[Illustration: "It has never occurred to one of you to ask _why_ I amdifferent from other women--to ask just what made me so!"]

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE

BY KATHLEEN NORRIS

_Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert_

1915

CHAPTER I

To Emeline, wife of George Page, there came slowly, in her thirtiethyear, a sullen conviction that life was monstrously unfair. From aresentful realization that she was not happy in her marriage, Emeline'smind went back to the days of her pert, precocious childhood and herrestless and discontented girlhood, and she felt, with a sort ofsmouldering fury, that she had never been happy, had never had a fairchance, at all!

It took Mrs. Page some years to come to this conclusion, for, if she wasshrewd and sharp among the women she knew, she was, in essential things, an unintelligent woman, and mental effort of any sort was strange toher. Throughout her entire life, her mind had never been truly awakened. She had scrambled through Grammar School, and had followed it with fiveyears as saleswoman in a millinery store, in that district of SanFrancisco known as the Mission, marrying George Page at twenty-three, and up to that time well enough pleased with herself and her life. 

But that was eight years ago. Now Emeline could see that she hadreached--more, she had passed--her prime. She began to see that themoods of those early years, however violent and changing, had been fedupon secret springs of hope, hope vague and baseless enough, but strongto colour a girl's life with all the brightness of a thousand dawns. There had been rare potentialities in those days, anything might happen, something _would_ happen. The little Emeline Cox, moving between thedreary discomfort of home and the hated routine of school, mightsurprise all these dull seniors and school-mates some day! She mightbecome an actress, she might become a great singer, she might make abrilliant marriage. 

As she grew older and grew prettier, these vague, bright dreamsstrengthened. Emeline's mother was an overworked and shrill-voicedwoman, whose personality drove from the Shotwell Street house whateversmall comfort poverty and overcrowding and dirt left in it. She had nopersonal message for Emeline. The older woman had never learned the careof herself, her children, her husband, or her house. She had naturallynothing to teach her daughter. Emeline's father occasionally thundered afurious warning to his daughters as to certain primitive moral laws. Hedid not tell Emeline and her sisters why they might some day consent toabandon the path of virtue, nor when, nor how. He never dreamed ofwinning their affection and confidence, or of selecting their friends, and making home a place to which these friends might occasionally come. But he was fond of shouting, when Emeline, May, or Stella pinned ontheir flimsy little hats for an evening walk, that if ever a girl of hismade a fool of herself and got into trouble, she need never come nearhis door again! Perhaps Emeline and May and Stella felt that thevirtuous course, as exemplified by their parents, was not all of roses, either, but they never said so, and always shuddered dutifully at thepaternal warning. 

School also failed with the education of the inner Emeline, although shemoved successfully from a process known as "diagramming" sentences to aserious literary analysis of "Snow-Bound" and "Evangeline, " and passedterrifying examinations in ancient history, geography, and advancedproblems in arithmetic. By the time she left school she was a tall, giggling, black-eyed creature, to be found walking up and down MissionStreet, and gossiping and chewing gum on almost any sunny afternoon. Between her mother's whining and her father's bullying, home life wasnot very pleasant, but at least there was nothing unusual in thesituation; among all the girls that Emeline knew there was not one whocould go back to a clean room, a hospitable dining-room, a well-cookedand nourishing meal. All her friends did as she did: wheedled money fornew veils and new shoes from their fathers, helped their mothersreluctantly and scornfully when they must, slipped away to the street asoften as possible, and when they were at home, added their complaintsand protests to the general unpleasantness. 

Had there been anything different before her eyes, who knows what plansfor domestic reform might have taken shape in the girl's plastic brain?Emeline had never seen one example of real affection and cooperationbetween mother and daughters, of work quickly and skilfully done andforgotten, of a clean bright house and a blossoming garden; she hadnever heard a theory otherwise than that she was poor, her friends werepoor, her parents were poor, and that born under the wheels of amonstrous social injustice, she might just as well be dirty anddiscouraged and discontented at once and have done with it, for in theend she must be so. Why should she question the abiding belief? Emelineknew that, with her father's good pay and the excellent salaries earnedby her hard-handed, patient-eyed, stupid young brothers, the familyincome ran well up toward three hundred dollars a month: her fatherworked steadily at five dollars a day, George was a roofer's assistantand earned eighty dollars a month, and Chester worked in a plumber'sshop, and at eighteen was paid sixty-five dollars. Emeline could onlyconclude that three hundred dollars a month was insufficient to preventdirt, crowding, scolding, miserable meals, and an incessant atmosphereof warm soapsuds. 

Presently she outraged her father by going into "Delphine's" millinerystore. Delphine was really a stout, bleached woman named Lizzie Clarke, whose reputation was not quite good, although nobody knew anythingdefinite against her. She had a double store on Market Street nearEleventh, a dreary place, with dusty models in the windows, tornNottingham curtains draped behind them, and "Delphine" scrawled in goldacross the dusty windows in front. Emeline used to wonder, in the dayswhen she and her giggling associates passed "Delphine's" window, whoever bought the dreadful hats in the left-hand window, although theyadmitted a certain attraction on the right. Here would be a sign: "AnyHat in this Window, Two Dollars, " surrounded by cheap, dust-grainedfelts, gaudily trimmed, or coarse straws wreathed with cotton flowers. Once or twice Emeline and her friends went in, and one day when a cardin the window informed the passers-by that an experienced saleslady waswanted, the girl, sick of the situation at home and longing for novelty, boldly applied for the position. Miss Clarke engaged her at once. 

Emeline met, as she had expected, a storm at home, but she weathered it, and kept her position. It was hard work, and poorly paid, but the girl'sdreams gilded everything, and she loved the excitement of making sales, came eagerly to the gossip and joking of her fellow-workers everymorning, and really felt herself to be in the current of life at last. 

Miss Clarke was no better than her reputation, and would have willinglyhelped her young saleswoman into a different sort of life. But Emeline'slittle streak of shrewd selfishness saved her. Emeline indulged in ahundred little coarsenesses and indiscretions, but take the final steptoward ruin she would not. Nobody was going to get the better of her, she boasted. She used rouge and lip red. She "met fellers" under flaminggas jets, and went to dance halls with them, and to the Sunday picnicsthat were her father's especial abomination; she shyly told vile storiesand timidly used strong words, but there it ended. Perhaps some tatteredremnant of the golden dream still hung before her eyes; perhaps shestill clung to the hope of a dim, wonderful time to come. 

More than that, the boys she knew were not a vicious lot; the Jimmiesand Johnnies, the Dans and Eds, were for the most part neighbours, nomore anxious to antagonize Emeline's father than she was. They mightkiss her good-night at her door, they might deliberately try to get thegirls to miss the last train home from the picnic, but their spirit wasof idