 

As he turned into the front walk it opened after him, and his wifecalled after him, "I'm going to give a dinner party for Lydia's girlfriends here this evening, so you'd better get your dinner down-town orat the Meltons'. I'll telephone Julia that--"

The Judge stopped, disappointment, almost dismay, on his face. "I'mgoing to keep track from now on, " he called angrily, "of just how oftenI catch a glimpse of Lydia. I bet it won't be five minutes a week. "

Mrs. Emery evidently did not catch what he said, and as evidentlyconsidered it of no consequence that she did not. She noddedindifferently and, drawing in her head, shut the door. 

At the end of the next week the Judge announced that he had put downevery time he and Lydia had been in a room together, and it amounted tojust forty-five minutes, all told. Lydia, a dazzling vision in white andgold, had come downstairs on her way to a dance, and because Paul, whowas to be her escort, was a little late, she told her father that nowwas his time for a "visit. " This question of "visiting" had grown to bequite a joke. Judge Emery clutched eagerly at anything in the nature ofan understanding or common interest between them. 

"Oh, I don't know you well enough to visit with you, " he now saidlaughingly, "but I'll look at you long enough so I'll recognize you thenext time I meet you on the street-car. "

Lydia sat down on his knee, lightly, so as not to crumple her gauzydraperies, and looked at her father with the whimsical expression thatbecame her face so well. "I'm paying you back, " she said gayly. "Iremember when I was a little girl I used to wonder why you came all theway out here to eat your meals. It seemed so much easier for you to getthem near your office. Honest, I did. "

"Ah, that was when I was still struggling to get my toes into a crack inthe wall and climb up. I didn't have time for you then. And you're veryungrateful to bring it up against me, for all I was doing was to wear mynose clear off on the grindstone so's to be able to buy you such prettytrash as this. " He stroked the girl's shimmering draperies, not thinkingof what he was saying, smiling at her, delighted with her beauty, withher nearness to him, with this brief snatch of intimate talk. 

"Ungrateful--yourself! What am I doing but wearing my nose off on thegrindstone--Dr. Melton threatens nervous prostration every day--so's toshow off your pretty trash to the best advantage. _I_ haven't any timeto bother with _you_ now!" she mocked him laughingly, her hands on hisshoulders. 

"Well, that sounds like a bargain, " he admitted, leaning back in hischair; "I suppose I've got to be satisfied if you are. _Are_ yousatisfied?" he asked with a sudden seriousness. "How do you like Paul, now you know him better?"

Lydia flushed, and looked away in a tremulous confusion. "Why, when I'mwith him I can't think of another thing in the world, " she confessed ina low, ardent tone. 

"Ah, well, then that's all right, " said the Judge comfortably. 

There was a pause, during which Lydia looked at the fire dreamily, andhe looked at Lydia. The girl's face grew more and more absent andbrooding. 

The door-bell rang. "There he is, I suppose, " said her father. 

"But isn't it a pity we couldn't make connections?" she asked musingly. "Maybe I'd have liked you better with your nose on, better even thanpretty trash. "

"Eh?" said Judge Emery. His blankness was so acute that he slipped foran instant back into a rusticity he had long ago left behind him. "Whatsay, Lydia?" he asked. 

"Yes, yes, Paul; I didn't hear you come in, " called the girl, jumping upand beginning to put on her wraps. 

The young man darted into the room to help her, saying over hisshoulder: "Much obliged to you, Judge, for your good word to Egdon, March and Company. I got the contract for the equipment of their newfactory to-day. "

The Judge screwed himself round in his chair till he could see Paulbending at Lydia's feet, putting on her high overshoes. "That's quite acontract, isn't it?" he asked, highly pleased. 

"The biggest I ever got my teeth into, " said Paul, straightening up. "I'm ashamed to have Lydia know anything about it, though. I didn'tbring a hack to take her to the dance. "

"Oh, I never thought you would, " cried Lydia, standing up and stampingher feet down in her overshoes--an action that added emphasis to herprotest. "I'd rather walk, it's such a little way. I like it better whenI'm not costing people money. "

"You're not like most of your sex, " said Paul. "Down in Mexico, when Iwas there on the Brighton job, I heard a Spanish proverb: 'If a prettywoman smiles, some purse is shedding tears. '"

The two men exchanged laughing glances of understanding. Lydia frowned. "That is hateful--and horrid--and a _lie_!" she cried energetically, finding that they paid no attention to her protest. 

"_I_ didn't invent it, " Paul exonerated himself lightly. 

"But you laughed at it--you think it's so--you--" She was trembling in asudden resentment at once inexplicable and amusing to the other two. 

"Highty-tighty! you little spitfire!" cried her father, laughing. "I see_your_ finish, my boy!"

"Good gracious, Lydia, how you do fly at a man! I take it back. I takeit back. " Paul looked admiringly at his pretty sweetheart's flashingeyes and crimson cheeks as he spoke. 

She turned away and picked up her cloak without speaking. 

"To tell the truth, " said Paul, going on with the conversation as thoughit had not been interrupted, and addressing his father-in-law-to-be, "every penny I can rake and scrape is going into the house. Lydia'ssuch a sensible little thing I knew she'd think it better to havesomething permanent than an ocean of orchids and candy now. Besides, such a belle as she is gets them from everybody else. "

Mrs. Emery often pointed out to Lydia's inexperience that it was rare tosee a man so magnanimously free from jealousy as her fiancé. 

"The architect and I were going over it to-day, " the young electricianwent on, "and I decided, seeing this new contract means such a lot, thatI would have the panels in the hall carved, after all--of course if youagree, " he turned to Lydia, but went on without waiting for an answer. "The effect will be much handsomer--will go with the rest of the housebetter. "

"They'd be lots harder to dust, " said Lydia dubiously, putting aspangled web of gold over her hair. The contrast between her aspect andthe dingy suggestions of her speech made both men laugh tenderly. "WhenTitania takes to being practical--" laughed Paul. 

Lydia went on seriously. "Honestly, Paul, I'm afraid the house isgetting too handsome, anyhow--everything in it. It's too expensive, I'm--"

"Nothing's too good for you. " Paul said this with conviction. "Andbesides, it's an asset. The mortgage won't be so very large. And ifwe're in it, we'll just have to live up to it. It'll be a stimulus. "

"I hope it doesn't stimulate us into our graves, " said Lydia, as shekissed her father good-night. 

"Well, your families aren't paupers on either side, " said Paul. 

A casual remark like this was the nearest approach he ever made toadmitting that he expected Lydia to inherit money. He would have beenshocked at the idea of allowing any question of money to influence hismarriage, and would not have lifted a hand to learn the state of hisfuture father-in-law's finances. Still, it was evident to the mostdisinterested eye that there were plenty of funds behind the Emery'sample, comfortable mode of life, and on this point his eyes were keen, for all their delicacy. 

As the young people paused at the door, Judge Emery took a note-book outof his pocket and elaborately made a note. "Fifty-five minutes in eightdays, Lydia, " he called. 

At the end of a fortnight he proclaimed aloud that the record was toodiscouraging to keep any longer; he was losing ground instead ofgaining. He had followed Mrs. Emery to her room one afternoon to makethis complaint, and now moved about uneasily, trying to bestow hislarge, square figure where he would not be in the way of his wife, whowas hurrying nervously about to pack Lydia's traveling bag. She lookedvery tired and pale, and spoke as though near a nervous outbreak of somesort. Didn't he know that Lydia had to start for the Mallory Valentinehouse-party this afternoon, she asked with an asperity not directed atthe Judge's complaint, for she considered that negligible, but at Lydiafor being late. She often became so absorbed and fascinated by her ownmanagerial capacity that she was vastly put out by lapses on the part ofthe object of it. She did not spare herself when it was a question ofLydia's career. Without a thought of fatigue or her own personal tastes, she devoted herself with a fanatic zeal to furthering her daughter'sinterests. It sometimes seemed very hard to bear that Lydia herself wasso much less zealous in the matter. 

When the girl came in now, flushed and guiltily breathless, Dr. Meltontrotted at her heels, calling out excuses for her tardiness. "It's myfault. I met her scurrying away from a card-party, and she was exactlyon time. But I walked along with her and detained her. "

"It was the sunset, " said Lydia, hurrying to change her hat and wraps. "It was so fine that when Godfather called my attention to it, I just_stood_! I forgot everything! There may have been sunsets before thiswinter, but it seems as though I hadn't had time to see one before--overthe ironworks, you know, where that hideous black smoke is all day, andthe sun turned it into such loveliness--"

"You've missed your trolley-car, " said her mother succinctly. 

"Oh, I'm _sorry_!" cried Lydia, in a remorse evidently directed moretoward displeasing her mother than the other consequences of her delay, for she asked in a moment, very meekly, "Will it make so very muchdifference if I don't go till the next one?"

"You'll miss the Governor. He was coming down to meet those on this car. You'll have to go all alone. All the rest of the party were on thisone. "

"Oh, I don't care about that, " cried Lydia. "If that's all--I'd ever somuch rather go alone. I'm never alone a single minute, and it'll restme. The crowd would have been so noisy and carried on so--they alwaysdo. "

Her mother's aggrieved disappointment did not disappear. She saidnothing, bringing Lydia's traveling wraps to her silently, and emanatingdisapproval until Lydia drooped and looked piteously at her godfather. 

Dr. Melton cried out at this, "Look here, Susan Emery, you're like thecarpenter that was so proud of his good planing that he planed hisboards all away to shavings. "

Mrs. Emery looked at him with a lack of comprehension of his meaningequaled only by her evident indifference to it. 

"I mean--I thought what you were going in for was giving Lydia a goodtime this winter. You're running her as though she were atranscontinental railway system. "

"You can't accomplish anything without system in this world, " said Mrs. Emery. She added, "Perhaps Lydia will find, when she comes to orderingher own life, that she will miss her old mother's forethought and care. "

Lydia flung herself remorsefully on her mother's neck. "I'm so _sorry_, Mother dear, " she almost sobbed. Dr. Melton's professional eye took inthe fact that everyone in the room was high-strung and tense. "Themiddle-of-the-social-season symptom, " he called it to himself. "I'm sosorry, Mother, " Lydia went on. "I will be more careful next time. Youare _so_ good to--to--"

"Good Heavens!" said Dr. Melton. "All the child did was to give herselfa moment's time to look at a fine spectacle, after spending all aprecious afternoon on such a tragically idiotic pursuit as cards. "

"Oh, _sunsets_!" Mrs. Emery disposed of them with a word. "Come, Lydia. "

"I'll go with her, and carry her bag, " said the doctor. 

"You made such a good job of getting her here on time, " said Mrs. Emery, unappeased. 

The Judge offered to go, as a means of one of his rare visits withLydia, but his wife declared with emphasis that she didn't care who wentor didn't go so long as she herself saw that Lydia did not take tostar-gazing again. It ended by all four proceeding down the streettogether. 

"You're sure you remember everything, Lydia?" asked her mother. 

"Let me see, " said the girl, laughing nervously. "Do I? The Governor'swife is his second, so I'm to waste no time admiring the first set ofchildren. They're Methodists, so I'm to keep quiet about our beingEpiscopalians--"

"I guess we're not Episcopalians enough to hurt, " commented her father, who had never taken the conversion of his women-folks very seriously. 

"And it's my pink crêpe for dinner and tan-colored suit if they haveafternoon tea. And Mrs. Mallory is to be asked to visit us, but not herdaughter, because of her impossible husband, and I'm to play myprettiest to the Governor, because he's always needing dynamos and suchin the works, and Paul--"

The big car came booming around the corner, and she stopped her categoryof recommendations. The doctor rushed in with a last one as they steppedhurriedly toward the rear platform: "And don't forget that your host isthe most unmitigated old rascal that ever stood in with two politicalmachines at once. "

The Judge swung her up on the platform, the doctor gave her valise tothe conductor, her mother waved her hand, and she was off. 

The two men turned away. Not so Mrs. Emery. She was staring after thecar in a fierce endeavor to focus her gaze on the interior. "Who wasthat man that jumped up so surprised to speak to Lydia?"

"I didn't notice anybody, " said the Judge. 

Dr. Melton spoke quickly. "Lydia's getting in a very nervous state, myfriends; I want you to know that. This confounded life is too much forher. "

"She doesn't kill herself getting up in the morning, " complained herfather. "It is a month now since I've seen her at breakfast. "

"I don't _let_ her get up, " said Mrs. Emery. "I guess if you'd been uptill two every morning dancing split dances because you were _the_ belleof the season, you'd sleep late! Besides, " she went on, "she'll be allright as soon as her engagement is announced. The excitement of that'llbrace her up. "

"Good Lord! It's not more excitement she needs, " began Dr. Melton; butthey had reached the house, and Mrs. Emery, obviously preoccupied, pulled her husband quickly in, dismissing the doctor with a nod. 

She drew the Judge hurriedly into the hall, and, "It was that Rankin!"she cried, the slam of the door underscoring her words, "and _I_ believeMarius Melton knew he was going on that car and made Lydia late onpurpose. "

Judge Emery was in the state in which of late the end of the day's workfound him--overwhelmingly fatigued. He had not an ounce of superfluousenergy to answer his wife's tocsin. "Well, what if it was?" he said. 

"They'll be an hour and a half together--alone--more alone than anywhereexcept on a desert island. Alone--an hour and a half!"

"Oh, Susan! If Paul can't in three months make more headway than Rankincan tear down in an hour and a half--"

She raged at him, revolted at the calmness with which he wasunbuttoning his overcoat and unwinding his muffler, "You don'tunderstand--_anything_! I'm not afraid she'll elope with him--Paul's gother too solid for that--Rankin probably won't say anything of _that_kind! But he'll put notions in her head again--she's so impressionable. And she says queer things now, once in a while, if she's left alone aminute. She needs managing. She's not like that levelheaded, sensibleMadeleine Hollister. Lydia has to be guided, and you don't seeanything--you leave it all to me. "

She was almost crying with nervous exhaustion. That Lydia's course ransmooth through a thousand complications was not accomplished without anincalculable expenditure of nervous force on her mother's part. Dr. Melton had several times of late predicted that he would have his oldpatient back under his care again. Judge Emery, remembering thisprophecy, was now moved by his wife's pale agitation to aheart-sickening mixture of apprehension for her and of recollection ofhis own extreme discomfort whenever she was sick. He tried to sootheher. "But, Susan, there's nothing we can do about it, " he saidreasoningly, hanging up his overcoat, blandly ignorant that herirritation came largely from his failure to fall in with her conceptionof the moment as a tragic one. 

"You could _care_ something about it, " she said bitterly, standing withall her wraps on. The telephone bell rang. She motioned him back. "No; Imight as well go first as last. It'll be something I'd have to seeabout, anyway. "

As he hesitated in the middle of the hall, longing to betake himself toa deep easy chair and a moment's relaxation, and not daring to do so, hewas startled by an electric change in his wife's voice. "You're atHardville, you say? Oh, Flora Burgess, I could go down on my knees inthanksgiving. I want you to run right out as fast as you can and get onthe next Interurban car from Endbury. Lydia's on it--" she cast cautionfrom her desperately--"and I've just heard that there's somebody Idon't want her to talk to--you know--_carpenters_--run--fly--never mindwhat they say! Make them talk to you, too!"

She turned back to her husband, transfigured with triumph. "I guessthat'll put a spoke in _his_ wheel!" she cried. "Flora Burgess's atHardville, and that's only half an hour from here. I guess they can'tget very far in half an hour. "

The Judge considered the matter with pursed lips. "I wish it hadn'thappened, " he mused, as unresponsive to his wife's relief as he had beento her anxiety. "At first, I mean--last autumn--at all. "

His wife caught him up with a good humor gay with relief. "Oh, give youtime, Nat, and you come round to seeing what's under your nose. I waswishing it hadn't happened long before I knew it had. I breathed it inthe air before we ever knew she'd so much as seen him. "

"Melton says he thinks the fellow has a future before him--"

"Oh, Marius Melton! How many of his swans have stuffed feather pillows!"

The Judge demurred. "I often wish I could think he _was_--but Melton'sno fool. " He added, uneasily, "He's been pestering me again about takinga long rest--says I'm really out of condition. "

"Perhaps a change of work would do you good--to be in active practiceagain. You could be your own master more--take more vacations, maybe. "

The Judge surveyed her with a whimsical smile. "I'd make a lot moremoney in practice, " he admitted. 

If she heard this comment she made no sign, but went on, "You do worktoo constantly, too. I've always said so! If you'd be willing to take alittle more relaxation--go out more--"

Judge Emery shuddered. "Endbury tea-parties--!"

His wife, half-way up the stairs, laughed down at him. "Tea-parties!There hasn't been a tea-party given in Endbury since we were wearingpull-backs. "

The laugh was so good-natured that the Judge hoped for a favorableopening and ventured to say irrelevantly, as though revertingautomatically to a subject always in his mind, "But, honest, Susie, can't we shave expenses down some? This winter is costing--"

She turned on him, not resentfully this time, but with a solemn appeal. "Why, Nat! Lydia's season! The last winter we'll have her with us, nodoubt! I'd go on bread and water afterward to give her what she wantsnow--wouldn't _you_? What are we old folks good for but to do our bestby our children?"

The Judge looked up at her, baffled, inarticulate. "Oh, of course, " heagreed helplessly, "we want to do the best by our children. "

CHAPTER XV

A HALF-HOUR'S LIBERTY

Inside the big Interurban car Lydia and Rankin were talking with afreedom that enormously surprised Lydia. The man had started up with anexclamation of pleasure, had taken her bag, found a vacant seat, put hernext the window and sat down by her before Lydia, quite breathless withthe shock of seeing him, could do more than notice how vigorous helooked, his tall, spare figure alert and erect, his ruddy hair andclose-clipped beard contrasting vividly with his dark-blue flannel shirtand soft black hat. He was on a business trip, evidently, for on hisknees he held a tool-box with large ungloved hands, roughened and red. 

With his usual sweeping disregard of conventional approaches, he plungedboldly into the matter with which their thoughts were at once occupied. "So this was why Dr. Melton insisted I should take this car. Well, I'mgrateful to him! It gives me a chance to relieve my mind of a weight ofremorse I've been carrying around. "

Lydia looked at him, relieved and surprised at the hearty spontaneity ofthis opening. 

He misunderstood her expression. "You don't mind, do you, my speaking toyou about last fall--my saying I am so very sorry I made you all thetrouble Dr. Melton tells me I did? I'm really very sorry!"

Nothing could have more completely disarmed Lydia's acquired fear of himas the bogey-man of her mother's exhortations. It is true that she was, as she put it to herself, somewhat taken down by the contrast betweenher secret thought of him as a wounded, rejected suitor, and thisclear-eyed, self-possessed, friendly reality before her; but, after amomentary feeling of pique, coming from a sense of the romantic, superficially grafted on her natural good feeling, she was filled withan immense relief. Lydia was no man-eater. In spite of traditionalwisdom, she, like a considerable number of her contemporaries, was asfar removed from this stage of feminine development as from a Stone-ageappetite for raw meat. She now drew a long breath of the most honestsatisfaction that she had done him no harm, and smiled at Rankin. Hewaited for her to speak, and she finally said: "It's awfully good of youto put it that way! I've been afraid you must have been angry with meand hurt that I--so you didn't mind at all!"

Rankin smiled at little ruefully at her swift conclusion. "I believe intelling the truth, even to young ladies, and I can not say I didn't mindat all--or that I don't now. But I am convinced that you were right indropping me--out of the realm of acquaintances. " His assumption was, Lydia saw with gratitude, that they were talking simply about a possibleacquaintanceship between them. "It's evidently true--what I told you thevery first time I saw you. We don't belong in the same world. "

As he said this, he looked at her with an expression Lydia thoughtsevere. She protested, "What makes you so sure?"

"Because to live in my world--even to step into it from time totime--requires the courage to believe in it. "

"And you think I didn't?" asked Lydia. It was an inestimable comfort toher to have brought into the light the problem that had so long lain inthe back of her head, a confused mass of dark conjecture. 

"Did you?" he asked steadily. "You ought to know. "

There was silence, while Lydia turned her head away and looked at thebrown, flat winter landscape jerking itself past the windows as the carbegan to develop speed in the first long, open space betweensettlements. She was trying to remember something distinct about thenightmare of misery that had followed her admission of the identity ofthe man who had kissed her hand that starry night in October, but fromthe black chaos of her recollection she brought out only, "Oh, you don'trealize how things are with a girl--how many million little ways she'sbound and tied down, just from everybody in the family loving her as--"

"Oh, yes, I do; I prove I do by saying that you were probably right inyielding so absolutely to that overwhelming influence. If you hadn't thestrength to break through it decisively even once, you certainlycouldn't have gotten any satisfaction out of doing things contrary toit. So it's all right, you see. "

Lydia's drooping face did not show that she derived the satisfactionfrom this view of her limitations that her companion seemed to expect. "You mean I'm a poor-spirited, weak thing, who'd better never try totake a step of my own, " she said with a sorry smile. 

"I don't mean anything unkind, " he told her gently. "I've succeeded inconvincing myself that your action of last autumn was the result of adeep-rooted instinct for self-preservation--and that's certainly mostjustifiable. It meant I'd expected too harsh a strength from you--" hewent on with a whimsical smile, which even the steadiness of his eyesdid not keep from sadness--"as though I'd hoped you could lift athousand-pound weight, like the strong woman in the side-show. "

She responded to his attempt at lightness with as plain an undercurrentof seriousness as his own. "Why do you live so that people have to liftthousand-pound weights before they dare so much as say good-morning toyou?"

"Because I don't dare live any other way, " he answered. 

"It's hard on other people, " Lydia ventured, but retreated hastilybefore the first expression of upbraiding she had seen in his eyes. Hehad so suddenly turned grave with the thought that it had been harder onhim than on anyone else that she cried out hurriedly, "But you didn'thelp a bit--you left it all to me--"

She stopped, her face burning in uncertainty of the meaning of herwords. 

Rankin's answer came with the swiftness of one who has meditated long ona question. "I'm glad you've given me a chance to say what--I've wishedyou might know. I thought it over and over at the time--and since--andI'm sure it would not have been honorable--or delicate--or right, _not_to leave it all to you. That much was yours to decide--whether you wouldtake the first step. It would have been a crime to have hurried or urgedyou beyond what lay in your heart to do--or to have overborne youagainst some deep-lying, innate instinct. "

Lydia's voice was shaking in self-pity as she cried out, "Oh, if youknew what the others--nobody _else_ was afraid to hurry or urge me to--"

She stopped and looked away, her heart beating rapidly with a flood ofrecollections. Rankin's lips opened, but he shut them firmly, as thoughhe did not trust himself to speak. His large red hands closed savagelyon the handle of his tool-box. There was a silence between them. 

The car began to move more slowly, and the conductor, standing up fromthe seat where he had been dozing, remarked in a conversational tone toa woman with two children near him, "Gardenton--this is the cross-roadsto Gardenton. " Later, as the car stood still under the singing vibrationof the trolley-wire overhead, he added in the general direction of Lydiaand Rankin, now the only passengers, "Next stop is Wardsboro'!" Hisvoice came to them with a singular clearness in the quiet of themomentary stop. They were in the midst of a mournful expanse of bareploughed fields, frozen and brown. The motorman released his brake, letting the brass arm swing noisily about, the conductor sat down again, and as the car began to move forward again he closed his eyes. He lookedvery tired and, now that an almost instant sleep had relaxed hisfeatures, pathetically young. 

"How pale he is, " said Lydia, wishing to break the silence with aharmless remark. "He looks tired to death. "

"He probably is just that, " said Rankin, wincing. "It's sickening, theway they work. Seven days a week, most of them, you know. "

"No; I didn't know, " cried Lydia, shocked. "Why, that's awful. When dothey see their families?"

"They don't. One of them, whose house isn't far from mine, told me thathe hadn't seen his children, except asleep, for three weeks. "

"But something ought to be done about it!" The girl's deep-lyinginstinct for instant reparation rose up hotly. 

"Are they so much worse off than most American business men?" queriedRankin. "Do any of them feel they can take the time to see much morethan the outside of their children; and isn't seeing them asleep aboutas--"

Lydia cut him short quickly. "You're always blaming them for that, " shecried. "You ought to pity them. They can't help it. It's better for thechildren to have bread and butter, isn't it--"

Rankin shook his head. "I can't be fooled with that sort of talk--I'velived with too many kinds of people. At least half the time it isn't aquestion of bread and butter. It's a question of giving the childrenbread and butter and sugar rather than bread and butter and father. Ofcourse, I'm a fanatic on the subject. I'd rather leave off even thebutter than the father--let alone the sugar. "

"But here's this very motorman you know about--what could he do?"

"They're not forced by the company to work seven days a week--onlythey're not given pay enough to let them take even one day off withoutfeeling it. This very motorman I was talking with got to telling me whyhe was working so extra hard just then. His oldest daughter is going tograduate from the high school and he wants to give her a fine graduatingdress, as good as anybody's, and a graduating 'present. ' It seems that'sthe style now for graduating girls. He said he and his wife wanted heralways to remember that day as a bright spot, and not as a time whenshe was humiliated by being different from other girls. "

"Well, my goodness! you're not criticizing them for that, are you? Ithink it was just as sweet and lovely of them as can be to realize how agirl feels. "

Rankin looked at her, smiled slightly, and said nothing. His silencemade Lydia thoughtful. After a time, "I see what you mean, of course, "she said slowly, "that it would be _better_ for her, perhaps--but if he_loves_ her, her father _wants_ to do things for her. "

Rankin's roar of exasperation at this speech was so evidently directedat an old enemy of an argument that Lydia was only for an instantstartled by it. "I _don't_ say he can do too much for her, " he cried. "He can't! Nobody can do too much for anybody else if it's the rightthing. "

"And what in the world do you think _would_ be the right thing in thiscase?" Lydia put the question as a poser. 

"Why, of course, to pamper her vanity; to feed her moral cowardice; tomake her more afraid than ever of senseless public opinion; to depriveher of a fine exercise for her spiritual force; to shut her off from asense of her material situation in life until the knowledge of it willcome as a tragedy to her; to let her grow up without any knowledge ofher father's point of view--"

"There, there! That's enough!" said Lydia. 

"I didn't need to be so violent about it, that's a fact, " apologizedRankin. 

"But you're talking of people the way they ought to be, " objected Lydia, apparently drawing again from a stock of inculcated arguments. "Do youreally, honestly, suppose that that girl would rather have anopportunity to do something for her parents and--and--and all that, thanhave a fine dress that would cost a lot and make the other girlsenvious?"

"Oh, Lydia!" cried her companion, not noticing the betrayal of a mentalhabit in the slipping out of her name. "You're just in a state ofsaturated solution of Dr. Melton. Don't you believe a word he saysabout folks. They're lots better than he thinks. The only reason anybodyhas for raging at them for being a bad lot is because they are such agood lot! They are so chuck-full of good possibilities! There's so muchmore good in them than bad. You think that, don't you? You _must_!There's nothing to go on, if you don't. "

As Lydia began to answer she felt herself, as once or twice before whenwith Rankin, suddenly an immeasurable distance from her usual ways ofmental life. She looked about her upon a horizon very ample and quitestrange, without being able to trace the rapid steps that had carriedher away from the close-walled room full of knickknacks and trifles, where she usually lived. She drew a deep breath of surprise and changedher answer to an honest "I don't believe I know whether I believe you ornot. I don't think I ever thought of it before. "

"What _do_ you think about?" The question was evidently too sincere aninterrogation to resent. 

The girl made several beginnings at an answer, stopped, looked out ofthe window, looked down at her shoe-tip, and finally burst into herlittle clear trill of amusement. "I don't, " she said, looking full atRankin, her eyes shining. "You've caught me! I can't remember a singletime in my day when I think about anything but hurrying to get dressedin time to be at the next party promptly. Maybe some folks can thinkwhen they're hurrying to get dressed, but I can't. "

Rankin was very little moved to hilarity by this statement, but he wastoo young to resist the contagion of Lydia's mirth, and laughed back ather, wondering at the mobility of her ever-changing face. 

"If you don't think, what do you _do_?" he interrogated with mockrelentlessness. 

"Nothing, " said Lydia recklessly, still laughing. 

"What do you feel?" he went on in the same tone, but Lydia's facechanged quickly. 

"Oh--lots!" she said uncertainly, and was silent. 

The car began to pass some poor, small houses, and in a moment came toa standstill in the midst of a straggling village. The young conductorstill slept on, his head fallen so far on his shoulder that hisbreathing was difficult. The motorman, getting no signal to go on, looked back through the window, putting his face close to the glass tosee, for it had grown dusky outside and the electric lights were not yetturned on. After a look at the sleeping man he glanced apprehensively atthe two passengers, and then, apparently reassured that they were not"company detectives, " he pushed open the door. "This is Wardsboro', " hetold them as he went down the aisle, "and the next stop is Hardville. "

He was a strong, burly man, and easily lifted the slight, boyish form ofthe conductor to a more comfortable position, propping him up in acorner of the seat. The young man did not waken, but his face relaxedinto peaceful lines of unconsciousness as his head fell back, and hisbreathing became long and regular, like a sleeping child's. As the bigmotorman went back to his post, he explained a little sheepishly to thetwo, who had watched his operation in attentive silence, "It's againstthe rules, I know, but there ain't anybody but you two here, and hedon't look as though he'd really got his growth yet. I got a boy ain'tsixteen that looks as old as he does, and ruggeder at that. I reckon thelong hours are too much for him. "

"Do you know him?" asked Rankin. 

The motorman turned his red, weather-beaten face to them from thedoorway where he stood, pulling on his clumsy gloves. "Who, me?" heasked. "No; I never seen him till to-day. He's a new hand, I reckon. " Hedrew the door after him with a rattling slam, rang the bell for himself, and started the car forward. 

In the warm, vibrating solitude of the car, the two young people lookedat each other in a silent transport. Lydia's dark eyes were glistening, and she checked Rankin, about to speak, with a quick, broken "No; don'tsay a word! You'd spoil it!"

There was between them one of the long, vital silences, full ofcertainty of a common emotion, which had once or twice before marked asignificant change in their relation. Finally, "That's something I shallnever forget, " said Lydia. 

Rankin looked at her in silence, and then, quickly, away. 

"It's like an answer to what I was saying--a refutation of what Dr. Melton thinks--about people--"

As Rankin still made no answer, she exclaimed in a ravished surprise, "Why, I never saw anything so lovely--that made me so happy! I feel warmall over!"

Indeed, her face shone through the dusk upon her companion, who couldnow no longer constrain himself to look away from her. He said, hisvoice vibrant with a deep note which instantly carried Lydia back to theother time when she had heard it, under the stars of last October, "It'sonly an instrument exquisitely in tune which can so respond--" He brokeoff, closed his lips, and, turning away from her, gazed sightlessly outat the dim, flat horizon, now the only outline visible in the twilight. 

Lydia said nothing, either then or when, after a long pause, he saidthat he would leave the car at the next station. 

"It has been very pleasant to see you again, " he said, bending over histool-box, "and you mustn't lay it up against me that I haven'tcongratulated you on your engagement. Of course you know how I wish youall happiness. "

"Thank you, " said Lydia. 

Ahead of the car, some lights suddenly winking above the horizonannounced the approach of Hardville. Rankin stood up, slipped on hisrough overcoat, and sat down again. He drew a long breath, and beganevenly: "I know you won't misunderstand me if I try to say one morething. I probably won't see you again for years, and it would be a greatjoy to me to be sure that you know how hearty is my good-will to you. I'm afraid you can't think of me without pain, because I was the causeof such discomfort to you, but I know you are too generous to blame mefor what was an involuntary hurt. Of course I ought to have known howyour guardians would feel about your knowing me--"

"Oh, _why_ should you be so that all that happened!" cried Lydiasuddenly. "If it was too hard for me, why couldn't you have made iteasier--thought differently--acted like other people. _Would_ you--if Ihadn't--if we had gone on knowing each other?"

Rankin turned very white. "No, " he said; "I couldn't. "

"It seems to me, " said Lydia hurriedly, "that, without being willing toconcede anything to their ideas, you ask a great deal of your friends. "

"Yes, " said Rankin, "I do. It's a hard struggle I'm in with myself andthe world--oh, evidently much too hard for you even to look at from adistance. " His voice broke. "The best thing I can do for you is to stayaway--" He rose, and stepped into the aisle. "But you are so kind--youwill let me serve you in any other way, if I can--ever. If I can ever dosomething that's hard for you to do--you must know that I stand as readyas even Dr. Melton to do it for you if I can. "

Indeed, for the moment, as Lydia looked up into his kind, strong face, his impersonal tenderness made him seem almost such an old, tried friendas her godfather; almost as unlikely to expect any intimate personalreturn from her. 

"You must remember, " he went on, "the great joy it gave us both to-dayeven to see an act of kindness. Give me an opportunity to do one for youif I ever can. "

It already seemed to Lydia as though he had gone away from her, asthough this were but a beneficent memory of him lingering by her side. She hardly noticed when he left her alone in the car. 

The conductor started up, wakened by the silence, and announced wildly, "Wardsboro', Wardsboro'!"

"No, it ain't; it's the first stop in Hardville, " contradicted themotorman, sticking his head in through the door. "Turn on them lights!"

As the glass bulbs leaped to a dazzling glare, Lydia blinked and lookedaway out of the window. A moment later an arm laid about her neck madeher bound up in amazement and confront a small, middle-aged woman, witha hat too young for her tired, sallow face, with a note-book in herhand and an apologetic expression of affection in her light blue eyes. "I'm sorry I startled you, Miss Lydia, " she said. "I keep forgettingyou're not still a little girl I can pick up and hug. "

"Oh, you!" breathed the girl, sitting down again. "I didn't think therewas anybody in the car with me, you see. "

"Have you come all the way from Endbury alone, then?" asked MissBurgess, looking about her suspiciously. 

"No, I have not, " said Lydia uncompromisingly. "Mr. Rankin, thecabinet-maker, has been with me till just now. "

Miss Burgess sat down hastily in the vacant seat by Lydia. "And he'scoming back?" she inquired. 

"No; he got off at Hardville. This _is_ Hardville, isn't it?"

"Yes. I happened to be out reporting a big church bazaar here. " Shesettled back comfortably. "What a nice chance for a cozy little visit Ishall have with you. These long trips on the Interurban are fine fortalking. Unless I shall tire you? Did Mr. Rankin talk much? What does hetalk _about_, anyhow? He's always so rude to me that I've never heardhim say a word except about his work. "

Lydia considered for a moment. "We talked about the street-carconductors having such long hours to work, " she said, "and later aboutwhether people have more bad in them than good. "

"Oh!" said Miss Burgess. 

Lydia smiled faintly, the ghost of her whimsical little look of mockery. "We decided that they have more good, " she said. 

Miss Burgess cast about her for a suitable comment. At last, "Really!"she said. 

CHAPTER XVI

ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED

All over the half-finished house the workmen began to lay down theirtools. Paul Hollister's face broke into a good-humored smile as a momentlater he caught the faraway five-o'clock whistles calling from the city. He was in a very happy mood these days and the best aspect of thephenomena of the world was what impressed him most. As the workmendisappeared down the driveway to the main road, running to catch thenext trolley-car to Endbury, he looked after them with little of theusual exasperation of the house-builder whose work they were slighting, but with an agreeable sense of their extreme inferiority to him in thematter of fixity of purpose. He felt that they symbolized the weaknessof most of humanity, and promised himself with a comfortable confidencean easy and lifelong victory over such feeble adversaries. Of late, business had been going even better than ever. 

The days had begun to grow appreciably longer with the approach ofspring, and there had been several noons of an almost summer-likemildness, but now, in spite of the fact that the sun was still shining, the first chill of the late March evening dropped suddenly upon thebare-raftered structure whose open windows and door-spaces offered nobarrier to the damp breeze. Hollister stirred from his pleasant reverieand began to walk briskly about, inspecting the amount of workaccomplished since his last visit. He kept very close track of theindustry of his workmen and the competence of his contractor, andLydia's father admired greatly the way in which his future son-in-lawdid not allow himself to be "done" by those past masters of the art. Itargued well for the future, Judge Emery thought, and he called Lydia'sattention to the trait with approval. 

Before the wide aperture which was to be the front door, the owner ofthe house stopped and looked eagerly out toward the road. It was nearthe time when Lydia had promised to be there, and he meant to see herand run to meet her when she first turned in upon the ground that was tobe her home. It was the first time that Lydia had happened to visit thenew house alone. Either her mother or Hollister's sister had accompaniedher on the two or three other occasions, but to-day she telephoned thatMrs. Emery had been really out-and-out forbidden by Dr. Melton to getout of bed for two or three days, and as for Madeleine--at this pointMadeleine had snatched the receiver from Lydia's hand and had informedher brother that Madeleine was going to be busy with _her_ young man andcouldn't get off to chaperone people that had been as long engaged as heand Lydia. 

That was part of the bright color of the world to Paul--his sister'srecent engagement to their uncle's partner in the iron works, a veryprosperous, young-old bachelor of fifty-odd, whose intense preoccupationwith business had never been pierced by any consciousness of the othersex until Madeleine had, as she proclaimed in her own vernacular, "takena club to him. " It was a very brilliant match for her, and justified herown prophecy concerning herself that she was not to be satisfied withany old-fashioned, smooth-running course for true love. "It must shootthe chutes, or nothing, " she was accustomed to say, in her cheerful, high-spirited manner. 

Paul thought, with self-approval, that, for orphans of the poorer branchof the Hollister family, he and Madeleine had not done badly with theirlives thus far. 

He looked again impatiently toward the entrance to the grounds. Atrolley-car had just rattled by on the main road. If Lydia was on it, she would appear at that turning under the trees. No; evidently she hadnot been on that one. The harsh jar of the trolley's progress died awayin the distance and no Lydia appeared. He had fifteen minutes to waitfor the next one. 

He drew out a note-book and began jotting down some ideas about thedisposition of the five acres surrounding the house. He was ambitious tohave the appearance of a country estate and avoid the "surburban" lookwhich would be so fatally easy to acquire in the suburban place. Hedecided that he would not as yet fence in his land. The house was thelast one of a group of handsome residences that had lately sprung up inthe vicinity of the new Country Club, and to the south was still opencountry, so that without a fence, he reflected, he could have himself, and convey tacitly to others, the illusion of owning the wide sweep ofmeadow and field which stretched away a mile or more to a group of beechtrees. 

He jumped down lightly from the porch, as yet but sketchily outlined injoists and rafters, and stood in a litter of shavings, bits of board andpiles of yellow earth, with a kindling eye. He had that happy propheticvision of the home-builder which overlooks all present deficiencies andin an instant, with a confident magic, erects all that the slow yearsare to build. He saw a handsome, well-kept house, correctly colonial instyle, grounds artfully laid out to increase the impression of space, ahospitable, smoothly run interior, artistic, homelike, admired. 

A meadow-lark near him began to tinkle out its pretty silver notes. Thesun set slowly below the smoky horizon; a dewy peace fell about thedeserted place. Paul had his visions of other than material elements inhis future and Lydia's. Such a dream came to him there, standing in thedusk before the germ of his home to be. He saw himself an alert man offorty-five, a good citizen, always on the side of civic honor; a goodcaptain of industry, quick to see and reward merit; a good husband wholoved and cherished his wife as on the day he married her, and protectedher from all the asperities of reality; a good father--he had almost anactual vision of the children who would carry on his work inlife--girls of Lydia's beauty and sweetness, boys with his energy anduprightness--and there was Lydia, too, the Lydia of twenty years fromnow--in the full bloom of physical allurement still, a gracious hostess, a public-spirited matron, lending the luster of his name to all worthycharities indorsed by the best people, laying down with a firm goodtaste dictates as to the worthy social development of the town. Beforethis vision there rose up in him the ardent impulse to immediate effortwhich is the sign manual of the man of action. He stirred and flung hisarm out. 

"It's all up to me, " he said aloud. "I can do it if I go after it hardenough. I've got to make good for Lydia's sake and mine. She must havethe best I can get--the very best I know how to get for her. "

A sound behind him made him catch his breath. He was trembling as heturned about and saw Lydia coming swiftly up the driveway. "GoodHeavens, how I love her!" he thought as he ran down to meet her. 

He was trembling when he took her in his arms, folding her in that closeembrace of surprised rapture at finding everything real, and no dream, which is the unique joy of betrothal. He would not let her speak for amoment, pressing his lips upon hers. When he released her, she cried ina whisper, "Oh, it's wonderful how when you're close to me everythingelse just isn't in the world!"

"That's being in love, Lydia, " Paul told her with a grave thankfulness. 

"I don't mean, " she went on, with her ever-present effort to expresshonestly her meaning, "I don't mean just--just being reallyclose--having your arms around me, though that always makes me forgetthings, too--but being--_feeling_ close, you know--inside. Not havingany inner corner where we're not together--the way we are now--the way Iknew we should be when I saw you running down to meet me. I always knowthe minute I see you whether it's going to be this way. " She added, alittle wistfully, "Sometimes, you know, it isn't. "

Paul lifted her up to the porch and led her across into the hallway. Here he took her in his arms again and said with a shaken accent:"Dearest Lydia, dearest! I wish it were always the way you want it--"

Lydia dropped her head back on his shoulder and looked at him earnestly. In the half-light, white and clear from the freshly plastered walls, herface was like alabaster. "Dear Paul, isn't that what getting marriedmeans--to learn how to be really, really close to each other all thetime. There isn't anything else worth getting married for, is there?_Is_ there?"

Her lover looked down into her eyes, into her sweet, earnest face, andcould not speak. Finally, his hand at his throat, "Oh, Lydia, you're toogood for me!" he said huskily. "You're too good for any man!"

"No, no, no!" she protested with a soft energy. "I'm weak, as weak aswater. You must give me a lot of your strength or I'll go under. "

"God knows I'll give you anything I have. "

"Then, never let things come between us--never, never, never! I'm allright as long as I'm close to you. If we just keep that, nothing elsecan matter. "

They were silent, standing with clasped hands in the passage-way thatwas to be the thoroughfare of their common life. It was a moment thatwas to come back many times to Lydia's memory during later innumerable, hurried daily farewells. The thought of the significance of the placecame to her mind now. She said softly, "This must be a foretaste of whatwe're to have under this roof. How good it seems not to be in a hurryto--"

With a start Paul came to himself from his unusual forgetfulness of hissurroundings. "We _ought_ to be in a hurry now, dearest. Dr. Meltonkeeps me stirred up all the time to take care of you, and I'm sure I'mnot doing that to let you stand here in this cold evening air. Come, letme show you--the closet under the stairs, you know, and the place forthe refrigerator. "

Lydia yielded to his care for her with her sweet passivity, echoed hisopinion about the details, and ran beside him down the driveway, tocatch the next car to Endbury, with a singular light grace for a tallwoman encumbered with long skirts. 

In spite of their haste, they missed the car and were obliged to waitfor a quarter of an hour beside the tracks. They talked cheerfully onindifferent topics, the sense of intimate comradeship gilding all theysaid. In their hearts was fresh the memory of the scene in the newhouse. They looked at each other and smiled happily in the intervals oftheir talk. 

Paul was recapitulating to Lydia the advantages of the location of theirhouse. "We are in the vanguard of a new movement in American life, " hesaid, "the movement away from the cities. Madeleine tells me that sheand Lowder are planning a house at the other end of this street, and youcan be sure they know what they are about. "

Lydia did not dissent from this opinion of her future sister-in-law, butshe interrupted Paul a moment later, to say fondly, "_Oh_, but I'm gladthat you aren't fifty-five and bald and with lots of money!"

Paul laughed. "Madeleine'll get on all right. She knows what she'sabout. It's a pair of them. "

"Well, I am church-thankful that that is not what _we_ are about!"exclaimed Lydia. 

Her lover voiced the extreme content with his lot which had been hisobsession that day. "We have _everything_, darling. We shall have allthat Madeleine and old Lowder have and we have now all this heavenlyhappiness that they'll never know--or miss, " he added, giving them theirdue. 

"I didn't mean that, " protested Lydia. "It seems to me that being likethem and being like us are two contradictory things. You _can't_ be bothand have the things that go with both. And what I'm so thankful for isthat we're us and not them. "

Paul laughed. "You just see if there's anything so contradictory. Trustme. You just see if you don't beat Madeleine on her own ground yet. "

"I don't _want_--" began Lydia; but Paul had gone back to his firsttheme and was expanding it for her benefit. "Yes; we're getting theEnglish idea. In twenty years from now you'll find the social center ofevery moderate-sized American city shifted to some such place as this. "

Lydia craned her neck down the tracks impatiently. "I hope we don't missa trolley car every day of those twenty years, " she said, laughing. 

"We'll have an automobile, " he said. Then, reflecting that this was asomewhat exaggerated prophecy, he went on, with the honesty he meantalways to show Lydia (so far as should be wise), "No; I'm afraid wesha'n't, either--not for some time. It'll take several years to finishpaying altogether for the house, and we'll have to pull hard to keep upour end for a time. But we're young, so much won't be expected ofus--and if we just dig in for a few years now while we're fresh, we canlie back and--"

"Well, _gracious_!" said Lydia, "who wants an automobile, anyhow! Only Iwish the trolley didn't take so long. It's going to take the best partof an hour, you know; the ten or twelve minutes to get here from thehouse, the two or three minutes to wait, the thirty minutes on the car, the ten minutes to your office--and then all that turned inside out whenyou come back in the evening. "

"Oh, I'll be able to do a lot of business figuring in that time. Itwon't be wasted. "

They fell into happy picture-making of their future. Lydia wanted tohave chickens and a garden, she said. She'd always wanted to be afarmer's wife--an idea that caused Paul much laughter. They revised theplans for the furnishing of the hall--the china closet could standagainst the west wall of the dining-room; why had they not thought ofthat before? The little room upstairs was to be a sewing-room "AlthoughI hate sewing, " cried Lydia, "and nowadays, when ready-mades are socheap and good--"

"Nobody expected you to make yourself tailored street dresses, " saidPaul; "but don't I all the time hear Madeleine and my aunt saying howthe 'last _chic_ of a costume, the little indefinable touches that givea toilet distinction, ' they have to fuss up themselves out of bits oflace and ribbon and fur and truck?" He was quoting, evidently, with anamused emphasis. 

Lydia leaned to him, her eyes wide in a mock solemnity. "Paul, I have ahorrible confession to make to you. I _loathe_ the 'last _chic_, thelittle indefinable touches that give a toilet, ' and so forth! It makesme sick to spend my time on them. What difference does it make to realfolks if their toilets _aren't_ 'and so forth!'"

She looked so deliciously whimsical with her down-drawn face ofrebellious contrition that Paul was enchanted. "And this I learn whenit's too late for me to draw back!" he cried in horror. "Woman! woman!this tardy confession"

"Oh, there are lots of other confessions. Just wait. "

"Out with them!"

"I don't know _anything_. "

"That's something, " admitted Paul. 

"And you must teach me. "

"Oh, this docile little 1840 wife! Don't you know the suffragists willget you if you talk meek like that? What do you want to know? Volts, anddynamos, and induction coils?"

"Everything, " said Lydia comprehensively, "that you know. Books, politics, music--"

"Lord! what a hash! What makes you think I know anything about suchthings?"

"Why, you went through Cornell. You must know about books. And you're aman, you must know about politics; and as for music, we'll learn aboutthat together. Aunt Julia and Godfather are going to give us apiano-player--though I know they can't afford it, the dears!"

"People _are_ good to us. " Paul's flush of gratitude for his goodfortune continued. 

"You like music, don't you?" asked Lydia. 

"I guess so; I don't know much about it. Some crazy German post-grads atCornell used to make up a string quartette among themselves and playsome things I liked to hear--I guess it was pretty good music, too. Theywere sharks on it, I know. Yes; now I think of it, I used to like itfine. Maybe if I heard more--"

"Oh, the evenings together!" breathed Lydia. "Doesn't it take yourbreath away to think of them? We'll read together--"

Paul saw the picture. "Yes; there're lots of books I've always meant toget around to. "

They were silent, musing. 

Then Paul laughed aloud. Lydia started and looked at him inquiringly. 

"Oh, I was just thinking how old married folks would laugh to hear usinfants planning our little castles in Spain. You know how they alwayssmile at such ideas, and say every couple starts out with them and afterabout six months gets down to concentrating on keeping up the furnacefire and making sure the biscuits are good. "

Lydia laid her hand eagerly on his arm. "But don't let's, Paul! Please, _please_ don't let us! Just because everybody else does is no reason whywe _have_ to. You're always saying folks can make things go their way ifthey try hard enough--you're so clever and--"

"Oh, I'm a wonder, I know! You needn't tell me how smart I am. "

"But, Paul, I'm in earnest--I mean it--"

The car had arrived by this time and he swung her up to the platform. Like other moderns they were so accustomed to spend a large part oftheir time in being transported from place to place that they were quiteat home in the noisy public conveyance, and after a pause to pay fares, remove wraps, and nod to an acquaintance or two, they went on with theirconversation as though they were alone. People looked approvingly at thecomely, well-dressed young couple, so naïvely absorbed in each other, and speculated as to whether they were just married or just about tobe. 

After they were deposited at the corner nearest the Emery house, thechange to the silent street, up which they walked slowly, reluctant toseparate, took them back to their first mood of this loveliest of alltheir hours together--the sweet intimacy of their first meeting in thenew house. 

Lydia felt herself so wholly in sympathy with Paul that she was moved totouch upon something that had never been mentioned between them. "Paul, dear, " she said, her certainty that he would understand, surrounding herwith an atmosphere of spiritual harmony which she recognized was thething in all the world which mattered most to her, "Paul dear, I nevertold you--there's nothing to tell, really--but when I went to theMallory's house-party in February I rode from here to Hardville with Mr. Rankin and had a long talk with him. You don't mind, do you?"

Her lover drew her hand within his arm and gave it an affectionatepressure. "You may not know things, Lydia, as you say, but you are the_nicest_ girl! the straightest! I knew that at the time--Miss Burgesstold me. But I'm glad you've given me a chance to say how sorry I wasfor you last autumn when everybody was pestering you so about him. Iknew how you felt--better than you did, I'll bet I did! I wasn't a bitafraid. I knew you could never care for anybody but me. Why, you're_mine_, Lydia, I'm yours, and that's all there is to it. You know it aswell as I do. "

"_I know it when I'm with you_, " she told him with a bravely honest, unspoken reservation. 

He laughed his appreciation of her insistent sincerity. "Well, whenyou're married won't you be with me all the time? So that's fixed! Andas for meeting somebody by accident on the street-cars--why, you foolishdarling, you're not marrying a Turk, or an octopus--but an American. "

Lydia was silent, but her look was enough to fill the pause richly. Shewas savoring to the full the joy of close community of spirit which hadbeen so rare in her pleasant life of material comfort, and she wassaying a humble prayer that she might be good enough to be worthy of it, that she might be wise enough to make it the daily and hourly atmosphereof her life with Paul. 

"What are you thinking about, darling?" asked the other. 

"I was thinking how lovely it's going to be to be really married andcome to know each other well. We don't know each other at all yet, _really_, you know. "

Paul was brought up short, as so often with Lydia, by an odd, disconcerted feeling, half pleasure, half shock, from the discovery inher of pages that he had not read, germs of ideas that had not come fromhim. "Why, darling Lydia, what do you mean? We know each other throughand through!" he now protested. It gave a tang of the unexpected to heruniform sweetness, this always having a corner still to turn which kepther out of his sight. Paul was used to seeing most women achieve thiseffect of uncertainty by the use of coquetry, and in the free-and-easygive and take between young America of both sexes, he had learned with asomewhat cynical shrewdness to discount it. He entered into the game, but, in his own phrase, he always knew what he was about. Lydia, on thecontrary, often penetrated his armor by one of these shafts, barbed byher complete unconsciousness of any intent. He felt now, with amomentary anguish, that he could never be sure of her belonging quite tohim until they were married, and cried out upon her idea almost angrily, "I don't know what you mean! We know each other now. "

"Oh, no, we don't, " she insisted. "There are lots of queer fancies in methat you'll only find out by living with me--and, Oh, Paul! the fine, noble things I _feel_ in you! But I can see the whole of them only byseeing you day by day. And then there are lots of things that aren't inus, really, yet, but only planted. They'll grow--we'll grow--Paul, to-day is an epoch. We've passed a new milestone. "

"How do you mean?" he asked. 

"The way we've felt--the way we've talked--of real things--out there inour own--" She laughed a little, a serene murmur of drollery which cameto her when she was at peace. "We've been engaged since November, but weonly got engaged to be married to-day--just as our wedding's to be inJune, but goodness knows when our marriage will be. "

Paul smiled at her tenderly. "If I'd known the date was so uncertain asthat I shouldn't have dared to go so far in my house-building. "

"Oh, it's all right so far, " she reassured him, smiling; "but we mustpitch in and finish it. Why, that's just it, Paul--" she was struck withthe aptness of her illustration--"that's just it. We've got the raftersand joists up now; maybe before we're married, if we're good, we can getthe roof on so it won't rain on us; but all the finishing, all thatmakes it good to live in, has got to be done after the wedding. "

He did not know exactly what she was talking about, but he made up forvagueness by fervor. "After we are married, " he cried, "I'll movemountains and turn stones to gold. "

"But the first thing to do is to lay floors for us to walk on, " Lydiatold him. 

For answer, he drew her into his arms and closed her mouth with a kiss. 

CHAPTER XVII

CARD-DEALING AND PATENT CANDLES

Spring had come with its usual hotly advancing rush upon the low-lying, sheltered southerly city. There had been a few days of magical warmth, full of spring madness, when every growing thing had expanded leaveswith furious haste, when the noise of children playing in the streetsounded loud through newly-opened windows, when, even on city streets, every breath of the sweet, lively air was an intoxicating potion. Then, with a bound, the heat was there. Evenings and nights were still cool, but noons were as oppressive as in July. The scarcely expanded leaveshung limp in a summer heat. 

All during that eventful winter, Mrs. Emery had frequently remarked toher sister-in-law that Lydia's social career progressed positively withsuch brilliancy that it was like "something you read about. " Mrs. Sandworth invariably added the qualifying clause, "But in a very nicebook, you know, with only nice people in it, where everything comes outnicely at the end. " Her confidence in literature as a respectable sourceof pleasure was not so guileless as Mrs. Emery's. It had been cruellyshaken by dipping into some of the Russian novels of the doctor's. 

Not infrequently the two ladies felt, with a happy importance, that theywere the authors of the book and that the agreeable episodes anddramatic incidents which had kept the flow of the narrative so sparklingwere the product of their own creative genius. When April came on, andLydia agreed to the announcement of her engagement, they felt the needof some remarkable way of signaling that important event and of closingher season with a burst of glory. For her season had to end! Dr. Meltonsaid positively that if Lydia had another month of the life she had beenleading he would not be responsible for the consequences. "She has afine constitution, inherited from her farmer grandparents, " he said, smiling to see Mrs. Emery wince at this uncompromising statement ofLydia's ancestry, "but her nervous organization is too fine for her owngood. And I warn you right now that if you get her nerves once reallyjangled, I shall take to the woods. You can just give the case toanother doctor. It would be too much for _me_. "

The girl herself insisted that she felt perfectly well and able to standmore than when she first began going out. She affirmed this with someimpatience, her eyes very bright, her cheeks flushed, whenever hergodfather protested against a new undertaking. "When you get going, you_can't_ stop, " she told him, shaking off his detaining hand. Mrs. Emerytold the doctor that he'd forgotten the time when he was young or he'dremember that all girls who'd been popular at all--let alone a girl likeLydia--looked thin and worn by the end of the season; but during thelast week of April, when the first hot days had arrived, a smallincident surprised her into thinking that perhaps the doctor had someright on his side. 

Not that there was in itself anything so very alarming about a nervousexplosion from a girl so high-strung and susceptible as Lydia. Thestartling thing was that this explosion proceeded, so far as her mothercould see, from nothing at all, from the idlest of chance remarks byMrs. Sandworth, as always, whitely innocent of the smallest intention towound. 

She and Mrs. Emery were much given to watching Lydia dress for theinnumerable engagements that took her away from the house. They made apretext of helping her, but in truth they were carried away by thedelight in another's beauty which is more common among women than isgenerally imagined. They took the profoundest interest in the selectionof the toilet she should wear, and regarded with a charmed surprise theparticular aspect of Lydia's slim comeliness which it brought out. Theycould not decide whether they liked her best in clinging, picturecostumes, big hats, plumes, trailing draperies, and the like, ordashing, jaunty effects. Once in the winter, after she had left them onher way to an evening skating party and they had seen her from thewindow join Hollister and add her skates to those glittering on hisshoulder, Mrs. Sandworth promulgated one of her unexpected apothegms:"Do you know what we are, Susan Emery? We're a couple of old childrenplaying with a doll. " Mrs. Emery protested with an instant, reprovingself-justification: "_You_ may be--you're not her mother; but Iunderstand Lydia through and through. "

Mrs. Emery felt that if Lydia had overheard that remark of her aunt'sher excitement and resentment might have been natural; but the one whichled to the distressing little scene in late April was as neutral as anordinary morning salutation. The two were watching Lydia dress for aluncheon which Mrs. Hollister--_the_ Mrs. Hollister--was giving in herhonor. It was about noon of a warm day, and the air that came in at theopen windows was thrillingly alive with troubling, disquietingsuggestions of the new life of spring. Lydia, however, showed none ofthe languor which the sudden heat had brought to the two elder women. She was a little late, and her hurry had sent a high color to hercheeks, the curves of which were refined to the most exquisite subtletyby the loss of flesh so deplored by Dr. Melton. She was used, by thistime, to dressing in a hurry, but her fingers trembled a little, and shetried three times before she could coil her dark silky hair smoothly. She was frowning a little with the fixity of her concentration as sheturned to snatch up her long gloves and she did not hear Mrs. Sandworth's question until it had been repeated, "I said, Lydia, is it to be bridge this afternoon?"

"I don't know, " said Lydia with the full stop of absent indifference. 

"Didn't Mrs. Hollister say?"

"Maybe she did. I didn't notice. " The girl was tugging at her glove. 

"Well, anyhow, " said her mother, "since everybody's giving youcard-parties, I should think you'd want to practice up and learn how todeal better. It's queer, " she went on to Mrs. Sandworth, "Lydia's sodeft about so many things, that she should deal cards so badly. "

"Oh, goodness! As if there was nothing better to do than that!" criedLydia, beginning on the other glove. 

"Well, what _have_ you to do that's better?" asked her aunt in someastonishment. "Lydia, my dear, your collar is pinned the least bitcrooked. Here, just let me--"

Lydia had stopped short, her glove dangling from her wrist. "Why, what ahorrible thing to say!" She brought this out with a tragic emphasis, immensely disconcerting to her two elders. 

"Horrible!" protested Mrs. Sandworth. 

"Yes, horrible, " insisted the girl. She had turned very pale. "The veryway you say it and don't think anything about it, _makes_ it horrible. "

Mrs. Sandworth began to doubt her own senses. "Why, what did I say?" sheappealed to Mrs. Emery in bewildered interrogation, but before thelatter could answer Lydia broke out: "If I really believed that, why, I'd--I'd--" She hesitated, obviously between tragic consequences, andthen, to the great dismay of her companions, began to cry, stillstanding in the middle of the floor, her glove dangling from her slim, white wrist. 

"Don't Lydia! Oh, don't, dear! You'll make yourself look like a frightfor the luncheon. " Mrs. Emery ran to her daughter with a solicitude inwhich there was considerable irritation. "You're perfectly exhausting, taking everything that deadly serious way. Don't be so _morbid_! Youknow your Aunt Julia didn't mean anything. She never does!"

Lydia pulled away and threw herself on the bed, still sobbing, andprotesting that she could not go to the luncheon; and in the end Mrs. Emery was obliged to make the profoundest apologies over the telephoneto a justly indignant hostess. 

In the meantime Lydia was undressed and put to bed by Mrs. Sandworth, who dared not open her mouth. The girl still drew long, sobbing breaths, but before her aunt left the room she lay quiet, her eyes closed. Theother was struck by the way her pallor brought out the thinness of herlovely face. She hovered helplessly for a moment over the bed. "Is thereanything I can do for you, dearie?" she asked humbly. 

Lydia shook her head. "Just let me be quiet, " she murmured. 

At this, Mrs. Sandworth retreated to the door, from which she ventured alast "Lydia darling, you know I'm sorry if I said anything to hurt--"

Lydia raised herself on her elbow and looked at her solemnly. "It wasn'twhat you _said_; it was what it _meant_!" she said tragically. 

With this cryptic utterance in her ears, Mrs. Sandworth fled downstairs, to find her sister-in-law turning away from the telephone with a frown. "Mrs. Hollister was very much provoked about it, and I don't blame her. It's hard to make her understand we couldn't have given her a _little_warning. And--that's the most provoking part--I didn't dare say Lydia isreally sick, when, as like as not, she'll be receiving company thisevening. "

"You wouldn't want her sick, just so it would be easier to explain, would you?" asked Mrs. Sandworth with her eternal disconcertinginnocence. 

Mrs. Emery relieved her mind by snapping at her sister-in-law with theviolence allowed to an intimate of many years' standing, "Good gracious, Julia! you're as bad as Lydia! Turning everything people say intosomething quite different--"

Mrs. Sandworth interrupted hastily, "Susan, tell me, for mercy's sake, what did I say? The last thing I remember passing my lips was about hercollar's being a little crooked, --and just now she told me, as though itwas the crack of Doom, that it wasn't what I said, but what it meant, that was so awful. What in the world does she mean?"

Mrs. Emery sank into a seat with a gesture of utter impatience. "Mean?Mean nothing! Didn't you ever know an engaged girl before?"

"Well, I'm sure when I was engaged I never--"

"Oh, yes, you did; you _must_ have. They all do. It's nerves. "

But a moment later she contradicted her own assurance with a sigh ofunresignation. "Oh, dear! why can't Lydia be just bright and wholesomeand fun-loving and _natural_ like Madeleine Hollister!" She addeddarkly, "I just feel in my bones that this has something to do with thatRankin and his morbid ideas. "

Mrs. Sandworth was startled. "Good gracious! You don't suppose she--"

"No; of course I don't! I never thought of such a thing. You ought tosee her when she is with Paul. She's just _fascinated_ by him! But youknow as well as I do that ideas go right on underneath all that!" Hertone implied a disapproval of their tenacity of life. "And yet, Lydia'sreally nothing unusual! Before they get married and into social life, and settled down and too busy to think, most girls have a queer spell. Only most of them take it out on religion. Oh, why couldn't she have metthat nice young rector--if she had to meet somebody to put ideas intoher head--instead of an anarchist. "

"Well, it's certainly all past now, " Mrs. Sandworth reassured her. 

"Yes; hasn't it been a lovely winter! Everybody's been so good to Lydia. Everything's succeeded so! But I suppose Dr. Melton's right. We ought tocall her season over, except for the announcement party--and thewedding, of course--and oh, dear! There are so many things I'd plannedto do I can't possibly get in now. It seems strange a child of mineshould be so queer and have such notions. "

However, after the two had talked over the plans for a great eveninggarden-party in the Emery "grounds" and Mrs. Emery's creative eye hadseen the affair in a vista of brilliant pictures, she felt morecomposed. She went up quietly to Lydia's door and looked in. 

The girl was lying on her back, her wide, dark eyes fixed on theceiling. Something in the expression of her face gave her mother a throbof pain. She yearned over the foolish, unbalanced young thing, and herheart failed her, in that universal mother's fear for her child of theroughnesses of life, through which she herself has passed safely andwhich have given savor to her existence. In her incapacity to conceiveother roughnesses than those she could feel herself, she was, it isprobable, much like the rest of humankind. She advanced to the bed, hertenderest mother-look on her face, and cut Lydia off from speech withgentle wisdom. "No, no, dear; don't try to talk. You're all tired outand nervous and don't know--"

Lydia had begun excitedly: "I've been feeling it for a long time, butwhen Aunt Julia said right out that I didn't know how to do anythingbetter than--that I was only good to--"

Her mother laid a firm, gentle hand over the quivering mouth, and saidin a soothing murmur, "Hush, hush! darling. It wasn't anything your poorfoolish Aunt Julia said. It isn't anything, anyhow, but being up toomuch and having too much excitement. People get to thinking all kinds ofqueer things when they're tired. Mother knows. Mother knows best. "

She had prepared a glass of bromide, and now, lifting Lydia as thoughshe were still the child she felt her to be, she held it to her lips. "Here, Mother's poor, tired little girl--take this and go to sleep;that's all you need. Just trust Mother now. "

Lydia took the draught obediently, but she sighed deeply, and fixed hermother with eyes that were unrelentingly serious. 

When Mrs. Emery looked in after half an hour, she saw that Lydia wasstill awake, but later she fell asleep, and slept heavily until late inthe afternoon. 

On her appearance at the dinner-table, still languid and heavy-eyed, shewas met with gentle, amused triumph. "There, you dear. Didn't I tell youwhat you needed was sleep. There never was a girl who didn't think asick headache meant there was something wrong with her soul orsomething. "

Judge Emery laughed good-naturedly, as he sliced the roast beef, andsaid, with admiration for his wife, "It's a good thing my high-strunglittle girl has such a levelheaded mother to look after her. Motherknows all about nerves and things. She's had 'em--all kinds--and comeout on top. Look at her now. "

Lydia took him at his word, and bestowed on her mother a long look. Shesaid nothing, and after a moment dropped her eyes listlessly again toher plate. It was this occasion which Mrs. Emery chose to present to theJudge her plans for the expensive garden-party, so that in the animatedand, at times, slightly embittered discussion that followed, Lydia'ssilence was overlooked. 

For the next few days she stayed quietly indoors, refusing and cancelingengagements. Mrs. Emery said it was "only decent to do that much afterplaying Mrs. Hollister such a trick, " and Lydia did not seem averse. Shesewed a little, fitfully, tried to play on the piano and turned awaydisheartened at the results of the long neglect--there had been no timein the season for practice--and wandered about the library, taking outfirst one book then another, reading a little and then sitting withbrooding eyes, staring unseeingly at the page. Once her mother, findingher thus, inquired with some sharpness what book she was reading to sether off like that. "It's a book by Maeterlinck, " said Lydia, "thatGodfather gave me ever so long ago, and I've never had time to read it. "

"Do you like it? What's it about?" asked her mother, suspiciously. 

"I can't understand it, " said Lydia, "when I'm reading it. But when Ilook away and think, I can, a little bit. I love it. It makes me feellike crying. It's all about our inner life. "

"My dear Lydia, you put your hat right on and go over to have a littlevisit with Marietta. What you need is a little fresh air and somesensible talk. I've been too busy with my invitation list to visit withyou as I ought. Marietta'll be real glad to see you. Here's your hat. Now, you run right along, and stop at Hallam's on the way and getyourself an ice-cream soda. It's hot, and that'll do you good. "

As Lydia was disappearing docilely out of the door, her mother stoppedbefore going back to her desk and the list of guests for thegarden-party, which had been torturing her with perplexity, to say, "Oh, Lydia, don't forget to ask Marietta to order the perforated candles. "

"Perforated--!" said Lydia blankly, pausing at the door. 

"Yes; don't you remember, the last time Mrs. Hollister called here shetold us all about them. "

"No, I don't remember, " said Lydia, with no shade of apology in hertone. 

"Why, my dear! You're getting so absent-minded! Do you mean to say youdidn't take in anything of what she was talking about? It's a new kind, that has holes running through it so the melted wax runs down theinside! Why, we were talking about them the whole time she was here thatlast call. "

Lydia opened the door, observing vaguely, "Oh, yes; I do seem toremember something. It was a very dull visit, anyhow. "

Mrs. Emery returned to her list, pursing up her lips and wagging herhead. "You'll have to learn, dearie, that it's little details like thatthat make the difference between success and failure. "

"We have electric light and gas, " said Lydia. 

Mrs. Emery looked up in astonishment and a little vexation. She, too, had nerves these days. "Why, Lydia, what's the matter with you? You knownobody uses those for table decoration. "

"_We_ could, " said Lydia. 

"Why, my dear child, I never knew before there was a contrary streak inyou, like your father. What in the world possesses you all of a suddento object to candles?"

"It's not candles--it's the idea of--Oh, all the fuss and bother, wheneverybody's so tired, and the weather's so hot, and it's going to costtoo much anyhow. "

"Well, what would you have us fuss and bother about, if not over havingeverything nice when we entertain?" Mrs. Emery's air of enforcedpatience was strained. 

Lydia surveyed her from the hall in silence. "That's just it--that'sjust it, " she said finally, and went away. 

Mrs. Emery laid down her pen to laugh to herself over the queer ways ofchildren. "They begin to have notions with their first teeth, and Isuppose they don't get over them till _their_ first baby begins toteethe. "

When Lydia arrived at her sister's house, she found that competenthousekeeper engaged in mending the lace curtains of her parlor. She hadabout her a battery of little ingenious devices to which she calledLydia's attention with pride. "I've taught myself lace-mending just bymain strength and awkwardness, " she observed, fitting a hoop over a tornplace, "and it's not because I have any natural knack, either. Ifthere's anything I hate to do, it's to sew. But these curtains do go topieces so. I wash them myself, to be careful, but they are so fine. Still, " she cast a calculating eye on the work before her, "I'll bethrough by the end of this week, anyhow--if that new Swede will onlystay in the kitchen that long!"

She bent her head over her work again, holding it up to the light fromtime to time and straining her eyes to catch the exact thread with heralmost impalpably fine needle. Lydia sat and fanned herself, lookingflushed and tired from the walk in the heat, and listening in silence toMrs. Mortimer's account of the various happenings of her household:"And didn't I find that good-for-nothing negro wench had been havingthat man--and goodness knows how many others--right here in the house. Itold Ralph I never would have another nigger--but I shall. You can't getanything else half the time. I tell you, Lydia, the servant problem isgetting to be something perfectly terrible--it's--"

Lydia broke in to say, "Why don't you buy new ones?"

Mrs. Mortimer paused with uplifted needle to inquire wildly, "New_what_?"

"New curtains, instead of spending a whole week in hot weather mendingthose. "

"Good gracious, child! Will you ever learn anything about the cost ofliving! I think it's awful, the way Father and Mother have let you growup! Why, it would take half a month's salary to reproduce thesecurtains. I got them at a great bargain--but even then I couldn't affordthem. Ralph was furious. "

"You could buy muslin curtains that would be just as pretty, " suggestedLydia. 

"Why, those curtains are the only things with the least distinction inmy whole parlor! They _save_ the room. "

"From what?"

"From showing that there's almost nothing in it that cost anything, tobe sure! With them at the window, it would never enter people's heads tothink that I upholstered the furniture myself, or that the picturesare--"

"Why shouldn't they think so, if you did?" Lydia proffered thissuggestion with an air of fatigued listlessness, which, her sisterthought, showed that she made it "simply to be contrary. " Acting on thistheory, she answered it with a dignified silence. 

There was a pause. Lydia tilted her head back against the chair, andlooked out of the window at the new green leaves of the piazza vine. Mrs. Mortimer's thin, white, rather large hands drew the shining littleneedle back and forth with a steady, hurrying industry. It came into hermind that their respective attitudes were symbolical of their lives, and she thought, glancing at Lydia's drooping depression, that it wouldbe better for her if she were obliged to work more. "Work, " of course, meant to Marietta those forms of activity which filled her own life. "_I_ never have any time for notions, " she thought, the desperate, hurrying, straining routine of her days rising before her and movingher, as always, to rebellion and yet to a martyr's pride. 

Lydia stirred from her listless pose and came over to her sister, sitting down on a stool at her feet. "Marietta, dear, please let me talkto you. I'm so miserable these days--and Mother won't let me say a wordto her. She says it's spring fever, and being engaged, and the end ofthe season, and everything. Please, _please_ be serious, and let me tellyou about it, and see if you can't help me. "

Her tone was so broken and imploring that Mrs. Mortimer was startled. She was, moreover, flattered that Lydia should come to her for advicerather than to her parents. She put her arm around her sister'sshoulders, and said gently, "Why, yes, dear; of course; anything--"

"Then stop sewing and listen to me--"

"But I can sew and listen, too. "

"Oh, Etta, _please_! That's just the kind of thing that gets me so wild. Just a little while!"

The harassed housekeeper cast an anxious eye on the clock, but loyallystifled the sigh with which she laid her work aside. Lydia apologizedfor interrupting her. "But I do want you to really think of what I amsaying. Everybody's always so busy thinking about _things_! Oh, Etta, I'm just as unhappy as I can be--and so scared when I think about--aboutthe future. "

Mrs. Mortimer's face softened wonderfully. She stroked Lydia's darkhair. "Why, poor dear little sister! Yes, yes, darling, I know all aboutit. I felt just so myself the month before I was married, and Mothercouldn't help me a bit. Either she had forgotten all about it, or elseshe never had the feeling. I just had to struggle along through withoutanybody to help me or to say a word. Oh, I'm so glad I can help mylittle sister. _Don't_ be afraid, dear! There's nothing so terribleabout it; nothing to be scared of. Why, once you get used to it you findit doesn't make a bit of difference to you. Everything's just the sameas before. "

Lydia lifted a wrinkled brow of perplexity to this soothing view ofmatrimony. "I don't know what you're talking about, Etta!" she cried ina bewilderment that seemed to strike her as tragic. 

"Why--why, being married! Wasn't that what you meant?"

"Oh, no! _No!_ Nothing so definite as that! I couldn't be afraid ofPaul--why should I be? I'm just frightened of--everything--whateverybody expects me to do, and to go on doing all my life, and neverhave any time but to just hurry faster and faster, so there'll be morethings to hurry about, and never talk about anything but _things_!" Shebegan to tremble and look white, and stopped with a desperate effort tocontrol herself, though she burst out at the sight of Mrs. Mortimer'sface of despairing bewilderment, "Oh, don't tell me you don't see at allwhat I mean. I can't say it! But you _must_ understand! Can't we somehowall stop--_now_! And start over again! You get muslin curtains and notmend your lace ones, and Mother stop fussing about whom to invite tothat party--that's going to cost more than he can afford, Fathersays--it makes me _sick_ to be costing him so much. And not fuss abouthaving clothes just so--and Paul have our house built little and plain, so it won't be so much work to take care of it and keep it clean. Iwould so much rather look after it myself than to have him kill himselfmaking money so I can hire maids that you _can't_--you say yourself youcan't--and never having any time to see him. Perhaps if we did, otherpeople might, and we'd all have more time to like things that make usnicer to like--"

At this perturbing jumble of suggestions, Mrs. Mortimer's head whirled. She took hold of the arms of her chair as if to steady herself, but, conscientiously afraid of discouraging the girl's confidence, she noddedgravely at her, as if she were considering the matter. Lydia sprang up, her eyes shining. "Oh, you dear! You _do_ see what I mean! You see howdreadful it is to look forward to just that--being so desperatelytroubled over things that don't really matter--and--and perhaps havingchildren, and bringing them up to the same thing--when there must be somany things that do matter!"

To each of these impassioned statements her sister had returned anautomatic nod. "I see what you mean, " she now put in, a statement whichwas the outward expression of a thought running, "Mercy! Dr. Melton'sright! She's perfectly wild with nerves! We must get her married as soonas ever we can!"

Lydia went over to the window, and stood looking out as she talked, nowwith an excited haste, now with a dragging note of fatigue in her voice. Her need of sympathy was so great that she did a violence to thereticence she had always kept, even with herself. She wondered aloud ifit were not perhaps Daniel Rankin and his queer ideas that lay at thebottom of her trouble. She added, whirling about from the window, "Formercy's sake! don't go and think I am in love with him, or anything! Ihaven't so much as thought of him all winter! I see, now that Mother'spointed it out to me, how domineering he really was to me last autumn. I'm just crazy about Paul, too! When I'm with him he takes my breathaway! But maybe--maybe I can't forget Mr. Rankin's _ideas_! You know hetalked to me so much when I was first back--and if somebody would justargue me out of them, the way he did into them! I don't believe I'd everhave thought it queer to live the way we do, just to have more thingsand get ahead of other people--if he hadn't put the idea into my head. But nobody else will even _talk_ about it! They laugh when I try to. "

She came over closer to the matron, and said imploringly, her voicetrembling, "I don't _want_ to be queer, Marietta! What makes me? Idon't like to have queer ideas, different from other people's--but everyonce in a while it all comes over me with a rush--what's the _good_ ofall we do?"

Poor Lydia propounded this question as though it were the first time inthe world's history that it had passed the lips of humanity. Hercurious, puzzled distress rose up in a choking flood to her throat, andshe stopped, looking desperately at her sister. 

Mrs. Mortimer nodded again, calmly, drew a long breath, and seemed aboutto speak. Lydia gazed at her, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright withunshed tears--all one eager expectancy. The older woman's eyes wanderedsuddenly for an instant. She darted forward, clapped her hands togetheronce, and then in rapid succession three or four times. Then rollingtriumphantly something between her thumb and forefinger, she turned toLydia. The little operation had not taken the third of a moment, but thechange in the girl's face was so great that Mrs. Mortimer was moved tohasty, half-shamefaced, half-defiant apology. "I _was_ listening to you, Lydia! I _was_ listening! But it's just the time of year when they laytheir eggs, and I have to fight them. Last year my best furs and Ralph'sdress suit were perfectly _riddled_! You know we can't afford new. "

Lydia rose in silence and began pinning on her hat. Her sister, for allher vexation over the ending of the interview, could hardly repress asmile of superior wisdom at the other's face of tragedy. "Don't go, Lyddie, don't go!" She tried to put her arms around the flighty youngthing. "Oh, dear Lydia, cultivate your sense of humor! That's all that'sthe matter with you. There's nothing else! Look here, dear, there _are_moths as well as souls in the world. People have to be on the lookoutfor them, --for everything, don't you see?"

"They look out for _moths_, all right, " said Lydia in a low tone. Shesubmitted, except for this one speech, in a passive silence to hersister's combination of petting and exhortation, moving quietly towardthe door, and stepping evenly forward down the walk. 

She had gone down to the street, leaving Mrs. Mortimer still callingremorseful apologies, practical suggestions, and laughing comments onher "tragedy way of taking the world. " At the gate, she paused, and thencame back, her face like a mask under the shadow of her hat. 

Marietta stood waiting for her with a quizzical expression. Under herappearance of lightly estimating Lydia's depression as superficial, shehad been sensible of a not unfamiliar qualm of doubt as to her ownmanner of life, an uneasy heaving of a subconscious self not alwayspossible to ignore; but, as was her resolute custom, she forced to thefront that perception of the ridiculous which she had urged on hersister. She bit her lips, to conceal a smile at Lydia's mournfulemphasis as she went on: "I forgot to tell you, Marietta, what I wassent over for. You're to be sure to order the perforated candles. It'sthe kind that has holes down the middle, so the wax doesn't look mussyon the outside, and it's very, very important to have the right kind ofcandles. "

Mrs. Mortimer, willfully amused, looked with an obstinate smile into hersister's troubled eyes as Lydia hesitated, waiting, in spite of herself, for the understanding word. 

"You're a darling, Lyddie, " said the elder woman, kissing her again;"but you are certainly _too_ absurd!"

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 BOOK III

 A SUITABLE MARRIAGE

CHAPTER XVIII

TWO SIDES TO THE QUESTION

Lydia's unmarried life had given her but few abstract ideas for theregulation of conduct, and fewer still ideals of self-discipline, butchief among the small assortment that she took away from her mother'shouse had been the high morality of keeping one's husband unworried byone's domestic difficulties. "Domestic difficulties" meant, apparently, anything disagreeable that happened to one. Not only her mother, but allthe matrons of her acquaintance had concentrated on the extremedesirability of this wifely virtue. "It pays! It pays!" Mrs. Emery hadoften thus chanted the praises of this quality in her daughter'spresence. "I've noticed ever so many times that men who have to worryabout domestic machinery and their children don't get on so well. Theirminds are distracted. Their thoughts _can't_ be, in the nature ofthings, all on their business. " She was wont to go on, to whatevermother she was addressing, "We know, my dear Mrs. Blank, don't we, howperfectly distracting the problems are in bringing up children--to saynothing of servants. How much energy would men have for their ownaffairs if they had to struggle as we do, I'd like to know! Besides, ifone person's got to be bothered with such things, she might as well doit all and be done with it. It's easier, besides, to have only one head. Men that interfere about things in the house are an abomination. Youcan't keep from quarreling with them--angels couldn't. "

She had once voiced this universally recognized maxim before Dr. Melton, who had cut in briskly with a warm seconding of her theory. "Yes, indeed; in the course of my practice I have often thought, as you do, that it would be easier all around if husbands didn't board with theirwives at all. "

Mrs. Emery had stared almost as blankly as Mrs. Sandworth herself mighthave done. "I never said such a crazy thing, " she protested. 

"Didn't you? Perhaps I don't catch your idea then. It seemed to be thatevery point of contact was sure to be an occasion for friction betweenhusband and wife, and so, of course, the fewer they were--"

"Oh, bother take you, Marius Melton!" Mrs. Emery had quite lost patiencewith him. "I was just saying something that's so old, and has been saidso often, that it's a bromide, actually. And that is that it's a poorwife who greets her tired husband in the evening with a long string oftales about how the children have been naughty and the cook--"

"Oh, yes, yes; now I see. Of course. The happiest ideal of Americanlife, a peaceful exterior presented to the husband at all costs, and thereal state of things kept from him because it might interfere with hiscapacity to pull off a big deal the next day. "

Mrs. Emery had boggled suspiciously at this version of her statement, but finding, on the whole, that it represented fairly enough her idea, had given a qualified assent in the shape of silence and a turning ofthe subject. 

Lydia had not happened to hear that conversation, but she heardinnumerable ones like it without Dr. Melton's footnotes. On her weddingday, therefore, she conceived it an essential feature of her duty towardPaul to keep entirely to herself all of the dismaying difficulties ofhousekeeping and keeping up a social position in America. She knew, as amatter of course, that they would be dismaying. The talk of all hermarried friends was full of the tragedies of domestic life. It hadoccurred to her once or twice that it was an odd, almost a pathetic, convention that they tried to maintain about their social existence--apicture of their lives as running smoothly with self-adjusting machineryof long-established servants and old social traditions; when their everyword tragically proclaimed the exhausting and never-ending personaleffort that was required to give even the most temporary appearance ofthat kind. "We all know what a fearful time everybody has trying to givecourse dinners--why need we pretend we don't?" she had thought onseveral painful occasions; but this, like many of her fancies, was afleeting one. There had been as little time since her wedding day asbefore it for leisurely speculation. The business of being _the_ brideof a season had been quite as exciting and absorbing as being _the_débutante. 

The first of February, six months after her marriage, found her as thinand restlessly active as she had been on that date a year before. It wasat that time that she had the first intimation of a great change in herlife, and since the one or two obscure and futile revolts of hergirlhood, nothing had moved her to more rebellious unresignation thanthe fact that her life left her no time to take in the significance ofwhat was coming to her. 

"Oh, my dear! Isn't it too good!" said her mother, clasping her for amoment as they stood, after removing their wraps, in the dressing-roomof a common acquaintance. "Aren't you the lucky, lucky thing!"

"I don't know. I don't know a thing about it, " Lydia returnedunexpectedly, though her face had turned a deep rose, and she had smiledtremulously. "Ever since Dr. Melton told me it was probably so, I'vebeen trying to get a moment's time to think it over, but you--"

"It's something to _feel_, not to think about!" cried her mother. "Youdon't need time to feel. "

"But I'd like to think about everything!" cried Lydia, as they moveddown the stairs. "I get things wrong just feeling about them. But I'mnot quick to think, and I never have any time--they're always so manyother things to do and to think about--the dinner, getting Paul off intime in the morning, how badly the washwoman does up the table linen--"

"Oh, Lydia! Why will you be so contrary? Everybody says _laundress_now!"

"--And however Paul and I can pay back all the social debts we'veincurred this winter. Everybody's invited us. It makes me wild to thinkof how we owe everybody. "

"Oh, you can give two or three big receptions this spring and clearmillions off the list. And then a dinner party or two for the moreexclusives. You won't need to be out of things till June--with thefashion for loose-fitting evening gowns; you're so slender. And you'llbe out again long before Christmas. It's very fortunate having it comeat this time of year. "

Lydia looked rather dazed at this brisk and matter-of-fact disposing ofthe matter, and seemed about to make a comment, but the bell rang forcard-playing to begin and Mrs. Emery hurried to her table. 

Lydia had meant to ask her mother's sympathy about another matter thatfor the time was occupying her own thoughts, but there was no otheropportunity for further speech between them during the card party--Mrs. Emery devoting herself with her usual competent energy to playing a goodgame. She played much better bridge than did either of her daughters. She liked cards, liked to excel and always found easy to accomplish whatseemed to her worth doing. Marietta also felt that to avoid being"queer" and "different" one had to play a good hand, but, as she herselfconfessed, it made her "sick" to give up to it the necessary time andthought. As for Lydia, she got rid of her cards as fast as possible, asif with the deluded hope that when they were all played, she might findtime for something else. On the afternoon in question her game was moreunscientific than usual. Criticism was deterred from articulateexpression by the common feeling in regard to her, assiduously fosteredby Flora Burgess' continuous references to her in _Society Notes_ asthe coming social ruler of Endbury's smart set. There was as yet, to besure, no visible indication whatever of such a capacity on Lydia's part, but the printed word--particularly Miss Burgess' printed word--was notto be doubted. Madeleine Hollister, however (now soon to be MadeleineLowdor), was no respecter of personages, past or future. At theappearance of an especially unexpected and disappointing card from hersister-in-law's hand, she pounced upon her with: "Lydia, what _are_ youthinking about?"

"My washwoman's grandson, " burst out Lydia, laying down her cards with acareless negligence, so that everyone could see the contents of herhand. "Oh, Madeleine! I'm so worried about her, and I wish you'd--"

She got no further. Madeleine's shriek of good-natured laughter cut hershort like a blow in the face. The other ladies were laughing, too. 

"Oh, Lydia! You are the most original, unexpected piece in the world!"cried her sister-in-law. "You'll be the death of me!" She appealed tothe other players at their table: "Did you ever hear anything come outfunnier?"

To the players at the next tables, who were looking with vague, reflected smiles at this burst of merriment, she called: "Oh, it's tookilling! Lydia Hollister just played a trump on a trick her partner hadalready taken, and when I asked what in the world she was thinkingabout--meaning, of course--"

Lydia sat silent, looking at her useless cards during the rest of thenarration of her comic speech. She was reflecting rather sadly that shehad been very foolish to think, even in a thoughtless impulse, oftelling Madeleine the story she had so impetuously begun. After a timeit came to her, as a commentary of the little incident, that neithercould she get anything from Marietta in the matter. At the end of theparty, she and her mother walked together to the street-cars, but shestill said nothing of what was in her mind. She would not admit toherself that her mother would receive it as she felt sure Marietta andMadeleine would, but--she dared not risk putting her to the test. It wasa period in Lydia's life when she was constantly in fear of testsapplied to the people she loved and longed to admire. 

During the half-hour's noisy journey out to Bellevue--the unhackneyedname that had been selected for the new and fashionable suburb sheinhabited--she had eliminated from this crisis in her mind, one by one, all the people in her circle. Dr. Melton was out of town. Otherwise shewould have gone to him at once. Mrs. Sandworth without her brother was acipher with no figure before it. Her father?--she realized suddenly thatit was the first time she had ever thought of going to her father with aperplexity. No; she knew too little about his view of things. She hadnever talked with him of anything but the happenings of the day. FloraBurgess--devoted Flora? Lydia smiled ruefully as she thought of theattitude Flora Burgess would be sure to take. 

It finally came to the point where there was no one left but Paul; andPaul ought not to be worried with domestic questions lest his capacityfor business be impaired. She had a deep inculcated sense of thenecessity and duty of "doing her share, " as the phrase had gone in thevarious exhortations addressed to her before her marriage. The next fewyears would be critical ones in Paul's career, and the road must bestraight and clear before his feet--the road that led to Success. No onehad voiced a doubt that this road was not coincident with all otherdesirable ones; no one had suggested that the same years would becritical in other directions and would be certain to be terribly andirrevocably determinative of his future relation to his wife. 

Lydia, ardently and naïvely anxious to find something "worth doing, "therefore had settled on this one definite duty. She had wrestled in adetermined silence with the many incompetent and degenerate negresses, with the few impertinent Americans, with the drunken Irish and insolentSwedes, who had filed in and out of her kitchen ever since hermarriage. Suburban life was a new thing in Endbury, and "help" could seeno advantages in it. She had strained every nerve to make them appear toPaul, as well as to the rest of the world, the opposite of what theywere; and to do herself, furtively, when Paul was not there, those oftheir tasks they refused or neglected. Every effort was concentrated, asin her mother's and sister's households, on keeping a maid presentableto open the door and to wait on the table, rather than to perform theheavier parts of the daily round. Those Lydia could do herself, or shecould hire an unpresentable older scrubwoman to do them. She oftenthought that if she could but employ scrubwomen all the time, theproblem would be half solved. But the achievement of each day was, according to Endbury standards, to keep or get somebody into the kitchenwho could serve a course dinner, even if the mistress of the house wasobliged to prepare it. 

She had never dreamed of feeling herself aggrieved, or even surprised, by this curious reverse side to her outward brilliant life. All hermarried friends went through the same experience. Madeleine, it is true, announced that she was going to make Lowdor import two Japanese servantsa year, and dismiss them when they began to get American ideas; butMadeleine was quite openly marrying Lowdor for the sake of this andsimilar advantages. Lydia felt that her own problems were only the usuallot of her kind, and though she was nearly always sick at heart overthem, she did not feel justified in complaining--least of all to Paul. 

But this present trouble--this was not just a question of help. For thelast month they had been floating in the most unexpected lull of thedomestic whirlwind. The intelligence office had sent out Ellen--Ellen, the deft-handed cook, the silent, self-effacing, competent servant ofevery housekeeper's dreams. Her good luck seemed incredible. Ellen wasperfection, was middle-aged and settled, never went out in the evenings, kept her kitchen spotlessly clean, trained the rattle-headed secondgirls who came and went, to be good waitresses and made pastry thatmoved Paul, usually little preoccupied about his food provided there wasplenty of meat, to lyric raptures. The difference she made in Lydia'slife was inconceivable. It was as though some burdensome law of naturehad been miraculously suspended for her benefit. She gauged her pastdiscomfort by her present comfort. 

And yet--

From the first Lydia had had an uneasy feeling in the presence of hernew servant, a haunting impression when her back was turned to Ellenthat if she could turn quickly enough, she would see her cook with somesinister aspect quite other than the decent, respectful mask shepresented to her mistress. The second girl of the present was afresh-faced, lively young country lass, whom Ellen herself had secured, and whose rosy child's face had been at first innocence itself; but nowsometimes Lydia overheard them laughing together, a laughter which gaveher the oddest inward revulsion, and when she came into the kitchenquickly she often found them looking at books which were quickly whiskedout of sight. 

And then, a day or so before, old Mrs. O'Hern, her washwoman, had comedirectly to her with that revolting revelation of Ellen's influence onher grandson, little Patsy. At the recollection of the old woman's faceof embittered anguish, Lydia shuddered. Oh, if she could only tell Paul!He was so loving and caressing to her--perhaps he would not mind beingbothered this once--she did not know what to think of such things--shedid not know what to do, which way to turn. She was startled beyondmeasure at having real moral responsibility put on her. 

Perhaps Paul could think of something to do. 

He was waiting for her when she entered the house, having come in froman out-of-town trip on an earlier train than he had expected to catch. He dropped his newspaper and sprang up from his chair to put his armsabout her and gloat over her beauty. "You're getting prettier every dayof your life, Lydia, " he told her, ruffling her soft hair, and kissingher very energetically a great many times. "But pale! I must get somecolor into your cheeks, Melton says--how's this for a way?"

He seemed to Lydia very boyish and gay and vital. She caught at himeagerly--he had been away from home three days--and clung to him. "Oh, Paul! How much good it does me to have you here, close! You are _so_much nicer than a room of women playing the same game of cards theybegan last September!"

Paul shouted with laughter--his pleasant, hearty mirth. "I'm appreciatedat my full worth, " he cried. 

"Oh, how I loathe cards!" cried Lydia, taking off her hat. 

"It's better than the talk you'd get from most of the people there, Ibet, " conjectured Paul, taking up his newspaper again. "Cards are ablessing _that_ way, compared with conversation. "

"Oh, dear, I suppose so!" Lydia stopped a moment in the doorway. "Butdoesn't it seem a pity that you never see anybody but people who'd boreyou to death if you didn't stop their mouth with cards?"

"That's the way of the world, " remarked Paul comfortably, returning tothe news of the day. 

The little friendly chat gave Lydia courage for her plan of asking herhusband's advice about her perplexity, but, mindful of traditionalwisdom, she decided, as she thriftily changed her silk "party dress" fora house-gown of soft wool, that she would wait until the mollifyinginfluence of dinner had time to assert itself. She wondered fearfully, with a quick throb of her heart, how he would receive her confidence. When she called him to the table she looked searchingly into his strong, resolute, good-natured face, and then, dropping her eyes, with anindrawn breath, began her usual fruitless endeavors to learn from him alittle of what had occupied his day--his long, mysterious day, spent ina world of which he brought back but the scantiest tidings to her. 

As usual, to-night he shook his shoulders impatiently at herquestioning. "Oh, Lydia darling, don't talk shop! I'm sick and tired ofit after three days of nothing else. I want to leave all that behind mewhen I come home. That's what a home is for!"

Lydia did not openly dissent from this axiom, though she murmuredhelplessly: "I feel so awfully shut out. It is what you think about mostof the time, and I do not know enough about it even to imagine--"

Paul leaned across the table to lay an affectionate hand on his wife'sslim fingers. "Count your mercies, my dear. It's all grab, and snap, andcutting somebody's throat before he has a chance to cut yours. Itwouldn't please you if you did know anything about it--the businessworld. " He drew a long breath, and went on appreciatively with hiscutlet--Lydia had learned something about meats since the yearbefore--"You are a very good provider, little girl; do you know it?"

"Oh, I love to, " said Lydia. She added reflectively: "Wouldn't it benice if things were so I could do the cooking myself and not have tobother with these horrible creatures that are all you can get usually?"

Paul laughed at the fancy. "That's a high ambition for my wife, I mustsay!"

"We'd have better things to eat even than Ellen gives us, " said Lydiapensively. "If I had a little more time to put on it, I could dowonders, I'm sure of it. "

"I don't doubt that, " said her husband gallantly; "but did you ever knowanybody who _was_ her own cook?"

"Well, not except in between times, when they couldn't get anybodyelse, " confessed Lydia. "But lots of people I know who do go through themotions of keeping one would be better off without one. They can'tafford it, and--Oh, I wish we were poorer!"

Paul was highly amused by this flight of fancy. "But we're as poor aspoverty already, " he reminded her. 

"We're poor for buying hundred-dollar broadcloth tailor-made suits forme, and cut glass for the table, but we'd have plenty if I could wearready-made serge at--"

Paul laughed outright. "Haven't you ever noticed, my dear, that thepeople who wear ready-made serge are the ones who could reallycomfortably afford to wear calico wrappers? It goes right up and downthe scale that way. Everybody is trying to sing a note above what hecan. "

"I know it does--but does it _have_ to? Wouldn't it be better ifeverybody just--why doesn't somebody begin--"

"It's the law of progress, of upward growth, " pronounced Paul. 

Lydia was impressed by the pontifical sound of this, though she venturedfaintly: "Well, but does progress always mean broadcloth and cut glass?"

"_We_ have the wherewithal to cultivate our minds!" said Paul, laughingagain. "Weren't the complete works of the American essayists among ourwedding presents!" He referred to an old joke between them, at whichLydia laughed loyally, and the talk went on lightly until the meal wasover. 

As they walked away from the table together Lydia said to herself, "Now--now--" but Paul began to laugh as he told an incident ofMadeleine's light-hearted, high-handed tyranny over her elderly fiancé, and it seemed impossible for Lydia to bring out her story of mean andugly tragedy. 

As usual the evening was a lively one. Some acquaintances from the"younger married set" of Bellevue dropped in for a game of cards, Madeleine and "old Pete" Lowdor came out to talk over the plans fortheir new handsome house at the end of the street and at Paul'ssuggestion Lydia hastily got together a chafing-dish supper for theimpromptu party which prolonged itself with much laughter and manyfriendly wranglings over trumps and "post-mortems" until after midnight. Paul was in the highest of gay spirits as he stood with his pretty wifeon the porch, calling good-nights to his guests disappearing down thestarlit driveway. He inhaled the odor of success sweet and strong in hisnostrils. 

As they looked back into the house, they saw the faithful Ellen clearingaway the soiled dishes, her large, white, disease-scarred faceimpassive over her immaculate and correct maid's dress. 

"Isn't she a treasure!" cried the master of the house. "To sit up tothis hour!" He started, "What's that?"

From the shadow of the house a slim lad's figure shambled out into thedriveway. As he passed the porch where Paul stood, one strong armprotectingly about Lydia, he looked up and the light from the open doorstruck full on a white, purposeless, vacant smile. The upward glancelost for him the uncertain balance of his wavering feet. He reeled, flung up his arms and pitched with drunken soddenness full length uponthe gravel, picking himself up clumsily with a sound of incoherent, weaklament. "Why, it's a drunken man--in _our driveway_!" cried Paul, withproprietary indignation. "Get out of here!" he yelled angrily at theintruder's retreating back. When he turned again to Lydia he saw thatone of her lightning-swift changes of mood had swept over her. He wasstartled at her pale face and burning, horrified eyes, and rememberingher condition with apprehension, picked her up bodily and carried her upthe stairs to their bedroom, soothing her with reassuring caresses. 

There, sitting on the edge of their bed, her loosened hair falling abouther white face, holding fast to her husband's hands, Lydia told him atlast; hesitating and stumbling because in her blank ignorance she knewno words even to hint at what she feared--she told him who Patsy was, the blue-eyed, fifteen-year-old boy, just over from Ireland, ignorant ofthe world as a child of five, easily led, easily shamed, by his fear ofappearing rustic, into any excess--and then she told him what the boy'sgrandmother had told her about Ellen. It was a milestone in theirmarried life, her turning to him more intimately than she would havedone to her mother, her breaking down the walls of her lifelongmaiden's reserve and ignorance. She finished with her face hidden in hisbreast. What should she do? What _could_ she do?

Paul took her into the closest embrace, kissed her shut eyes in apassion of regret that she should have learned the evil in the world, ofrelieved belittling of the story, Lydia's portentous beginning of whichhad quite startled him, and of indignation at "Mrs. O'Hern's foulmouth--for you can just be sure, darling Lydia, that it's all nothingbut rowings among the servants. Probably Ellen won't let Mrs. O'Herntake her usual weekly perquisite of sugar and tea. Servants are alwaysquarreling and the only way to do is to keep out of their lies abouteach other and let them fight it out themselves. You never can have anyidea of who's telling the truth if you butt in and try to straighten it, and the Lord knows that Ellen's too good a cook and too much needed inthis family until the new member arrives safely, to hurt her feelingswith investigating any of Mrs. O'Hern's yarns. Just you refuse to listento servants' gossip. If you'd been a little less of a darling, inexperienced school-girl, you'd have cut off such talk at the firstwords. Just you take my word for it, you dear, you sweetheart, you bestof--" he ran on into ardent endearments, forgetting the story himself, blinding and dazzling Lydia with the excitement which always swept heraway in those moments when Paul was her passionate, youthful lover. 

She tried to revert to the question once or twice later, but now Paulalternated between shaming her laughingly for her gullibility and makingfun of her "countrified" interest in the affairs of her servants. "But, Paul, Mrs. O'Hern says that Patsy doesn't _want_ to drink and--and go tothose awful houses--his father died of it--only Ellen makes him, by--"

Paul tried to close the discussion with a little impatience at herattempt to press the matter. "Every Irish boy drinks more or less, youlittle goose. That's nothing! Of course it's too bad to have you _see_ adrunken man, but it's nothing so tragic. If he didn't drink here, hewould somewhere else. The only thing we have to complain about that Ican see, is having the cook's followers drunk--but Ellen's such amiracle of competence we must overlook that. As for the rest of Mrs. O'Hern's dirty stories, they're spite work evidently. " As Lydia lookedup at him, her face still anxious and drawn, he ended finally, "Goodgracious, Lydia, don't you suppose I know--that my experience of theworld has taught me more about human nature than you know? You act to meas though you trusted your washwoman's view of things more than yourhusband's. And now what you want to do, anyhow, is to get some rest. Youhop into bed, little rabbit, and go to sleep. Don't wait for me; I'vegot a lot of figuring to do. "

When he went to bed, a couple of hours later, Lydia was lying quietlywith closed eyes, and he did not disturb her; but afterward he woke outof a sound sleep and sat up with a sense that something was wrong. Helistened. There was not a sound in the room or in the house. ApparentlyLydia was not wakened by his startled movement. She lay in a profoundimmobility. 

But something about her very motionlessness struck a chill to his heart. Women in her condition sometimes had seizures in the night, he hadheard. With a shaking hand, he struck a match and leaned over her. Hegave a loud, shocked exclamation to see that her eyes were open, steadyand fixed, like wide, dark pools. He threw the match away, and took herin his arms with a fond murmur of endearments. "Why, poor little girl!Do you lie awake and worry about what's to come?"

Lydia drew a painful breath. "Yes, " she said; "I worry a great dealabout what's to come. "

He kissed her gently, ardently, gently again. "You mustn't do that, darling! You're all right! Melton said there wasn't one chance in athousand of anything but just the most temporary illness, without anycomplications. It won't be so bad--it'll be soon over, and think what itmeans to us--dearest--dearest--dearest!"

Lydia lay quiet in his arms. She had been still so long that he thoughther asleep, when she said, in a whisper: "I hope it won't be a girl!"

CHAPTER XIX

LYDIA'S NEW MOTTO

Lydia's two or three big receptions, of which her mother had spoken withso casual a confidence, came off, while not exactly with nonchalantease, still, on the whole, creditably. It is true that Dr. Melton hadstormed at Lydia one sunny day in spring, finding her bent over herdesk, addressing invitations. 

"It's April, child!" he cried, "April! The crocuses are out and theviolets are almost here--and, what is more important, your day of trialgets closer with every tick of the clock. Come outdoors and take a walkwith me. "

"Oh, I can't!" Lydia was aghast at the idea, looking at a mountain ofenvelopes before her. 

"Here! I'll help you finish those, and then we'll--"

"No, no, _no_!" In Lydia's negation was a touch of the irritation thatwas often during these days in her attitude toward her godfather. "Ican't! Please don't tease me to! The curtains to the spare room have tobe put up, and the bed draperies somehow fixed. A stray dog got in therewhen he was wet and muddy and went to sleep on my best lace bedspread. "

Dr. Melton had not practiced for years among Endbury ladies withouthaving some knowledge of them and a corresponding readiness of mind inmeeting the difficulties they declared insurmountable. "I'll buy you awhite marseilles bedspread on our way back from the walk, " he offeredgravely. 

"Oh, I've got plenty of plain white ones, " she admitted incautiously, "but they don't go with the scheme of the room--and the firstreception's only two days off. "

Dr. Melton fixed her with an ironical and melancholy smile: "Now, Lydia, I did think you had it in you to realize that your health and thestrength of your child are worth more than--"

Lydia sprang up and confronted him with an apparent anger of face andaccent that was contradicted by her trembling chin and suffused eyes. "Oh, go away!" she commanded him, shaking her head and motioning himoff. "Don't talk so to me! I can't help it--what I do! Everything's apart of the whole system, and I'm in that up to my neck--you know I am. If that's right, why, everything's all right, just the way everybodythinks it is. And if it's wrong--" She caught her breath, and turnedback to her desk. "If it's wrong, what good would be done by littledribbling compromises of an occasional walk. " She sat down wearily, andleaned her head on her hand. "I just wish you wouldn't keep me sostirred up--when I'm trying so _hard_ to settle down!"

Dr. Melton seemed to divine perfectly the significance of thisincoherent outbreak. He thrust out his lips in his old grimace thatdenoted emotion, and observed the speaker in a frowning silence. Whenshe finished, he nodded: "You are right, Lydia, I do no good. " Hetwirled his hat about between his fingers, looking absently into thecrown, and added, "But you must forgive me, I love you very dearly. "

Lydia ran over to him, conscience-stricken. He took her embrace andremorseful kiss quietly. "Don't be sorry, Lydia dear. You have justshown me, as in a flash of lightning, how much more powerful a grasp onreality you have than I. "

Lydia recoiled from him with an outcry of exasperation. "I! Why, I'malmost an idiot! I haven't a grasp on anything! I can't see an inchbefore my nose. I'm in a perfect nightmare of perplexity all the timebecause I can't make out what I'm driving at--or ought to--"

She went on more quietly, with a reasoning air: "Only look here, Godfather, it came over me the other night, when I couldn't sleep, thatperhaps what's the trouble with me is that I'm _lazy_! I believe that'sit! I don't want to work the way Marietta does, and Mother does, andeven Madeleine does over her dresses and parties and things. It must beI'm a shirk, and expect to have an easier time than most people. That_must_ be it. What else can it be?"

The doctor made no protest against this theory, taking himself off in asilence most unusual with him. Lydia did not notice this; nor did she inthe next two or three months remark that her godfather took quiteliterally and obeyed scrupulously her exhortation to leave her in peace. 

She was in the grasp of this new idea. It seemed to her that in phrasingit she had hit upon the explanation of her situation which she had beenso long seeking, and it was with a resolve to scourge this weakness outof her life that she now faced the future. 

She found a satisfaction in the sweeping manner in which this new maximcould be applied to all the hesitations that had confused her. All hermeditations heretofore had brought her nothing but uncertainty, but thisnew catchword of incessant activity drove her forward too resistlesslyto allow any reflections as to whether she were going in the rightdirection. She yielded herself absolutely to that ideal of conduct whichhad been urged upon her all her life, and she found, as so many othersfind, oblivion to the problems of the spirit in this resolute refusal torecognize the spirit. It was perhaps during these next months of herlife that she most nearly approximated the Endbury notion of what sheshould be. 

She had yielded to Paul on the subject of the cook not only because ofher timid distrust of her own inexperienced judgment but because of herintense reaction from the usual Endbury motto of "Husbands, hands off!"She had wanted Paul to be interested in the details of the house as shehoped to know and be interested in what concerned him, and when heshowed his interest in a request she could not refuse it. She hoped thatshe had made a good beginning for the habit of taking counsel with eachother on all matters. But she thought and hoped and reflected verylittle during these days. She was enormously, incredibly busy, and onthe whole, she hoped, successfully so. The receptions, at least, wentoff very well, everybody said. 

Dr. Melton did not see his goddaughter again until he came with Mrs. Sandworth to the last of these events. She was looking singularlyhandsome at that time, her color high, her eyes very large and dark, almost black, so dilated were the pupils. With the nicety of observationof a man who has lived much among women, the doctor noticed that hercostume, while effective, was not adjusted with the exquisite feelingfor finish that always pervaded the toilets of her mother and sister. Lydia was trying with all her might to make herself over, but with thebest will in the world she could not attain the prayerful concentrationon the process of attiring herself, characteristic of the other women ofher family. 

"She forgot to put the barrette in her back hair, " murmured Mrs. Sandworth mournfully, as she and her brother emerged from the hand-shakeof the last of the ladies assisting in receiving, "and there are twohooks of her cuff unfastened, and her collar's crooked. But I don't darebreathe a word to her about it. Since that time before her marriage whenshe--"

"Yes, yes, yes, " her brother cut her short; "don't bring up that tragicepisode again. I'd succeeded in forgetting it. "

"You can call it tragic if you like, " commented Mrs. Sandworth, lookingabout for an escape from the stranded isolation of guests who have justbeen passed along from the receiving line; "but what it was all aboutwas more than I ever could--" Her eyes fell again on Lydia, and she lostherself in a sweet passion of admiration and pride. "Oh, isn't she theloveliest thing that ever drew the breath of life! Was there everanybody else that could look so as though--as though they still had dewon them!"

She went on, with her bold inconsequence: "There is a queer streak inher. Sometimes I think she doesn't care--" She stopped to gaze at astriking costume just entering the room. 

"What doesn't she care about?" asked the doctor. 

Mrs. Sandworth was concentrating on sartorial details as much of hermind as was ever under control at one time, and, called upon for adevelopment of her theory, was even more vague than usual. "Oh, I don'tknow--about what everybody cares about. "

"She's likely to learn, if it's at all catching, " conjectured the doctorgrimly, looking around the large, handsome room. An impalpable effluviumwas in the air, composed of the scent of flowers, the odor of delicatefood, the sounds of a discreetly small orchestra behind palms in thehallway, the rustling of silks, and the pleasurable excitement of thecrowd of prosperous-looking women, pleasantly elated by the opportunityfor exhibiting their best toilets. 

"To think of its being our little Lydia who's the center of all this!"murmured Mrs. Sandworth, her loving eyes glistening with affectionatepride. "It really is a splendid scene, isn't it, Marius?"

"If they were all gagged, it might be. Lord! how they yell!"

"Oh, at a _reception_!" Mrs. Sandworth's accent denoted that the wordwas an explanation. "People have to, to make themselves heard. "

"And why should they be so eager to accomplish that?" inquired thedoctor. "Listen!"

Standing as they were, tightly pressed in between a number of differentgroups, their ears were assaulted by a disjointed mass of stentorianconversation that gave a singular illusion as if it all came from oneinconceivably voluble source, the individuality of the voices being lostin the screaming enunciation which, as Mrs. Sandworth had pointed out, was a prerequisite of self-expression under the circumstances. 

They heard: "--_For over a month and the sleeves were too see you againat Mrs. Elliott's I'm pouring there from four I've got to dismiss onewith little plum-colored bows all along five dollars a week and thewashing out, and still impossible! I was there myself all the time andthey neither of thirty-five cents a pound for the most ordinary fernsand red carnations was all they had, and we thought it rather skimpyunder the brought up in one big braid and caught down with at thePeterson's they were pink and white with_--"

"_Oh, no, Madeleine! that was at the Burlingame's_. " Mrs. Sandworth tooka running jump into the din and sank from her brother's sight, vociferating: "_The Petersons had them of old-gold, don't you remember, with little_--"

The doctor, worming his way desperately through the masses offemininity, and resisting all attempts to engage him in the vocal fray, emerged at length into the darkened hall where the air was, as he toldhimself in a frenzied flight of the imagination, less like a combinationof a menagerie and a perfume shop. Here, in a quiet corner, sat Lydia'sfather, alone. He held in one hand a large platter piled high withwafer-like sandwiches, which he was consuming at a Gargantuan rate, andas he ate he smiled to himself. 

"Well, Mr. Ogre, " said the doctor, sitting down beside him with a gaspof relief; "let a wave-worn mariner into your den, will you?"

Provided with an auditor, Judge Emery's smile broke into an open laugh. He waved the platter toward the uproar in the next rooms: "A boilerfactory ain't in it with woman, lovely woman, is it?" he put it to hisold friend. 

"Gracious powers! There's nothing to laugh at in that exhibition!" thedoctor reproved him, with an acrimonious savagery. "I don't know whichmakes me sicker; to stay in there and listen to them, or come out hereand find you thinking they're _funny_!"

"They _are_ funny!" insisted the Judge tranquilly. "I stood by the doorand listened to the scraps of talk I could catch, till I thought Ishould have a fit. I never heard anything funnier on the stage. "

"Look-y here, Nat, " the doctor stared up at him angrily, "they're notmonkeys in a zoo, to be looked at only on holidays and then laughed at!They're the other half of a whole that we're half of, and don't youforget it! Why in the world should you think it funny for them to dothis tomfool trick all winter and have nervous prostration all summer topay for it? You'd lock up a _man_ as a dangerous lunatic if he spent hislife so. What they're like, and what they do with their time andstrength concerns us enough sight more than what the tariff is, let metell you!"

"I admit that what your wife is like concerns you a whole lot!" TheJudge laughed good-naturedly in the face of the little old bachelor. "Don't commence jumping on the American woman now! I won't stand it!She's the noblest of her sex!"

"Do you know why I am bald?" said Dr. Melton, rubbing his hand over hisshining dome. 

"If I did, I wouldn't admit it, " the Judge put up a cautious guard, "because I foresee that whatever I say will be used as evidence againstme. "

"I've torn out all my hair in desperation at hearing such men as youclaim to admire and respect and wish to advance the American woman. Youdon't give enough thought to her--real thought--from one year's end toanother to know whether you think she has an immortal soul or not!"

"Oh, you can't get anywhere, trying to reason about those sort ofthings. You have to take souls for granted. Besides, I give her as faira deal in that respect as I give myself, " protested Lydia's fatherreasonably, smiling and eating. 

"There's something in _that_, now!" cried his interlocutor, with an oddCeltic lilt which sometimes invaded his speech; "but she _has_ animmortal soul, and I'm by no means sure that yours is still inside you. "

The Judge stood up, brushed the crumbs of his stolen feast from hiswell-fitting broadcloth, and smiled down indulgently at the unquietlittle doctor. "She's all right, Melton, the American woman, and you'rean unconscionably tiresome old fanatic. That's what _you_ are! Comealong and have a glass of punch with me. Lydia's cook has a genius forpunch--and for sandwiches!" he added reflectively, setting down theempty platter. 

Dr. Melton apparently was off on another tangent of excitability. "Didyou ever see her?" he demanded with a fiercely significant accent. 

The Judge made a humorous wry mouth. "Yes, I have; but what concern is acook's moral character to her employer any more than an engineer's tothe railroad--"

"Well, it mightn't hurt the railroad any if it took more cognizance ofits engineers' morals--" began the doctor dryly. 

The Judge cut him short with a great laugh. "Oh, Melton! Melton! Youbilious sophomore! Take a vacation from finding everything so damntragic. Take a drink on me. You're all right! Everybody's all right!"

The doctor nodded. "And the reception is the success of the season, " hesaid. 

CHAPTER XX

AN EVENING'S ENTERTAINMENT

The dinner parties, so Paul told Lydia one evening a few days later, would certainly be as successful and with but little more trouble. "Justthink of the dinners Ellen's been giving us for the last two months! Idon't believe there's another such cook in Ohio--within our purse, ofcourse. "

Lydia did not visibly respond to this enthusiasm. Indeed, she walkedaway from the last half of it, and leaned out of a window to look up atthe stars. When she came back to take up the tiny dress on which she wassewing, she said: "I don't think I can stand more than this one dinnerparty, Paul. I'm sorry, but I don't feel at all well, and this dreadfulnausea troubles me a good deal. "

"Well, you look lovelier than ever before in your life, " Paul reassuredher tenderly, and felt a moment's pique that her face did not entirelyclear at this all-important announcement. "Come, let's go over to theDerby's for a game of bridge, will you, Lydia?"

This conversation took place on a Tuesday late in May. The dinner partywas set for Thursday. On Wednesday morning, after Paul's usual earlydeparture, Lydia went to her writing desk to send a note to MadeleineHollister. Paul had intimated that she and Madeleine were seeing less ofeach other than he had expected from their girlhood acquaintance, andLydia, in her anxiety to induce Paul to talk over with her and plan withher the growth of their home life, was eager to adopt every casualsuggestion he threw out. She began, therefore, a cordial invitation toMadeleine to spend several days with them. She would try again to bemore intimate with her husband's sister. 

She had not inherited her mother's housekeeping eye, and was neverextremely observant of details. Being more than usually preoccupied thismorning, she had no suspicion that someone else had been using theconveniences for writing on her desk until she turned over the sheet ofpaper on which she had begun her note, and saw with surprise that theother side was already covered with a coarse handwriting, unfamiliar toher. 

As she looked at this in the blankest astonishment, a phrase leaped outat her comprehension, like a serpent striking. And then another. Andanother. 

She tried to push back her chair to escape, but she was like a personparalyzed. 

With returning strength to move came an overwhelming wave of nausea. Shecrept up to her own room and lay motionless and soundless for hour afterhour, until presently it was noon, and the pleasant tinkling of gongsannounced that lunch was served. 

Lydia rose, and made her way down the stairs to the well-ordered table, set with the daintiest of perfectly prepared food, and stood, holding onto the back of a chair, while she rang the bell. The little second girlanswered it--one of the flitting, worthless, temporary occupants of thatposition. 

"Tell Ellen to come here, " said her mistress. 

At the appearance of the cook, Lydia's white face went a little whiter. "Did you use my writing desk last evening?" she asked. 

Ellen looked up, her large, square-jawed face like a mask through whichher eyes probed her mistress' expression. "Yes, Mrs. Hollister; I did, "she said in the admirable "servant's manner" she possessed toperfection. "I ought to ask your pardon for doing it without permission, but someone was wanting Mr. Hollister on the telephone, and I thoughtbest to sit within hearing of the bell until you and Mr. Hollistershould return, and as--"

"You left part of your letter to Patsy O'Hern, " said Lydia, and satdown suddenly, as though her strength were spent. 

The woman opposite her flushed a purplish red. There was a long silence. Lydia looked at her servant with a face before which Ellen finallylowered her eyes. 

"I am sure, Mrs. Hollister, if you don't think I'm worth the place, andif you think you can manage without me to-morrow night, I'll go thisminute, " she said coolly. 

Lydia did not remove her eyes from the other's flushed face. "You mustgo far away from Bellevue, " she said. "You must not take a placeanywhere near here. "

Ellen looked up quickly, and down again. The color slowly died out ofher face. After a sullen silence, "Yes, " she said. 

"That is all, " said Lydia. 

 * * * * *

Paul found his wife that evening still very white. She explained Ellen'sdisappearance with a dry brevity. "That we should have continued to givethat--that awful--to give her opportunity to work upon a boy of--" sheended brokenly. "Suppose he had been my brother!"

Paul was aghast. "But, my _dear_! To-morrow is the night of the dinner!Couldn't you have put off a few days this sudden fit of--"

Lydia broke from her white stillness with a wild outcry. She flungherself on her husband, pressing her hands on his mouth and crying outfiercely: "No, no, Paul! Not that! I can't bear to have you say that! Ihoped--I hoped you wouldn't think of--"

Paul was fresh from an interview with Dr. Melton, and in his ears ranginnumerable cautions against excitement or violent emotions. With hisusual competent grasp on the essentials of a situation that he could notunderstand at all, he put aside for the time his exasperatedapprehensions about the next day's event, and picking Lydia up bodily hecarried her to a couch, closing her lips with gentle hands and soothingher with caresses, like a frightened child. 

"Oh, you are good to me!" she murmured finally, quieted. "I must trynot to get so excited. But, Paul--I _can't_ tell you--about--about thatletter--and later, when I saw Ellen, it was as though we fought hand tohand for Patsy, though she never--"

"There, there, dearest! Don't talk about it--just rest. You've workedyourself into a perfect fever. " If there was latent in the indulgentaccent of this speech the coda, "All about nothing, " it escaped Lydia'sear. She only knew that the long nightmare of her lonely, horrified daywas over. She clung to her husband, and thanked heaven for his pure, clean manliness. 

But in a vastly different way the next day was almost as much of anightmare. Lydia's father and mother were temporarily out of town andtheir at least fairly satisfactory cook was enjoying her vacation at anundiscoverable address. Lydia was cut off from asking her sister to cometo her aid by the fact that Paul had prevailed upon her to omit Mariettaand her husband from her guests. "If you won't give but one, we've just_got_ to invite the important ones, " he had said. "Your sister can takedinner with us any day, and you know her husband _isn't_ the most--"

Lydia had picked up in the school of necessity a fair knowledge ofcooking, for which she had discovered in herself quite a liking; but shehad been too constantly in social demand to have the leisure foradvancing far into culinary lore, and she now found herself dismayedbefore the elaborate menu that Ellen had planned, for which thematerials were gathered together. She was still shaken with the emotionsof the day before, and subject to sudden giddy, sick turns, which, although lasting but an instant, left her enormously fatigued. 

She went furiously at the task before her, beginning by simplifying thedinner as much as she dared and could with the materials at hand, andstruggling with the dishes she was obliged to retain. For yearsafterward, the sight of chicken salad affected her to acute nausea. Theinexperienced and careless little second girl lost her head in thecrisis, and had to be repeatedly calmed and assured that all that wouldbe asked of her would be to serve the dinner to the waiters for whomLydia had arranged hastily by telephone with Endbury's leading caterer. Ellen had planned to serve the meal with the help of a waitress friendor two, without other outside help; a feature of the occasion that hadmet with Paul's hearty approval. He told Lydia that those palpablyhired-for-the-occasion nigger waiters were very bad form, and belongedto a phase of Endbury's social gaucheries as outgrown now as charadeparties. But now, of course, nothing else was possible. 

In the intervals of cooking, Lydia left her makeshift help in thekitchen, to see that nothing burned, and in a frenzy of activity flew atsome of the manifold things to be done to prepare the house for thefestivity. She swept and wiped up herself the expansive floors of thetwo large parlors, set the rooms in order, dusted the innumerablewedding present knickknacks, cleaned the stairs, wiped free from dustthe carved balustrades, ordered the bedrooms that were to serve asdressing rooms in the evening, answered the 'phone a thousand times, arranged flowers in the vases, received a reportorial call from MissBurgess, gave cut glass and china its final polish, laid out Paul'sevening clothes and arranged her own toilet ready--it was five o'clock!There were innumerable other tasks to accomplish, but she dared nolonger put off setting the table. 

It was to be a large dinner--large, that is, for Endbury--of twentycovers, and Lydia had never prepared a table for so many guests. Thenumber of objects necessary for the conventional setting of a dinnertable appalled her. She was so tired, and her attention was so fixed onthe complicated processes going on uncertainly in the kitchen, that herbrain reeled over the vast quantity of knives and forks and plates andglasses needed to convey food to twenty mouths on a festal occasion. They persistently eluded her attempts to marshal them into order. Shediscovered that she had put forks for the soup--that in someinexplicable way at the plate destined for an important guest there wasa large kitchen spoon of iron--a wild sort of whimsical humor rose inher from the ferment of utter fatigue and anxiety. When Paul came in, looking very grave, she told him with a wavering laugh, "If I tried ashard for ten minutes to go to Heaven as I've tried all day to have thisdinner right, I'd certainly have a front seat in the angel choir. Ifanybody here to-night is not satisfied, it'll be because he's harder toplease than St. Peter himself. "

"My Aunt Alexandra will be here, " said Paul, the humorous side of herspeech escaping him. 

Lydia set down a tray of glasses, and broke into open, shaking, hysterical laughter. Paul surveyed her grimly. Her excitement hadflushed her cheeks and darkened her eyes, and her sudden, apparentlylight-hearted, mirth put the finishing touch to a picture that couldseem to her husband nothing but a care-free, not to say childish, attitude toward a situation of grave concern to him and his prospectsand ambitions in the world. His inborn and highly cultivated regard forcompetence and success in any enterprise undertaken, drowned out, as wasby no means infrequent with him, any judicial inquiry into the innateimportance of the enterprise. He had an instant of bitter impatiencewith Lydia. He felt that he had a right to hold her to account for theoutcome of events. If she were well enough to have rosy cheeks and tolaugh at nothing, she was well enough to have satisfactory resultsexpected from her efforts. 

"I hope very much that everything will go well, " he said curtly, turningaway. "Our first dinner party means a good deal. "

But everything did not go well. Indeed, it is scarcely too much to saythat nothing went well. From the over-peppered soup (Lydia had forgottento caution her rattle-brained assistant that she had already seasonedthe bouillon) to the salad which, although excellent, gave out frankly, beyond any possibility of disguise, while five people were stillunserved, the meal was a long procession of mishaps. Paul took upsorrily his wife's rather hysterical note of self-mockery, and laughedand joked over the varied eccentricities of the pretentious menu. Butthere was no laughter in his heart. 

Never before, in all his life, from babyhood up, had he been forced toknow the acrid taste of failure, and the dose was not sweetened by hisintense consciousness that he was not in any way responsible. No suchfiasco had ever resulted from anything he _had_ been responsible for, hethought fiercely to himself, leaning forward smilingly to talk to thepresident of the street-railway company, who, having nothing in theshape of silverware left before his place but a knife and spoon, waseating his salad with the latter implement. "Lydia has no right to actso, " he thought. 

The hostess gave the effect of flushed, bright-eyed animation usual withher on exciting occasions. 

"Your wife is a beauty, " said the street-railway magnate, looking downthe disorganized table toward her. 

Paul received this assurance with the proper enthusiastic assent, butsomething else gleamed hotly in his face as he looked at her. "I have_some_ rights, " thought the young husband. "Lydia owes me something!" Henever before had been moved to pity for himself. 

Lydia seemed to herself to be in an endless bad dream. The exhaustingefforts of the day had reduced her to a sort of coma of fatigue throughwhich she felt but dully the successive stabs of the ill-served, unsuccessful dinner. At times, the table, the guests, the room itself, wavered before her, and she clutched at her chair to keep her balance. She did not know that she was laughing and talking gaily and eatingnothing. She was only conscious of an intense longing for the end ofthings, and darkness and quiet. 

After the meal the company moved into the double parlor. The plan hadbeen to serve coffee there, but as people stood about waiting and thisdid not appear, Paul drew Lydia to one side to ask her about it. Shelooked at him with bright, blank eyes, and spoke in an expressionlessvoice: "The grocery boy forgot to deliver the coffee, " she said. "Thereisn't any, I remember now. "

He turned away silently, and the later part of the entertainment began. 

There was to be music, one of the guests being Endbury's favoriteamateur soprano, another a pianist much thought of. The singer took herplace by the piano, assuming carefully the correct position. Lydiawatched her balance on the balls of her feet, lean forward a little, throw up her chest and draw in her abdomen. As the preliminary chords ofthe accompaniment sounded, she was almost visibly concentrating herthoughts on the tension of her vocal chords, on the position of the softpalate and the resonance of the nasal cavities. The thoughts of herauditors followed her own. It came to Lydia some time after theperformance was over that the words of the song told of love and lifeand tragic betrayal. 

A near-by guest leaned to her and said, during the hand-clapping: "Icouldn't make out what it was all about--never can understand asong--but, say! can't she put it all over the soprano that sings in theFirst Methodist. "

His hostess gave the speaker a rather disconcerting stare, hardlyexplained, he thought, by the enigmatical statement that came after it:"Why, that is how we are living, all of us!"

The pianist was an old German, considered eccentric by Endbury. He had asocial position on account of his son, a prosperous German-Americanmanufacturer of buggies, and was invited because of his readiness toplay on any occasion. The old man looked about him at the company with afatherly smile, and, sitting down to his instrument, waited pointedlyuntil all the cheerful hum of conversation had died away. The room wasprofoundly silent as he brought his hands down on the keys in astartling, thrilling chord. Lydia's heart began to beat fast. She felt achill run among the roots of her hair. She was so moved she could havewept aloud, and yet, almost at once, as the musician passed on to therich elaboration of his theme, she lost herself in a gropingbewilderment. She had heard so little music! Her straining attentionmocked her with its futility. 

She and Paul had been married for eight months, but they had found notime for the serious study of music from which she had hoped so much. When Paul was at home for an evening he was too tired and worn foranything very deep, he said, and preferred to anything else the lighterpieces of Nevin. She now gave ear despairingly to the mighty utteranceof a master, catching only now and then a tantalizing glimpse of what itmight mean to her. At times, there emerged from the glorious tumult ofsound some grave, earnest chord, some quick, piercing melody, someexquisite sudden cadence, which reached her heart intelligibly; butthrough most of it she felt herself to be listening with heartsickyearning to a lovely message in an unknown tongue. Her feeling ofdesolate exile from a realm of beauty she longed to enter, wasintensified, as was natural in so sensitive a nature, by the strangepower of music to heighten in its listeners whatever is, for the time, their predominant emotion. She felt like crying out, like beating herhands against the prison bars suddenly revealed to her. She was almostintolerably affected before the end of the selection. 

"That's an awfully long piece for anybody to learn by heart!" commentedher neighbor admiringly, as the old pianist finished, and stood upwiping his forehead. "Say, Mr. Burkhardt, what's the name of thatselection?" he went on, leaning forward. 

The old German turned toward him, and answered gravely: "That is thefeerst mofement of Beethoven's Opus Von Hundred and Elefen. "

"Oh, it is, is it?" said Lydia's guest, with a facetious intonation. "All of that?"

After that the soprano sang again, someone else sang a humorous negrosong, there was more piano music, rendered by the prosperous son of theold pianist, who played dashingly some bright comic-opera airs. Thefurniture was pushed back and a few dancers whirled over the costly, hardwood waxed floors, which Lydia had cleaned that morning. She feltvaguely that everyone was being most kind and that her good-naturedguests were trying to make up for the failure of the dinner by unusualefforts to have the evening pass off well. She was very grateful forthis humane disposition of theirs. It was the bright spot of theexperience. 

But Paul, who also saw the kindly efforts of his guests, felt that thiswas the last intolerable dagger-thrust. Their amused compassionsuffocated him. He wanted people to envy him, not pity him, he thoughtin mortified chagrin. 

After an eternity, the hour of departure arrived. As the door shut outthe last of the smiling, lying guests, the host and hostess turned toface each other. 

Paul spoke first, in an even, restrained tone: "You would better go tobed, Lydia; you must be very tired. "

With this, he turned away to shut up the house. He had determined topreserve at all costs the appearance of the indulgent, non-critical, over-patient husband that he intensely felt himself to be. No force, hethought grimly, shutting his jaws hard, should drag from him a word ofhis real sentiments. Fanned by the wind of this virtuous resolution, hissentiments grew hotter and hotter as he walked about, locking doors andwindows, and reviewing bitterly the events of the evening. If he was torestrain himself from saying anything, he would at least allow himselfthe privilege of feeling all that was possible to a man so deeplyinjured. 

Lydia sat quietly waiting for him to finish, her face in her hands, conscious of nothing but fatigue, in her ears a wild echo of theinexplicable, haunting Beethoven chords. 

Suddenly she started and raised her head, her face transfigured. Hereyes shone, a smile was on her lips like that of someone who hears fromafar the sound of a beloved voice. She made a gesture of yearning towardher husband. "Oh, Paul--Paul!" she cried to him softly, in a tremulousvoice of wonder. 

He turned, the light for the first time on his black, loveless face. "What is it?" he enunciated distinctly, looking at her hard. 

Before his eyes Lydia shrank back. She put up her hands instinctively tohide her face from him. Finally, "Nothing--nothing--" she murmured. 

Without comment, Paul went back to his conscientious round of the house. 

Lydia had felt for the first time the quickening to life of her child. And during all that day, until then, she had forgotten that she was toknow motherhood. 

CHAPTER XXI

AN ELEMENT OF SOLIDITY

Lydia dated the estrangement from Marietta, which grew so rapidly duringthe next year, from the conversation on the day after the dinner party. She was cruelly wounded by her sister's attack on her, but she couldnever remember the scene without one of her involuntary laughs sodisconcerting to Paul, who only laughed when he felt gay, certainly atnothing which affected him seriously. But Lydia's sense of humor was sotickled at the grotesque contrast between Marietta's injured conceptionof the brilliant social event from which she had been excluded and theleaden fiasco which it had really been, that even at the time, in themidst of denying hotly her sister's charges of snobbishness and socialambition, she was unable to keep back a shaky laugh or two as she criedout: "Oh, Etta! If you could know how things went, you'd be too thankfulto have escaped it. It was awful beyond words!"

Marietta answered her by handing her with a grim silence a copy of thatmorning's paper, open at _Society Notes_. Loyal Flora Burgess hadlavished on "Miss Lydia's" first dinner party her entire vocabulary ofdeferential, not to say reverential, encomiums. The "function hadinaugurated a new era of cosmopolitan amplitude of social life inEndbury, " was the ending of the lengthy paragraph that described thetable decorations, the menu, the costume of the hostess, the names ofthe music-makers afterward. 

Lydia burst into a hysterical laugh. "Flora Burgess is too killing!" shecried. "She was here in the afternoon to get details, and I just let herwander around and see what she could make out. I was too busy to pay anyattention to her--Oh, Etta! I was dead and buried with fatigue beforethe people even began to come. I can't even remember much about itexcept that every single thing was wrong. That about 'cosmopolitanamplitude--' Oh, isn't Flora too funny!--means having music afterdinner, I suppose. I don't know what else. "

"Of course, " said Marietta, rising to go, "it doesn't make anydifference what it was really like! Only the people that were there knowthat. The report in the paper--"

"Oh, Marietta, what a thing to say--that it's all pretense, everybit--and not--"

Marietta went on steadily and mordantly: "I don't know how you feelabout it, but _I_ shouldn't be very easy in my mind to have my onlysister's name not on the list of guests at my most exclusive socialfunction. "

Dr. Melton, who made Lydia a professional call that morning, found herwith reddened eyes, slowly washing and putting away innumerable dirtydishes. She told him that the second girl, apparently overcome by theevents of the day before, had disappeared during the night. Dr. Meltonthrust out his lips and said nothing, but he took off his coat, put onan apron, and, pushing his patient away from the dishpan, attacked ahuge pile of sticky plates. He worked rapidly and silently, with asurgeon's deftness. Lydia sat quiet for some time, looking at him. Finally, "I hadn't been crying because of dirty dishes, " she told him;"I'm not such a child as that. Marietta has been here. She said somethings pretty hard to bear about her not having been invited to thatawful dinner party. I didn't know what she was talking about a good dealof the time--it was all about what a snob and traitor to my family I wasgrowing to be. "

"You mustn't blame Marietta too much, " said the doctor, rinsing andbeginning to dry the plates with what seemed to Lydia's fatigued languorreally miraculous speed. "It's true that she watches your social advancewith the calm disinterestedness of a cat watching somebody pour creamout of a jug. She wants her saucerful. But look here. Did I ever tellyou about the man Montaigne speaks of who spent all his life to acquirethe skill necessary to throw a grain of millet through the eye of aneedle? Well, that man was proud of it, but poor Marietta's haunted bydoubts as to whether in her case it's been worth while. It makes hernaturally inclined to be snappy. "

He was so used to delighting in Lydia's understanding of his perverselyobscure figures of speech that he turned about, surprised to hear noappreciative comment. She was looking away with troubled eyes. 

"Paul will think I ought not to have let Marietta talk to me likethat--that I ought to have resented it. I never can remember to resentthings. "

The doctor began setting out polished water glasses on a tray. "It isthe glory of a man to pass by an offense, " he quoted. "Ah, don't yousuppose if we knew all about things we'd feel as relieved at not havingresented an injury as if we had held our hands from striking a blind manwho had inadvertently run against us?"

There was no response. It was the second time that one of his metaphors, far-fetched as he loved them, but usually intelligible to Lydia, hadmissed fire. He turned on her sharply. "What are you thinking about?" heasked. 

She raised her tragic eyes to his. "About the mashed potatoes lastnight--they didn't have a bit of salt in them--they were too nastyfor--"

"Oh, pshaw! It makes no difference whether your dinner party was asuccess or not! You know that as well as I do. A dinner party is a relicof the Dark Ages, anyhow--if not of the Stone Age! As a physician, Ishudder to see people sitting down to gorge themselves on the richestpossible food, all carefully rendered extra palatable in order that theymay put upon their bodies the burden of throwing off an enormous amountof superfluous food. A hundred years from now people will be as ashamedof us for our piggishness as we are of our eighteenth-century forbearsfor their wine-swilling to the detriment of their descendants. A dinnerparty of to-day bears no more relation to a rational gathering ofrational people for the purpose of rational social intercourse than--"

He had run on with his usual astonishing loquacity without drawingbreath, overwhelming Lydia with a fresh flood of words when she tried tobreak in; but she now sprang up and motioned him peremptorily tosilence. 

"Please, please, Godfather, don't! I asked you not to unsettleme--you're not kind to do it! You're not kind! I must think it'simportant and, and--the necessary thing to do. I _must_!" She put herhands over her eyes as she spoke. She was trying to shut out a vision ofPaul's embittered face of wrathful chagrin. "That's the trouble withme, " she went on. "Something in me makes it hard for me to think itimportant enough to give up everything else for it--and I--"

"Why '_must_' you?" asked the doctor bluntly, crumpling his dampdishcloth into a ball. 

Lydia looked at him and saw Paul so evidently that the doctor saw withher. "I must! I _must_!" she only repeated. 

Dr. Melton opened his mouth wide, closed it again with a snap, and threwthe tightly wadded ball in his hand passionately upon the floor with thegesture of an angry child. Lydia was standing now, looking down at thered-faced little man as he peered up at her after his silent outbreak. His attitude of fury so contrasted with the pacific white apron whichenveloped him, that she broke out into a laugh. Even as she laughed andturned away to answer a knock at the door, she was acutely thankful thatit was not with Paul that she had been set upon by that swiftly mobilechange of humor, that it was not at Paul that she had launched thatdisrespectful mirth. 

The person who knocked proved to be a very large, rosy-cheeked female, who might be a big, overgrown child or a preposterously immature womanfor all Lydia, looking at her in perplexity, could make out. She felt nothrill of premonition as this individual advanced into the kitchen, apair of immense red hands folded before her. 

"I'm Anastasia O'Hern, ma'am, " she announced with a thick accent ofCounty Clare and a self-confident, good-humored smile, "though mostlyI'm called 'Stashie--and I'm just over from th' old country to my AuntBridgie that washed for you till the rheumatism got her, and when shetold me about what you'd done for her and Patsy--how you'd sent off thatould divil where she couldn't torment Patsy no more, and him as glad ofit as Aunt Bridgie herself, just like she knew he would be, and what anawful time you do be havin' with gurrls, and a baby comin', I says tomyself and to Aunt Bridgie, 'There's the lady I'm goin' to worrk for ifshe'll lave me do ut, ' and Aunt Bridgie was readin' to me in the paperabout your gran' dinner party last night and I says to her and tomyself, 'There'll be a main lot of dishes to be washed th' day and I'dbetter step over and begin. '"

She pulled off the shawl that had covered her head of flaming hair, andsmiled broadly at her two interlocutors, who remained motionless, staring at her in an ecstasy of astonishment. 

As she looked into Lydia's pale face and reddened eyes, the smile diedaway. She clasped her big hands with a pitying gesture, and cried out aGaelic exclamation of compassion with a much-moved accent; then, "It'stime I was here, " she told herself. She wiped her eyes, passed the backof her hand over her nose with a sniff, picked up the dishcloth from thefloor, and advanced upon a pile of dirty silver. Her massive bulk shookthe floor. 

"I don't know no more about housework than Casey's pig, " she told themcheerfully, "but Aunt Bridgie says in America they don't none of thegurrls know nothing. They just hold their jobs because their ladies knowthey couldn't do no better to change, and maybe I can learn. I want tohelp. "

She emptied the silver into the dishwater with a splash, and set towork, turning her broad face to them to say familiarly over hershoulder to Lydia, "Now, just you go and lie down and send the littleould gentleman about his business. You need to be quiet--for the sake ofthe one that's coming; and don't you forget I'm here. I'm--_here_!"

Dr. Melton drew Lydia away silently, and not until they had put tworooms between them and the kitchen did they dare face each other. Withthat first interchange of looks came peals of laughter--Lydia's light, ringing laughter--to hear which the doctor offered up heartfeltthanksgivings. 

"That is your fate, Lydia, " he said finally, wiping his eyes. 

"Don't you just love her?" Lydia cried. "Isn't she the most _human_thing!"

"Do you remember Maeterlinck's theory that every soul summons--"

Lydia interrupted to say with a wry, humorous mouth, "You know I don'tknow anything. Don't ask me if I remember things. "

"Well, Maeterlinck has one of his fanciful theories that everybody callsto him from the unknown those elements that he most needs, which aremost in harmony with--"

"I caught a good solid element that time, " cried Lydia, laughing again. 

"She's embodied Loyalty, " said the doctor. "It breathes from everypore. "

"She's going to smash my cut glass and china something awful, " Lydiaforetold. 

Dr. Melton took his godchild by the shoulders and shook her. "Now, LydiaEmery, you listen to me! I don't often issue an absolute command, if Iam your physician, but I do now. You _let_ her smash your china and cutglass, and all the rest of your devastating trash she can lay her handson, rather than lose her--until after September, anyhow! It's a directreward of virtue for your having shipped the 'ould divil'!"

Lydia's face clouded. "I'm afraid Paul won't think her much of asubstitute for Ellen, " she murmured, "and we'll have to find a cooksomehow even if this one learns enough to be second girl. "

"Second girl!" ejaculated the doctor. "She's a human being with acapacity for loyalty. "

"She's evidently awfully incompetent--"

The doctor snorted. "Competence--I loathe the word! It's used now tocover all imaginable sins, as folks used to excuse all manner ofrascality in a good swordsman. We're beyond the frontier period now whencompetence was a matter of life and death. We ought to begin to havesome glimmering realization that there are other--"

"_Oh_, what a hand for talk!" said Lydia. 

The doctor rejoiced at her laughing impatience. He thought to himself, as he looked at her standing in the doorway and waving good-by to him, that she seemed a very different creature from the drooping andtearful--he interrupted his chain of thought as he boarded his car, toexclaim, "May she live long, that heavy-handed, vivifying Celt!"

CHAPTER XXII

THE VOICES IN THE WOOD

Lydia had not been mistaken in her premonition of Paul's attitude towardthe new maid. He found her quite unendurable, but the direful storiestold by their Bellevue acquaintances about the literal impossibility ofkeeping servants during the hot season induced him to postpone his wrathagainst the awkward, irreverent, too familiar Irishwoman until afterLydia should feel more herself. Paul's wrath lost nothing by keeping. 

To Lydia, on the contrary, Anastasia's loyalty and devotion wereinexpressibly comforting during the trying days of that summer. Herservant's loving heart radiated warmth and cheer throughout all herlife. One day, when her mother protested against 'Stashie's habit offamiliar conversation with the family (they had all soon adopted theIrish diminutive of her name), Lydia said: "I can not be too thankfulfor 'Stashie's love and kindness. "

Mrs. Emery was outraged. "Good gracious, Lydia! What things you do say. "

"Why not? Because she hasn't been to college? Neither have I. She's aswell educated as I am, and a great deal better woman. "

"Why, what are you talking about? She can't read!"

"I don't, " said Lydia. "That's worse. "

Her mother turned the conversation, thinking she would be glad when thisperiod of high-strung nerves and fancies should be over. She told Dr. Melton that it seemed to her that "Lydia took it very hard, " and shesupposed they couldn't expect her to be herself until after September. 

The doctor answered: "Oh, there's a great deal of nonsense about thatkind of talk. A normal woman--and, thank Heaven, Lydia's that to thelast degree--has the whole universe back of her. Lydia's always balancedon a hair trigger, it's true, but she _is_ balanced! And now all natureis rallying to her like an army with banners. "

"Ah, you never went through it yourself!" Mrs. Emery retreated to thesafe stronghold of matronhood. "You don't know! I had strange fancies, like Lydia's. Women always do. "

Another one of Lydia's fancies of that summer drove her to a strangedisregard of caste rules. It came through a sudden impulse of compassionone hot midsummer day when Miss Burgess hobbled up the driveway in thehope of gleaning some Bellevue society notes. 

"It's a terrible time of year, Miss Lydia, " she said, sinking into achair with a long, quavering sigh. "One drops from thirty and sometimesforty dollars a week to twenty or less; and it's so hard on one's feet, being on them in hot weather. I assure you mine ache like the toothache. And expenses are as high as in winter, or worse, when you have aninvalid to look out for. Out here in breezy Bellevue you've noconception how hot it is on Main Street. And Mother _feels_ the heat!"

All this she said, not complainingly, but in her usual twittering mannerof imparting information, as though it were an incident of afive-o'clock tea, but Lydia felt a pang of remorse for her usualthoughtless attitude of exasperated hilarity over Miss Burgess'peculiarities. She noticed that the kind, vacuous face was beginning tolook more than middle-aged, and that the scanty hair above it waswhitening rapidly. 

"Why, bring your mother out here for the day, why don't you, any time!"she said impulsively. "I can't have any social engagements, you know, the way I am, and Paul's away a good deal of the time, and 'Stashie andI can get you tea and eggs and toast, at least. I'd love to have her. Now, any morning that threatens heat, just you telephone you're bothcoming to spend the day. "

She felt quite strange at the thought that she had never seen themother of this devoted, unselfish, affectionate, lifelong acquaintance. 

But Miss Burgess, though moved almost to tears at Lydia's "kindthoughtfulness, " clung steadfastly to her standards. She had alwaysknown that she must not presume on her "exceptional opportunities foracquaintance with Endbury's social leaders, " she told Lydia, nor takeadvantage of any inadvertent kindness of theirs. Her mother would be thefirst one to blame her if she did; her mother knew the world very well. She went away, murmuring broken thanks and protestations of devotion. 

Lydia looked after her, disappointed. She had been quite stirred by thehope of giving some pleasure. There was little to break the long, lonely, monotonous expectancy of her life. And yet nothing surprisedthose who knew her better than her equable physical poise during thistime of trial and discomfort. Everyone had expected so high-strung acreature to be "half-wild with nerves. " But Lydia, although shecontinued to say occasional disconcerting things, seemed on the whole tobe gaining maturity and firmness of purpose. Paul was away a great dealthat summer and she had many long, solitary hours to pass--a singularcontrast to the feverish hurry of the winter "season. " Her old habit ofinvoluntary questioning scrutiny came back and it is possible that hermotto of "action at all costs" was passed under a closer mental reviewthan during the winter; but though she went frequently to see hergodfather and Mrs. Sandworth, she did not break her silence on whateverthoughts were occupying her mind, except in one brief, questioningexplosion. This was on the occasion of her last visit to Endbury beforeher confinement, a few days after her call from Flora Burgess. It hadoccurred to her that they might know something about the reporter'sfamily and she stopped in after her shopping to inquire. 

She found her aunt and her godfather sitting in the deeply shaded, oldgrape arbor in their back yard; Dr. Melton with a book, as always, Mrs. Sandworth ungirdled and expansive, tinkling an ice-filled cup and cryingout upon the weather. 

"Sit down, Lydia, for mercy's sake, and cool off. Yes; we know all abouther; she's a patient of Marius'. Have some lemonade! Isn't it fearful!And Marius keeps reading improving books! It makes me so much hotter!She's English, you know. "

Dr. Melton looked up from his book to remark, with his usual judicialmoderation, "I could strangle that old harridan with joy. She has beenone of the most pernicious influences the women of this town have everhad. "

"Flora Burgess' mother? Why, I never heard of her in the world until theother day. "

"You can't smell sewer gas, " said the doctor briefly. 

Mrs. Sandworth laughed. "Marius almost killed himself last winter topull her through pneumonia. He worked over her night and day. Oh, Mariusis a great deal better than he talks--strangle--!"

"I'm a fool, if that's what you mean, " said the doctor. 

"What is the matter with Flora Burgess' mother?" asked Lydia. 

"She's been a plague spot in this town for years--thatlower-middle-class old Briton, with her beastly ideas of caste--eversince she began sending out her daughter to preach her damnable gospelto defenseless Endbury homes. "

"Marius--my _dear_!" chided Mrs. Sandworth--"The Gospel--damnable! Youforget yourself!"

The doctor did not laugh. "They're the ones, " he went on, "who firststarted this idiotic idea of there being a social stigma attached toliving in any but just such parts of town. "

"You live in just such a part of town yourself, " said Lydia. 

"My good-for-nothing, pretentious, fashionable patients wouldn't come tome if I didn't. "

"Why do you have to have that kind of patients?"

Occasionally, of late, with her godfather, Lydia had displayed acertain uncompromising directness, rather out of character with herusual gentleness, which the doctor found very disconcerting. He wassilent now. 

Mrs. Sandworth's greater simplicity saw no difficulties in the way of ananswer. "Because, Lydia, he's one of the Kentucky Meltons, and because, as I said, he talks a great deal worse than he is. "

"Because I am a fool, " said the doctor again. This time he flushed as hespoke. 

"He doesn't like things common around him, " went on Mrs. Sandworth, "anymore than any gentleman does. And as for strangling old Mrs. Burgess, what good would that do? It can't be she who's influencing Endbury, because all it's trying to do is to be just like every other town inOhio. "

"In the Union!" amended Dr. Melton grimly. He subsided after this intoone of his fidgety, grimacing, finger-nail-gnawing reveries. He waswondering whether he dared tell Lydia of a talk he had had that morningwith her father. After a look at Lydia's flushed, tired face, he decidedthat he would better not; but as the two women fell into a discussion ofthe layette, the conversation, Mr. Emery's nervous voice, his sharp, impatient gestures, came back to him vividly. He looked graver andgraver, as he did after each visit to his old friend, and after eachfruitless exhortation to "go slow and rest more. " Mr. Emery was in themidst of a very important trial and, as he had very reasonably remindedhis physician, this was not a good time to relax his grasp on things. "Now I'm back in practice, in competition with younger men, I _can't_sag back! It's absurd to ask it of me. "

"You were a fool to go back into practice at your age. "

"A fool! I've doubled my income. "

"Yes; and your arteries--look here, suppose you were dead. The bar wouldget along without you, wouldn't it?"

"But I'm not dead, " the other truthfully opposed to this fallacioussupposition, and turned again to his papers. 

The doctor shut his medicine case with a spiteful snap. "Don't foolyourself that it's devotion to the common weal that drives you ahead!Don't make a pretty picture of yourself as working to the last in heroicservice of your fellow-man! You know, as I know, that if you dropped outthis minute, American jurisprudence would continue on its triumphant, misguided way quite as energetically as now. "

Mr. Emery looked up, dropping for once the mask of humorous tolerancewith which he was accustomed to hide any real preoccupation of his own. "Look here, Melton, I'm too nervous to stand much fooling these days. Ifyou want to know the reason why I'm going on, I'll tell you. I've gotto. I need the money. "

"Gracious powers! Did you get caught in that B. And R. Slump?"

The Judge smiled a little bitterly. "No; I haven't lost any money--for avery good reason. I never was ahead enough to have any to lose. Haven'tyou any idea of what the cost of living the way we do--"

Dr. Melton interrupted him, wild-eyed: "Why, Nat Emery! You haveyourself and your wife to feed and clothe and shelter--and you tell methat costs so much that you can't stop working when there's--"

"Oh, go away, Melton; you make me tired!" The Judge made a weary gestureof dismissal. "You're always talking like a child, or a preacher, abouthow things _might_ be! You know what an establishment like ours costs tokeep up, as well as I do. I'm in it--we've sort of gradually got indeeper and deeper, the way folks do--and it would take a thousand timesmore out of me to break loose than to go on. You're an old fuss, anyhow. I'm all right. Only for the Lord's sake leave me quiet now. "

The doctor shivered and put his hand over his eyes as he remembered how, to his physician's eye, the increasing ill health of his old friendgleamed lividly from his white face. 

Mrs. Sandworth brought him back to the present with an astonished "Goodgracious! how anybody can even _pretend_ to shiver on a day like this!"She added: "Look here, Marius, are you going to sit there and moon allthe afternoon? Here's Lydia going already. "

Seasoned to his eccentricities as she was, she was startled by hisanswer. "Julia, " he said solemnly, "did you ever consider how many kindsof murder aren't mentioned in the statute books?"

"Marius! What ideas! Remember Lydia!"

"Oh, I remember Lydia!" he said soberly. He went to lay a hand fondly onher shoulder. "Are you really going, my dear? I'll walk along to thewaiting-room with you. "

"Don't talk her to death!" cried Mrs. Sandworth after them. 

"I won't say a word, " he answered. 

It was a promise that he almost literally kept. He was in one of theexaggeratedly humble moods which alternated with his florid, talkative, cock-sure periods. 

Lydia, too, was quite thoughtful and subdued. They descended in acomplete silence the dusty street, blazing in the late afternoon sun, and passed into the inferno of a crowded city square in midsummer. Asthey stood before the waiting-room, Lydia asked suddenly: "Godfather, how can we, any of us, do any better?"

"God knows!" he said, with a gesture of impotence, and went his way. 

Lydia entered the waiting-room and went to ask a man in uniform when thenext car left for Bellevue. 

"There's been an accident in the power-house, lady, " he told her, "andthat line ain't runnin'. "

Lydia gave an exclamation of dismay. "But I must get back to Bellevueto-night!"

Paul was out of town, but she knew the agonies of anxiety 'Stashie wouldsuffer if she did not appear. "Oh, but I can telephone, " she remindedherself. 

"You kin get out there if you don't mind takin' the long way around, "the man explained with a friendly interest. "If you take the Garfieldline and change at Ironton to the Onteora branch, it'll bring you backon the other side of Bellevue, and Bellevue ain't so big but what itwon't be a very long walk to where you live. "

Lydia thanked him, touched, as she so often was, with the kind and, toher, welcome absence of impersonality in working people; and, assuringherself that she had time enough to eat something before her car'sdeparture, betook herself to a dairy lunch-room where she ate aconscientiously substantial supper. The heat of the day had left herlittle appetite; but to "take care of herself" now seemed at last one ofthe worth-while things to do which she had always had so eager alonging. 

At seven o'clock she took the trolley pointed out to her by her friend, the starter, who noticed and remembered her when she returned to thewaiting-room. The evening rush was over, and for some time she was theonly passenger. Then a very tired-looking, middle-aged man, anaccountant perhaps, in a shabby alpaca coat, boarded the car and sank atonce into a restless doze, his heat-paled face nodding about like abroken-necked doll's. Lydia herself felt heavy on her the death-likefatigue which the last weeks had brought to her, but she was not sleepy. She looked out intently at the flat, fertile, kindly country, graduallydarkening in the summer twilight. She was very fond of her homelandscape. She had not taken so considerable a journey on a trolley fora long time--perhaps not since the trip to the Mallory house-party. Thatwas a long time ago. 

At the edge of thick woods the car came to a sudden stop. The lightswent out. The conductor disappeared, twitched at the trolley, and wentaround for a consultation with the motorman, who had at oncephilosophically pulled off his worn glove and sat down on the step. "Power's off!" he called back casually into the car to the accountant, who had started up wildly, with the idea, apparently, that he had beencarried past his station. "We've got to wait till they turn her onagain. "

"How long'll that be?"

"Oh, I don't know. The whole system is on the bum to-day. Maybe half anhour; maybe more. Better take another nap. "

The accountant looked around the car, encountered Lydia's eyes, andsmiled sheepishly. After a time of silent waiting, enlivened only by themurmur of the conversation between the motorman and the conductoroutside, the gray-haired man suggested to Lydia that it would be coolerout under the trees, and if she would like to go he would be glad tohelp her. When he had her established on a grassy bank he forborefurther talk, and sat so still that, as the quiet moments slipped by, Lydia almost forgot him. 

It was singularly pleasant there, with the rustling blackness of thewood behind them, and before them the sweep of the open farming country, shimmering faintly in the light of the stars now beginning to show inthe great unbroken arch of the heavens. 

Here the talk of the two men on the steps of the car was distinctlyaudible, and Lydia, with much interest, pieced together a character andlife-history for each out of their desultory, friendly chat; butpresently they too fell silent, listening to the stir of the nightbreezes in the forest. Lydia leaned her head against a tree and closedher eyes. 

She never knew if it were from a doze, or but from a reverie that shewas aroused by a sudden thrilling sound back of her--the clear, deepvoice of a distant 'cello. Her heart began to beat faster, as it alwaysdid at the sound of music, and she sat up amazed, looking back into theintense blackness of the wood. And then, like a waking dream, came aflood of melody from what seemed to her an angel choir--fresh youngvoices, throbbing and proclaiming through the summer night some joyous, ever-ascending message. Lydia felt her pulses loud at her temples. Almost a faintness of pleasure came over her. There was somethingineffably sweet about the disembodied voices sending their triumphantchant up to the stars. 

The sound stopped as suddenly as it began. The motorman stirred anddrew a long breath. "They do fine, don't they?" he said. "My oldestgirl's learning to sing alto with them. "

"He ain't musical himself, is he?" asked the conductor. 

"No; _he_ ain't. It's some Dutch friends that does the playing. But hegot the whole thing up, and runs the children. It's a nawful good thingfor _them_, let me tell you. "

"What'd he do it for, I wonder, " queried the conductor idly. 

"Aw, I don't know. He's kind o' funny, anyhow. Said he wanted to teachyoung folks how to enjoy 'emselves without spending money. That kind oftalk hits their _folks_ in the right spot, you bet. He owns a slice ofthis farm, you know, and he's given some of the younger kids pieces ofground for gardens, and he's got up a night class in carpentering foryoung fellows that work in town all day. He's a crack-a-jack of acarpenter himself. "

"He'll run into the unions if he don't look out, " prophesied theconductor. 

"I guess likely, " assented the motorman. "They got after Dielman theother day, did you hear, because he--" The talk drifted to gossip of theworld of work-people. 

It stopped short as the 'cello again sent out its rich, vibrantintroduction to the peal of full-throated joy. There seemed to be noother sound in all the enchanted, starlit world than this fervidharmony. 

This time it did not stop, but went on and on, swelling and dying awayand bursting out again into new ecstasies. In one of the pauses, whennothing but the 'cello's chant came to her ears, Lydia suddenly heardmingling with it the sweet, faint voice of a little stream whisperingvaguely, near her. It sounded almost like rain on autumn leaves. Thelights in the car flared up, blinding white, but the two men on the stepdid not stir. The conductor sat with his arms folded on his knees, hishead on his arms. The motorman leaned against the end of the car. Whenthe music finally died, after one long, ringing, exultant shout, no onemoved for a time. 

Then the motorman stood up, drawing on his glove. 

"Quite a concert!" said the conductor, starting for the back platform. 

"They do _fine_!" repeated the motorman. 

The accountant came forward from the shadow and helped Lydia up thesteps. There were traces of tears on his tired face. 

 * * * * *

In September, when her mother leaned over her to say in a joyful, trembling voice, "Oh, Lydia, it's a girl, a darling little girl!" Lydiaopened her white lips to say, "She is Ariadne. "

"What did you say?" asked her mother. 

"We must see that she has the clue, " said Lydia faintly. 

Mrs. Emery tiptoed to the doctor. "Keep her very quiet, " she whispered;"she is a little out of her head. "

CHAPTER XXIII

FOR ARIADNE'S SAKE

Little Ariadne was six months old before Lydia could begin to make theslightest effort to resume the social routine of her life. This was notat all on account of ill health, for she had recovered her strengthrapidly and completely, and, like a good many normal women, had foundmaternity a solvent of various slight physical disorders of hergirlhood. She felt now a more assured physical poise than ever before, and could not attribute her disappearance from Endbury social life toweakness. The fact was that Dr. Melton had upheld her in her wish tonurse her baby herself, which limited her to very short absences fromthe house and to a very quiet life within doors. She also discoveredthat the servant problem was by no means simplified by the new member ofthe family. "Girls" had always been unwilling to come out to Bellevuebecause of the distance from their friends and followers, and they nowput forth another universally recognized obstacle in the phrase, "Inever work out where there is a baby. They make so much dirt. " AnastasiaO'Hern was there, to be sure--heavy-handed, warm-hearted 'Stashie, whotook the new little girl to her loyal spinster heart and wept tears ofjoy over her safe arrival; but 'Stashie had proved, as Paul predictedfrom the first time he saw her, incorrigibly rattle-headed andloose-ended. She had learned to prepare a number of simple, homelydishes, quite enough to supply the actual needs of the everydayhousehold, and what she cooked was unusually palatable. She had theCeltic feeling for savoriness. She had also managed, under Lydia'szealous tuition, to overcome the Celtic tolerance for dirt, and thanksto her square, powerful body, as strong as a ditch-digger's, she madelight work of keeping the house in a most gratifying state ofcleanliness. 

But there were gaps in her equipment that were not to be filled by anyamount of tuition. In the first place, as Paul said of her, she was asmuch like the traditional trim maid as a hippopotamus is like a gazelle. Furthermore, as Dr. Melton summed up the matter in answer to one ofPaul's outbreaks against her, she was utterly incapable of comprehendingthat satisfied vanity is the vital element in human life. For anythingthat pertained to the appearance of things, 'Stashie was deaf, dumb andblind. She would as soon as not put one of her savory stews on the tablein an earthen crock, and she never could be trusted to set the tableproperly. There were always some kitchen spoons among the silver, andthe dishes looked, as Paul said, "as though she had stood off and thrownthem at a bull's-eye in the middle of the table. " Moreover, she herselfcould not emancipate herself from the ideas of toilet gleaned in thelittle one-room cabin in County Clare. She was passionately devoted toLydia, and took with the humblest gratitude any hints about the care ofher person, but it was like trying to make a color-blind person into apainter! Anastasia could only love on her knees, and serve, andsympathize and cherish; she could not remember to comb her hair, or toput on a clean apron when she opened the door, even if it were MadameHollister herself who rang. She had once opened to that importantpersonage attired in a calico wrapper, a sweater, and a pair of rubberboots, having just come in from emptying the ashes--one of the heavytasks, outside her regular work, which she took upon her strong, willingself. "But I was clane, and I got her into the house in two minutes fromthe time she rang, the poor old soul!" she protested to Lydia, who, atPaul's instance, had taken her to task. 

Lydia explained, "But Mr. Hollister's aunt is a person who would ratherwait half an hour in the cold than see you without an apron. "

To which 'Stashie exclaimed, in awestruck wonder before the mysteries ofcreation, "Folks do be the beatin'est, don't they now, Mis' Hollister!"

"And you must not speak of Mr. Hollister's aunt as a 'poor old soul, '"explained Lydia, apprehensive of Paul's wrath if he ever chanced to hearsuch a characterization. 

"But she is that, " protested 'Stashie. "Anybody that's her age andhobbles around so crippled up with the rheumatism--my heart bleeds for'em. "

"She is very rich--" began Lydia, but after a moment's hesitation shehad not continued her lesson in social value. She often found that'Stashie's questions brought her to a standstill. 

There was something lacking in the Irishwoman's mental outfit, namely, the capacity even to conceive that ideal of impersonal self-effacement, which, as Paul said truthfully, is the everywhere accepted standard forservants. Her loquacity was a never-ending joke to Madeleine Lowder andher husband, who were exulting in a couple of deft, silent, expensiveJapanese "boys" and who, since Madeleine frankly expressed her horror atthe bother of having children, seemed likely to continue ignorant, except at comfortable second-hand, of harassing domestic difficulties. 

If Lydia had not been in such dire need of another pair of hands thanher own slender ones, or if the supply from Endbury intelligence officeshad been a whit less unreliable and uncertain, she would not have feltjustified in retaining the burly, uncouth Celt, in spite of her ownaffection, so intensely did Paul dislike her. As it was, she felt guiltyfor her presence and miserably responsible for her homeliness ofconduct. 'Stashie was a constant point of friction between husband andwife, and Lydia was trying with desperate ingenuity to avoid points offriction by some other method than the usual Endbury one of dividedinterests. Many times she lay awake at night, convinced that her dutywas to dismiss Anastasia; only to rise in the morning equally convincedthat things without her would be in the long run even harder and moredisagreeable for Paul than they were now. The upshot of the matter wasthat she herself was a very incompetent person, she was remorsefullysure of that; although her mother and Marietta and Paul's aunt all toldher that she need expect nothing during the first year of a baby's lifebut one wretched round of domestic confusion. 

Lydia did not find it so. She was immensely occupied, it is true, forthough Ariadne was a strong, healthy child, who spent most of her time, her grandmother complained, in sleeping, to Lydia's more intimatecontact with the situation there seemed to be more things to be done forthe baby, in addition to the usual cares of housekeeping, than couldpossibly be crowded into twenty-four hours. And yet she was happierduring those six months than ever before in her life; happier than shehad ever dreamed anyone could be. She stepped about incessantly from onetask to another and was very tired at night, but there was no nervousstrain on her, and she had no moments of blasting skepticism as to thevalue of her labors. 

Everything she did, even the most menial tasks connected with the baby, was dignified, to her mind, by its usefulness; and she so systematizedand organized her busy days that she was always ahead of her work. Paulwas obliged to alter his judgment of her as impractical andincapable--although of course the dearest and sweetest of littlewives--for nothing could have been more competent than the way shemanaged her baby and her simple housekeeping. Indeed, there came to theyoung husband's mind not infrequently, and always with a slight aroma ofbitterness, the conviction that Lydia was perfectly able to do whatevershe really wished to do and considered important; and that previousconditions must have been due to her unwillingness to set herselfseriously at the problems before her. It was a new theory about hiswife's character, which the intelligent young man laid by on a mentalshelf for future use after this period of intense domesticity should bepast. 

At present, he accepted thankfully his clean house and his savory food, was not too much put out by 'Stashie's eccentricities, since there wasno one but the immediate families to see them, and rejoiced with awhimsical tenderness in Lydia's passion of satisfaction with her baby. He saw so little of the droll, sleeping, eating little mite that hecould not as yet take it very seriously as his baby. But it was, on thewhole, a happy half-year for him too. He was much moved and pleased byLydia's joy. He had meant to make his wife happy. 

Lydia herself was transported by the mere physical intoxication of newmotherhood, a potion more exciting, so her much experienced physiciansaid, than any wine ever fermented. She hung over her sleeping baby, poring upon the exquisite fineness of the skin, upon the rosy littlemouth, still sucking comically at an imaginary meal, upon the dimpled, fragile hands, upon the peaceful relaxation of the body, till the verytrusting, appealing essence of babyhood flooded her senses like a strongdrug; and when the child was awake, and she could bathe the much creasedlittle body, and handle the soft arms, and drop passionate kisses on thesatin-smooth skin, and rub her cheek on the downy head, she foundherself sometimes trembling and dizzy with emotion. She felt constantlybuoyed up by a deep trust and belief in life which she had not knownbefore. The huge and steadying continuity of existence was revealed toher in those days. It was a revelation that was never to leave her. Sheoutgrew definitely the sense of the fragmentary futility of living whichhad always been, inarticulate, unvoiced, but intensely felt, the tormentof her earlier life. 

It grieved her generous heart and her aspiration to share all with herhusband that the exigences of his busy life deprived him of anyknowledge of this newly-opened well of sweet waters, that he hadnothing from his parenthood but an amused, half shame-faced pride inpoints about the baby which, he was informed, were creditable. 

At a faint hint of this feeling on Lydia's part, her sister-in-law brokeinto her good-natured laughter at Lydia's notions. "What can a man knowabout a baby?" she cried conclusively. 

"Why, I didn't know about one till Ariadne came. I learned on her. What's to hinder a man's doing the same thing?"

Madeleine was so much amused by this fantastic idea that she repeated itto Dr. Melton, who came in just then. 

"Don't it take _Lydia_!" she appealed to him. 

The doctor considered the lovely, fair-haired creature in silence for amoment before answering. Then, "Yes; of course you're right, " heassented. "It's a strictly feminine monopoly. It's as true that all menare incapable of understanding the significance of a baby in theuniverse and in their own lives, as it is true that all women lovebabies and desire them. " His tone was full of a heavy significance. Hecould never keep his temper with Paul's sister. 

Madeleine received this without a quiver. She neither blushed nor lookedin the least abashed, but there was an unnecessary firmness in her voiceas she answered, looking him steadily in the eye: "Exactly! That's justwhat I've been telling Lydia. " She often said that she was the onlywoman in Endbury who wasn't afraid of that impertinent little doctor. 

After Madeleine had gone away, Lydia looked at her godfather withshining eyes. "I am living! I am living!" she told him, holding up thebaby to him with a gesture infinitely significant; "and I like it aswell as I thought I should!"

"Most people do, " he informed her, "when they get a peck at it. Itgenerally takes something cataclysmic, too, to tear them loose fromtheir squirrel-cages--like babies, or getting converted. "

If he thought that early married life could also be classed among thesebeneficently uprooting agencies, he kept his thoughts to himself. Lydia's marriage had been eminently free from disagreeable shocks orsurprises, and amply deserved to be called successful in the usualreasonable and moderate application of that adjective to matrimony; butthere had been nothing in it, certainly, to destroy even temporarilyanyone's grasp on what are known as the realities of life. 

The doctor considered, and added to his last speech: "Getting convertedis surer. Babies grow up!"

Lydia felt that her godfather was right, and that babies gave one only ashort respite, when, toward spring, she observed in all the inhabitantsof her world repeated signs of uneasy dissatisfaction with her"submergence in domesticity, " as Mrs. Emery put it in a family council. Her father inquired mildly, one day in March, with the touchingly vagueinterest he took in his children's affairs, if it weren't about time shereturned a few calls and accepted some invitations, and began "to live_like_ folks again. " "Ariadne isn't the first baby in the world, " heconcluded. 

"She's the first one _I_ ever had, " Lydia reminded him, with thehumorous smile that was so like his own. 

"Well, you mustn't forget, as so many young mothers do, that you're amember of society and a wife, as well as a wet-nurse, " he said. 

Marietta had never resumed an easy or genial intercourse with theHollisters since the affair of the dinner party, but she came to call atnot infrequent intervals, and Paul's sister dropped in often, to "keepan eye on Lydia, " as she told her husband. She had an affection for hersister-in-law, in spite of an exasperated amusement over her liabilityto break out with new ideas at unexpected moments. Both these ladieswere loud in their exhortations to Lydia not to let maternity be in herlife the encumbering, unbeautifying, too lengthy episode it was to womenwith less force of character than their own. "You do get so _out_ ofthings, " Madeleine told her with her usual breathless italicizing, "ifyou stay away too long. You just never can catch up! There's abehind-the-timesy _smell_ about your clothes--honest, there is--if youlet them go too long. "

Marietta added her quota of experienced wisdom to the discussion. "Ifyou just hang over a baby all the time, you get morbid, and queer, anddifferent. "

Madeleine had laughed, and summed up the matter with a terse, "Worsethan that! You get left!"

Lydia's elder brother, George, the rich one, who lived in Cleveland andmanufactured rakes and hoes, wrote her one of his rare letters to thesame effect. Lydia thought it likely that he had been moved to thisunusual show of interest in her affairs by proddings from her mother andMarietta. If this surmise was correct, and if a similar request had beensent to Henry, the other member of the Emery family, the one who hadmarried the grocer's daughter, the appeal had a strikingly differenteffect. From Oregon came an impetuous, slangily-worded exhortation toLydia not to make a fool of herself and miss the best of life to live upto the tommyrot standard of old dry-as-dust Endbury. The Emerys heardbut seldom from this erring son, and Lydia, who had been but a childwhen he left home, had never before received a letter from him. He wrotefrom a fruit farm in Oregon, the description of which, on thegrandiloquent letter-head, gave an impression of ampleness andprosperity which was not contradicted by the full-blooded satisfactionin life which breathed from every line of the breezy, good-naturedletter. 

The incident stirred Lydia's imagination. It spoke of a widerhorizon--of a fresher air than that about her. She tried to remember theloud-talking, much-laughing, easy-going young man as she had seen himlast. They were too far apart in years to have had much companionship, but there had been between them an unspoken affection which had neverdied. People always said that George and Marietta were alike and Lydiaand Harry. To this Mrs. Emery always protested that Lydia wasn't in the_least_ like Henry, and she didn't know what people were talking about;but the remark gave a secret pleasure to Lydia. She, too, was very fondof laughing, and her brother's vein of light-hearted nonsense had been agreat delight to her. It was not present in any of the rest of thefamily, and certainly did not show itself in her at this period of herlife. 

During this time Paul's attention was concentrated on bringing about areallotment of American Electric territory in the Middle West, anarrangement that would add several busy cities to his district and makea decided difference in his salary and commissions. He worked early andlate in the Endbury office, and made many trips into all parts of thefield, to gather data conclusive of the value of his scheme. Lydia hadtried hard to get from him information enough to understand what it wasall about, but he put her off with vague, fatigued assurances that itwas too complicated for her to grasp, or for him to go over without hispapers; that it would take him too long to explain, and that, anyhow, she could be sure of one thing--it was all straight, clean business, designed entirely to give the public better service and more work fromeverybody all 'round. Lydia did not doubt this. It was always a greatsource of satisfaction to her to feel secure and unshaken trust in herfather's and her husband's business integrity, and she was sorry forMarietta, who could not, she feared, count among her spiritualpossessions any such faith in Ralph. It was, on the other hand, one ofher most unresigned regrets, that she was not allowed to share in theseideals for public service of her husband and father--these ideals sodistantly glimpsed by her, and perhaps not very consciously felt bythem. It was not that they refused to answer any one of her questions, but they were so little in the habit of articulating this phase of theiractivities that their tongues balked stubbornly before her ignorant andfumbling attempts to enter this inner chamber. 

"Oh, it's all right, Lydia! Just you trust me!" Paul would cry, with ahint of vexation in his voice, as if he felt that questions could meanonly suspicion. 

Lydia's tentative efforts to construct a bridge between her world andhis met constantly with this ill success. She had had so little trainingin bridge-building, she thought sadly. 

One evening that spring, such a futile attempt of hers was interruptedby the son of one of their neighbors, a lad of eighteen, who had justbeen given a subordinate position in his father's business. As hestrolled up to their veranda steps, Lydia looked up from the dress shewas enlarging for the rapidly growing baby and reflected thatastonishingly rapid growth is the law of all healthy youth. The tall boylooked almost ludicrous to her in his ultra-correct man's outfit, sovividly did she recall him, three or four years before, in shorttrousers and round-collared shirt-waist. His smooth, rosy face had stillthe downy bloom of adolescence. 

"Howd' do, Walter!" said Paul, glancing up from a pile of blue-printsover which he had been straining his eyes in the fading evening light. 

"Evening, " answered the boy, nodding and sitting down on the top stepwith one knee up. "D'you mind if I smoke, Mrs. Hollister?"

"Not at all, " she answered gravely, tickled by the elaboratecarelessness with which he handled his new pipe. 

"What you working on, Hollister?" he went on with the manner of one oldbusiness man to another. 

Lydia hid a smile. She found him delicious. She began to think how shecould make Dr. Melton laugh with her account of Walter the Man. 

"The lay-out of the new power-house--Elliott-Gridley works in Urbana, "answered Paul, in a straightforward, reasonable tone, a little absent. 

Lydia stopped smiling. It was a tone he had never used to answer anybusiness question she had ever put to him. "I'm figuring on theirgenerators, " he went on in explanation. 

"Big contract?" asked Walter. 

"Two thousand kilowatt turbo generator, " answered Paul. 

The other whistled. "Whew! I didn't know they had the cash!"

"They haven't, " said Paul briefly. 

"Oh, chattel-mortgage?" surmised the other. 

"Lease-contract, " Paul corrected. "That doesn't have to be recorded. "

"What's the matter with recording it?"

"Afraid of their credit. They don't want Dunn's sending all overcreation that they've put chattel-mortgages on their equipment, dothey?"

"No; sure! I see. " The boy grasped instantly, with a quick nod, theother's meaning. "Well, that's _one_ way of gettin' 'round it!" he addedadmiringly after an instant's pause. 

Lydia had laid down her work and was looking intently at her twocompanions. At this she gave a stifled exclamation which made the boyturn his head. "Say, Mrs. Hollister, aren't you looking kind of palethis evening?" he asked. "These first hot nights do take it out of aperson, don't they? Mr. Hollister ought to take you to Put-in-Bay for aholiday. Momma'd take care of the baby for you and welcome. She's crazyabout babies. " He was again the overgrown school-boy that Lydia knew. The conversation drifted to indifferent topics. Lydia did not take herusual share in it, and when their caller had gone Paul inquired if shereally were exhausted by the heat. 

"Oh, no, " she said; "you know I don't mind the heat. "

"You didn't say much when Walter was here, and I--"

"I was thinking, " Lydia broke in. "I was thinking that I couldn'tunderstand a word you and Walter were saying any more than if you weretalking Hebrew. I was thinking that that little boy knows more aboutyour business than I do. "

Paul did not attempt to deny this, but he laughed at her dramaticaccent. "Sure, he does! And about how to tie a four-in-hand, and what'sthe best stud to wear at the back of a collar, and where to buy socks. What's that to you?"

Lydia looked at him with quivering, silent lips. 

He answered, with a little heat: "Why, look-y here, Lydia, suppose Iwere a doctor. You wouldn't expect to know how many grains of morphineor what d'you call 'em I was going to use in--"

"But Dr. Melton _is_ a doctor, and I know lots about what he thinks ofas he lives day after day--there are other things besides technicaldetails and grains of morphine--other problems--human things--Why, forinstance, there's one question that torments him all the time--how muchit's right to humor people who aren't sick but think they are. He talksto me a great deal about such--"

Paul laughed, rising and gathering up his blue-prints. "Well, I can'tthink of any problem that torments me but the everlasting one of how tosell more generators and motors than my competitors. Come on indoors, Honey; I've got to have some light if I finish going over theseto-night. "

His accent was evidently intended to end the discussion, and Lydiaallowed it to do so, although the incident was one she could not put outof her mind. She watched Walter going back and forth to Endbury with ajealousy the absurdity of which she herself realized, and she listenedwith a painful intentness to the boy's talk during his occasional idlesojourns on their veranda steps. Yet she had been used to hearing Paultalk unintelligibly to the business associates whom, from time to time, he brought out to the house to dine and to talk business afterward. Somehow, she said to herself, it's being just _Walter_ seemed to bringit home to her. To have that boy--and yet she liked him, too, shethought. She looked sometimes into his fresh, innocently keen face witha yearning apprehension. Paul was amused at his precocious airs, and yetwas not without respect for his rapidly developing business capacity. Hesaid once, "Walter's a real nice boy. I shouldn't mind having a son likethat myself!"

The remark startled Lydia. If she were to have a son he _would_ be likethat, she realized. And he would grow up and marry some--she sprang upand caught Ariadne to her in a sudden fierce embrace. 

"You'll break your back lifting that heavy baby 'round so, " Paulremonstrated with justice. 

For all her aversion to the set forms of "society" as understood byEndbury, Lydia was fond of having people about her, "to try to getreally acquainted with them" she said, and during that summer theHollister veranda in the evening became a rendezvous for their Bellevueneighbors. Paul rather deplored the time wasted in this unprofitablevariety of informal social life which, in his phrase, "counted fornothing" but he was always glad to see Walter. "At the rate he's goingand the way he's taking hold, he'll be a valuable business friend in afew years, " he said prophetically to Lydia, and he assumed more and morethe airs of a comrade with the lad. 

One evening when Walter came lounging over to the veranda, Lydia wasbusy indoors, but later she stepped to the door in time to hear Paulsay, laughing: "Well, for all that, he's not so good as Wellman Phelps'stenographer. "

"How so?" asked the boy, alert for a pleasantry from his elder. 

"Why, Phelps carries this fellow 'round with him everywhere he goes, hashad him for years, and twice a week all he has to do is to say: 'Say, Fred; write my wife, will you?'"

His listener broke out into a peal of boyish laughter. "Pretty good!" heapplauded the joke. 

"It's a fact, " Paul went on. "Fred writes it and signs it and sends itoff, and Phelps never has to trouble his head about it. "

Lydia stepped back into the darkness of the hall. 

When she came out later, a misty figure in white, Paul rose, saying, "Well, Walter, I'll leave you to Mrs. Hollister now. I've got some workto do before I get to bed. "

Lydia sat silent, looking at the boy's face, clear and untarnished inthe moonlight. He was looking dreamily away at the lawn, dappled withthe shadow of the slender young trees. They seemed creatures scarcelymore sylvan than he, sprawled, like a loitering faun with his handsclasped behind his head. His mouth had the pure, full outlines of achild's. 

"What are you thinking about, Walter?" Lydia asked him suddenly. 

He started, and brought his limpid gaze to hers. "About how tocross-index our follow-up letter catalogue better, " he answeredpromptly. 

"Really? Really?" She leaned toward him, urging him to frankness. 

He was surprised at her tone. "Why, sure!" he told her. "Why not? Whatelse?"

Lydia said no more. 

She had never felt more helplessly her remoteness from her husband'sworld than during that spring. It was a sentiment that Paul, apparently, did not reciprocate. In spite of his frequent absences from home and hisdetached manner about most domestic questions, he had as definite ideasabout his wife's resumption of her social duties as had everyone else. "It made him uneasy, " as he put it, "to be losing so many points in thegame. "

"Look here, my dear, " he said one evening in spring when the questioncame up; "summer's almost here, and this winter's been as good asdropped right out. Can't you just pick up a few threads and make abeginning? It'll make it easier in the fall. " He added, uneasily, "Wedon't want old Lowder and Madeleine to get ahead of us entirely, youknow. You can leave the kid with 'Stashie, can't you, once in a while?She ought to be able to do _that_ much, I should think. " He spoke asthough he had assigned to her the simplest possible of all domesticundertakings. As Lydia made no response, he said finally, beforeattacking a pile of papers, "If I'm going to earn a lot more money, whatgood'll it do us if you don't do your share? Besides, we owe it to thekid. You want to do your best by your little girl, don't you?"

As always, Lydia responded with a helpless alacrity to that appeal. "Oh, yes! Oh, yes! We must do our best for her. " This phrase summed upthe religion she had at last found after so much fervent, undirectedsearch. The church, as she knew it, was chiefly the social center ofvarious fashionable activities which differed from ordinary fashionableenterprises only in being used to bring in money, which money, handedover to the rector, disappeared into the maw of some unknown, voracious, charitable institution. And beyond the church there had been no elementin the life she knew, that was not frankly materialistic. But now, asthe miracle of awakening consciousness took place daily in her verysight, and as the first dawnings of a personality began to look out ofher child's eyes, all Lydia's vague spiritual cravings, all the gropingtendrils of her aspirations, clung about the conviction more and moresumming up her inner life, that she must do her best for Ariadne, mustmake the world, into which that little new soul had come, a better placethan she herself had found it. She felt as naïvely and passionately thather child must be saved the mistakes that she had made, as though shewere the first mother who ever sent up over her baby's head thatpitiful, universal prayer. 

The matter of the social duty of the young Hollisters was finallycompromised by Lydia's accepting a number of invitations for the latterpart of the season, and giving a series of big receptions in May. Theywere not by a hair nor a jot nor a tittle to be distinguished from theirpredecessors of the year before. As they seemed hardly adequate, Lydiasuggested half-heartedly that they give a dinner party, but Paulreplied, "With 'Stashie to pour soup down people's backs and ask themhow their baby's whooping cough is, as she passes the potatoes?"

The hot weather came with the rush that was always so unexpected and soinvariable, and another season was over. It was a busy, silent, thoughtful summer for Lydia. Of course (much to Lydia's distress), Ariadne had been weaned when her mother had been forced to leave her to"go out" again, and this necessitated such anxious attention to herdiet and general regimen during the hot weather that Lydia was verygrateful to have little to interfere with her. 

The General Office had accepted provisionally Paul's redistributingplan, and in his anxiety to prove its value he was away from home moreeven than usual. The heat was terrible, but Lydia and he both knew noother climate, and Lydia loved the summer as the time of year when thefierceness of Nature forced on all her world a reluctant adjournment oftheir usual methods of spending their lives. She was absorbed inAriadne, and the slow, blazing summer days were none too long for her. 

The child began to develop an individuality. She was a sensitive, quickly-responsive little thing; exactly, so Mrs. Emery said, like Lydiaat her age, except that she seemed to have none of Lydia's native mirth, but, rather, a little pensive air that made her singularly appealing toall who saw her, and that pierced her mother's heart with an anguish ofprotecting love. 

Lydia said to her godfather one day, suddenly, "I wonder if people canbe taught how to fight?"

He had one of his flashes of intuition. "The baby, you mean?"

Lydia evaded the directness of this. "Oh, in general, aren't folksbetter off if they like to fight for themselves? Don't they _have_ to?"

He considered the question in one of his frowning silences, so long thatLydia started when he spoke again. "They don't need to fight with clawsfor their food, as they used to do. Things are arranged now so that thephysically strong, who like such a life, are the ones who choose it. They get food for the others. Why shouldn't the morally strong fight forthe weaker ones and make it possible for everyone to have a chance atdeveloping the best of himself without having to battle with others todo it?"

"That's pretty vague, " said Lydia. 

"Why, look here, " said the doctor. "You don't plow the field to plantthe wheat that makes your bread. That's a man of a coarser physicalfiber than yours, who is strengthened by the effort, and not exhaustedas you would be. Why shouldn't the world be so organized that somebodyof coarser moral texture than yours should do battle with the forces ofmaterialism and tragic triviality that--"

"But Ariadne's growing up! She will need all that so _soon_-- and theworld won't be organized then, you know it won't--and she's no fighterby instinct, any more than--" She was silent. The doctor filled in herincomplete sentence mentally, and found no answer to make. 

CHAPTER XXIV

"THROUGH PITY AND TERROR EFFECTING A PURIFICATION OF THE HEART"

One hot day in August, Ariadne slept later than usual and when she wokewas quite unlike her usual romping, active self. Her round face wasdeeply flushed, and she lay listlessly in her little bed, repulsing witha feeble fretfulness every attempt to give her food. Lydia's heartswelled so that she was choked with its palpitations. Paul was out oftown. She was alone in the house except for her servant. To thatignorant warm heart she turned with an inexpressible thankfulness. "Oh, 'Stashie! Stashie!" she called in a voice that brought the otherclattering breathlessly up the stairs. "The baby! Look at the baby! Andshe won't touch her bottle. "

The tragic change in the Irishwoman's face as she looked at theirdarling, their anguished community of feeling--there was instantly abond for the two women which wonderfully ignored all the dividingdifferences between them. Lydia felt herself--as she rarely did--notalone. It brought a wild comfort into her tumult. "'Stashie, youdon't--you don't think she's--_sick?_" She brought the word out withhorrified difficulty. 

'Stashie was running down the back stairs. "I'm 'phonin' to th' littleould doctor, " she called over her shoulder. 

Lydia ran to catch up Ariadne. The child turned from her mother with amoan and closed her eyes heavily. A moment later, to Lydia's terror, shehad sunk into a stupor. 

The doctor found mistress and maid hanging over the baby's bed withwhite faces and trembling lips, hand in hand, like sisters. He examinedthe child silently, swiftly, looking with a face of inscrutableblankness at the clinical thermometer with which he had taken hertemperature. "Just turn her so she'll lie comfortably, " he told'Stashie, "and then you stay with her a moment. I want a talk with yourmistress. "

In the hall, he cast at Lydia a glance of almost angry exhortation tosummon her strength. "Are you fit to be a mother?" he asked harshly. 

"Wait a minute, " said Lydia; she drew a long breath and took hold of thebalustrade. "Yes, " she answered. 

"Ariadne's very sick. I oughtn't to have allowed you to wean her withhot weather coming on. You'd better wire Paul. "

"Yes, " she said, not blenching. "What else can I do?"

"'Phone to the hospital for a trained nurse, start some water boiling tosterilize things, and get somebody here in a hurry to go to the nearestdrug store for me. I'll go back to her now. "

"Is she--is she--dangerously--?" asked Lydia in a low, steady voice. 

"Yes; she is, " he said unsparingly. 

The telegram Lydia sent her husband read: "Ariadne suddenly taken verysick. Dr. Melton says dangerously. He thinks she does not suffer much, though she seems to. When shall I expect you?"

The answer she received in a few hours read: "Have two nurses. GetJones, Cleveland, consultation. Impossible to leave. "

It was handed her as she was running up the stairs with a pitcher of hotwater. She read it, as she did everything that day, in a dreamlikerapidity and quietness, and showed it to Dr. Melton without comment. Hehanded it back without a word. Later, he turned for an instant from thelittle bed to say, irrelevantly, "Peterson, of Toledo, would be betterthan Jones, if I have to have anybody. But so far, it's simpleenough--damnably simple. "

He was obliged to leave for a time after this, called by a patient atthe point of death. That seemed quite natural to Lydia. Death was thickin the air. He left the baby to a clear-eyed, deft-handed, impersonaltrained nurse, on whom Lydia waited slavishly, sitting motionless in acorner of the room until she was sent for something, then flyingnoiselessly upon her errand. 

Her mother and father were out of town, and Marietta limited herself totelephoning frequent inquiries. She told 'Stashie to tell her sister sheknew she would be only in the way, with two nurses in the house. Lydiamade 'Stashie answer all the telephone calls. She felt that if she brokeher silence, if she tried to speak--and then she could not bear to beout of the sight of the little figure with the flushed cheeks, movingher head back and forth on the pillow and gazing about with bright, unseeing eyes. As night came on, she began to give, in a voice not herown, little piteous cries of suffering, or strange delirious mockeriesof her pretty laughter and quaint, unintelligible, prattling talk. Once, as the long, hot night stood still, the baby called out, quite clearly:"Mamma! Mamma!" It was the first time she had ever said it. 

Lydia sprang up and rushed toward the bed like an insane person, herarms outstretched, her eyes glittering. Dr. Melton did not forbid her totake up her child, but he said in a neutral tone, "It would be betterfor her to lie perfectly quiet. "

Lydia stopped short, shuddering. The doctor did not take his eyes fromhis little patient. After a moment the mother went slowly back to herseat. "Hand me the thermometer, " said the doctor to the nurse. 

In the early morning came a telegram from Paul. "Wire me frequentlybaby's condition. Spare no expense in treatment. "

Lydia answered: "Ariadne slightly worse. Doctor says crisis in threedays. "

This time she put in no extra information as to the baby's suffering, and her message was under ten words, like his own. She despatched himthereafter a bulletin every four or five hours. They ran mostly to theeffect that Ariadne was about the same. 

The doctor came and went, the nurses relieved each other, the telephonerang for Marietta's inquiries, Flora Burgess called once a day to getthe news from 'Stashie. Lydia was slave to the nurses, alert for theslightest service she could render them, divining, with a desperateintuition, their needs before they were formulated. 'Stashie was theonly person who paid the least attention to her, 'Stashie the onlyphenomena to break in on the solitude that surrounded her like anillimitable plain. 'Stashie made her eat. 'Stashie saw to it that onceor twice she lay down. 'Stashie combed her hair, and bathed her whiteface--most of all, 'Stashie went about with eyes that reflectedfaithfully the suffering in Lydia's own. She said very little, but asthey passed, the two women sometimes exchanged brief words: "Niver youthink it possible, Mis' Hollister!"

"No, " Lydia would answer resolutely; "it's not possible. "

But as the hours slowly filed past the doctor assured her bluntly thatit would be quite possible. "There's a fighting chance, " he said, "andnothing more. " He added relentlessly, "If I hadn't been such a fool asto let you wean her--"

There was in his manner none of his usual tenderness to his godchild. One would have thought he scarcely saw her. He was the physician wholly. Lydia was grateful to him for this. She could not have borne histenderness then, but his professional concentration left her horriblyalone. 

No, not alone! There was always 'Stashie--silent 'Stashie, with redeyes, her heart bleeding. But even 'Stashie's loyal heart could not knowall the bitterness of Lydia's. 'Stashie's breasts did not swell andthrob, as if in mockery. 'Stashie did not hear, over and over, "If shehad not been weaned--"

On the night and near the hour when the crisis was expected, Lydia wasat the end of the hall, where she had installed an oil-stove. She washeating water needed for some of the processes of the sick room. It hadbegun to steam up in the thick, hot night air, was singing loudly, andwould boil in an instant. She sat looking at it in her tense, tremblingquiet. There was no light but the blue flame of the stove. 

Suddenly there rang loudly in her ears the question to which she haddeafened herself with such crucifying effort--"What if Ariadne shoulddie?" It was as though someone had called to her. She looked down intothe black abyss from which she had willfully turned away her eyes, andsaw that it was fathomless. A throe of revolt and hatred shook her. Shebowed her head to her knees, racked by an anguish compared with whichthe torture of childbirth was nothing; and out of this deadly pain cameforth, as in childbirth, something alive--a vision as swift, as passingas a glimpse into the gates of Paradise; a blinding certainty ofimmensity, of the hugeness of the whole of which she and Ariadne were apart; of the sacredness of life, which was to be lived sacredly, evenif-- She raised her head, living a more exalted instant than she hadever dreamed she would know. 

The water broke into quick, dancing bubbles. In a period of timeincalculably short, transfiguration had come to her. 

The door at the other end of the hall opened and Dr. Melton's light, uneven footstep echoed back of her. She did not turn. He laid a hand onher shoulder. It was trembling, and with a wonderful consciousness ofendless courage she turned to comfort him. His lips were twitching sothat for an instant he could not speak. Then, "She'll pull through. I'mpretty sure now, she'll--" he got out and leaned against the wall. 

Lydia took him into a protecting embrace as though it were his baby whohad turned back from the gates of death. She had come into a largerheritage. She was mother to all that suffered. Looking down on the headwhich, for an instant, lay on her bosom, she noticed how white the hairwas. He was an old man, her godfather, he had been on a long strain--. He looked up at her. And then in an instant it was over. He had masteredhimself and had grasped the handle of the basin. 

"How long has this been boiling?" he asked. 

Lydia pointed to her watch, hanging on the wall. "Three minutes bythat, " she said. "May I leave to tell 'Stashie?"

The doctor nodded absently. 

Neither spoke of Paul. 

Lydia hurried across the dark, silent house with swift sureness. Thehappiness she was about to confer cast a radiance upon her. She touchedthe door to the servant's room, and ran her fingers lightly over it tofind the knob. Faint as the noise was, it was answered instantly by astir inside. There was a thud of bare feet and a quick rush. Lydia feltthe door swing open before her in the darkness and spoke quickly to thetrembling, breathing form she divined there, "The doctor says she'ssafe. "

Strong arms were about her, hot tears not her own rained down on herface. Before she knew it, she was swept to her knees, where, locked inthe other's close embrace, she felt the big heart thump loud against herown and heard go up above her head a wild "Oh, God! Oh, Mary Mother! Oh, Christ! Oh, Mary Mother! Glory be to God! Hail, Mary, Mother of God!Thanks be to God! Thanks be--"

Kneeling there in the blackness, with her servant's arms around her, Lydia thought it the first prayer she had ever heard. 

 * * * * *

Ariadne grew well with the miraculous rapidity of children, and whenPaul came back was almost herself again, if a little thinner. 

It was upon Lydia that Paul's eyes fastened, Lydia very white, her facealmost translucent, her starry eyes contradicting the tremor of herlips. He drew her to him, crying out: "Why, Lydia darling, you look asthough you'd been drawn through a knot-hole! This has been enough sightharder on you than on the baby! What in the world wore _you_ out so? Ithought you had two nurses!"

He looked closely into her face, seeing more changes: "Why, you poor, poor, poor thing!" he said compassionately. "You look positively yearsolder. "

"Oh, I am that, " she told him, seeming to speak, oddly enough, hethought, exultantly. 

"You just shouldn't allow yourself to get so wrought up over Ariadne, "he expostulated affectionately. "You'll wear yourself out! What earthlygood did it do the baby? Sickness is a matter for professionals, I tellyou what! You had the two nurses and your precious old Dr. Melton thatyou swear by! What more could be done? That's the reason I didn't comeback. I knew well enough that there wasn't an earthly thing I could doto help. "

Lydia looked at him so strangely that he noticed it. "Oh, of course Icould have been company for you. But that was the _only_ thing! Gettingthe baby well was the business of the hour, _wasn't_ it now? And thedoctor and nurses were looking out for that. Besides, you had 'Stashieto wait on you. "

"Yes; I had 'Stashie, " admitted Lydia. 

Paul perceived uneasily some enigmatic quality in her quiet answer, andwent on reasonably: "Now, Lydia, don't go making yourself out a martyrbecause I didn't come back. You know I'd have come if there was anythingto be done! I'd have come from the ends of the earth to help you nurseher if we'd had to do that! But, thank the Lord, I make enough money sowe could do better by the little tad than that!"

"Suppose I had gone to the theater that night, " asked Lydia slowly. "There was nothing I could do here. "

Paul was justifiably aggrieved. "Good Lord, Lydia! I wasn't off amusingmyself! I was doing _business!_"

His special accent for the word was never more pronounced. 

"Making money to pay for the trained nurses that saved her life, " heended. His conviction of the unanswerable force of this statement puthim again in good humor. "Now, little madame, you listen to me. You'regoing to take a junketing honeymoon off with me, or I'll know the reasonwhy! I'm going to take you up to Put-in-Bay for a vacation! Pretty nearall our card-club gang are there now, and we'll have a gay old time andcheer you up! I bet you just let yourself go, and worried yourself intoa fever, didn't you?"

During this speech Lydia stood leaning against him, feeling the cloth ofhis sleeve rough on her bare forearm, feeling the stir and life of hisbody, the warmth of his breath on her face. She had an impulse to screamwildly to him, as though to make him hear and stop and turn, before hefinally disappeared from her sight; and she faced him dumbly. There wereno words to tell him--she tried to speak, but before his absent, kind, wandering eyes, a foreknowledge of her own inarticulateness closed herlips. He had not been there, and so he would never know. She stirred, moved away, and rearranged the flowers in a vase. "Oh, yes; I worried, of course, " she said. "The baby was awfully sick for three days. "

She felt desperately that she was failing in the most obvious duty notto try to make him understand what had happened in his absence. Shebethought herself of one fact, the mere statement of which should tellhim a thousand times more eloquently than words, something of what shehad suffered. "The doctor told me twice that she wouldn't have been sickif she hadn't been weaned. " She said this with an accent of immensesignificance, clasping her hands together hard. 

Paul was unpacking his suit-case. "Great Scott! You nursed her sixmonths!" he said conclusively, over his shoulder. "Besides, you _had_ towean her--don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes; I remember, " said Lydia. Her hands dropped to her sides. 

"Don't they get over things quickly?" commented Paul, looking around atthe baby. "To see her creeping around like a little hop-toad andsqueaking that rubber bunny--why, I declare, I don't believe thatanything's been the matter with her at all. You and the doctor lost yournerve, I guess. "

Three or four days later he was called away again. Their regular routinebegan. The long, slow days, slid past the house in Bellevue in endless, dreamy procession. Ariadne grew fast, developing constantly newfaculties, new powers. By the end of the summer she was no longer ababy, but a person. The young mother felt the same mysterious forces ofchange and growth working irresistibly in herself. The long summer, thoughtful and solitary, marked the end of one period in her life. 

She looked forward shrinkingly to the winter. What would happen to thisnew self whose growth in her was keeping pace with her child's? Whatwould happen next?

CHAPTER XXV

A BLACK MILESTONE

What happened was, in the first week of October, the sudden death of herfather. It was sudden only to his wife and daughter, whom, as always, the Judge had tried to spare, at all costs, the knowledge of anythingunpleasant. Dr. Melton thought that perhaps the strong man's incredulityof anything for him to fear had a good deal to do with his repeatedrefusals to allow his wife or daughter to be warned of the danger ofapoplexy. Without that hypothesis, it seemed incredible, he told Mrs. Sandworth, that so kind a man could be so cruel. 

"Everything's incredible, " murmured Mrs. Sandworth, her handkerchief ather eyes, her loving heart aching for the newly-made widow, her lifelongfriend. 

Her brother did not answer. He sat, gnawing savagely on his fingernails, his thoughts centered, as always, on his darlingLydia--fatherless. 

He had prided himself on his acute insight into human nature in general, and upon his specialized, intensified knowledge of those two women whomhe had known so long and studied so minutely; but "I've been a conceitedblockhead, and vanity's treacherous as well as damnable, " he cried outto his sister some days later, amazed beyond expression at the way inwhich their loss affected Lydia and her mother. 

Mrs. Emery's attitude was a revelation to him, a revelation that lefthim almost as angrily full of grief as she herself. He had thought beston the whole not to disclose to her the substance of the severalconversations he had had with his dead friend on the subject offinances. With two prosperous sons, the widow would be well taken careof, he thought, perhaps adding with a little acridity, "just as shealways has been, without a thought on her part. " But when Mrs. Emery, divining the truth with an awful intuition, came flying to him after thesettlement, he was not proof against the fury of her interrogations. Ifshe wanted to know, he would tell her, he thought grimly to himself. 

"There is nothing left, " she began, bursting into his office, "but thehouse, which has a mortgage, and the insurance--nothing! Nothing!"

It was rather soon for her to be resentful, the doctor thought bitterly, misreading the misery on her face. "No, " he said. 

"Had the Judge lost any money--do you know?"

"No; I think not. "

"But where--what--we had at one time five thousand dollars at least inthe savings bank. I happened to know of that small account. I supposedof course there was more. There is no trace of even that, theadministrator says. "

"That went into the extra expenses of the year Lydia made her début. Andher wedding cost a great deal, he told me one day--and hertrousseau--and other expenses at that time. "

Used as the doctor was to the universal custom of divided interestsamong his well-to-do patients, it did not seem too strange to him to begiving information about her own affairs to this gray-haired matron. Shewas not the first widow to whom he had been forced to break bad news ofher husband's business. 

Mrs. Emery stared at him, her dry lips apart, a glaze over her eyes. Hethought her expression strange. As she said nothing, he added, with alittle sour pleasure in defending his dead friend, even if it shouldgive a prick to a survivor, "The Judge was so scrupulously honest, youknow. " The widow sat down and laid her arms across the table, stillstaring hard at the doctor. It came to him that she was not looking athim at all, but at some devastating inner sight, which seared herheart, but from which she could not turn away her eyes. He himselfturned away, beginning to be aware of some passion within her beyond hisdivination. There was a long silence. 

Finally, "That was the reason he would not stop working, " said the womanin a voice which made the physician whirl about. He looked sharply intoher face, and what he saw there took him in one stride to her side. Shekept her stony eyes still on the place where he had been--eyes that sawonly, as though for the first time, some long procession of past events. 

"I see everything now, " she went on with the same flat intonation. "He_could_ not stop. That was the reason why he would never rest. "

She got slowly to her feet, smoothing over and over one side of herskirt with a strange automatic gesture. She was looking full into thedoctor's face now. "I have killed him, " she said quietly, and fell asthough struck down by a blow from behind. 

Her long, long illness was spent in the Melton's home, with the doctorin attendance and Julia Sandworth, utterly devoted, constantly at hand. The old Emery house, the outward symbol of her married life, was sold, and the big "yard" cut up into building lots long before she was able tosit up. Lydia came frequently, but, acting on the doctor's expresscommand, never brought Ariadne. The outbreaks of self-reproach andembittered grief that were likely to burst upon the widow, even in themidst of one of her quiet, listless days, were not, he said, for a childto see or hear, especially such a sensitive little thing as Ariadne. Those wild bursts of remorse were delirious, he told Lydia, but to hissister he said he wished they were. "I imagine they are the only timeswhen she comes really to herself, " he added sadly. 

[Illustration: "I see everything now, " she went on. "He could notstop. "]

The especial agony for the sick woman was that nothing of what hadhappened seemed to her now in the least necessary. "Why, if I had onlyknown--if I had only dreamed how things were--" she cried incessantly tothose about her. "What did I care about anything compared with Nat! Iloved my husband! What did I care--if I had only dreamed that--if I hadonly known what I was doing!"

Dr. Melton labored in heartsick pity to remove her fixed idea, whichsoon became a monomania, that she alone was to blame for the Judge'sdeath. It now seemed to him, in his sympathy with her grief, that shehad been like a child entrusted with some frail, priceless object andnot warned of its fragility. She herself cried out constantly withastonished hatred upon a world that had left her so. 

"If anyone had warned me--had given me the least idea that it was soserious--I could have lived in three rooms--we had been poor--what did Icare for anything but Nathaniel! I only did all those thingsbecause--because there was nothing else to do!"

Lydia tried to break the current with a reminder of the sweet memoriesof the past. "Father loved you so! He loved to give you what you wanted, Mother dear. "

"What I wanted! I wanted my husband. I want my husband!" the widowscreamed like a person on the rack. 

The doctor sent Lydia away with a hasty gesture. "You must not see herwhen she is violent, " he said. "You would never forget it. "

It was something he himself never forgot, used as he was to pitifulscenes in the life of suffering humanity. He was almost like a sickperson himself, going about his practice with sunken eyes and gray face. His need for sympathy was so great that he abandoned the tacit silenceabout the Emerys which had existed between him and Rankin ever sinceLydia's marriage, and, going out to the house in the Black Rock woods, unburdened to the younger man the horror of his heart. 

"She's suffering, " he cried. "She's literally heartbroken! She is! It'sreal! And what has she had to make up for it? Oh, it's monstrous! Onething she says keeps ringing in my ears. That gray-haired woman, a humanbeing my own age--the silly, tragic, childish thing she keepssaying--'I only did all those things--I only wanted all thosethings--because there was nothing else!' _Nothing else!_" He turned onhis host with a fierce "Good God! She's right. What else was there everfor--for any woman of her class--"

Rankin pushed his shivering, fidgeting visitor into a chair and, layinga big hand on his shoulder, said with a faint smile: "Maybe I can divertyour mind for an instant with a story--another one of my great-aunt's, only it's an old one this time; you've probably heard it--about the oldman who said to his wife on his death-bed, 'I've tried to be a goodhusband to you, dear. It's been hard on my teeth sometimes, but I'vealways eaten the crusts and let you have the soft bread. ' You rememberwhat the wife's answer was?"

"No, " said the doctor frowning. 

"It's the epitome of tragedy. She said, 'Oh, my dear, and I like crustsso!'"

The doctor stared into the fire. "Do you mean--there's work for them?"

"I mean work for them, " repeated the younger man. 

The word echoed in a long silence. 

"It's the most precious possession we have, " said Rankin finally. "Weought to share more evenly. "

The doctor rose to go. "Generally I forget that we're of differentgenerations, " he said with apparent irrelevance, "but there are timeswhen I feel it keenly. "

"Why now especially?" Rankin wondered. "I've stated a doctrine that isyours, too. "

"No; you wouldn't see, of course. Yes; it's my doctrine--in theory. Ibelieve it, as people believe in Christianity. I should be equally loathto see anybody doubt it, or practice it. Ah, I'm a fool! Besides, I wasborn in Kentucky. And I'm sixty-seven years old. "

He shut the door behind him with emphasis. 

He was on his way to Bellevue to see Lydia. Knowing her tender heart, hehad expected to see her drowned in grief over her father's death. Herdry-eyed quiet made him uneasy. That morning, he found her holdingAriadne on her knees and telling her in a self-possessed, low tone, which did not tremble, some stories of "when grandfather was a littleboy. "

"I don't want her to grow up without knowing something of my father, "she explained to the doctor. 

Her godfather laid a hand on her arm. "Don't keep the tears back so, Lydia, " he implored. 

She gave him as great a shock of surprise as her mother had done. 

"If I could cry, " she said quietly, "it would be because I feel solittle sorrow. I do not miss my father at all--or hardly at all. "

The doctor caught at his chair and stared. 

"How should I?" she went on drearily. "I almost never saw him. I neverspoke to him about anything that really mattered. I never let him knowme--or anything I really felt. "

"What are you talking about?" cried the doctor. "You always lived athome. "

"I never lived with my father. He was always away in the morning beforeI was up. I was away, or busy, in the evening when he was there. OnSundays he never went to church as Mother and I did--I suppose nowbecause he had some other religion of his own. But if he had I neverknew what it was--or anything else that was in his mind or heart. Itnever occurred to me that I could. He tried to love me--I remember somany times now--and _that_ makes me cry!--how he tried to love me! Hewas so glad to see me when I got home from Europe--but he never knewanything that happened to me. I told you once before that when I hadpneumonia and nearly died Mother kept it from him because he was on abig case. It was all like that--always. He never knew. "

Dr. Melton broke in, his voice uncertain, his face horrified: "Lydia, Icannot let you go on! you are unfair--you shock me. You are morbid! Iknew your father intimately. He loved you beyond expression. He wouldhave done anything for you. But his profession is an exacting one. Putyourself in his place a little. It is all or nothing in the law--as inbusiness. "

"When you bring children into the world, you expect to have them costyou some money, don't you? You know you mustn't let them die ofstarvation. Why oughtn't you to expect to have them cost you thought, and some sharing of your life with them, and some time--real time, notjust scraps that you can't use for business?"

As the doctor faced her, open-mouthed and silent, she went on, stilldry-eyed, but with a quaver in her voice that was like a sob: "But, oh, the worst of my blame is for myself! I was a blind, selfish, self-centered egotist. I could have changed things if I had only triedharder. I am paying for it now. I am paying for it!"

She took her child up in her arms and bent over the dark silky hair. Shewhispered, "It's not that I have lost my father. I never had afather--but you!" She put out her hand and pressed the doctor's hard. "And my poor father had no daughter. "

She set the child on the floor with a gesture almost violent, and criedout loudly, breaking for the first time her cheerless calm, "And now itis too late!"

Ariadne turned her rosy round face to her mother's, startled, almostfrightened. Lydia knelt down and put her arms about the child. Shelooked solemnly into her godfather's eyes, and, as though she weretaking a great and resolute oath, she said, "But it is not too late forAriadne. "

CHAPTER XXVI

A HINT FROM CHILDHOOD

As the spring advanced and Judge Emery's widow recovered a littlestrength, it became apparent that life in Endbury, with itsheartbreaking associations, would be intolerable to her. In anxiousfamily councils many futile plans were suggested, but they were allbrushed decisively away by the unexpected arrival from Oregon of theyounger son of the family. 

One day in May, a throbbingly sunshiny day, full of a fierce hot vigorof vitality, Lydia was with her mother in the Melton's darkened parlor. As so often, the two women had been crying and now sat in a wearylethargy, hand in hand. There came a step on the porch, in the hall, andin the doorway stood a tall stranger. Lydia looked at him blankly, buther mother gave a cry and flung herself into his arms. 

"I've come to take you home with me, Momma dear, " he said quietly, usingthe old name for her, which had been banished from the Emery householdsince Lydia's early childhood. The sound of it went to her heart. 

The newcomer smiled at her over his mother's head. It was her father'ssmile, the quaint, half-wistful, humorous smile, which had seemed soincongruous on the Judge's powerful face. "I'm your brother Harry, little Lyddie, " he said, "and I've come to take care of poor Momma. "

During all that summer it was a bitter regret to Lydia that she had seenher brother so short a time. He had decreed that the sooner his motherwas taken away from Endbury, the better for her, and Mrs. Emery hadclung to him, assenting passively to all he said, and peeringconstantly, with tear-blurred eyes, into his face to see again hisastonishing resemblance to his father. They had left the day after hisarrival. 

He had found time, however, to go out to Bellevue for a brief visit, tosee Lydia's home and her little daughter--Paul was away on a businesstrip--and the half-hour he spent there was one that Lydia never forgot. The tall, sunburned Westerner, with his kind, humorous eyes, hisaffectionate smile, his quaint, homely phrases, haunted the house forthe rest of the summer. The time of his stay had been too breathlesslyshort for any serious talk. He had looked about at the big, handsomehouse with a half-mocking awe, inspected the "grounds" with a livelyinterest in the small horticultural beginnings Lydia had been able toachieve, told her she ought to see his two hundred acres of apple-trees;and for the time that was left before his trolley-car was due he playedwith his little niece and talked over her head to his sister. 

"She's a dandy, Lyddie! She's a jim-dandy of a little girl! She ought tocome out and learn to ride straddle with her cousins. I got a boy abouther age--say, they'd look fine together! He's a towhead, like all therest of 'em--like their mother. "

For months afterward Lydia could close her eyes and see again thetransfigured expression that had come over his face at the mention ofhis wife. "Talk about luck!" he said, after a moment's pause, "therenever was such luck as my getting Annie. Say, I wish you could know her, Lyddie. I tell you what--shoulder to shoulder, every minute, she's stoodup to things right there beside me for twelve years--Lord! It don't seemmore than six months when I stop to think about it. We had some hardsledding along at the first, but with the two of us pulling together--. She's laughed at sickness and drought and bugs and floods. We're allthrough that now, we're doing fine; but, honest, it was worth it, toknow Annie through and through as I do. There isn't a thing about thebusiness she doesn't know as well as I do, and good reason why, too. We've worked it all out together. We've stuck close, we have. I'vehelped in the house and with the kids, and she's come right out into theorchards with me. Share and share alike--that's our motto. "

He was silent a moment, caressing Ariadne's dark hair gently, andreviewing the past with shining eyes. "Lord! Lord! It's been a goodlife!" He turned to his sister with a smile. "Well, Lyddie, I expect youknow something about it, too. You certainly are fixed fine, andeverybody says you've married a splendid fellow. "

Lydia leaned forward eagerly, the impulse to unburden herselfoverwhelming. "Oh, Paul is the best man--" she began, "so true and kindand--and--pure--but Harry, we don't--we can't--his business--" Sheturned away from her brother's too keen eyes and stared blindly at thewall, conscious of an ache in her heart like a physical hurt. 

Later, as they were talking of old memories, of Lydia's childhood, Harryasked suddenly: "How'd you happen to give your little girl such a funnyname?"

It was a question that had not been put to Lydia before. Her family hadtaken for granted that it was a feverish fancy of her sick-bed. Shegazed at her brother earnestly, and was about to speak when he looked athis watch and stood up, glancing uneasily down toward the trolley track. It was too late--he would be gone so soon--like something she haddreamed. "Oh, I liked the name, " she said vaguely; adding, "Harry! Iwish you could stay longer! There's so much I should like to talk overwith you. Oh, how I wish you'd never gone away. "

"You come out and see us, " he urged. "It'd do you good to get away fromthis old hole-in-the-ground! We live six miles from a neighbor, so you'dhave to get along without tea-parties, but I bet Annie and the kidswould give you a good time all right. "

He kissed Lydia good-by, tossed Ariadne high in the air, and as hehurried down the driveway he called back over his shoulder: "Take goodcare of my little niece for me! I tell you it's the kids that count themost!" It was a saying that filled ringingly for Lydia the long, hotdays of the quiet summer that ensued. As for Ariadne, she did not formonths stop talking of "nice, laughy, Unkie Hawy. " Her fluency of speechwas increasing out of all proportion to her age. 

Whatever slow changes might be taking place in Lydia, went on silentlyand obscurely during that summer; but in the fall a new moral horizonburst upon her with the realization that she was again to become amother. Another life was to be entrusted to her hands, to hers andPaul's, and with the knowledge came the certainty that she must nowbegin to take some action to place her outer life more in accord withher new inner self. It would be the worst moral cowardice longer toevade the issue. 

Thus bravely did she exhort herself, and, though shrinking withapprehension at the very thought of entering upon a combat, attempted toshame herself into a little courage. 

When Paul heard of his wife's hopes, he was enchanted. He cried outjubilantly: "I bet you it'll be a boy this time!" and caught her to himin an embrace of affection so ardent that for a moment she glowed like abride. She clung to him, happy in the warmth of feeling that, responsive, as always, to his touch, sprang up in her; and when in hisgood-natured, half-laughing, dictatorial way he made her lie down atonce and promise to rest and be quiet, the boyish absurdity of hissolicitude was sweet to her. 

He disappeared in answer to a telephone call, and she closed her eyes, savoring the pleasure of the little scene. How she needed Paul toreconcile her to life! How kind he really was! How good! His was theclean, honorable affection he had promised her on their wedding day. Ifshe were to have any faith in the novels she read (like most Americanwomen of the leisure class, her education after her marriage consistedprincipally in reading the novels people talked about), if there was anytruth in what she read in these stories, she felt she was blest farabove most women in that there had come to her since her marriage norevelation of a hidden, unclean side to her husband's nature. 

But Lydia had never felt herself closely touched by reading; it allseemed remote from her own life and problems. The sexual questions onwhich the plots invariably turned, which formed the very core and centerof the lives of the various female characters, had, as a matter of fact, according to her honest observation of her acquaintances, a verysubordinate place in the average American life about her. The maritalunhappiness, estrangement, and fragmentary incompleteness in the circleshe knew, over which she had grieved and puzzled, had nothing to do withwhat novels mean by "unfaithfulness. " The women of Endbury, unlike theheroines of fiction, did not fear that their husbands would fall in lovewith other women. The men of Endbury spent as little time insentimentalizing over other men's wives as they did over their own. 

She often wondered why writers did not treat of the other problems thatbeset her class--for instance, why it was only women in frontierconditions, like Harry's wife, who could share in their husband's lives;why nobody tried to change things so that they could do more of theirpart in the work of the world; why they could not have a share in theactivities that gave other men, even little boys like Walter, so muchcloser knowledge of their husbands' characters than they, their wives, had. She had a dim notion, caught from stray indications in themagazines, that writers were considering such questions in books otherthan novels, but she had no idea how to search them out. The woman'sclub to which she belonged was occupied with the art of Masaccio, whowas, so a visitor from Chicago's æsthetic circles informed them, the"latest thing" in art interests. 

She decided to ask Paul if he had heard of such books. She would ask himso many such questions in the new life that was to begin. They had beenmarried more than three years and, so far as their relations to eachother went, they were by no means inharmonious; but of the close-knit, deep-rooted intimacy of soul and mind that had been her dream ofmarried life, there had not been even a beginning. Well, she toldherself bravely, four years were but a short period in a lifetime. Theywere both so young yet. They could begin now. 

Paul came back from the telephone, note-book in hand, jotting down somefigures. He smiled at her over the top of the book, and before he satdown to his desk he covered her carefully with a shawl, stroked herhair, and closed her eyes, saying with an absent tenderness: "There!take a nap, dear, while I finish these notes. "

He looked supremely satisfied with himself in the instant before heplunged into his calculations, and Lydia guessed that he wascongratulating himself on having remembered her in the midst ofabsorbing business cares. She lay looking at him as he worked, her mindfull of busy thoughts. 

Chiefly, as she went over their situation, she felt guilty to think howentirely apart from him all her real life was passed. The doubts, theracking spiritual changes, that had come to her, she had kept all toherself; and yet she could say honestly that her silence had beeninvoluntary, instinctive, she fancied whimsically, like the reticence asto emotions that one keeps in the hurly-burly of a railway station. Withtickets to be bought and trunks to be checked and time-tables to beconsulted, it is absurd to try to communicate to a busy and preoccupiedcompanion inexplicable qualms of soul-sickness. Any sensible woman--andLydia, like most American women, had been trained by precept and exampleto desire above all things to be sensible and not emotionallytroublesome to the men of her family--any sensible woman kept herthoughts to herself till the time came when she could talk them overwithout interfering with the business on hand. 

As she lay on the sofa and watched Paul's face sharpen in hisconcentration, it occurred to her that the point of the whole matter wasthat for her and Paul the suitable and leisurely time for mutualdiscussion had never come. That was all! That was the whole trouble! Itwas not any inherent lack of common feeling between them. Simply, therewas always business on hand with which she must not interfere. 

Paul lifted his head, his eyes half closed in a narrowed, speculativegaze upon some knotty point in his calculation. This long, sideways lookhappened to fall upon Lydia, and she turned cold before the profoundunconsciousness of her existence in those eyes apparently fixed sopiercingly upon her. She had a quick fancy that the blank wall ofabstraction at which that vacant stare was directed really and palpablyseparated her husband from her. 

For a moment she wondered if she were growing like the women she hadheard her father so unsparingly condemn--silly, childish, egotisticwomen who could not bear to have their husbands think of anything butthemselves, who were jealous of the very business which earned them andtheir children a living. She acquitted herself of this charge proudly. She did not want all of Paul's time; she wanted only some of it. Andthen, it was not to have him thinking of her, but with her about thecommon problems of their life; it was to think with him about theproblems of his life; it was to have him help her by his sound, well-balanced, well-trained mind, which, so everyone said, worked suchmiracles in business; to have him help her through the thicket ofconfusion into which she was plunged by her inability to accept theplainly-marked road over which all of her world was pressing forward. Perhaps it was all right, she thought, the way Endbury people "did. " Sheasked nothing better than to be convinced that it was; she longed for asatisfying answer. But Paul did not even know she had doubts! How couldhe, she asked herself, exonerating him from blame. He was away so manyhours of the day and days of the year; and when he came home he was sotired!

It was characteristic of her temper that she had learned quickly andwithout bitterness the lesson every wife must learn, that neithertenderness nor delicate perceptions of shades of feeling can be extortedfrom a very tired or very preoccupied man. Masculine fatigue brings withit a healthy bluntness as to what is being expected in the way ofemotional responsiveness, and men will not allow their sense of duty tospur their jaded affection to the point of exhaustion. Lydia noted this, felt that she could not with any show of reason resent it, since itshowed a state of things as hard for Paul as for her; but she could notblind herself to the fact that the inevitable result was Paul's completeignorance of her real life. She felt herself to be so different from thegirl he had married as scarcely to be recognizable, and yet there was noway by which he could have caught even a glimpse of the changes that hadmade her so. The short periods they spent with each other werenecessarily more than filled by consultations about matters of householdadministration and plans for their social life, and about the way tospend the money that Paul earned. Paul was a very good-natured andconsciously indulgent husband, but Lydia seldom emerged from an hour'sconversation with him without an uneasy feeling that she was not by anymeans getting out of the money he furnished her the largest amountpossible of what he wanted; and this sensation was scarcely conducive toan expression of what was, after all, on her part nothing but a vagueaspiration toward an ideal--an aspiration that came to her clearly onlyat times of great tranquillity and peace, when her mind was quite atrest. 

She was going around and around the treadmill of her familiarperplexities when a trifling incident, so small, so dependent on itsframing of situation, accent, expression and gesture as scarcely to berecordable, gave her a sudden glimpse of quite another side to thematter. She was shocked into realizing that just as their way of lifehid from Paul what was going on in her mind, so he also, in allprobability, was rapidly changing without her knowledge. 

Paul finished his figuring, pushed the papers to one side with a sigh offatigue, and turned his eyes thoughtfully on his wife. "That's very goodnews of yours, Lydia dear, about the expected son and heir. But it'srather a pity it didn't come last winter, isn't it?"

"How so?" she asked. 

"Why, you had to be out of things on account of being in mourning, anyhow. If this had happened the year your father died, you could havekilled two birds with one stone, don't you see?"

Lydia's perception of a thousand reasonable explanations and excuses forthis speech was so quick that it was upon her almost before she wasaware of her resentment. She hurried to shut the door on a blighting newvision of her husband, by telling herself loudly that it was to beexpected Paul should feel so; but, rapid as her loyal, wifely movementhad been, she had felt a gust of hot revulsion against something in herhusband which her affection for him forbade her to name. 

She could not put out of her mind, his look, his accent, his air oftaking for granted that the speech was a natural one. The knowledge thatMarietta would be too bewildered by her dwelling on the incident even tolaugh at her, did not avail to free her of the heavy doubts that filledher. Was she mistaken in feeling that it indicated an alarming increaseof materialism in Paul? She was really too fanciful, she told herselfmany times a day, surprised to find herself going over it again. Was ita mere chance remark--a little stone in the garden path--or was it thefirst visible outcropping of a stratum of unconquerable granite whichgrimly underlay all the flower beds of his good nature?

The final impression on her mind was of a new motive for coming to abetter, closer understanding with Paul about the fundamentals of theirlife. It had not occurred to her before, in spite of all her struggles"to be good, " as she put it to herself with her childlike naïveté, thatPaul might be needing her as much as she needed him! Spurred on by thisnew reason for breaking through the impalpable wall that separated theirinner lives, she resolved that she would no longer let herself bedominated by the inconsequent multiplicity of the trifling incidentsthat filled their days. 

If she could only get close to Paul she was sure that all would be well. She made herself hope, with a brave belittling of the tangle thatbaffled her, that perhaps just one long, serious talk with Paul wouldbe all that was needed. If she could just make Paul see what she saw, hecould tell her how to set to work to remedy things. Paul was so clever. Paul was always so kind--when he saw!

She began watching for a favorable opportunity for this long, serioustalk, and as day after day fled past with only a glimpse of Pauldesperately in a hurry in the morning and desperately tired at night, she was aware that her idea of the shape their life was taking had notexaggerated the extent of the broad flood of trivialities that separatedthem. Although the light laugh of her girlhood was rarer than before hermarriage, life had not proved it to be the result of mere animalspirits. She still saw a great deal to laugh at, though sometimes it wastremulous laughter, carrying her to the edge of tears. And she oftenlaughed to herself during these days at the absurd incongruity of whather heart was swelling to utter and the occasions on which she wouldhave to speak. 

'Stashie was away, tending her aunt who was ill, away for an indefiniteperiod, for Patsy's steady wages quite sufficed to keep his cousin athome to care for his grandmother. Lydia sometimes feared thesatisfaction she took in Patsy's exemplary career was tinctured withvainglory for her own share in it, but, if so, she was punished for itnow, since it was his very prosperity that took away from her the onlysteady domestic help she had ever been able to keep. She had now only acook, a slatternly negress, with a gift for frying chicken and makingbeaten biscuit, and a total incapacity to conceive of any other activityas possible for her. Lydia had telephoned to the two employment agenciesin Endbury and had been informed, by no means for the first time, thatthe supply of girls willing to work in the suburbs had entirely givenout. For the time being there was simply not one to be had, so for thenext few days Lydia, as well as Paul, was more than usually occupied;but her fixed intention to "talk things over with him" was not shaken. And yet--day after day went by with the routine unvaried--there was notime in the morning; in the evening Paul was too tired, and on Sundaysthere was always "Company, " it being practically their only time fordaylight entertainment. Often Paul brought a business associate home fordinner; his family or hers came in; there were always callers in theafternoon; and they were usually invited out to supper or had gueststhemselves. It was the busiest day of the week. 

Ever since her father's death she had been reviving in her mind, shockedto find them so few, her positive, personal recollections of him, andone of them now came back to her with a symbolic meaning. It had been anot uncommon occurrence in her childhood--a school picnic in the BlackRock woods; but this one stood out from all the others because, by whatfreak of chance she never knew, her father had gone with her instead ofher mother. How proud she had been to have him there! How eagerly shehad done the honors of the "entertainment"! How anxiously she had hopedthat he would be pleased with the recitations, the songs, the May-daydance!

One of the events of the day was to be the recitation of a fairy poem bya boy in one of the upper grades. He was to step out of the bushes inthe character of a Brownie. The child had but just thrust his headthrough the leaves and begun, "I come to tell ye of a world ye mortalswot not of, " when a terrific clap of thunder overhead, followed bylightning, and rain in torrents, broke up the picnic and sent everyoneflying for shelter to a near-by barn. Lydia had been very much afraid ofthunderstorms, and she could still remember how, through all herconfusion and terror, she had admired the fixity of purpose of thelittle Brownie, piteous in his drenched fairy costume, gasping out, asthey ran along: "I come to tell ye--I come to tell ye, mortals--" to hisscurrying audience. 

When they reached the barn and were huddled in the hay, wet and forlorn, and deafened by the peals of thunder, the determined little boy hadstood up on a farm wagon on the barn floor, and the instant the stormabated began again with his insistent tidings of a world they wot notof. With her father's death fresh in her mind, Lydia could not withouta throb of pain recall his rare outburst of hearty laughter at thechild's perseverance. "I bet on that kid!" he had cried out, applaudingvigorously at the end. "Who _is_ he?"

"Paul Hollister, " she had told him, proud to know the bigger children. "He's a very especial friend of mine. "

"Well, you can bet he'll get on, " her father had assured her. 

The opening of the Brownie's speech had come to be one of the humorouscatchwords of the Emery household, to express firmness of purpose, andit was now with a mixture of laughter and tears that Lydia recalled thescene--the dusky interior of the barn, the sweet, strong scent of thehay, the absurd little figure grimacing and squeaking on the farm wagon, and her big, little-known, all-powerful father, one strong arm aroundher, protecting her from all she feared, as nothing in the world couldprotect her now. 

She was grown up now, and must learn how to protect her own childrenagainst dangers less obvious than thunderstorms. It was her turn now toinsist on making herself heard above uproar and confusion. Her littleBrownie playmate shamed her into action. She would not wait for a pausein the clatter of small events about Paul and herself; she would raiseher voice and shout to him, if necessary, overcoming the shy reluctanceof the spirit to speak aloud of its life. 

CHAPTER XXVII

LYDIA REACHES HER GOAL AND HAS HER TALK WITH HER HUSBAND

Paul was still asleep when Lydia opened her eyes one morning and said toherself with a little laugh, but quite resolutely: "I come to tell ye ofa world ye mortals wot not of. "

As she dressed noiselessly, she fortified herself with the thought thatshe had, in her nervousness, greatly overestimated the seriousness ofher undertaking. There was nothing so formidable in what she meant todo, after all. She only wished to talk reasonably with her husband abouthow to avoid having their life degenerate into a mere campaign formaterial advancement. She did not use this phrase in her thoughts aboutthe matter. She thought more deeply, and perhaps more clearly, thanduring her confused girlhood, but she had no learned or dignifiedexpressions for the new ideas dawning in her. As she coiled her darkhair above her face, rather pale these days, like a white flower insteadof the glowing rose it had been, she said to herself, like a child:"Now, I mustn't get excited. I must remember that all I want is a chancefor all of us, Paul and the children and me, to grow up as good as wecan, and loving one another the most for the nicest things in us and notbecause we're handy stepping-stones to help one another get on. And wecan't do that if we don't really put our minds to it and make that thething we're trying hardest to do. The other things--the parties andmaking money and dressing better than we can really afford to--they'reonly all right if they don't get to seeming the things to look out forfirst. We must find out how to keep them second. "

A golden shaft of winter sunshine fell on Paul's face. He opened hiseyes and yawned, smiling good-naturedly at his wife. Lydia summoned hercourage and fairly ran to the bed, sitting down by him and taking hisstrong hand in hers. 

"Oh, you india-rubber ball!" he cried in humorous despair at her. "Don'tyou know a woman with your expectations oughtn't to go hurling herselfaround that way?"

"I know--I'm too eager always, " she apologized. "But, Paul, I've beenwaiting for a nice quiet time to have a long talk with you aboutsomething that's troubling me, and I just decided I wouldn't waitanother minute. "

Paul patted her cheek. He was feeling very much refreshed by his night'ssleep. He smiled at his young wife again. "Why, fire away, Lydia dear. I'm no ogre. You don't have to wait till I'm in a good temper, do you?What is it? More money?"

"Oh, no, _no_!" She repudiated the idea so hotly that he laughed, "Well, you can't scare me with anything else. What's up?"

Lydia hesitated, distracted, now that her chance had come, with thedesire to speak clearly. "Paul dear, it's very serious, and I want youto take it seriously. It may take a great effort to change things, too. I'm very unhappy about the way we are--"

A wail from Ariadne's room gave warning that the child had wakened, asshe not infrequently did, terrified by a bad dream. Lydia fled in tocomfort her, and later, when she came back, leading the droll littlefigure in its pink sleeping-drawers, Paul was dressing with his usualcareful haste. He stopped an instant to laugh at Ariadne's face ofdetermined woe and tossed her up until an unwilling smile broke throughher pouting gloom. Then he turned to Lydia, as to another child, andrubbed his cheek on hers with a boyish gesture. "Now, you other littleforlornity, what's the matter with you?"

Lydia warmed, as always, at the tenderness of his tone, though shenoticed with an inward laugh that he continued buttoning his vest as hecaressed her and that his eyes wandered to the clock with a waryalertness. "Perhaps you'd better wait and tell me at the table, " he wenton briskly. "I'm all ready to go down. " He pulled his coat on with hisastonishing quickness, and ran downstairs. 

Lydia put Ariadne into her own bed, telling the docile little thing tostay there till Mother came back for her, and followed Paul, huddlingtogether the remnants of her resolution which looked very wan in themorning light. Breakfast was not ready; the table was not even set, andwhen she went out into the kitchen she was met by a heavy-eyed cook, moving futilely about among dirty pots and pans and murmuring somethingabout a headache. Lydia could not stop then to investigate further, but, hurrying about, managed to get a breakfast ready for Paul before hisfirst interest in the morning paper had evaporated enough to make himimpatient of the delay. 

He fell to with a hearty appetite as soon as the food was set beforehim, not noticing for several moments that Lydia's breakfast was not yetready. When he did so, he spoke with a solicitous sharpness: "Lydia, youneed a guardian! You ought to eat as a matter of duty! I bet half yourqueer notions come from your just pecking around at any old thing whenI'm not here to keep track of you. "

He poured out another cup of coffee for himself as he spoke. 

"Yes, dear; I know, I do. I will, " Lydia assured him, with her quickacquiescence to his wishes. "But this morning Mary is sick, orsomething, and I got yours first. "

Paul spoke briefly, with his mouth full of toast: "If you were moreregular in the way you run the house, and insisted on never varyingthe--"

"But I was afraid you would be late, " said Lydia. It was the dailyterror of her life. 

"I _am_ late now, " he told her, with his good-humored insistence onfacts. "I've missed the 7:40, and I've just time to catch the next oneif I hurry. Do you happen to know, dear, where I put that cataloguefrom Elberstrom and Company? The big red book with the picture of adynamo on the cover. I was looking over it last night, and Heaven knowswhere I may have dropped it. "

The opinion as to the proper answer to a speech like this was one of thesharply marked lines of divergence between Madeleine Lowder and herbrother's wife. "Soak him one when you get a chance, Lydia, " she waswont to urge facetiously, and her advice in the present case wouldunhesitatingly have been to answer as acrimoniously as possible that ifhe were more regular in the way he handled such things his wife wouldhave to spend less time ransacking the house looking for them. But inspite of such practical and experienced counsel, Lydia was scarcelyconscious of refraining from the entirely justifiable and entirelyfutile customary recriminations, and she was as unaware as Paul of thevast amount of embittering domestic friction which was spared them byher silence. She had some great natural advantages for the task ofcreating a better domestic life at which she was now so eagerly settingherself, and one of them was this incapacity to resent petty injusticesdone to herself. She was handicapped in any effort by her utter lack ofintellectual training and by a natural tendency to mental confusion, buther lack of small vanities not only spared her untold suffering, butadded much to her singleness of aim. 

She now went about searching for the catalogue, finally finding it inthe library under the couch. When she came back to the dining-room shesaw Paul standing up by the table, wiping his mouth. Evidently he wasready to start. How absurd she had been to think of talking seriously tohim in the morning!

"Mary brought your breakfast in, " he said nodding toward an untidy tray. "I hate to seem to be finding fault all the time, but really her breathwas enough to set the house on fire! Can't you keep her down to moderatedrinking?"

"I'll try, " said Lydia. 

Paul took the catalogue from her hand and reached for his hat. Theywere in the hall now. "Good-by, Honey, " he said, kissing her hastily anddarting out of the house. 

Lydia had but just turned back to the dining-room when he opened thedoor and came in again, bringing a gust of fresh winter air with him. "Say, dear, you forgot about something you wanted to tell me about. I'vegot eight minutes before the trolley, so now's your chance. What is it?Something about the plumbing?"

In the dusky hall Lydia faced him for a moment in silence, with sosingular an expression on her face that he looked apprehensive of somesort of scene. Then she broke out into breathless, quavering laughter, whose uncertainty did not prevent Paul from great relief at her apparentchange of mood. "Never mind, " she said, leaning against the newel-post, "I'll tell you--I'll tell you some other time. "

He kissed her again, and she felt that it was with a greater tendernessnow that he no longer feared a possibly disagreeable communication fromher. 

After he had gone, she thought loyally, putting things in the order ofimportance she had been taught all her life, "Well, it _is_ hard for himto have perplexities at home and not to be able to give the freshest andbest of himself to business. " It was not until later, as she wasdressing Ariadne, that she swung slowly back to her new doubt of thatview of the problem. 

Ariadne was in one of her most talkative moods, and was describing atgreat length the dream that had frightened her so. There was a hen withsix little chickens, she told her mother, and one of them was as big--asbig--

"Yes, dear; and what did the big little chicken do?" Lydia laced up thelittle shoes, on her knees before the small figure, her mind whirling. "That was just the trouble, she couldn't make it seem right any more, that Paul's best and freshest should _all_ go to making money and noneto a consideration of why he wished to make it. "

"Yes, Ariadne, and it flew over the house, and then?"

She began buttoning the child's dress, and lost herself in ecstasy overthe wisps of soft curls at the back of the rosy neck. She dropped asudden kiss on the spot, in the midst of Ariadne's narrative, and thechild squealed in delighted surprise. Lydia was carried away by one ofher own childlike impulses of gayety, and burrowed bear-like, growlingsavagely, in the soft flesh. Ariadne doubled up, shrieking withlaughter, the irresistible laughter of childhood. Lydia laughed inresponse, and the two were off for one of their rollicking frolics. Theywere like a couple of kittens together. Finally, "Come, dear; we mustget our breakfasts, " said Lydia, leading along the little girl, stillflushed and smiling from her play. 

Her passion for the child grew with Ariadne's growth, and there weretimes when she was tempted to agree in the unspoken axiom of those abouther, that all she needed was enough children to fill her heart and handstoo full for thought; but sometimes at night, when Paul was away and shehad the little crib moved close to her bed, very different ideas came toher in the silent hours when she lay listening to the child's quick, regular breathing. At such times, when her mind grew very clear in thelong pause between the hurry of one day and the next, she had rather asort of horror in bringing any more lives into a world which she coulddo so little to make ready for them. Ariadne was here, and, oh! She mustdo something to make it better for her! Her desire that Ariadne shouldfind it easier than she to know how to live well, rose to a fervor thatwas a prayer emanating from all her being. Perhaps she was not clever orstrong enough to know how to make her own life and Paul's anything but adreary struggle to get ahead of other people, but somehow--somehow, Ariadne must have a better chance. 

Something of all this came to her mind in the reaction from her frolic, as she established the child in her high-chair and sat down to her owncold breakfast; but she soon fell, instead, to pondering the question ofMary in the kitchen. She had not now that terror of a violent scenewhich had embittered the first year of her housekeeping, but she felt aqualm of revulsion from the dirty negress who, as she entered thekitchen, turned to face her with insolent eyes. It seemed a plague-spotin her life that in the center of her home, otherwise so carefullyguarded, there should be this presence, come from she shuddered to thinkwhat evil haunts of that part of Endbury known as the "Black Hole. " Shethought, as so many women have thought, that there must be somethingwrong in a system that made her husband spend all his strength laboringto make money so much of which was paid, in one form or another, to thisblack incubus. She thought, as so many other women have thought, thatthere must be something wrong with a system of life that meant that, with rare exceptions, such help was all that could be coaxed into doinghousework; but Lydia, unlike the other women she knew, did not--couldnot--stop at the realization that something was wrong. Some irresistibleimpulse moved her to try at least to set it right. 

On this occasion, however, as she faced the concrete result of thesystem, she was too languid, and felt too acutely the need for sparingher strength, to do more than tell her cook briefly that if she did notstop drinking she would be dismissed. Mary made no reply, looking downat her torn apron, her face heavy and sullen. She prepared some sort ofluncheon, however, and by night had recovered enough so that withLydia's help the dinner was eatable. 

Paul was late to dinner, and when he sat down heavily at the tableLydia's heart failed her at the sight of his face, fairly haggard withfatigue. She kept Ariadne quiet, the child having already learned thatwhen Daddy came home from the city there must be no more noisy play; andshe served Paul with a quickness that outstripped words. She longedunspeakably to put on one side forever all her vexing questions andsimply to cherish and care for her husband physically. He had so much toburden him already--all he could carry. But she had been so longbringing herself to the point of resolution in the matter, she had sofirmly convinced herself that her duty lay along that dark and obscurepath, that she clung to her purpose. 

After dinner, when she came downstairs from putting Ariadne to bed, shefound him already bent over the writing-table, covering a sheet of paperwith figures. "You remember, Paul, I have something to talk over withyou, " she began, her mouth twitching in a nervous smile. 

He pushed the papers aside, and looked up at her with a wearytenderness. "Oh, yes; I do remember. We might as well have it over now, I suppose. Wait a minute, though. " He went to the couch, piled thepillows at one end, and lay down, his hands clasped under his head. "Imight as well rest myself while we talk, mightn't I?"

"Oh, yes, yes, poor dear!" cried Lydia remorsefully. "I wish I didn't_have_ to bother you!"

"I wish so, too, " he said whimsically. "Sure it's nothing you can'tsettle yourself?" He closed his eyes and yawned. 

"I don't _want_ to settle it myself!" cried Lydia with a rush, seeing anopening ready-made. "That's the point. I want you to be in it! I wantyou to help me! Paul, I'm sure there's something the matter with the waywe live--I don't like it! I don't see that it helps us a bit--or anyoneelse--you're just killing yourself to make money that goes to get usthings we don't need nearly as much as we need more of each other! We'renot getting a bit nearer to each other--actually further away, for we'reboth getting different from what we were without the other's knowinghow! And we're not getting nicer--and what's the use of living if wedon't do that? We're just getting more and more set on scrambling alongahead of other people. And we're not even having a good time out of it!And here is Ariadne--and another one coming--and we've nothing to givethem but just this--this--this--"

She had poured out her accumulated, pent-up convictions with passion, feeling an immense relief that she had at last expressed herself--thatat last she had made a breach in the wall that separated her from Paul. At the end, as she hesitated for a phrase to sum up her indictment oftheir life, her eyes fell on Paul's face. Its expression turned hercold. She stopped short. He did not open his eyes, and the ensuingsilence was filled with his regular, heavy breathing. He had fallenasleep. 

Lydia folded her hands in her lap and sat looking at him intently. Inthe tumult of her emotions there was neither bitterness nor resentment. But a cloud had passed between her and the sun. She sat there a longtime, her face very pale and grave. After a time she laid her hand onher husband's shoulder. She felt an intolerable need to feel him atleast physically near. 

The telephone bell rang distinctly in the hall. Paul bounded to hisfeet, wide awake. 

"I bet that's the Washburn superintendent!" he cried. "He said theymight call me up here if they came to a decision. " He had apparentlyforgotten Lydia's presence, or else the fact that she knew nothing ofhis affairs. He disappeared into the hall, his long, springy, activestep resounding quickly as he hurried to the instrument. Lydia heard hisvoice, decisive, masterful, quiet, evidently dictating terms of somebargain that had been hanging in the balance. When he came back, hishead was up, like a conqueror's. "I've got their contract!" he told her, and then, snatching her up, he whirled her about, shouting out a "yip!yip! yip!" of triumph. 

In spite of herself Lydia's chin began to tremble. She felt a stingingin her eyes. Paul saw these signs of emotion and wasconscience-stricken. "Oh, I'm a black-hearted monster!" he cried, inburlesque contrition. "I must have dropped off just as you began yourspiel. But, Lydia, if _you'd_ taken that West Virginia trip, you'd go tosleep if the Angel Gabriel were blowing his horn! I was gone three days, you know, and, honest, I didn't have three hours' consecutive sleep!Don't be too mad at me. Start over again. I'll listen to every word, honest to gracious I will. I feel as waked up as a fighting cock, anyhow, by this Washburn business! To think I've pulled that off atlast!"

"I'm not mad at _you_, Paul, " said Lydia, trying to speak steadily, andholding with desperate resolution to her purpose of communicating withher husband. "I'm mad at the conditions that made you so sleepy youcouldn't keep awake! All I had to say is that I don't like our way oflife--I don't see that it's making us any better, and I want Ariadne--Iwant our children to have a better one. I want you to help me make itso. "

Paul stared at her, stupefied by this attack on axioms. "Good gracious, my dear! What are you talking about? 'Our way of life!' What do youmean? There's nothing peculiar about the way we live. Our life is justlike everybody else's. "

Lydia burned with impatience at the appearance of this argument, beyondwhich she had never been able to induce her mother or Marietta toadvance a step. She cried out passionately: "What if it is! If it's notthe right kind of life, what difference does it make if everybody's life_is_ like it!"

The idea which her excitement instantly suggested to Paul wasreassuring. Before Ariadne came, he remembered, Lydia had had queerspells of nervous tension. He patted her on the shoulder and spoke inthe tone used to soothe a nervous horse. "There, Lydia! There, dear!Don't get so wrought up! Remember you're not yourself. You do too muchthinking. Come, now, just curl up here and put your head on my--"

Lydia feared greatly the relaxing influence of his caressing touch. Ifonce he put forth his personal magnetism, it would be so hard to go on. She drew away gently. "_Can_ anybody do too much thinking, Paul? Thetrouble must be that I'm not thinking right. And, oh, I want to, so!_Please_ help me! Everybody says you have such a wonderful head fororganization and for science--if I were a dynamo that wasn't working, you could set me right!"

Paul laughed, and made another attempt to divert her. "I couldn't ifthe dynamo looked as pretty and kissable as you do!" He was paying verylittle attention to what she said. He was only uncomfortable and uneasyto see her so white and trembling. He wished he had proposed taking herout for the evening. She had been having too dull a time. He ought tosee that she got more amusement. They said that comic opera now runningin town was very funny. 

"Paul, listen to me!" she was crying desperately as these thoughts wentthrough his head. "Listen to me, and look honestly at the way we've beenliving since we were married, and you _must_ see that something's allwrong. I never see you--never, never, do you realize that? except whenyou're in a raging hurry in the morning or tired to death at night, andwhen I'm just as tired as you are, so all we can do is to go to bed sowe can get up in the morning and begin it all over again. Or else wetire ourselves out one degree more by entertaining people we don'treally like--or rather people about whose real selves we don't knowenough to know whether we like them or not--we have them because they'reinfluential, or because everybody else entertains them, or because theycan help us to get on--or can be smoothed over so they won't hinder ourgetting on. And there's no prospect of doing anything different fromthis all the days of our life--"

"But, look-y here, Lydia, that's the way things _are_ in this world! Themen have to go away the first thing in the morning--and all the rest ofwhat you say! _I_ can't help it! What do you come to me about it for?You might as well break out crying because I can't give you eyes in theback of your head. That's the way things are!"

Lydia made a violent gesture of unbelief. "That's what everybody's beentelling me all my life--but now I'm a grown woman, with eyes to see, andsomething inside me that won't let me say I see what I don't--_and Idon't see that_! I don't _believe_ it has to be so. I can't believe it!"

Paul laughed a little impatiently, irritated and uneasy, as he alwayswas, at any attempt to examine too closely the foundations of existingideas. "Why, Lydia, what's the matter with you? You sound as thoughyou'd been reading some fool socialist literature or something. "

"You know I don't read anything, Paul. I never hear about anything butnovels. I never have time for anything else, and very likely I couldn'tunderstand it if I read it, not having any education. That's one thing Iwant you to help me with. All I want is a chance for us to live togethera little more, to have a few more thoughts in common, and, oh! to betrying to be making something better out of ourselves for our children'ssake. I can't see that we're learning to be anything but--you, to be anefficient machine for making money, I to think of how to entertain asthough we had more money than we really have. I don't seem really toknow you or live with you any more than if we were two guests stoppingat the same hotel. If socialists are trying to fix things better, whyshouldn't we have time--both of us--to read their books; and you couldhelp me know what they mean?"

Paul laughed again, a scornful, hateful laugh, which brought the colorup to Lydia's pale face like a blow. "I gather, then, Lydia, that whatyou're asking me to do is to neglect my business in order to readsocialist literature with you?"

His wife's rare resentment rose. She spoke with dignity: "I begged youto be serious, Paul, and to try to understand what I mean, although I'mso fumbling, and say it so badly. As for its being impossible to changethings, I've heard you say a great many times that there are noconditions that can't be changed if people would really try--"

"Good heavens! I said that of _business_ conditions!" shouted Paul, outraged at being so misquoted. 

"Well, if it's true of them--No; I feel that things are the way they arebecause we don't really care enough to have them some other way. If youreally cared as much about sharing a part of your life with me--reallysharing--as you do about getting the Washburn contract--"

Her indignant and angry tone, so entirely unusual, moved Paul, more thanher words, to shocked protest. He looked deeply wounded, and his accentwas that of a man righteously aggrieved. "Lydia, I lay most of thisabsurd outbreak to your nervous condition, and so I can't blame you forit. But I can't help pointing out to you that it is entirely uncalledfor. There are few women who have a husband as absolutely devoted asyours. You grumble about my not sharing my life with you--why, I _give_it to you entire!" His astonished bitterness grew as he voiced it. "Whatam I working so hard for if not to provide for you and our child--ourchildren! Good Heavens! What more _can_ I do for you than to keep mynose on the grindstone every minute. There are limits to even ahusband's time and endurance and capacity for work. "

Lydia heard a frightened roaring in her ears at this unexpected turn tothe conversation. Paul had never spoken so to her before. This was avery different tone from his irritation over defective housekeeping. Shewas as horrified as he over the picture that he held up with suchapparently justified indignation, the picture of her as a querulous andungrateful wife. Why, Paul was looking at her as though he hated her!For the first time in her married life, she conceived the possibilitythat she and Paul might quarrel, really seriously quarrel, aboutfundamental things. The idea terrified her beyond words. Her mind, undisciplined and never very clear, became quite confused, and only herlong preparation and expectation of this talk enabled her to keep on atall, although now she could but falter ahead blindly. "Why, Pauldear--don't look at me so! I never dreamed of _blaming_ you for it! It'sjust because I want things better for you that I'm so anxious to--"

"You haven't noticed me complaining any, have you?" put in Paul grimly, still looking at her coldly. 

"--It's because I can't bear to see you work so hard to get me thingsI'd ever so much rather go without than have you grow so you can't seeanything but business--it seems all twisted! I'd rather you'd pay anassistant to go off on these out-of-town trips, and we'd get along onless money--live in a smaller house, and not entertain. "

"Oh, Lydia, you talk like a child! How can I talk business with you whenyou have such crazy, impractical ideas? It's not just the money anassistant would cost! Either he'd not be so good as I, and then I'd losemy reputation for efficiency and my chance for promotion, or else he_would_ be as good and he'd get the job permanently and divide the fieldwith me. A man has to look a long way ahead in business!"

"But, Paul, what if he _did_ divide the field with you? What if youdon't get ahead of everybody else, if you'd have time and strength tothink of other things more--you said the other day that you weren'tsleeping well any more, and you're losing your taste for books and musicand outdoors--why, I'd rather live in four rooms right over your office, so that you wouldn't have that hour lost going and coming--"

Paul broke in with a curt scorn: "Oh, Lydia! What nonsense! Why don'tyou propose living in a tent, to save rent?"

"Why I would--I would in a minute if I thought it would make things anybetter!" Lydia cried with a desperate simplicity. 

At this crowning absurdity, Paul began to laugh, his ill-humor actuallyswept away by his amusement at Lydia's preposterous fancies. It was toofoolish to try to reason seriously with her. He put his hand on hershining dark hair, ruffling it up like a teasing boy. "I guess you'dbetter leave the economic status of society alone, Lydia. You mightbreak something if you go charging around it so fierce. "

A call came from the darkness of the hall: "Mis' Hollister!"

"It's Mary, " said Paul; "probably you forgot to give her anyinstructions about breakfast, in your anxiety about the future of theworld. If you can calm down enough for such prosaic details, do tell herfor the Lord's sake not to put so much salt in the oatmeal as there wasthis morning. "

Lydia found the negress with her wraps on, glooming darkly, "Mis'Hollister, I'm gwine to leave, " she announced briefly. 

Lydia felt for a chair. Mary had promised faithfully to stay through thewinter, until after her confinement. "What's the matter, Mary?"

"I cyant stay in no house wheah de lady says I drinks. "

"You will stay until--until I am able to be about, won't you?"

"My things is gone aready, " said Mary, moving heavily toward the door, "and I'm gwine now. " As she disappeared, she remarked casually, "Ididn't have no time to wash the supper dishes. Good-by. "

"What's the matter with Mary?" called Paul. 

Lydia went back to him, trying to smile. "She's gone--left, " sheannounced. 

Paul opened his eyes with a look of keen annoyance. "You can't break ina new cook _now_!" he said. "She can't go now!"

"She's gone, " repeated Lydia wearily. "I don't know how anybody couldmake her stay. "

Paul got up from the couch with his lips closed tightly together, and, sitting down in a straight chair, took Lydia on his knee as though shewere a child. "Now, see here, my wife, you mustn't get your feelingshurt if I do some plain talking for a minute. You've been telling mewhat you think about things, and now it's my turn. And what _I_ think isthat if my dear young wife would spend more time looking after her ownbusiness she'd have fewer complaints to make about my doing the same. The thing for you to do is to accept conditions as they are and do yourbest in them--and, really, Lydia, make your best a little better. "

Lydia was on the point of nervous tears from sheer fatigue, but sheclung to her point with a tenacity which in so yielding a nature wasprofoundly eloquent. "But, Paul, if everybody had always settled downand accepted conditions, and never tried to make them better--"

"There's a difference between conditions that have to be accepted andthose that can be changed, " said Paul sententiously. 

Lydia tore herself away from him and stood up, trembling withexcitement. She felt that they had stumbled upon the very root of thematter. "But who's to decide which our conditions are?"

Paul caught at her, laughing. "I am, of course, you firebrand! Didn'tyou promise to honor and obey?" He went on with more seriousness, atender, impatient, condescending seriousness: "Now, Lydia, just stop andthink! Do you, can you, consider this a good time for you to try tosettle the affairs of the universe--still all upset about your father'sdeath, and goodness knows what crazy ideas it started in your head--andwith an addition to the family expected! _And_ the cook just left!"

"But that's the way things always are!" she protested. "That's life. There's never a time when something important hasn't just happened orisn't just going to happen, you have to go right ahead, or younever--why, Paul, I've waited for two years for a really good chance forthis talk with you--"

"Thank the Lord!" he ejaculated. "I hope it'll be another two before youtreat me to another evening like this. Oh, pshaw, Lydia! You're morbid, moping around the house too much--and your condition and all. Wait tillyou've got another baby to play with--I don't remember you had anydoubts of anything the first six months of Ariadne's life. You ought tohave a baby a year to keep you out of mischief! Just you wait till youcan entertain and live like folks again. In the meantime you hustlearound and keep busy and you won't be so bothered with thinking andworrying. "

Unknowingly, they had drawn again near to the heart of theirdiscussion. Unknowingly Lydia stood before the answer from her husband, the final statement that she wished to hear. 

"But to hustle and keep busy--that's good only so long as you keep atit. The minute you stop--"

Paul's answer was an epoch in her thought. 

"_Don't stop!_" he cried, surprised at her overlooking so obvious asolution. 

At this bullet-like retort, Lydia shivered as though she had beenstruck. She turned away with a blind impulse for flight. Her gesturebrought her husband flying to her. He took her forcibly in his arms. "What the devil--what is the matter _now_?" he asked, praying forpatience. She hung unresponsive in his grasp. "What's the matter?" herepeated. 

"You've just told me a horrible thing, " she whispered; "that life is sodreadful that the only way we can get through it at all is by neverlooking at--"

Paul actually shook her in his exasperation. "Gee whiz, Lydia! you'reenough to drive a man to drink! I never told you any such melodramaticnonsense. I told you straight horse sense, which is that if you tookmore interest in your work, in the work that every woman of your classand position has to do, you'd have less time to think foolishness--andyour husband would have an easier life. "

Her trembling lips opened to speak again, but he closed them with a firmhand. "And now, as your natural guardian, I'm not going to let you sayanother word about it. You dear little silly! However did you get us sowound up! Blessed if I have any idea what it's all been about!"

He was determined to end the discussion. He was relieved beyondexpression that he had been able to get through it without sayinganything unkind to his wife. He never meant to do that. He now went on, shaking a finger at her:

"You listen to me, Lydia-Emery-that-was! Do you know what we are goingto do? We're going out into that howling desolation that Mary hasprobably left in the kitchen, and we're going to see if we can find acouple of clean glasses, and we're going to have a glass of beer apieceand a ham sandwich and a piece of the pie that's left over from dinner. You don't know what's the matter with you, but I do! You're starved!You're as hungry as you can be, aren't you now?"

Lydia had sunk into a chair during this speech and was now regarding himfixedly, her hands clasped between her knees. At his final appeal toher, she closed her eyes. "Yes, " she said with a long breath; "yes, Iam. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

"THE AMERICAN MAN"

A ripple from the surging wave of culture which, for some years, hadbeen sweeping over the women's clubs of the Middle West, began toagitate the extremely stationary waters of Endbury social life. TheWomen's Literary Club felt that, as the long-established intellectualauthority of the town, it should somehow join in the new movement. Theorganization of this club dated back to a period now comparativelyremote. Mrs. Emery, who had been a charter member, had never been moregenuinely puzzled by Dr. Melton's eccentricities than when he hadreceived with a yell of laughter her announcement that she had justhelped to form a "literary club, " which would be the "most exclusivesocial organization" in Endbury. It had lived up to this expectation. Tobelong to it meant much, and both Paul and Flora Burgess had beengratified when, on her mother's resignation, Lydia had been elected tothe vacant place. 

This close corporation, composed of ladies in the very inner circle, felt keenly the stimulating consciousness of its importance in thehigher life of the town, and had too much civic pride to allow Endburyto lag behind the other towns in Ohio. Columbus women, owing to thelarge German population of the city, were getting a reputation for beingmusical; Cincinnati had always been artistic; Toledo had literaryaspirations; Cleveland went in for civic improvement. The leadingspirits of the Woman's Literary Club of Endbury cast about for someother sphere of interest to annex as their very own property. 

They were hesitating whether to undertake a campaign of municipalhouse-cleaning, or to devote themselves to the study of the sonnet formin English verse, when an unusual opportunity for distinction openedbefore them. The daughter of the club's president was married to aprofessor in the State University of Michigan, and on one of her visitshome she suggested that her mother's club invite to address it theAlliance Française lecturer of that year. He had to come out to AnnArbor, anyhow--Ann Arbor was not very far from Endbury--not far, thatis, as compared with the journey the lecturer would have made fromColumbia and Harvard to "Michigan State. " One of the club husbands was arailroad man and, maybe, could give them transportation. Frenchmen werealways anxious to make all the money they could--she was sure that M. Buisine could be induced to come for a not extravagant honorarium. Whyshould not Endbury go in for cosmopolitanism? That certainly would besomething new in Ohio. 

And so it was arranged for an afternoon for the first week in December, a very grand "house-darkened-and-candle-lighted performance, " asMadeleine Lowder labeled this last degree of Endbury ceremoniouselaboration. It was held at the house of Paul's aunt, so that, naturally, Lydia could by no means absent herself. Madeleine came forher, and together they took Ariadne to Marietta's house and left herthere for safe-keeping. Lydia was intensely conscious, under hersister's forbearing silence, that Marietta had never been asked to jointhe Woman's Literary Club. Even the jaunty Madeleine was aware of atension in the brief conversation over the child's head, and remarked asshe and Lydia walked away from the house: "Well, really now, _was_ thatthe most tactful thing in the world?"

"What else could I do?" asked Lydia, at her wit's end. "I don't dareleave Ariadne with those awful things from the employment agencies, and'Stashie's not coming back till next week. "

"Oh, _she's_ coming again, is she?" commented her companion. "Well, that'll mean lots of fun watching Paul squirm. But don't mind him, Lydia. " Madeleine was one of the women who prided herself on her loyalsense of solidarity among her sex. "If he says a word, you poke him onein the eye. Keep her till after your confinement, anyhow. A woman oughtto be allowed to run her house without any man butting in. We let themalone; they ought to let us. "

There never was a person in the world, Lydia thought, in whom marriagehad made less difference than in Paul's sister. She was exactly the sameas in her girlhood. Lydia wondered at her with an ever-growingamazement. The enormous significance of the marriage service, themysteries of the dual existence, her new responsibilities, --they allseemed non-existent. Paul said approvingly that Madeleine knew how toget along with less fuss than any woman he ever saw. Her breezy highspirits were much admired in Endbury, and her good humor and prodigioussatisfaction with life were considered very cheerfully infectious. 

The two women had reached Madame Hollister's house while Madeleine wasexpounding her theory of matrimony, and now took their places in thethrong of extremely well-dressed women sitting on camp chairs, the rowsof which filled the two parlors. The lecturer with the president of theclub, occupied a dais at the other end of the room. He was a tall, uglyman, with prominent blue eyes, gray hair upstanding in close-croppedmilitary stiffness, and a two-pronged grizzled beard. He was lookingover his audience with a leisurely smiling scrutiny that roused in Lydiaa secret resentment. 

"He's very distinguished looking, isn't he?" whispered Madeleine. "Sodifferent! And _cool_! I'd like to see Pete Lowder sit up there to bestared at by all this gang of women. "

"Oh, he's probably used to it, " said her neighbor on the other side. "They say he's spoken before any number of women's clubs. He does two aday sometimes. He's seen lots of American society women before now. "

Madeleine stared at him curiously. "I wonder what he thinks of us! Iwonder! I'd give anything to know!" she said. She repeated thissentiment in varying forms several times. 

Lydia wondered why Madeleine should care so acutely about the opinion ofa stranger and a foreigner, and finally, in her naïve, straightforwardway, she put this question to her. Madeleine was not one of the many whoevaded Lydia's questions, or answered them only with a laugh at theiroddity. She was very straightforward herself and generally had a veryclear idea of what underlay any action or feeling on her part. But thistime her usual rough-and-ready methods of analysis seemed at fault. 

"Oh, because, " she said indefinitely. "Don't you always want to knowwhat men are thinking of you?"

"Men that know something about me, maybe, " Lydia amended. 

Madeleine laughed. "_They're_ the ones that don't think at all, one wayor the other, " she reminded her sister-in-law. 

The president of the club rose. Her introduction of the speaker wasgreeted with cordial, muted applause from gloved hands. There was ascraping of chairs, a stir of draperies, and little gusts of delicateperfumes floated out, as the hundred or more women settled themselves atthe right angle, all their keen, handsome, nervous faces lifted to thespeaker in a pleasant expectancy. Not only were they agreeably awarethat they were forming part of one of the most recherché events ofEndbury's social life, but they were remembering piquant rumors of M. Buisine's sensational attacks on American materialism. The afternoonpromised something more interesting than their usual programme ofhome-made essays and papers. 

Their expectation was not disappointed. In fluent English, apparentlysmooth with long practice on the same theme, he wove felicitous andforceful elaborations on the proverb relating to people who are absentand the estimation in which they are held by those present. He had seenin America, he said, everything but the American man. He had seenhundreds and thousands of women as well-dressed as Parisiennes (and, asa rule, much more expensively), as self-possessed as English greatladies, as cultivated as Russian princesses, as universally andvariously handsome as visions in a painter's dream--("He's not afraid oflaying it on thick, is he?" whispered Madeleine with an appreciativelaugh)--but, except for a few professors in college, he had seen no men. He had inquired for them everywhere and was told that he did not seethem because he was a man of letters. If he had been the inventor of anew variety of railroad brake he would have seen millions. He was toldthat the men, unlike their wives, had no intellectual interests, had noclubs with any serious purposes, had no artistic aims, had no home life, no knowledge of their children, no interest in education--that, inshort, they left the whole business of worthy living to their wives, anddevoted themselves exclusively to the wild-beast joys of tearing andrending their business competitors. 

He gave many picturesque instances of his contention, he sketchedseveral lively and amusing portraits of the one or two business men hehad succeeded in running down; their tongue-tied stupefaction before theordinary topics of civilization, their scorn of all æstheticconsiderations; their incapacity to conceive of an intellectual life asworthy a grown man; the Stone-age simplicity with which they referredeverything to savage cunning; their oblivion to any other standard than"success, " by which they meant possessing something that they had takenaway by force from somebody else. 

It was indeed a very entertaining lecture, a most stimulating, interesting experience to the crowd of well-dressed women; althoughperhaps some of them found it a little long after the dining-room acrossthe hall began to be filled with waiters preparing the refreshments andan appetizing smell of freshly-made coffee filled the air. Still, it wasa lecture they had paid for, and it was gratifying to have it so fulland conscientiously elaborated. 

The ideas promulgated were not startlingly new to them, since they hadread magazine articles on "Why American Women Marry Foreigners" andsimilar analyses of the society in which they lived; but to have it saidto one's face, by a living man, a tall, ugly, distinguished foreigner, with the ribbon of the Legion of Honor in his buttonhole, --that broughtit home to one! They nodded their beautifully-hatted heads at the truthof his well-chosen, significant anecdotes, they laughed at his sallies, they applauded heartily at the end when the lecturer sat down, thelittle smile, that Lydia found so teasing, still on his bearded lips. 

"Well, he hit things off pretty close, for a foreigner, didn't he?"commented Madeleine cheerfully, gathering her white furs up to thewhiter skin of her long, fair throat and preparing for a rush on therefreshment room. "He must have kept his eyes open pretty wide since helanded. "

Lydia did not answer, nor did she join in the stampede to thedining-room. She sat still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, hereyes very bright and dark in her pale face. She was left quite alone inthe deserted room. Across the hall was the loud, incessant uproar offeminine conversation released from the imprisonment of an hour'ssilence. From the scraps of talk that were intelligible, it might havebeen one of her own receptions. Lydia heard not a mention of theopinions to which they had been listening. Apparently, they wereregarded as an entertaining episode in a social afternoon. She listenedintently. She looked across at the crowd of her acquaintances as thoughshe were seeing them for the first time. In their midst was the tallforeigner, smiling, talking, bowing, drinking tea. He was beingintroduced in succession to all of his admiring auditors. 

Lydia rose to go and made her way to the dressing-room on the secondfloor for her wraps. As she returned toward the head of the stairs shesaw a man's figure ascending, and stood aside to let him pass. He bowedwith an unconscious assurance unlike that of any man Lydia had everseen, and looked at her pale face and burning eyes with some curiosity. A faint aroma of delicate food and fading flowers and woman'ssachet-powder hung about him. It was the lecturer, fresh from his throngof admirers. Lydia's heart leaped to a sudden valiant impulse, astonishing to her usual shyness, and she spoke out boldly, hastily:"Why did you tell us all that about our men? Didn't you think any of uswould realize that they are good--our men are--good and pure and kind!Didn't you think we'd know that anything that's the matter with themmust be the matter with us, too? They had mothers as well as fathers!It's not fair to blame everything on the men! It's not fair, and itcan't be true! We're all in together, men and women. One can't beanything the other isn't!"

She spoke with a swift, grave directness, looking squarely into theman's eyes, for she was as tall as he. They were quite alone in theupper hall. From below came the clatter of the talking, eating women. The Frenchman did not speak for a moment. For the first time the faintsmile on his lips died away. He paid to Lydia the tribute of a look asgrave as her own. Finally, "Madame, you should be French, " he told her. 

The remark was so unexpected an answer to her attack that Lydia's eyeswavered. "I mean, " he went on in explanation, "that you are acting as mywife would act if she heard the men of her nation abused in theirabsence. I mean also that I have delivered practically this same lectureover thirty times in America before audiences of women, and you are thefirst to--Madame, I should like to know your husband!" he exclaimed withanother bow. 

"My husband is like all other American men, " cried Lydia sharply, touched to the quick by this reference. "It is because he is that I--"She broke off with her gesture of passionate unresignation to her lackof fluency. Already the heat of the impulse that had carried her intospeech was dying away. She began to hesitate for words. 

"Oh, I can't say what I mean--you must know it, anyhow! You blame thefathers for leaving all the bringing-up of the children to their wives, and yet you point out that the sons keep growing up all the time tobe--to be--to be all you blame their fathers for being! If we women werehalf so--fine--as you tell us, why haven't we changed things?"

The foreigner made a vivid, surprised, affirmatory gesture. "Exactly!exactly! exactly, Madame!" he cried. "It is the question I have askedmyself a thousand times: Why is it--why is it that women sostrong-willed, so unyielding in the seeking what they desire, why is itthat apparently they have no influence on the general fabric of thesociety in--"

"Perhaps it is, " said Lydia unsparingly, her latent anger coming to thesurface again and furnishing her fluency, "perhaps it is because peoplewho see our faults don't help us to correct them, but flatter us bytelling us we haven't any, and all the time think ill of us behind ourbacks. "

The lecturer began to answer with aplomb and an attempt at gracefulcynicism: "Ah, Madame, put yourself in my place! I am addressingaudiences of women. Would it be tactful to--" but under Lydia's honesteyes he faltered, stopped, flushed darkly under his heavy beard, up overhis high, narrow forehead to the roots of his gray hair. He swallowedhard. "Madame, " he said, "you have rebuked me--deservedly. I--I demandyour pardon. "

"Oh, you needn't mind me, " said Lydia humbly; "my opinion doesn't amountto anything. I oughtn't to talk, either. I don't _do_ anything differentfrom the rest--the women downstairs, I mean. I can only see there'ssomething wrong--" She found the other's gaze into her troubled eyes sofriendly that she was moved to cry out to him, all her hostility gone:"What _is_ the trouble, anyhow?"

The lecturer flushed again, this time touched by her appeal. "I proudlyput at your service any reflections I have made--as though you were mydaughter. I have a daughter about your age, who is also married--whofaces your problems. Madame, you look fatigued--will you not sit down?"He led her to a sofa on one side of the hall and took a seat beside her. "Is not the trouble, " he began, "that the women have too much leisureand the men too little--the women too little work, the men too much?"

"Oh, yes, yes, yes!" Lydia's meditations had long ago carried her pastthat point; she was impatient at his taking time to state it. "But howcan we change it?"

"You cannot change it in a day. It has taken many years to grow. It hasseemed to me that one way to change it is by using your leisuredifferently. Even those women who use their leisure for the bestself-improvement have not used it well. Many of my countrymen say thatthe culture of American women is like a child's idea ofornamentation--the hanging on the outside of all odd bits of brokenfinery. I have not found it always so. I have met many learned womenhere, many women more cultivated than my own wife. But listen, Madame, to the words of an old man. Culture is dust and ashes if the spiritualfoundations of life are not well laid; and, believe me, it takes two, aman and a woman, to lay those foundations. It can not be done alone. "

"But how, how--" began Lydia impatiently. 

"In the only way that anything can be accomplished in this world, byworking! Your women have not worked patiently, resolutely, against thedesertion of their men. Worse--they have encouraged it! Have you neverheard an American, woman say: 'Oh, I can't bear a man around the house!They are so in the way!' Or, 'I let my husband's business alone. I wanthim to let--'"

He imitated an accent so familiar to Lydia that she winced. "Oh, don't!"she said. "I see all that. "

"You must find few to see with you. "

"But how to change it?" She leaned toward him as though he could impartsome magic formula to her. 

"With the men, work to have them share your problems--work to sharetheirs. Do not be discouraged by repeated failure. Defeat should notexist for the spirit. And, oh, the true way--you pointed it out in yourfirst words. You have the training of the children. Their ideals areyours to make. A generation is a short--"

His face answered more and more the eager intentness of her own. Heraised his hand with a gesture that underlined his next words: "Butremember always, always, what Amiel says, that a child will divine whatwe really worship, and that no teaching will avail with him if we_teach_ in contradiction to what we _are_. "

They were interrupted by a loud hail from the stairs. Madeleine Lowder'shandsome head showed through the balustrade, and back of her were otheramused faces. 

"I started to look you up, Lydia, " she said, advancing upon themhilariously, "I thought maybe you weren't feeling well, and then I sawyou monopolizing the lion so that everybody was wondering where in theworld he was, and you were so wrapped up that you never even noticed me, so I motioned the others to see what a demure little cat of a sister Ihave. "

She stood before them at the end of this facetious explanation, laughing, frank, sure of herself, and as beautiful as a great rosyflower. 

"Your _sister_, " said the lecturer incredulously to Lydia. 

"My husband's sister, " Lydia corrected him, and presented the newcomerin one phrase. 

"Isn't she a sly, designing creature, Mr. Buisine?" cried Madeleine, inher usual state of hearty enjoyment of her situation. "You haven't metmany as up-and-coming, have you now?"

"I do not know the meaning of your adjective, Mademoiselle; but it istrue that I have met few like your brother's wife. "

"I'm not Mademoiselle!" Madeleine was greatly amused at the idea. 

The lecturer looked at her with a return to his enigmatic smile of theearlier afternoon. "I never saw a person who looked more unmarried thanyourself, Mademoiselle, " he persisted. 

"Oh, we American women know the secret of not looking married, " saidMadeleine proudly. 

"You do indeed, " said the Frenchman with the manner of gallantry. "Allof you look unmarried. "

Lydia rose to go. The lecturer looked at her, his eyes softening, andmade a silent gesture of farewell. 

He turned back to Madeleine. "But I _am_, " she assured him, pleased andflattered with the centering of their persiflage on herself. She made agesture toward Lydia, disappearing down the stairs. "I'm as much marriedas _she_ is!"

M. Buisine continued smiling. "That is quite, quite incredible, " he toldher. 

CHAPTER XXIX

". . . In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be. Passions spin the plot. "

"Say, Lydia, " said Madeleine with her bluff good humor, coming into thehouse a few days after the French lecture, "say, I'm awfully sorry Itold Paul! I never supposed he'd go and get mad. It was just my foolnotion of being funny. "

Lydia was dusting the balustrade, her back to her visitor. She tingledall through at this speech, and for an instant went on with her work, trying to decide if she should betray the fact that she knew nothing ofthe incident to which Madeleine's remark seemed to refer, or if sheshould, as she had done so many times already, conceal under a silenceher ignorance of what her husband told other people. She never learnedof matters pertaining to Paul's profession except from chance remarks ofhis business associates. He had not even told her, until questioned, about his great inspiration for rearranging the territory covered inthat region by his company; a plan that must have engrossed his thoughtsand fired his enthusiasm during months of apparently common life withhis wife. And Paul had been genuinely surprised, and a little put out ather desire to know of it. 

She decided that she dared not in this instance keep silent. She was tooentirely in the dark as to what Madeleine had done. "I don't know whatyou're talking about, Madeleine, " she said, turning around, dust-clothin hand, trying to speak casually. 

Her sister-in-law stared. "Didn't Paul come home and give it to you? Helooked as though he were going to. "

Lydia's heart sank in a vague premonition of evil. "Paul hasn't saidanything to me. Why in the world should he? Is it about 'Stashie? She'sbeen back several days now, but I thought he hadn't noticed her much. "

"Well, he _hasn't_ said anything, that's a fact!" exclaimed Madeleine, with the frank implication in her voice that she had not before believedLydia's statement. "My, no! It's not about 'Stashie. It's about theFrench lecturer. "

Lydia's astonishment at this unexpected answer quite took away herbreath. "_About the_--" she began. 

"Why, look-y here, it was this way, " explained Madeleine rapidly. "Itold you I was only joking. I thought it would be fun to tease Paulabout the mash you made on old What's-his-name--about your sitting offon a sofa with him, and being so wrapped up you didn't even notice whenthe whole gang of us came to look at you--and maybe I stretched it someabout how you looked leaning forward and gazing into his eyes--" Shebroke off with a laugh, cheerfully unable to continue a serious attitudetoward life. "Oh, never you mind! It does a married man good to make himjealous once in a while. Keeps 'em from getting too stodgy andhusbandy. "

"Jealous!" cried Lydia. "Paul jealous! Of me! Never!" Her certainty onthe point was instant and fixed. 

"Well, you'd ha' thought he was, if you'd seen him. I was jollying himalong--we were in the trolley, going to Endbury. I had to take thatearly car so's to keep a date with Briggs, and, oh, Lydia! that brownsuit he's making for me is a _dream_, simply a dream! He's put a littlebraid, just the least little bit, along--"

"What did Paul say?"

"Paul? Oh, yes--How'd I get switched off onto Briggs? Why, Paul didn'tsay _anything_; that was what made me see he wasn't taking it right. Hejust sat still and listened and listened till it made me feel foolish. Ithought he'd jolly me back, you know. He's usually a great hand forthat. And then when I looked at him I saw he looked as black as athundercloud--that nasty look he has when he's real mad. When we werechildren and he'd look that way, I'd grab up any old thing and hit himquick, so's to get it in before he hit me. Well, I was awfully sorry, and I said, 'Why, hold on a minute, Paul, let me tell you--' but he saidhe guessed I'd told him about enough, and before I could open my mouthhe dropped off the car. We'd got in as far as Hayes Avenue. I wanted toexplain, you know, that the Frenchman was old enough to be our_grandfather_!"

"When did this happen?"

"Oh, I don't know; three or four days ago--why, Thursday, it must havebeen, for after I got through with Briggs I went on to that--"

"And this is Monday, " said Lydia; "four days. "

At the sight of her sister-in-law's troubled eyes, Madeleine was againovercome with facile remorse. She clapped her on the shoulderhearteningly. "I'm awfully sorry, Lyd, but don't you go being afraid ofPaul. You're too gentle with him, anyhow. A married woman can't affordto be. You have to keep the men in their places, and you can't do thatif you don't knock 'em the side of the head once in so often. It's goodfor 'em. Honest! And about this, don't you worry your head a minute. Like as not Paul's forgot everything about it. He'd forget anything, youknow he would, if an interesting job came up in business. And if he everdoes say anything, you just laugh and tell him about old Thingamajig'swhite hair and pop eyes, and he'll laugh at the joke on himself. "

Lydia drew back with a gesture of extreme repugnance. "Don't talk so--asthough Paul could be so--so vulgar. "

Madeleine laughed. "I guess you won't find a man in _this_ world thatisn't 'vulgar' that way. "

"Why, I've been _married_ to Paul for years--he wouldn't think I--nomatter what you told him, he couldn't conceive of my--"

Mrs. Lowder, as usual, found her brother's wife very diverting. "Of yourdoing a little hand-holding on the side? Oh, go on! Flirting's nocrime! And you did--honest to goodness, you did, turn that old fellow'shead. You ought to have seen the way he looked after you. "

Lydia cut her off with a sharp "Oh, _don't_!" She was now sitting, stillabsently grasping the dust-cloth. 

Madeleine stood for a moment looking at her in a meditative silencerather unusual for her. "Lydia, you don't look a bit well, " she saidkindly. "Are you still bothered with that nausea?" She sat down by hersister-in-law and put her arms around her with an impulse ofaffectionate pity that almost undid Lydia, always so helplesslyresponsive to tenderness. "What's the matter, Lyd?" Madeleine went on. "Something's not going just right. Are you scared about this secondconfinement? Is Paul being horrid about something? You just take myadvice, and if you want anything out of him, you fight for it. Nobodygets anything in this world if they don't put up a fight for it. "

Lydia began to say that there were some things which lost their value ifobtained by fighting, but suddenly she stopped her faltering words, drewa long breath, and laid her head on the other's shoulder. More thanwifely loyalty kept her silent. All her lifelong experience of Madeleinecrystallized into a certainty of her limitations, and with thiscertainty came the realization that Madeleine stood for all the circleof people about her. Lydia had learned one lesson of life. She knew, shenow knew intensely, that there was no cry by which she could reach thespiritual ear of the warm human beings so close to her in the body. Sheknew there was no language in which she could make intelligible hertravail of soul. In the moment the two women sat thus, she renounced, once for all, any hope of outside aid in her perplexities. They laybetween herself and Paul. She could hope to find expression and relieffor them only through that unique privilege of marriage, utter intimacy. 

She kissed her husband's sister gently, comforted somewhat by the merefact of her presence. "You're good to bother about me, Maddely, " shesaid, using a pet name of their common childhood. "I guess I'm notfeeling very well these days. But that's to be expected. "

"Well, I tell you what, I wouldn't be so patient about it as _you_ are!"cried the other wife. "It's simply horrid to have all this a secondtime, and Ariadne so little yet. It's _mean_ of Paul. "

She continued voicing an indignant sympathy with her usual energy. Lydialooked at her with a vague smile. At the first words of the childlesswoman, she had been filled with the mother-hunger which gave savor toher life during those days. As Madeleine went on, she sat unheeding, lost in a fond impatience to feel the tiny body on her knees, the downyhead against her cheek. Her arms ached with emptiness. For an instant, so vivid was her sense of it, the child seemed to be there, in her arms. She felt the eager tug of the soft lips at her breast. She lookeddown--"Well, anyhow, you poor, dear thing! I hope you will bottle-feedthis one! It would be just a little _too_ much if they made you nurseit!"

Lydia did not even attempt a protest. Her submissive, entire acceptanceof spiritual isolation seemed an answer to many of the conflictingimpulses which had hitherto distracted her. She wished that she couldreassure Madeleine by telling her that she would never again makeanother "odd" speech to her. She renounced all common life except thechildlike, harmless, animal-like one of mutual material wants, and thisrenunciation brought her already a peace which, though barren, wasinfinitely calming after her former struggling uncertainties. "How didthose waists come out that you sent to the cleaner's, Madeleine?" sheasked, in a bright, natural tone of interest. "I hope the blue one_didn't_ fade. "

Madeleine reported to her husband that Lydia had seemed in one of herqueer notional moods at first, but cheered up afterward and talked more"like folks, " and seemed more like herself than she had since her fatherdied. They had a real good visit together she said, and she began tothink she could get some good satisfaction out of having Lydia for aneighbor, after all. 

But after Lydia was alone, there sprang upon her the terror of living onsuch terms with Paul. No, no! Never that! It would be dying by inches!Beaten back to this last inner stronghold of the dismantled castle ofher ideals of life, she prepared to defend it with the energy ofdesperation. 

She did not believe Madeleine's story, or, at least, not herinterpretation of Paul's attitude, but she felt a dreary chill at hissilence toward her. It seemed to her that their marriage ought to havebrought her husband an irresistible impulse to have in all theirrelations with each other a perfect openness. She resolved that shewould begin to help him to that impulse that very day; now, at once. 

When Paul came in, he seemed abstracted, and went directly upstairs topack a satchel, stating with his usual absence of explanatory commentthat he was called to Evanston on business. He ate his dinner rathersilently, glancing furtively at the paper. Only at thebreakfast-table--such was their convention--did he allow himself tobecome absorbed in the news. 

Ariadne prattled to her mother of her adventures in the kitchen, wherePatsy O'Hern, 'Stashie's cousin Patsy, was visiting her, and he madeAriadne a "horse out of a potato and toothpicks for legs, and a littlewagon out of a matchbox, and a paper doll to sit and drive, and Patsywas perfectly loverly, anyhow, and he was making such a lot of moneyevery day, and, oh, he made the wheels out of potato, too, as round ascould be he cut it, and he gave every cent of it to his grandmother andshe loved him as much as she did 'Stashie, and wasn't it good to have'Stashie back, and--"

Paul frowned silently over his pie. 

"Come, dear; it's seven o'clock and bedtime, " said Lydia, leading thelittle girl away. 

When she came back she noticed by the clock that she had been gonealmost half an hour. She was surprised to see Paul still in thedining-room, as though he had not stirred since she left him. He wassitting in an attitude of moody idleness, singular with him, his elbowson the table, his chin in his hands. He looked desperately, tragicallytired. 

No inward monitor gave any warning to Lydia of what the next few momentswere to be in her life. She crossed the room quickly to her husband, feeling a great longing to be close to him. 

As she did so, a rattling clatter of tin was heard from the kitchen, followed by a shout of roaring laughter. Something in Paul's tense facesnapped. He started up, overturning his chair. "Oh, _damn_ that idiot!"he cried. 

The door opened behind them. 'Stashie stood there, her red hair hiddenin a mass of soft dough that was beginning to ooze down over herperspiring, laughing face. "I just wanted to show you what a comycalthing happened, Mis' Hollister, " she began, in her familiar way. "'Twould make a pig laugh, now! I'd begun my bread dough, and put it ona shelf, an'--"

"Oh, get out of here!" Paul yelled at her furiously. "And less noise outof you in the kitchen!"

He slammed the door shut on her retreat, and turned to Lydia with a faceshe did not recognize. The room grew black before her eyes. 

"I suppose you still prefer that dirty Irish slut to my wishes, " hesaid. 

His words, his accent, the quality of his voice, were the zigzag oflightning to his wife. The storm burst over her head like thunder. 

She was amazed to feel a great wave of anger surge up in her, responsiveto his own. She cried, in outraged resentment at his injustice: "Youknow very well--" and stopped, horrified at the passion which roseclamoring to her lips. 

"I know very well that my home is the last place where my wishes areconsulted, " said Paul, catching her up. 

"I will dismiss 'Stashie to-morrow, " returned Lydia with a bitter, proud brevity. 

"You're rather slow to take a hint. How long has she been with us? Asfor your saying that you can't get anyone else, and can't keep housedecently as other decent people do, there isn't a word of truth in it!You can do whatever you care enough about to try to do. You didn't makean incompetent mess of taking care of the baby as you did out of thatdisgusting dinner party!"

It was the first time he had ever spoken outright to her of thatexperience. Lydia was transfixed to hear the poison of the memory asfresh in his voice as though it had happened yesterday. 

"I'm simply not worth putting yourself out for, " went on Paul, turningaway and picking up his overcoat. "I'm only a common, ignorant, materialistic beast of an American husband!" He added in an insultingtone: "I suppose you'd like two husbands; one to earn your living foryou, and one to talk to about your soul and to exchange near-culturewith!"

He had not looked at Lydia as he poured out this sudden flood ofacrimony, but at her quick, fierce reply, he faced her. 

"I'd like _one_ husband, " she cried white with indignation. 

"And I'd like a wife!" Paul flashed back at her hotly. "A wife that'd bea help and not a hindrance to everything I want to do--a wife that'd beloyal to me behind my back, and not listen to sneaking foreignerstelling her that she's a misunderstood martyr--_martyr_!" His sense ofinjury exalted him. "Yes; all you American wives are martyrs, all right, I must say. While your husbands are working like dogs to make you money, you're sitting around with nothing to do but drink tea and listen to aforeigner who tells you--in summer time, while you're enjoying the coolbreeze out here on a--maybe you think a dynamo-room's a funny place tobe, with the thermometer standing at--what am I _doing_ when I'm awayfrom you? Enjoying myself, no doubt. Maybe you think it's enjoyment totravel all night on a--maybe you think it's nice to make yourselfconspicuous with another man that's been abusing your--"

Lydia could hear no more for a loud roaring in her ears. She knew thenthe blackest moment of her life--a sickening scorn for the man beforeher. Madeleine had been right, then. They were of the same blood. Hissister knew him better than--she, his wife, his wedded wife, was not tobe spared the pollution of having her husband--

"I didn't take any stock in Madeleine's nasty insinuations about yourflirting with him, of course, but it showed me what you've been thinkingabout me all this time I've been working like a--"

Lydia drew the first conscious breath since the beginning of thisnightmare. The earth was still under her feet, struck down to it thoughshe was. The roaring in her ears stopped. She heard Paul say:

"Maybe you think I'm made of iron! I tell you I'm right on my nervesevery minute! Dr. Melton threatens me with a breakdown every time I seehim!" There was a sort of angry pride in this statement. "I can't sleep!I'm doing ten men's work! And what do I get from you? Any rest? Anyquiet? Why, these first years, when you might have made things easierfor me by taking all other cares off my mind and leaving me free forbusiness--they've actually been harder because of you!"

He thrust his arms into his overcoat and caught up his satchel. "Ihaven't wanted anything so hard to give! Good Lord! All I asked for wasa well-kept house where I could invite my friends without being ashamedof it, and to live like other decent people!" He moved to the door, andput one hand, one strong, thin hand, on the knob. With the unearthlyclearness of one in a terrible accident, Lydia noticed every detail ofhis appearance. He was flushed, a purple, congested color, singularlyunlike his usual indoor pallor; hurried pulses throbbed visibly, almostaudibly, at his temples; one eyelid twitched rapidly and steadily, likea clock ticking. With a gesture as automatic as drawing breath, hejerked out his watch and looked at it, apparently to make sure ofcatching his trolley, although his valedictory was poured out with sucha passionate unpremeditation that the action must have been involuntaryand unconscious. "But I don't even ask that now--since it doesn't suityou to bother to give it! All I ask now ought to be easy enough for anywoman to do--not to _bother_ me! Leave me alone! Keep your everlastingstewing and fussing and hysterical putting-on to yourself! I don'tbother you with my affairs--I haven't, and I never will--why, for God'ssake, can't you-- Some men marry women who help them, and pull with themloyally, instead of pulling the other way all the time! Such a womanwould have made me a thousand times more successful than I--"

Lydia broke in with a loud voice of anguished questioning: "Do they makethem better men?" she asked piercingly. 

Her husband looked at her over his shoulder. "Oh, you and yourgoody-goody cant!" he said, and going out without further speech, closedthe door behind him. 

The clock struck the half-hour. Their conversation had lasted less thanfive minutes. 

CHAPTER XXX

TRIBUTE TO THE MINOTAUR

The scene of Paul's departure was no worse than many an outbreak in theordinary married life of ordinary, quick-tempered, over-tired marriedpeople, for whom an open quarrel brings relief like the clearing of theair after an electric storm, but to Lydia it was no such surfacemanifestation of nerves. The impulse that had made them both break outinto the cruel words came from some long-gathering bitterness, the veryexistence of which was like the end of all things to her. A single flashof lightning had showed her to the edge of what a terrifying precipicethey had strayed, and then had left her in darkness. 

That was how it seemed to her; she was in the most impenetrableblackness, though the little girl played on beside her with a child'scheerful blindness to its elder's emotion, and Anastasia detectednothing but that her mistress had a better color than before and steppedabout quite briskly. 

It was the restless activity of a tortured animal which drove Lydia fromone household task to another, hurrying her into a trembling physicalexhaustion, which, however, brought with it no instant's cessation ofthe tumult in her heart. The night after Paul's departure was like ablack eternity to her turning wildly on her bed, or rising to walk aswildly about the silent house. "But I can't stand this!--to hate and behated! I can not bear it! I must do something--but what? but what?" Onceshe feared she had screamed out these ever-recurring words, so audiblylike a cry of agony did they ring in her ears; but, forcing herself toan instant's immobility, she heard Ariadne's light, regular breathingcontinue undisturbed. 

She sat down on her bed and told herself that she would go out of hermind if she could not think something different from this chaos of angrymisery. She fell on her knees, she sent her soul out in a supreme appealfor help and, still kneeling, she felt the intolerable tension withinher loosen. She began to cry softly. The unnatural strength which hadsustained her gave way; she sank together in a heap, her head leaningagainst the bed, her arms thrown out across it. Here Anastasia found herthe next morning, apparently asleep, although upon being called sheseemed to come to herself from a deeper unconsciousness. 

Whatever it had been, the hour or two of oblivion that lay back of herwas like a wall between her soul and the worst phase of her suffering. In answer to her cry for help, perhaps an appeal to the best in her ownnature, there had come a cessation of what was to her the onlyunbearable pain--the bitter, blaming anger which had flared up in her, answering her husband's anger like the reflection of a torch in amirror. In that silent hour before dawn, she had seen Paul suddenly as avictim to forces outside himself quite as much as she was; poor, tiredPaul, with his haggard face, flushed with a wrath that was not his own, but an involuntary expression of suffering, the scream of a man caughtin the cogs of a great machine. She hung before her mental vision now, constantly, the picture of Paul as she had seen him when she camedownstairs; Paul leaning his chin on his hands, his jaded face white anddrawn under his thinning, graying hair. 

The alleviation which came through this conception of her husband wastempered by the final disappearance of her old feeling that Paul wasstronger, clearer-headed, than she, and that if she could but once makehim stop and understand the forces in their life which she feared, hecould conquer them as easily as he conquered obstacles in the way oftheir material success. She now felt that he was not even as strong asshe, since he could not get even her faint glimpse of their commonenemy, this Minotaur of futile materialism which had devoured the youngyears of their marriage and was now threatening to destroy thepossibility of a great, strongly-rooted affection which had lain soclearly before them. She felt staggered by the responsibility of havingto be strong enough for two; and as another day wore on this newpreoccupation became almost as absorbing an obsession as her anger ofthe night before. 

But this was steadying in the very velocity with which her mind sweptaround the circle of possible courses of action. Her thoughts hummedwith a steady, dizzy speed around and around the central idea thatsomething must be done and that she was now the only one to do it. 'Stashie thought to herself that she had never seen Mrs. Hollister lookso well, her eyes were so bright, her cheeks so pink. 

Lydia had set herself the task of getting down and sorting the curtainsin the house, preparatory to sending them to the cleaner. Above thepiles of dingy drapery, her face shone, as 'Stashie had noted, with astrange, feverish brightness. Her knees shook under her, but she walkedabout quickly. Ariadne ran in and out of the house, chirping away to hermother of various wonderful discoveries in the world of outdoors. Lydiaheard her as from a distance, although she gave relevant answers to thechild's talk. 

"It has come down, " she was saying to herself, "to a life-and-deathstruggle. It isn't a question now of how much of the best in Paul, inme, in our life, we can save. It's whether we can save _any_! How dirtylace curtains get! It must be the soft coal--yes, it is a life and deathstruggle--I must see to Ariadne's underwear. It is too warm for thesesunny days. --Oh! Oh! Paul and I have quarreled! And what about! Aboutsuch sickeningly trivial things--how badly 'Stashie dusts! There arerolls of dust under the piano--but I thought people onlyquarreled--quarreled terribly--over great things: unfaithfulness, cruelty, differences in religion! Oh, if I only now had a religion, areligion which would--Yes, Ariadne; but only to the edge of the drivewayand back. How muddy the driveway is! Paul said it should have moregravel--_Paul!_ How _can_ he come back to me after such--Madeleine saysmarried people always quarrel--how can they look into each other's eyesagain! We must escape that sort of life! We must! We _must_!"

The thought of what she had hoped from her marriage and of what she had, filled her with the most passionate self-reproach. It must be at leasthalf her fault, since she and Paul made up but one whole. As she helped'Stashie sort the dingy curtains, she was saying over and over toherself that she was responsible, responsible as much as for Ariadne'shealth. This conception so possessed her now that she felt herself ableto accomplish anything, even the miracle needed. 

To have achieved this state of passionate resolution gave her for amoment the sense of having started upon the straight road to escape fromher nightmare; and for the first time since the door had slammed behindPaul she drew a long breath and was able to give more than a blind gazeto the world about her. 

She noticed that, though it was after twelve o'clock, Ariadne had notbeen told to come to luncheon. When the little girl came running at hermother's call, her vivid face flushed with happy play, Lydia knew athrob of that exquisite, unreasoning parent's joy, lying too near thevery springs of life for any sickness of the spirit to affect it. Likeeverything else, however, the touch of the child's tight-clinging armsabout her neck brought her back to her preoccupation. Ariadne must notbe allowed to grow up to such a regret as she felt, that she had neverknown her father. There were moments, she saw them clearly, when Paulrealized with difficulty the fact of his daughter's existence, and henever realized it as a fact involving any need for a new attitude on hispart. 

"When is Daddy coming back to us _vis_ time?" asked Ariadne over heregg. 

Anastasia paused furtively at the door. She had had a divination oftrouble in the last talk between her master and mistress. The door hadslammed. Mr. Hollister had not called for the tie she was pressing forhim in the kitchen--'Stashie told herself fiercely that "killing wud betoo good for her, makin' trouble like the divil's own!" She listenedanxious for Lydia's answer. 

"Daddy's coming back to us as soon as his business is done, " said Paul'swife. At the turn of her phrase she turned cold, and added with a quickvehemence: "No, no! before that! Long before that!" She went on, tocover her agitation and get the maid out of the room, "'Stashie, get thebaby a glass of milk. "

"The front door bell's ringin', " said 'Stashie, departing in thatdirection, with the assurance of her own ability to choose the propertask for herself, so exasperating to her master. 

She came back bringing Miss Burgess in her wake, Miss Burgessapologizing for "coming right _in_, that way, " exclaiming effusively atthe pretty picture made by mother and child, --"She must be such companyfor you, Miss Lydia"--Miss Burgess, deferential, sure of her ownposition and her hostess', and determinedly pleased with the generalstate of things. Lydia repressed a sigh of impatience, but, noting thetired lines in the little woman's face, told Anastasia to make anothercup of tea for Miss Burgess and cook her an egg. 

"Oh, delighted, I'm sure! Quite an honor to have the same lunch withlittle Miss Hollister. "

Ariadne did not smile at this remark, though from the speaker's accentit was meant as a pleasantry. 

Miss Burgess cast about in her mind for another bit of suitablebadinage, but finding none, she began at once on the object of hervisit. 

"Now, my dear, I want you to listen to all I have to say before you makeone objection. It's an idea of my very own. You'll let me get throughwithout interruption?"

"Yes, oh, yes, " murmured Lydia, lifting Ariadne down from her high-chairand untying the napkin from about her thin little neck. 

The introduction of a new element in her surroundings had for a momentbroken the thread of her exalted resolutions. She wondered with a soreheart, as though it had been a common lovers' quarrel, how she and Paulcould ever get over the first sight of each other again. She waswondering how, with the most passionate resolve in the world, she coulddo anything at all under the leaden garment of physical fatigue whichwould weigh her down in the months to come. 

Miss Burgess began in her best style, which she so evidently consideredvery good indeed, that she could not doubt Lydia's attention. It was allabout a home for working-women she explained; a new charity which hadcome from the East, had caught on like anything among the Smart Set ofColumbus, and was about to be introduced into Endbury. The mostexclusive young people in Columbus--the East End Set (Miss Burgess had agenius for achieving oral capitalization) gave a parlor play for thefirst benefit there, in one of the Old Broad Street Homes, and they werewilling to repeat it in Endbury to introduce it there. A Perfectlysplendid crowd was sure to come, tickets could be Any Price, and thehostess who lent her house to it could have the glory of a most uniqueaffair. Mrs. Lowder would be overwhelmed with delight to have the pickof the Society of the Capital at her house, but Miss Burgess had thoughtit such an opportunity for Miss Lydia to come out of mourning with, since it was for charity. She motioned Lydia, about to speak, sternly tosilence: "You said you wouldn't interrupt! And you haven't let me say_half_ yet! That's your side of it--the side your dear mother wouldthink of if she were only here; but there's another side that you can't, you _oughtn't_ to resist!" She finished her tea with a hasty swallowand, going around the table, sat down by Lydia, laying her handimpressively on the young matron's slim arm. "You're the sweetest thingin the world, of course, but, like other people of your fortunate class, you can't realize how perfectly awfully lucky you are, nor how unlucky_poor_ people are! Of course it stands to reason that you can't evenimagine the life of a working-woman--you, a woman of entire leisure, with every want supplied before you speak of it by a husband who adoresyou! Why, Miss Lydia, to give you some idea let me tell you just onelittle thing. Lots and lots of the working-women of Endbury live withtheir families in two or three rooms right on that horrid Main Streetnear their work because they can't afford _carfares_!"

Lydia looked at her without speaking. She remembered her futile, desperate, foolish proposition to Paul to get more time together byliving near his work. With a roar, the flood of her bewilderment, diverted for a time, broke over her again. She braced herself againstit. Through her companion's dimly-heard exhortations that, from her highheaven of self-indulgence, she stoop to lend a hand to her less favoredsisters, she repeated to herself, clinging to the phrase as though itwere a magic formula: "If I can only wish hard enough to make thingsbetter, nothing can prevent me. "

The telephone bell rang, and Miss Burgess interrupted herself to say:"It's for me, I know. I told them at the office to call me up here. " Shegot herself out of the room in her busy way, her voice soon coming in afaint murmur from the far end of the hall. 

Lydia walked to the window to call Ariadne in to put on a wrap, thethought and action automatic. She had buttoned the garment about thechild's slender body before she responded again to the little livingpresence. Then she took her in a close embrace. With the child's breathon her face, with her curls exhaling the fresh outdoor air, there cameto pass for poor Lydia one of the strange, happy mysteries of thecontradictory tangle that is human nature. She had felt it often withPaul after one of their long separations--how mere physical presence cansometimes bring a consolation to the distressed spirit. 

As she held her child to her heart, things seemed for a moment quiteplain and possible. Why, Paul was Ariadne's father! As soon as he waswith her again, all would be well. It must be. Nothing could separateher from the father of her baby! They were one flesh now. There wasstill all their lifetime to grow to be one in spirit. She had only totry harder. They had simply started on a false track. They were soyoung. So many years lay before them. There was plenty of time to turnback and start all over again--there was plenty of time to--

"Oh, my dear! my dear!" Miss Burgess faltered weakly into the room andsank upon a chair. 

Lydia sprang up, Ariadne still in her arms, and faced her for a longsilent instant, searching her face with passion. Then she set the littlegirl down gently. "Run out and play, dear, " she said, and until the doorhad shut on the child she did not stir. Her hand at her throat, "Well?"she asked. 

Miss Burgess began to cry into her handkerchief. 

"It's Paul!" said Lydia with certainty. She sat down. 

The weeping woman nodded. 

"He has left me, " Lydia continued in the same dry tone of affirmation. "I know. We had a quarrel, and he has left me. "

Miss Burgess looked up, quite wild with surprise, her sobs cut short, her face twisted. "Oh, no--no--no!" she cried, running across the roomand putting her arms about the other. "No; it's not that! He--he--theman who telephoned said they were testing the dynamo, and your husbandinsisted on--"

Lydia came to life like a swimmer emerging into the air after a longdive. "Oh, he's hurt! He's hurt!" she cried, bounding to her feet. "Imust go to him. I must go to him!"

She tore herself away from the reporter and darted toward the door. Theolder woman ran after her, stumbling, sobbing, putting hands ofimploring pity on her. 

Although no word was spoken, Lydia suddenly screamed out as though shehad been stabbed. "_NO! Not that!_" she cried. 

"Yes, yes, my poor darling!" said the other. 

Lydia turned slowly around. "Then it is too late. We never can dobetter, " she said. 

Miss Burgess tried helplessly to unburden her kind heart of its achingsympathy. "You spoke of a little disagreement, but, oh, my dear, don'tlet that be the last thought. Think of the years of perfect love andknowledge you had together. "

"We never knew each other, " said Lydia. Her voice did not tremble. 

"Oh, don't! don't!" pleaded Miss Burgess, alarmed. "You mustn't let itunhinge you so! Such a perfect marriage!"

"We were never married, " said Lydia. She leaned against the wall andclosed her eyes. 

"Oh, help! Someone!" called the poor reporter. "Somebody come quick. "

Lydia opened her eyes. She spoke still in a low, steady voice, but in itnow was a shocking quality from which the other shrank back terrified. "_I could have loved him!_" she said. 

"Quick--'Stashie--hurry--keep the baby out of the room! Your mistresshas fainted!"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 BOOK IV

 "BUT IT IS NOT TOO LATE FOR ARIADNE"

CHAPTER XXXI

PROTECTION FROM THE MINOTAUR

Dr. Melton burst open the door of the house in the Black Rock woods, andrunning to the owner caught hold of his bared brown arm. "Paul Hollisteris dead!" he cried. 

"I read the papers, " said Rankin, looking down at him without stirring. 

"The damn fool!" cried the doctor, his face working. "Just now! There'sanother child expected. "

Rankin's inscrutable gravity did not waver at this speech. He felt thehand that rested on his arm tremble, and he was thinking, as Judge Emeryhad so often thought, that perhaps one reason for the doctor's successin treating women was a certain community of too-responsive nerves. "Youcan hardly blame a man because the date of his death is inconvenient, "he said reasonably. He drew up one of his deep chairs and pushed thedoctor into it. "Sit down and get your breath. You look sick. How do youhappen to be up so early? It's hardly daylight. "

"Up! You don't suppose I've been to bed! Lydia--" His voice halted. 

Rankin's quiet face stirred. "She feels it--terribly?"

"I can't make her out! I can't make her out!" The doctor flung thisconfession of failure before him excitedly. "I don't know what's in hermind, but she's evidently dangerously near--women in her conditionnever have a very settled mental poise, anyhow, and this suddenshock--they _telephoned_ it--and there was nobody there but that foolFlora--"

"Do you mean that Mrs. Hollister is out of her mind?" asked Rankinsquarely. 

"I don't know! I don't know, I tell you! She says strangethings--strange things. When I got there yesterday afternoon, she washolding Ariadne--you knew, didn't you? that she called their little girlAriadne--?"

Rankin sat down, white to the lips. "No, " he said, "I didn't know that. I never heard anything about--about her married life. "

"Well, she was holding Ariadne as close as though she was expectingkidnapers. I came in and she looked up--God! Rankin, with what a face offear! It wasn't grief. It was terror! She said: 'I must save thechildren--I mustn't let it get the children, too. ' I asked her what shemeant, and she went on in a whisper that fairly turned the bloodbackward in my veins, 'The Minotaur! He got Paul--I must hide thechildren from him!' And that's all she would say. I managed to putAriadne to bed, though Lydia screamed at the idea of having her out ofher sight, and I gave Lydia a bromide and made her lie down. I think sheknew me--oh, yes, I'm sure she did--why, she seemed like herself inevery way but that one--but all night long she has wakened at intervalswith a shriek and would not be quieted until she had felt of Ariadne. Nothing I said has had the slightest effect. I'm at my wits' end! If shedoesn't get quieted soon--I finally gave her an opiate--enough to drugher senseless for a time--I don't know what to do! I don't know what todo!" He dropped his head into his hands and sat silent, shivering. 

Rankin was looking at him, motionless, his powerful hands gripping hisknees. He did not seem to breathe at all. 

The doctor sprang up and began to trot about, kicking at the legs ofthe furniture and biting his nails. "Yes, I can, too! I do blame him forthe date of his death!" He went back angrily to an earlier remark. "Hollister killed himself as gratuitously as if he had taken a pistol!And he did it out of sheer, devilish vanity--ambition! He had workedhimself almost insane, anyhow. I'd warned him that he must take it easy, get all the rest he could. His nerves were like fiddle-strings. And whatdid he do? Made a night trip to Evanston to superintend a job entirelyoutside his work. The inspector gave the machines the regular test; butPaul wasn't satisfied. Said they hadn't come up to what he'd guaranteedto get the contract; took charge of the test himself, ran the speed upgoodness knows how high. The inspector said he warned him, but Paul hadgot going and nothing could stophim--speed-mad--efficiency-mad--whatever you call it. And at last thefly-wheel on the engine couldn't stand it. It went through four floorsand tore a hole in the roof--they say, in their ghastly phrase, thereisn't enough left of him for a funeral! The other men left widows andchildren, too, I suppose--Oh, damn! damn! damn!" He stopped short in themiddle of the floor, his teeth chattering, his hand at his mouth. 

Rankin's face showed that he was making a great effort to speak. "WouldI be allowed to see her?" he asked finally. 

The doctor spun round on him, amazed. "You? Lydia? Why in the world?"

"Perhaps I could quiet her. I have been able to quiet several delirioussick people when others couldn't. "

"I don't even know she's delirious--that's what puzzles me. She seems--"

"Will you let me try?" asked Rankin again. 

 * * * * *

When they reached the house in Bellevue, Lydia was still in a heavystupor, so Mrs. Sandworth told them, showing no surprise at Rankin'sappearance. The two men sat down outside the door of her room to wait. It was a long hour they passed there. Rankin sat silent, holding on hisknee little Ariadne, who amused herself quietly with his watch and theleather strap that held it. He took the back off, and let her see thelittle wheel whirring back and forth. His eyes never left the child'sserious, rosy face. Once or twice he laid his large, work-roughened handgently on her dark hair. 

Dr. Melton fidgeted about, making excursions into the sick room anddownstairs to look after his business by telephone, and, when he sat bythe door, relieving his overburdened heart from time to time in somesudden exclamation. "Paul hasn't left a penny, of course, " one of theseran, "and he hadn't finished paying for the house. But she'll comenaturally to live with Julia and me. " At these last words, in spite ofhis painful preoccupation, a tender look of anticipation lighted hisface. 

Again, he said: "What crazy notion can it be about the whatever-it-wasgetting Paul?" Later, "Was there ever such a characteristic death?"Finally, with a long sigh: "Poor Paul! Poor Paul! It doesn't seem morethan yesterday that he was a little boy. He was a brave little boy!"

Mrs. Sandworth came to the door. "She's beginning to come to herself, Ithink. She stirs, and moves her hands about. "

As she spoke, there was a scream from the bedroom: "My baby! My baby!"

Rankin sprang to his feet, holding Ariadne on one arm, and steppedquickly inside. "Here is the baby, " he said in a quiet voice. "I washolding her all the time you slept. I will not let the Minotaur comenear her. "

Lydia looked at him long, with no sign of recognition. The room wasintensely silent. A drop of blood showed on Dr. Melton's lower lip wherehis teeth gripped it. 

"Nobody else sees it, " said Lydia in a hurried, frightened tone. "Theywon't believe me when I say it is there. They won't take care ofAriadne. They can't--"

"I see it, " Rankin broke in. He went on steadily: "I will take carethat it does not hurt Ariadne. "

"Do you promise?" asked Lydia solemnly. 

"I promise, " said Rankin. 

Lydia looked about her wonderingly, with blank eyes. "I think, then, Iwill lie down and rest a little, " she said, in a thin, weak voice. "Ifeel very tired. I can't seem to remember what makes me so tired. " Shesank back on the pillows and closed her eyes. Her face was like a sickchild's in its appealing, patient look of suffering. She looked up atRankin again. "You will not go far?" she asked. 

"I shall be close at hand, " he answered. 

"You are very kind, " murmured Lydia, closing her eyes again. "I am sorryto be so much trouble to you--but it is so important about Ariadne. I amsorry to be so--you are--very--"

Melton touched the other man's arm and motioned him to the door. 

CHAPTER XXXII

AS ARIADNE SAW IT

All that day, the tall, ruddy-haired man in working clothes sat in thehall, within sight, though not within hearing, of the sick room, playingwith the rosy child, and exerting all his ingenuity to invent quietgames that they could play there "where Muvver tan see us"; Ariadne soonlearned the reason for staying in one place so constantly. She was veryhappy that day. Never in her life had she had so enchanting aplayfellow. He showed her a game to play with clothespins and tin platesfrom the kitchen--why, it was so much fun that 'Stashie herself had tojoin in as she went past. And he told one story after another without asign of the usual grown-up fatigue. They had their lunch there at theend of the hall, on the little sewing-table with two dolls beside themand the new man made Ariadne laugh by making believe feed the dolls outof her doll's tea-set. 

It was a little queer, of course, to stay right there all the time, andto have Muvver staring at them from the bedroom at the other end of thehall, and not to be allowed to do more than tiptoe in once or twice andkiss her without saying a word; but when Ariadne grew confused withtrying to think this out, and the little eyes drooped heavily, the newman picked her up and tucked her away in his arms so comfortably that, though she meant to reach up and feel if his beard felt as red as itlooked, she fell asleep before she could raise her hand. 

When she woke up it was twilight, but she was still in his arms. Shestirred sleepily, and he looked down and smiled at her. His face lookedlike an old friend's--as though she had always known it. He had afriendly smile. She was very happy. Uncle Marius came toward them, teetering on his toes, the way he always did. "I think it's safe toleave now, Rankin, " he said. "She has fallen into a natural sleep. "

The new man stood up, still holding Ariadne. How tall he was! She keptgoing up and up, and when she peered over his shoulder she found herselflooking down on Uncle Marius' white head. 

"How about to-morrow?" asked the new man. 

"We'll see. We'll see, " said Dr. Melton; and then they all wentdownstairs and had toast and boiled eggs for supper. Ariadne informedher companions, looking up from her egg with a yolky smile, "Daddy toldMuvver the other day that 'Stashie had certainly learned to boil eggssomething _fine_! And he laughed, but Muvver didn't. Was it a joke?"

"They are very good eggs indeed, and well boiled, " the new man answered. She loved the way in which he conversed with her. 

"Ought we to give her some idea?" asked the doctor in a low voice. 

"I would wait until she asks, " said the other. 

But Paul's child never asked. Once or twice she remarked that Daddy wasaway longer than usual "_vis_ time, " but he had never been a verysteadily recurrent phenomenon in her life, and soon her little brain, filled with new impressions, had forgotten that he ever used to comeback. 

There were many new impressions. A great deal was happening nowadays. Every morning something different, every day new people going andcoming. Aunt Marietta, Auntie Madeleine, Uncle George from Cleveland, whom she'd seen only once or twice before, and Great-Aunt Hollister, whom she knew very well and feared as well as she knew her. After a timeeven the husbands began to appear, the husbands she had seen so rarely;Aunt Marietta's husband, and Aunt Madeleine's--fat, bald Mr. Lowder, whosmelled of tobacco and soap and took her up on his lap--as much as hehad--and gave her a big round dollar and kissed her behind her ear andsmiled at her very kindly and held her very close. He said he likedlittle girls, and he wished Auntie Madeleine would get him one some dayfor a Christmas present. She informed him, filled with admiration at theextent of her own knowledge, that he couldn't get a Christmas presentsome day, but only just Christmas Day. 

Mostly, however, they paid no attention to her, these many aunts anduncles who came and went. And, oddly enough, Uncle Marius always shutthe door to Muvver's room when they came, and wouldn't let them, nomatter how much they wanted to, go in and see Muvver, who was, shegathered, very sick. Ariadne didn't see, really, why they came at all, since they couldn't see Muvver and they certainly never so much aslooked at 'Stashie, dear darling 'Stashie--more of a comfort these queerdays than ever before--and they never, never spoke to the new man, whocame and went as though nobody knew he was there. They would look rightat him and never see him. Everything was very hard for a little girl tounderstand, and she dared ask no questions. 

Everybody seemed to be very angry, and yet not at her. Indeed, she tookthe most prodigious care to avoid doing anything naughty lest sheconcentrate on herself this now widely diffused disapprobation. Never inher life had she tried so hard to be good, but nobody paid the leastattention to her--nobody but the new man and 'Stashie, and they weren'tthe angry ones. The others stood about in groups in corners, talking invoices that started in to be low and always got loud before theystopped. Ariadne added several new words to her vocabulary at this time, from hearing them so constantly repeated. When her dolls were bad now, she shook them and called them "Indecent! indecent!" and asked them, with as close an imitation as she could manage, of Great-AuntHollister's tone, "What _do_ you suppose people are thinking! What _do_you suppose people are thinking!" Or she knocked them into a corner andsaid "Shocking! Shocking!"

One day she stopped Uncle Marius, hurrying past her up the stairs, andasked him: "What are you thinking of, Uncle Marius?"

"What am I thinking of? What do you mean?" he repeated, his face andeyes twitching the way they did when he couldn't understand somethingright off. 

"Why, Auntie Madeleine keeps asking everybody all the time, 'What _can_the doctor be thinking of?' I just wondered. "

He bent to kiss her raspingly--there were stiff little stubby whitehairs coming out all over his face--and he said, as he trotted on up thestairs, "I am thinking of making sure that you have a mother, my poordear. "

And then there was a bigger change one day. She went to bed in her ownlittle crib, and when she woke up she wasn't there at all, but in a bigbed in a room at Aunt Julia's; and Aunt Julia was smiling at her, andhugging her, and saying she was so glad she had come to live with herand Uncle Marius for a while. Ariadne found out that Uncle Marius hadbrought her and Muvver the night before in a carriage all the way fromBellevue. She regretted excessively that she had not been awake to enjoythe adventure. 

At Aunt Julia's, things were quieter. All at once the other people, theother uncles and aunts, had disappeared. That, of course, was becauseshe and Muvver were at Aunt Julia's. She conceived of the house inBellevue as still filled with their angry faces and voices, stillechoing to "Indecent! indecent!" and "What _do_ you suppose peopleare saying?"

There was a long, long time after this when nothing special happened. The new man continued to come here, and his visits were the only eventsin Ariadne's quiet days. Apparently he came to see Ariadne, for he neverwent to see Muvver at all, as he used to do in Bellevue. He took Ariadneout in the back yard as the weather began to get warmer, and showed herlots of outdoor plays. He was as nice as ever, only a good deal whiter;and that was odd, for they were now in May, and from playing outdoorsall the time Ariadne herself was as brown as a berry. At least, that waswhat Aunt Julia said. Ariadne accepted it with her usual patientindulgence of grown-ups' mistakes. There was not, of course, a singleberry that was anything but red or black, or at least a sort of blue, like huckleberries in milk. She and 'Stashie had gone over them, one byone; they knew. 

Uncle Marius remembered to shave himself nowadays. In fact, everythingwas more normal. Ariadne began to forget about the exciting time inBellevue. Muvver wasn't in bed all the time now, but sat up in a chairfor part of the day and even, if one were ever so quiet, could listen toaccounts of what happened in Ariadne's world and could be told how AuntJulia said that 'Stashie was quite a help as second girl if you justremembered to put away the best china, and that they had had eight newcooks since Ariadne had been there, but the second _would_ have stayed, only her mother got sick. The others just left. But Aunt Julia didn'tmind. When there wasn't any cook, if it happened to be 'Stashie's dayoff, they all had bread and milk for supper, just as she had, and theylet her set the table, and she could do it ever so well only she forgot_some_ things, of course, and Uncle Marius never got mad. He just saidhe hoped eating bread and milk like her would make him as good as shewas--and she _was_ good--oh, Muvver, she was trying ever so hard to begood--

"Come, dear, " said Aunt Julia, "Mother's getting tired. We'd better go. "

It was only after she went away, sometimes only when she lay awake inher strange big bed, that Ariadne remembered that Muvver never said aword, but only smoothed her hair and kissed her. 

She and the new man used to play out in the old grape-arbor in the backyard, and it was there, one day in mid-May, that Uncle Marius cameteetering out and called the new man to one side, only Ariadne couldhear what they said. Uncle Marius said: "It's no use, Rankin. It's afixed idea with her. She isn't violent any more, but she hasn't changed. She is certainly a little deranged, but not enough for legal restraint. She could take Ariadne and disappear any day. I'm in terror lest she dothat. I've no authority to prevent her. She won't talk to me freelyabout what she is afraid of. She doesn't seem to trust me--_me_!"

Ariadne found the conversation as dull as all overheard grown-ups' talk, and tried to busy herself with a corn-cob house the new man had beenshowing her how to build. Two or three times lately he had taken her outto his little house in the woods and showed her a lot of tools, and toldher what they were for, and said if she were older he would teach herhow to use them. Ariadne's head was full of the happy excitement ofthose visits. Corn-cob houses were for babies, she thought now. 

After a time, Uncle Marius went away, slamming the front gate after himand stamping away up the street as though he were angry, only he did allkinds of queer things without being angry. In fact, she had never seenhim angry. Perhaps he and Muvver were different from other people andnever were. 

She looked up with a start. The new man had come back to the arbor, buthe did not look like play. He looked queer, so queer that Ariadne'ssensitive lower lip began to tremble and the corners of her mouth todraw down. She could _not_ remember having done anything naughty. Shewas frightened by the way he looked. And yet, he picked her up quitegently, and held her on his knee, and asked her if Muvver could walkabout the house yet. 

"Oh, yes, " she told him, "and came down to dinner last night. "

The new man put her down, and asked her with a "please" and "I'd be muchobliged" as though she were a grown-up herself, if she would dosomething for him--go to Muvver and ask her if she felt strong enough tocome down into the grape-arbor to see him. Tell her he had somethingvery special to say to her. 

Ariadne went, skipping and hopping in pleasurable excitement at her ownimportance, and returned triumphantly to say that Muvver said she wouldcome. She wondered if he felt too grown-up for cob houses himself. Hehadn't built it any higher when she was gone. He looked as if he hadn'teven winked. While she stood wondering at his silence, his face got verywhite. He stood up looking toward the house. Muvver was coming out, veryslowly, leaning on the railing to the steps--Muvver in the nightgownydress Aunt Julia had made her, only it wasn't really nightgowny, becauseit was all over lace--Muvver with her hair in two braids over hershoulders and all mussed up where she'd been lying down. Ariadnewondered that she hadn't smoothed it a little. She knew what peoplewould say to _her_ if she came around with her hair looking like that. 

The man went forward to meet Muvver, and gave her his hand, and theyneither of them smiled or said how do you do, but came back togethertoward the arbor. And when they got there Muvver sat down quick, asthough she were tired, and laid her head back against the chair. The manlifted Ariadne up and kissed her--he had never done that before. Now sheknew how his beard felt--very soft. She felt it against her face for along time. And he told her to go into the house to 'Stashie. 

So she went. Ariadne always did as she was told. 'Stashie was trying tomake some ginger cookies, and the oven "jist would _not_ bake thim, " shesaid. They were all doughy when they came out, very much as they werewhen they went in; but the dough was deliciously sweet and spicy. 'Stashie and Ariadne ate a great deal of it, because 'Stashie knew verywell from experience that the grown-ups have an ineradicable prejudiceagainst food that comes out of the oven "prezackly" the way it went in. 

After that they had to wash their hands, all sticky with dough, andafter that 'Stashie took Ariadne on her lap and told her Irish fairystories, all about Cap O'Rushes and the Leprechaun, till they werestartled by the boiling over of the milk 'Stashie had put on the stoveto start a pudding. 'Stashie certainly did have bad luck with hercooking, as she herself frequently sadly admitted. 

But, oh! wasn't she darling to Ariadne! It made the lonely little girlwarm all over to be loved the way 'Stashie loved her. Sometimes whenAriadne woke up with a bad dream it was 'Stashie who came to quiet her, and she just hugged her up close, close, so that she could feel herheart go thump, thump, thump. And she always, always had time to explainthings. It was wonderful how much time 'Stashie had for that--oranything else Ariadne needed. 

She was putting more milk on the stove when in dashed Uncle Marius, hismouth wide open and his hands jumping around. "Where's your mother?Where's Mrs. Hollister?" he cried. 

"Out in the arbor, " said Ariadne. 

"Alone?"

"Oh, no--" Ariadne began to explain, but the doctor had darted to thewindow. You could see the grape-arbor plainly from there--Muvver sittingwith her hair all mussed up around her face, listening to the new man, who sat across the table from her and talked and talked and talked, andnever moved a finger. Uncle Marius put his hand up quick to his side andsaid something Ariadne couldn't catch. She looked up, saw his face, andran away, terrified, to hide her face in 'Stashie's dirty apron. Now sheknew how Uncle Marius looked when he was angry. She heard him go out anddown the steps, and went fearfully to watch him. He went across thegrass to the arbor. The others looked toward him without moving, andwhen he came close and leaned against the table, Muvver looked up at himand said something, and then leaned back again, her head resting againstthe chair, her eyes closed, her hands dropped down. How tired Muvveralways looked!

And just then 'Stashie spilled all the cocoa she was going to use toflavor the pudding with. She spilled it on the stove, and it smoked andstinked--there was nobody nowadays to forbid Ariadne to use 'Stashie'swords--and 'Stashie said there wasn't any more and they'd have to go offto the grocery-store to get some, and if Ariadne knew where that nickelwas Mis' Sandworth give her, they could get a soda-water on the way, andwith two straws it would do for both. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

WHAT IS BEST FOR THE CHILDREN?

Lydia lifted her face, white under the shadow of her disordered hair, and said: "It is Mr. Rankin who must take care of the children--Ariadne, and the baby if it lives. "

She spoke in a low, expressionless voice, as though she had no strengthto spare. Dr. Melton's hand on the table began to shake. He answered: "Ihave told you before, my dear, that there is no reason for your fixedbelief that you will not live after the baby's birth. You must not dwellon that so steadily. "

Lydia raised her heavy eyes once more to his. "I want him to have thechildren, " she said. 

The doctor took a step or two away from the table. He was now shakingfrom head to foot, and when he came back to the silent couple and took achair between them he made two or three attempts at speech before hecould command his voice. "It is very hard on me, Lydia, to--to have youturn from me to a--to a stranger. " His voice had grotesque quavers. 

Lydia raised a thin, trembling hand, and laid it on her godfather'ssinewy fingers. She tried to smile into his face. "Dear Godfather, " shesaid wistfully, "if it were only myself--but the children--"

"What do you mean, Lydia? What do you mean?" he demanded with tremulousindignation. 

She dropped her eyes again and drew a long, sighing breath. "I haven'tstrength to explain to you all I mean, " she said gently, "and I thinkyou know without my telling you. You have always known what is in myheart. "

"I had thought there was some affection for me in your heart, " said thedoctor, thrusting out his lips to keep them from trembling. 

Lydia's drooping position changed slightly. She lifted her hands andfolded them together on the table, leaning forward, and bending full onthe doctor the somber intensity of her dark, deep-sunken eyes. "DearGodfather, I have no time or strength to waste. " The slowness with whichshe chose her words gave them a solemn weight. "I cannot choose. If ithurts you to have me speak truth, you must be hurt. You know what afailure I have made of my life, how I have missed everything worthhaving--"

Dr. Melton, driven hard by some overmastering emotion, drew back, andthrew aside precipitately the tacit understanding he and Lydia hadalways kept. "Lydia, what are you talking about! You have been more thanusually favored--you have been loved and cherished as few women--" Hisvoice died away under Lydia's honest, tragic eyes. 

She went on as though he had not spoken. "My children must knowsomething different. My children must have a chance at the real things. If I die, who can give it to them? Even if I live, shall I be wiseenough to give them what I had not wisdom or strength enough to get formyself?"

"You speak as though I were not in the world, Lydia, " the doctor brokein bitterly, "or as though you hated and mistrusted me. Why do you lookto a stranger to--"

"Could you do for my children what you have not done for yourself?" sheasked him earnestly. "How much would you see of them? How much would youknow of them? How much of your time would you be willing to sacrifice tolearn patiently the inner lives of two little children? You would bebusy all day, like the other people I know, making money for them todress like other well-to-do children, for them to live in this fine, bighouse, for them to go to expensive private schools with the children ofthe people you know socially--for them to be as much as possible likethe fatherless child I was. "

Lydia clenched her thin hands and went on passionately: "I would rathermy children went ragged and hungry than to be starved of realcompanionship. "

The doctor made a shocked gesture. "But, Lydia, someone must earn thelivings. You are--"

Lydia broke in fiercely: "They are not earning livings--they are earningmore dresses and furniture and delicate food than their families need. They are earning a satisfaction for their own ambitions. They arewilling to give their families anything but time and themselves. "

"Lydia! Lydia! I never knew you to be cruel before! They can not helpit--the way their lives are run. It's not that they wish to--they cannot help it! It is against an economic law you are protesting. "

"That economic law has been broken by _one_ person I know, " said Lydia, "and that is the reason I--"

The doctor flushed darkly. The tears rose to his eyes. "Lydia, oh, mydear! trust me--trust me! I, too, will--I swear I will do all that youwish--don't turn away from me--trust me--!"

Lydia's mouth began to quiver. "Ah! don't make me say what must sound socruel!"

The doctor stared at her hard. "Make you say, you mean, that you _don't_trust me. "

She drew a little, pitiful breath, and turned away her head. "Yes; thatis what I mean, " she said. She went on hurriedly, putting up appealinghands to soften her words, "You see--it's the children--I _must_ do whatis best for them. It must be done once for all. Suppose you found youcouldn't now, after all these years, turn about and be different?Suppose you found you couldn't arrange a life that the children could bea part of, and help in, and really do their share and live with you. You_mean_ to--I'm sure you mean to! But you never _have_ yet! How dare Ilet you try if you are not sure? I can't come back if I am dead, youknow, and make a new arrangement. Mr. Rankin has proved that he can--"

At the name, the doctor's face darkened. He shot a black look at theyounger man sitting beside him in his strange silence. "What has Rankindone?" he asked bitterly. "I should say the very point about him is thathe has done nothing. "

"He has tried, he has tried, he is trying, " cried Lydia, beating herhands on the table. "Think! Of all the people I know, he is the only onewho is even trying. That was all I wanted myself. That is all I dare askfor my children--a chance to try. "

"To try what?" asked the doctor challengingly. 

"To try not to have life make them worse instead of better. That's notmuch to ask--but nobody I know, but one only has--"

"Simplicity and right living don't come from camping out in a shed, "said the doctor angrily. "Externals are nothing. If the heart is rightand simple--"

"If the heart is right and simple, nothing else matters. That is what Isay, " answered Lydia. 

Dr. Melton gave a gesture of cutting the question short. "Well, ofcourse it's quite impossible! Rankin can't possibly have any claim onyour children in the event of your death. Think of all your family, whowould be--"

"_I think of them_, " said Lydia with an accent so strange that thedoctor was halted. "Oh, I have thought of them!" she said again. She puther hands over her eyes. "Could I not make a will, and appoint asguardian--" she began to ask. 

Dr. Melton cut her short with a sound like a laugh, although his facewas savage. "Did you never hear of wills being contested? How long doyou suppose a will you make under the present circumstances would standagainst an attack on it by your family and the Hollisters, with theirmoney and influence!"

"Oh! Oh!" moaned Lydia, "and I shall not be here to--"

Rankin stirred throughout all his great height and broke his silence. He said to Lydia: "There is some way--there must be some way. I willfind it. "

Lydia took down her hands and showed a face so ravaged by the emotionsof the colloquy that the physician in her godfather sprang up throughthe wounded jealousy of the man. "Lydia, my dear, you must stop--this isidiotic of me to allow you--not another word. You must go into the housethis instant and lie down and rest--"

He bent over her with his old, anxious, exasperated, protecting air. Lydia seized his hands. Her own were hot and burning. "Rest! I can'trest with all this unsettled! I go over and over it--how can I sleep!How can you think that your little opiates will make me forget that mychildren may be helpless, with no one to protect them--" She lookedabout her wildly. "Why, little Ariadne may be given to _Madeleine_!" Herhorrified eyes rested again on her godfather. She drew him to her. "Oh, help me! You've always been kind to me. Help me now!"

There was a silence, the two exchanging a long gaze. The man's foreheadwas glistening wet. Finally, his breath coming short, he said: "Yes; Iwill help you, " and, his eyes still on hers, put out a hand towardRankin. 

The younger man was beside them in a stride. He took the hand offeredhim, but his gaze also was on the white face of the woman between them. "We will do it together, " he told her. "Rest assured. It shall be done. "

The corners of Lydia's mouth twitched nervously. "You are a good man, "she said to her godfather. She looked at Rankin for a moment withoutspeaking, and then turned toward the house, wavering. "Will you help meback?" she said to the doctor, her voice quite flat and toneless; "I amhorribly tired. "

 * * * * *

When the doctor came back again to the arbor, Mrs. Sandworth was withhim, her bearing, like his, that of a person in the midst of somecataclysmic upheaval. It was evident that her brother had told her. Without greeting Rankin, she sat down and fixed her eyes on his face. She did not remove them during the talk that followed. 

The doctor stood by the table, drumming with his fingers and grimacing. "You must know, " he finally made a beginning with difficulty, "I don'tknow whether you realize, not being a physician, that she is really notherself. She has for the present a mania for providing as she thinksbest for her children's future. Of course no one not a monomaniac wouldso entirely ignore your side, would conceive so strange an idea. She isso absorbed in her own need that she does not realize what an unheard-ofrequest she is making. To burden yourself with two young children--tomortgage all your future--"

Rankin broke in with a shaking voice and a face of exultation: "GoodGod, Doctor! Don't grudge me this one chance of my life!"

The doctor stared, bewildered. "What are you talking about?" he asked. 

"About myself. I don't do it often--let me now. Do you think I haven'trealized all along that what you said of me is true--that I have donenothing? Done nothing but succeed smugly in keeping myself in comfortoutside the modern economic treadmill! What else could I do? I'm noorator, to convince other people. I haven't any universal panacea tooffer! I'm only an inarticulate countryman, a farmer's son, with theeducation the state gives everyone--who am I, to try to lead? Apparentlythere was nothing for me to do but ignobly to take care of myself--butnow, God be thanked! I have my chance. Someone has been hurt in theirinfernal squirrel-cage, and I can help--"

The older man was looking at him piercingly, as though struck by asudden thought. He now cut him short with, "You're not deceivingyourself with any notion that she--"

The other answered quickly, with a smile of bitter humility: "You haveseen her look at me. She does not know whether I am a human being ornot--I am to her any strong animal, a horse, an ox--any force that cancarry Ariadne safely!" He added, in another tone, his infinitely gentletone: "I see in that the extremity of her anxiety. "

The doctor put his hand on the other man's powerful arm. "Do you realizewhat you are proposing to yourself? You are human. You are a young man. Are you strong enough to keep to it?"

Rankin looked at him. Mrs. Sandworth leaned forward. 

"I am, " said Rankin finally. 

The words echoed in a long silence. 

The younger man stood up. "I am going to see a lawyer, " he announced ina quiet voice of return to an everyday level. "Until then, we have allmore to think over than to talk about, it seems to me. "

 * * * * *

After he had left them the brother and sister did not speak for a time. Then the doctor said, irritably: "Julia, say something, for Heaven'ssake. What did you think of what he said?"

"I didn't hear what he said, " answered Mrs. Sandworth; "I was looking athim. "

"Well?" urged her brother. 

"He is a good man, " she said. 

A sense that she was holding something in reserve kept him silent, gazing expectantly at her. 

"How awfully he's in love with her!" she brought out finally. "That'sthe whole point. He's in love with her! All this talk about 'ways ofliving' and theories and things that they make so much of--it justamounts to nothing but that he's in love with her. "

"Oh, you sentimental idiot!" cried the doctor. "I hoped to get somesense out of you. "

"That's sense, " said Mrs. Sandworth. 

"It hasn't anything to do with the point! Why, as for that, Paul was inlove with--"

"He was _not_!" cried Mrs. Sandworth, with a sudden loud certainty. 

The doctor caught her meaning and considered it frowningly. When hespoke, it was to burst out pathetically: "_I_ have loved her all herlife. "

"Oh, you!" retorted his sister, with a sad conclusiveness. 

Ariadne came running out to them. "I just went to look into Muvver'sroom, and she was sound asleep! Honest! She was!"

The child had heard enough of the doctor's long futile struggles withthe horrors of Lydia's sleepless nights to divine that her news wasimportant. She was rewarded with a startled look from her elders. "Come!" said the doctor. 

They went into the house, and silently to Lydia's half-open door. Shelay across the bed as she had dropped down when she came in, one longdark braid hanging to the floor. They stood looking at her almost withawe, as though they were observing for the first time the mercifulmiracle of sleep. Her bosom rose and fell in long, regular breaths. Thedrawn, haggard mask that had overlain her face so many months wasdissolved away in an utter unconsciousness. Her eyelashes lay on a cheeklike a child's; her mouth, relaxed and drooping, fell again into thelines they had loved in her when she was a little girl. She looked likea little girl again to them. 

Mrs. Sandworth's hand went to her throat. She looked at her brotherthrough misty eyes. He closed the door gently, and drew her away, makingthe gesture of a man who admits his own ignorance of a mystery. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT

"They must have gone crazy, simply crazy!" said Madeleine, making quick, excited gestures. "Mrs. Sandworth, of course--a person can hardly blameher for anything! She's a cipher with the rim off when the doctor hasmade up his mind. But, even so, shouldn't you think in common decencyshe'd have let us know what they were up to in time to prevent it? _I_never heard a word of this sickening business of Ariadne's adoption tillday before yesterday. Did _you_?" she ended half-suspiciously. 

Mrs. Mortimer stopped her restless pace up and down the old-fashioned, high-ceilinged room, and made a gesture for silence. "I thought I heardsomething--up there, " she explained, motioning to the upper part of thehouse. "I wonder what made Lydia so sure beforehand that she wouldn'tlive through this?"

"Well, I guess from what the nurse told me there _isn't_ much chance forher, " said Madeleine in a hard voice. Her color was not so high asusual, her beautiful face looked grim, and she spoke in a bitter tone ofseriousness that made her seem quite another person. Marietta's thin, dark countenance gave less indication of her mood, whatever it was. Shelooked sallow and worn, and only her black eyes, hot and gloomy, showedemotion. 

Both women were silent a moment, listening to the sound of footstepsoverhead. "It seems as though it _must_ be over soon now!" cried thechildless one of the two, drawing in her breath sharply. "It makes mefurious to think of women suffering so. Bertha Williamson was telling methe other day about when her little Walter was born--it made me _sick_!"

The matron looked at her and shivered a little, but made no response. 

"The nurse says Lydia is mostly unconscious now. Perhaps the worst isover for her! Poor Lyd! What do you suppose made her act so?" went onMadeleine, moving about restlessly, her voice uncertain. She went to thewindow, and drew aside the shade to look out into the blackness. "Oh, Iwish the men would come! What time is it, do you suppose? Yes, I see;half-past three. Oh, it _must_ be over soon! I wish they'd come! Youtelegraphed George, didn't you? Heavens! how it rains!"

"He was to come on the midnight train. Is your husband--"

"Oh, he was horrid about it--wanted me to do it all myself. He's in themidst of some big deal or other. But I told him he'd _have_ to come andhelp out, or I'd--I'd _kill_ him! He'll bring the lawyer. "

"Where do you suppose?" began Marietta, looking over her shoulder. 

"Out in his shanty in the Black Rock woods, " said Madeleine harshly, "with no idea of what's going on. Just before you came, the doctor sentout for a messenger to take him word, and you'd better believe I gothold of that messenger!"

"Of course that'll make things easier, " said Marietta. 

"Oh, it won't be hard at all, " Madeleine assured her; "the lawyer'll beright at hand; it'll be over in a minute. "

Marietta's face altered. She drew back from the other woman. "Oh, Madeleine! you act as though--you were counting on Lydia's--"

"No; I'm not. I used to think a lot of Lydia before she disgraced poorPaul's memory in this way! But you see it'll be easy to do, one way orthe other. If she--if she doesn't--why, Marietta, you know Lydia! Shenever can hold out against you and George, the nearest she has in theworld. I should think you'd feel awfully about what people aresaying--her letting Ariadne be adopted in that scandalous way when shehad brothers and sisters. I should think you'd feel like assertingyourselves. _I_ do, certainly! I'm just as near to Ariadne as you are!And I know George is perfectly furious about the whole business!"

"But maybe the doctor won't let us go in, right in to her--"

A long-cherished grudge rose to the surface in Mrs. Lowder's energeticreply: "Well, I guess this is one time when the high-and-mighty Dr. Melton'll have to be shoved on one side, and if necessary I'll do theshoving!"

"You feel justified?"

"Justified! I should think I do! Justified in keeping my brother's childout of the clutches of that--and if my husband and your brother togethercan't raise the cash and the pull to get Ariadne away from him, too, Imiss my guess. They will; of course they will, or what's the use ofhaving money when you go to law!"

Marietta was silent. Madeleine took her lack of responsiveness as due tothe resentment of a poor person to her remarks as to the value of wealthin a democracy. She frowned, regretting a false step, and went onconciliatorily: "Of course we're only doing what any decent family isbound to do--protecting the children. It's what Lydia herself would wantif she were in her right mind. "

She fell silent now, restless, fidgeting about, picking up small objectsand setting them down unseeingly, and occasionally going to the windowto look out at the hot, rainy night. She was in mourning for Paul, andabove her black draperies her face was now like marble. 

Mrs. Mortimer, also in black, sat in a determinedly passive silence. 

Finally, the younger woman broke out: "Oh, I'll go crazy if I just stayhere! I'm going upstairs to see the nurse again. "

In an instant she was back, her face whiter than before. 

"It's a boy--alive, all right--half an hour ago. Would you think they'dlet us sit here and never tell us--" Her voice changed. "A little boy--"She sat down. 

"How is Lydia?" asked Lydia's sister. 

"--a little boy, " said Madeleine. She addressed the other womanperemptorily. "I want him! You can have Ariadne!" She flushed as shespoke, and added defiantly: "I know I always said I didn't wantchildren!"

"How is Lydia?" Marietta broke in with an angry impatience. 

"Very low, the nurse said; Dr. Melton wouldn't give any hope. "

Marietta's face twitched. Her large white hands clasped each other hard. 

"I'm going into the doctor's office to telephone my husband, " went onMadeleine; "there's not a minute to lose. "

After she was alone, Mrs. Mortimer's thin, dark face settled into tragicrepose. She leaned back her head and closed her eyes, from which a slowtear ran down over her sallow cheeks. There was no sound but the patterof summer rain on the porch roof outside. 

Firm, light steps came hastily to the outer door, the door clicked openand shut, the steps came down the hall. Mrs. Mortimer sat up and openedher eyes. She saw a tall man in rough clothes, hatless, with raindropsglistening on his bright, close-cropped hair and beard. He washesitating at the foot of the stairs, but at her slight movement hecaught sight of her and rushed toward her. "Has she--is there--" hebegan. 

Mrs. Mortimer gazed intently into his quivering face. "My sister hasgiven birth to a son, and lies at the point of death, " she said with herunsparing conciseness, but not harshly. 

The man she addressed threw up one hand as though she had struck him, and took an aimless, unsteady step. Mrs. Mortimer did not turn away hereyes from the revelation of his face. Her own grew sterner. She wastrying to bring herself to speak again. She put her hand on his arm toattract his attention, and looked with a fierce earnestness into hisface. "Listen, " she said. "We were wrong, all of us, about Lydia. Wewere wrong about everything. You were right. I wanted to tell you. If mysister had lived--she is so young--I hoped--" She turned away to hidethe sudden break-up of her rigid calm. "Little Lydia!" she cried. "Oh, misery! misery!"

Behind them was the sound of a shutting door and a key turned in thelock. They both spun about and saw Mrs. Lowder slip the key into thebosom of her dress. Her aspect of white determination suited thistheatrical gesture, as she placed herself quickly before the door. "Ifyou will promise me solemnly that you will leave the house at once, Iwill let you out, " she said, in a high, shaking voice. 

Rankin did not answer. He looked at her as though he did not see her. 

"What business have you here, anyhow?" she went on fiercely. 

"I am here to adopt Mrs. Hollister's second child, " stated Rankin, collecting himself with an effort. 

Mrs. Lowder's pale face flushed. "You'll do nothing of the sort. I shalladopt my brother's child myself! How _dare_ you--a perfect stranger--"

"Mrs. Hollister wishes it, " said Rankin. 

"Lydia is out of her mind--if she is alive!" said Madeleine, tremblingexcitedly, "and the child's own relatives are the proper--you needn'tthink you are going to keep Ariadne, either! It can be proved in anycourt that Lydia was crazy, and that her family are the ones that oughtto--"

"That will be decided in the future, " said Rankin. "For the present Ihave a legal right to Ariadne, and I shall have to the boy!"

"Do you mean you would dare to lay hands on a woman?" cried Madeleine, extending her arms across the door. 

Rankin turned, and in one stride had reached the window, which stoodopen to the hot, rainy summer night. He was gone in an instant. 

"Quick! quick! Lock the front door!" cried Madeleine, fumbling with thekey. She turned it and darted into the hallway, and fell back, cryingangrily: "Oh, no! there's the back door--and the doctor's office and allthe windows. It's no use! It's no use!" She broke into a storm of sobs. "You didn't help a bit!" she cried furiously to the other woman. "Youdidn't even try to help!"

It was an accusation against which Marietta did not attempt to defendherself. 

CHAPTER XXXV

THE SWAYING BALANCE

Dr. Melton was at the top of the stairs as the other man came boundingup. "Where in God's name have you been?" he demanded. "Did you start assoon as my messenger--"

"No messenger came--only 'Stashie just now. I started the instant she--"

"Have you the paper--the contract--whatever it--"

Rankin showed a flash of white in his pocket. "Is she able to sign it?"

"Oh, she _must_! She won't have an instant's peace until she does. Shehas been wild because you were so late in--"

Their hurried, broken colloquy was cut short by a nurse who came to Dr. Melton, saying, "The patient is always asking if the gentleman who isto--"

"Yes, yes; he is here. " The doctor motioned her to precede them. "Go in;you're needed as a witness. "

He held Rankin back an instant at the door. "Remember! No heroics! Justhave the signing done as quickly as possible and get out!" His littlewizened face looked ghastly in the dim light of the hall, but his voicewas firm, and his hand did not tremble. 

Rankin followed him into the bedroom, which was filled with a strongodor of antiseptics. The nurse turned on the electric light, shading itwith her hand so that the light fell only on the lower part of the bed, leaving Lydia's head in the shadow. 

She lay very straight and stark, as though, thought Rankin despairingly, she were already dead. Her right arm was out over the sheet, her thinhand nerveless. Her face was very white, her lips swollen and bleedingas though she had bitten them repeatedly. She was absolutely motionless, lying on her back with closed eyes. At the slight sound made by the menin entering, she opened her eyes and looked at them. Every vestige ofcolor dropped out of Rankin's face. Her eyes were alive, sane, exalted--Lydia's own eyes again. 

He was holding the paper open in his hand, and without a word knelt downby the bed, offering it to her mutely. Their eyes met in a long gaze. The doctor and nurse looked away from this mute communion. Rankin put apen in Lydia's fingers and held up the paper. With, a faint, sighingbreath, loud in the silent room, she raised her hand. It fell to the bedagain. Dr. Melton then knelt beside her, put his own sinewy, cordedfingers around it and guided it to the paper. The few lines were traced. Lydia's hand dropped and her eyes closed. Rankin stood up to go. 

The nurse turned off the light and the room was again in a halfobscurity, the deep, steady voice of the rain coming in through the openwindows, the sweet summer-night smells mingling with the acrid odor ofchemicals, Lydia lying straight and stark under the sheet--but now hereyes were open, shining, fixed on Rankin. Their light was the last hesaw as he closed the door behind him. 

After a time the doctor came out and joined Rankin waiting at the headof the stairs. He looked very old and tired, but the ghastly expressionof strain was replaced with a flickering restlessness. He came up toRankin, blinking rapidly, and touched him on the arm. "Look here!" hewhispered. "Her pulse has gone down from a hundred and fifty to ahundred and thirty. "

He sat down on the top step, clasped his hands about his knees, andleaned his white head against the balustrade. He looked like some small, weary, excited old child. "Lord, Rankin! Sit down when you get achance!" he whispered. "If you'd been through what I have! And youneedn't try to get me to add another word to what I've just told you. Idon't dare! It may mean nothing, you know. It may very likely meannothing. Good Heavens! The mental sensitiveness of women at this time!It's beyond belief. I never get used to the miracle of it. Everythingturns on it--everything! If the pulse should go down ten more now, Ishould--Oh, Heaven bless that crazy Celt for getting you here! GoodLord! If you hadn't come when you did! I don't see what could havebecome of the messenger I sent--why, hours ago--I knew that nothingcould go right if you weren't--is that the door?" He sprang up and sankback again--"I told the nurse to report as soon as there was anychange--I was afraid if I stayed in the room she would feel thetwitching of my damned nerves--yes, really--it's so--she's in a statewhen a feather's weight--suppose 'Stashie hadn't brought you! I couldn'thave kept Madeleine off much longer--God! if _Madeleine_ had gone intothat room, I--Lydia--but nobody told 'Stashie to go! It must have beenan inspiration. I thought of course my messenger--I was expecting youevery instant. She's been crouching out here in the hall all night, notventuring even to ask a question, until I caught sight of her eyes--sheloves Lydia too! I told her then the baby had come and that her mistresshad no chance unless you were here. She must have--when did she--"

Rankin gave a sound like a sob, and leaned against the wall. He had notstirred before since the doctor's first words. "You don't mean there's_hope_?" he whispered, "any hope at all?"

The doctor sprang at him and clapped his hand over his mouth. "I didn'tsay it! I didn't say it!"

The door behind them opened, and the nurse stepped out with a noiselessbriskness. The doctor walked toward her steadily and listened to herquick, low-toned report. Then he nodded, and she stepped back into thebedroom and shut the door. He stood staring at the floor, one hand athis lips. 

Rankin made an inarticulate murmur of appeal. His face glared whitethrough the obscurity of the hall. 

The older man went back to him, and looked up earnestly into his eyes. "Yes; there's every hope, " he said. He added, with a brave smile: "Foryou and Lydia there's every hope in the world. For me, there's the usuallot of fathers. "

CHAPTER XXXVI

ANOTHER DAY BEGINS

They started. From below came a wail of fright. As they listened thesound came nearer and nearer. "That's Ariadne--a bad dream--get herquiet, for the Lord's sake. "

"Where is she sleeping?"

"In the room next the parlor. "

Rankin gave an exclamation, and leaped down the stairs. At the foot hewas met by a little figure in sleeping-drawers. "Favver! Favver!" shesobbed, holding up her arms. 

Rankin caught her up and held her close. "You promised you wouldn't getso afraid of dreams, little daughter, " he said in a low, tender voice ofreproach. 

"But this was a nawful one!" wept Ariadne. "I fought I heard a lot ofvoices, men's and ladies' as mad--Oh! awful mad--and loud!" She went onincoherently that she had been too frightened to stir, even though aftera while she dreamed that the front door slammed and they all went away. But then she was _too_ frightened, and came out to find Favver. 

Rankin took her back to her bed, and sat down beside it, keeping one bighand about the trembling child's cold little fingers. "It was only a baddream, Ariadne. Just go to sleep now. Father'll sit here till you do. "

"You won't let them come back?" asked the child, drawing long, shakenbreaths. 

"No, " he said quietly. 

"You'll always be close, to take care of me?"

"Yes, dear. "

"And of Muvver and 'Stashie?"

There was a pause. 

Ariadne spoke in grieved astonishment. "Why, of _course_ of Muvver and'Stashie, Favver. "

Rankin took a sudden great breath. "I hope so, Ariadne. "

"Well, you _can_ if you want to, " the child gravely gave her assent. 

She said no more for a time, clutching tightly to his hand. Then, "Favver. "

"Yes, dear. "

"I fink I could go to sleep better if I had my bunny. "

"Yes, dear, " said the man patiently; "where is he?"

"I fink he's under ve chair where my clothes are--ve _big_ chair. 'Stashie lets me put my clothes on ve biggest chair. "

The man fumbled about in the dark. Then, "Here's your bunny, Ariadne. "

The child murmured something drowsily unintelligible. The man took hisseat again by the bed. There was a pause. The child's breathing grewlong and regular. The rain sounded loud in the silence. 

In the distance a street-car rattled noisily by. Ariadne started up witha scream: "Favver! Favver!"

"Right here, dear. Just the trolley-car. "

"It 'minded me of ve mad ladies' voices, " explained Ariadneapologetically, breathing quickly. She added: "Vat was such a _nawful_dream, Favver. I wonder could I have your watch to hear tick in my handto go me to sleep. "

"Yes, dear; but only for to-night because of the bad dream. "

There were little nestling noises, gradually quieting down. Then, sleepily:

"Favver, please. "

"Yes, dear. "

"I fink I could go _all_ to sleep if you'd pit your head down on mypillow next my bunny. "

A stir in the darkness, and an instant's quiet, followed by, "Why, Favver, what makes your face all over water?"

There was no answer. 

"And your beard is as wet as--" She broke off to explain to herself:"Oh, it's rain, of tourse. I forgot it's raining. _Now_ I remember howto _really_ go all to sleep. I did before. I listen to it going patter, patter, patter, patter--" The little voice died away. 

There was no sound at all in the room but the swift, light voice of thewatch calling out that Time, Time, Time can cure all, can cure all, cancure all--and outside the brooding murmur of the rain. 

A faint, clear gray began to show at the windows. 

 THE END

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 ROMAIN ROLLAND'S JEAN-CHRISTOPHE DAWN · MORNING · YOUTH · REVOLT Translated by GILBERT CANNAN. 

 600 pp. $1. 50 net; by mail, $1. 62. 

It commences with vivid episodes of this musician's childhood, hisfears, fancies, and troubles, and his almost uncanny musical sense. Heplays before the Grand Duke at seven, but he is destined for greaterthings. An idol of the hour, in some ways suggesting Richard Strauss, tries in vain to wreck his faith in his career. Early love episodesfollow, and at the close the hero, like Wagner, has to fly, a hopefulexile. 

"'Hats off, gentlemen--a genius. ' . . . Has the time come for the 20thcentury to uncover before a master work? A book as big, as elemental, asoriginal as though the art of fiction began to-day. "--SpringfieldRepublican. (Entire notice on application. )

"The most momentous novel that has come to us from France, or from anyother European country, in a decade. . . . Highly commendable and effectivetranslation . . . The story moves at a rapid pace. It never lags. "--_E. F. Edgett in Boston Transcript. _

 JEAN-CHRISTOPHE IN PARIS THE MARKET-PLACE ANTOINETTE · THE HOUSE

 473 pp. $1. 50 net; by mail, $1. 62. 

A writer in the _London Daily Mail_ comments on the French volumes heretranslated as follows:--"In 'The Market-Place, ' we are with the hero inhis attempt to earn his living and to conquer Paris. The authorintroduces us to the numberless 'society' circles in Paris and all thecliques of so-called musicians in pages of superb and bitter irony andpoetic fire. Christophe becomes famous. In the next volume, Antoinetteis the sister of Christophe's great friend, Olivier. She lovesChristophe. . . . This, the best volume of the series, is a flawless gem. 'The House' introduces us to the friends and enemies of the youngmusician. They gravitate around Christophe and Olivier, amid the noisyand enigmatic whirl of Parisian life. "

It is worth adding that toward the close of this book a war-cloudappears between France and Germany. Christophe, with Olivier, visits hismother and his Fatherland. 

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 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S JOSEPH VANCE

A touching story, yet full of humor, of lifelong love and heroicsacrifice. While the scene is mostly in and near the London of thefifties, there are some telling glimpses of Italy, where the authorlives much of the time ($1. 75). 

"The book of the last decade; the best thing in fiction since Mr. Meredith and Mr. Hardy; must take its place as the first great Englishnovel that has appeared in the twentieth century. "--Lewis Melville in_New York Times Saturday Review. _

"If the reader likes both 'David Copperfield' and 'Peter Ibbetson, ' hecan find the two books in this one. "--The _Independent. _

 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S ALICE-FOR-SHORT

This might paradoxically be called a genial ghost-and-murder story, yethumor and humanity again dominate, and the most striking element is thetouching love story of an unsuccessful man. The reappearance inNineteenth Century London of the long-buried past, and a remarkable caseof suspended memory, give the dramatic background ($1. 75). 

"Really worth reading and praising . . . Will be hailed as a masterpiece. If any writer of the present era is read a half century hence, a quartercentury, or even a decade, that writer is William De Morgan. "--_BostonTranscript. _

"It is the Victorian age itself that speaks in those rich, interesting, over-crowded books. . . . Will be remembered as Dickens' novels areremembered. "--_Springfield Republican. _

 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S SOMEHOW GOOD

The purpose and feeling of this novel are intense, yet it is allmellowed by humor, and it contains perhaps the author's freshest andmost sympathetic story of young love. Throughout its pages the "God bepraised evil has turned to good" of the old Major rings like a trumpetcall of hope. This story of to-day tells of a triumph of courage anddevotion ($1. 75). 

"A book as sound, as sweet, as wholesome, as wise, as any in the rangeof fiction. "--_The Nation. _

"Our older novelists (Dickens and Thackeray) will have to look to theirlaurels, for the new one is fast proving himself their equal. A higherquality of enjoyment than is derivable from the work of any othernovelist now living and active in either England or America. "--_TheDial. _

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 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S IT NEVER CAN HAPPEN AGAIN

This novel turns on a strange marital complication. The beautiful JudithArkroyd, with her stage ambitions, the pathetic Lizarann and her father, Blind Jim, are striking figures. There are strong dramatic episodes($1. 75). 

"De Morgan at his very best, and how much better his best is than thework of any novelist of the past thirty years. "--_The Independent. _

"There has been nothing at all like it in our day. The best of ourcontemporary novelists . . . Do not so come home to our business and ourbosoms . . . Most enchanting . . . Infinitely lovable and pathetic. "--_TheNation. _

 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR

A dramatic story of England in the time of the Restoration. It commenceswith a fatal duel, and shows a new phase of its remarkable author($1. 75). 

"An artistic triumph. . . . He is a persistent humorist. "--_BostonTranscript. _

"A better story than any of the others, so far as sustained interest isconcerned. . . . The rich, suggestive, highly metaphorical the M. I. Style. . . . A marvelous example of Mr. De Morgan's inexhaustible fecundityof invention. . . . Shines as a romance quite as much as 'Joseph Vance'does among realistic novels. "--_Chicago Record-Herald. _

 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S A LIKELY STORY $1. 35 net. 

"Begins comfortably enough with a little domestic quarrel in astudio. . . . The story shifts suddenly, however, to a brilliantly toldtragedy of the Italian Renaissance embodied in a girl's portrait . . . Which speaks and affects the life of the modern people who hear it. . . . The many readers who like Mr. De Morgan will enjoy this charming fancygreatly. "--_New York Sun. _

"In the forefront of English fiction. . . . Both ingenious and amusing. . . . All in his highly personal and individual manner, the result of which isa novel with an emphatic difference from all other works of contemporaryfiction. "--_Boston Transcript. _

"One sparkling stream, where realism in its sweeter, human and humorousaspects shall appear at its best. . . . Humor, wisdom, artists' jargon fromthe studios, psychic phenomena. . . . All in Mr. De Morgan's best vein. . . . The advancing chapters . . . How realistically modern they are, with theexactness of finish, appositeness of delineation, humor in dialog, andcondensed dramatic action!"--_The Independent. _

A thirty-two page illustrated leaflet about Mr. De Morgan, with completereviews of his first four books, sent on request. 

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 INEZ HAYNES GILLMORE'S JANEY Illustrated by Ada C. Williamson. $1. 25 net. 

"Being the record of a short interval in the journey thru life and thestruggle with society of a little girl of nine, in which she repudiatesher duties as an amateur mother, snares the most blundering of birds, successfully invades Grub Street, peers behind the veil of the seen intothe unseen, interprets the great bard, grubs at the root of all evil, faces the three great problems--Birth--Death--Time--and finally, inpassing thru the laborious process of becoming ten, discovers the greatillusion, " says the descriptive title. 

"Our hearts were captive to 'Phoebe and Ernest, ' and now accept 'Janey. '. . . She is so engaging. . . . Told so vivaciously and with suchgood-natured and pungent asides for grown people. "--_Outlook. _

"Janey's naturalness in quest of the whys of life is the naturalness ofthe child who lives in the world instead of between the covers of adelightfully written book. "--_Washington Evening Star. _

"Depicts youthful human nature as one who knows and loves it. Her'Phoebe and Ernest' studies are deservedly popular, and now, in 'Janey, 'this clever writer has accomplished an equally charmingportrait. "--_Chicago Record-Herald. _

 INEZ HAYNES GILLMORE'S PHOEBE AND ERNEST With 30 illustrations by R. F. Schabelitz. $1. 50. 

Parents will recognize themselves in the story, and laughunderstandingly with, and sometimes at, Mr. And Mrs. Martin and theirchildren. 

Youths and maidens will understand Phoebe and Ernest's experiences andproblems. 

"Attracted delighted attention in the course of its serial publication. Sentiment and humor are deftly mingled in this clever book. "--_N. Y. Tribune. _

"We must go back to Louisa Alcott for their equals. "--_BostonAdvertiser. _

"For young and old alike we know of no more refreshing story. "--_NewYork Evening Post. _

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 HENRY WILLIAMS'S THE UNITED STATES NAVY A Handbook. 

By Henry Williams, Naval Constructor, U. S. Navy. With 32 full-pageillustrations and a number in the text. 12mo. $1. 50 net; by mail, $1. 67. 

This is a neat, crisp, matter-of-fact account of our Navy, with anoccasional illuminating anecdote of famous court-martials and such. Ithas been passed by high authorities and its publication officiallysanctioned. The _Contents_ includes: Naval History--The Navy'sOrganization--The Navy's Personnel--Man-of-War in Commission--Classes ofShips in the Navy--Description--High Explosives; Torpedoes; Mines;Aeroplanes--Designing and Building a Warship; Dry Docks--The NationalDefense. 

 THOMAS LEAMING'S A PHILADELPHIA LAWYER IN THE LONDON COURTS

Illustrated by the Author. 8vo. $2. 00 net; by mail, $2. 15. (Circular onapplication. )

A trained observer's graphic description of the English Law Courts, oftheir ancient customs yet up-to-date methods; of the lives andactivities of the modern barrister and solicitor--the "K. C. , " the"Junior, " the "Devil"--and of the elaborate etiquette, perpetuated bythe Inns of Court, which still inflexibly rules them, despite thetendencies of the times and growth of socialism. 

_Nation_:--"The style of narrative, the conciseness of statement, andthe wealth of allusion make this book one which certainly the lawyer, and probably many laymen, will wish to finish at one sitting, and nothurriedly. . . . We hope to see the author appear again, and as aPhiladelphia Lawyer at Home. "

_Bookman_:--"This quiet recital of facts ought of itself to create arevolution in this country. . . . He disclaims any intention of enteringupon odious comparisons. . . . When the Bar of America is aroused to thenecessity of reform it will find these observations . . . A mine ofwell-digested information and helpful suggestions. "

_Dial_:--"His interesting account of the trial and conviction of MadarLa Dhingra. "

_New York Evening Sun_:--"A suitable mixture of anecdote andgeneralization to give the reader a pleasant and clear idea of Englishcourts, their ways and plan. . . . One of the most valuable chaptersrelates to the discipline of the bar. "

_Philadelphia Press_:--"A vast deal of useful and often fascinatinginformation. . . . An eminently readable volume, which, although designedprimarily for the lay reader, has already elicited hearty commendationfrom not a few leaders of the profession. . . . American lawyers arebeginning to see that much may be learned from modern Englishpractice. . . . On the subject of the ethics of the English bar Mr. Leaminghas much to say that is worth careful perusal. "

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 SIXTH EDITION, ENLARGED AND WITH PORTRAITS

 HALE'S DRAMATISTS OF TO-DAY

 ROSTAND, HAUPTMANN, SUDERMANN, PINERO, SHAW, PHILLIPS, MAETERLINCK

By Prof. Edward Everett Hale, Jr. , of Union College. With gilt top, $1. 50 net; by mail, $1. 60. 

Since this work first appeared in 1905, Maeterlinck's SISTER BEATRICE, THE BLUE BIRD and MARY MAGDALENE, Rostand's CHANTECLER and Pinero'sMID-CHANNEL and THE THUNDERBOLT--among the notable plays by some of Dr. Hale's dramatists--have been acted here. Discussions of them are addedto this new edition, as are considerations of Bernard Shaw's and StephenPhillips' latest plays. The author's papers on Hauptmann and Sudermann, with slight additions, with his "Note on Standards of Criticism, " "OurIdea of Tragedy, " and an appendix of all the plays of each author, withdates of their first performance or publication, complete the volume. 

_Bookman_: "He writes in a pleasant, free-and-easy way. . . . He acceptsthings chiefly at their face value, but he describes them so accuratelyand agreeably that he recalls vividly to mind the plays we have seen andthe pleasure we have found in them. "

_New York Evening Post_: "It is not often nowadays that a theatricalbook can be met with so free from gush and mere eulogy, or so weightedby common sense . . . An excellent chronological appendix and full index. . . Uncommonly useful for reference. "

_Dial_: "Noteworthy example of literary criticism in one of the mostinteresting of literary fields. . . . Provides a varied menu of the mostinteresting character. . . . Prof. Hale establishes confidential relationswith the reader from the start. . . . Very definite opinions, clearlyreasoned and amply fortified by example. . . . Well worth reading a secondtime. "

_New York Tribune_: "Both instructive and entertaining. "

_Brooklyn Eagle_: "A dramatic critic who is not just 'busting' himselfwith Titanic intellectualities, but who is a readable dramaticcritic. . . . Mr. Hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute andsound critic. . . . Most people will be surprised and delighted with Mr. Hale's simplicity, perspicuity and ingenuousness. "

_The Theatre_: "A pleasing lightness of touch. . . . Very readable book. "

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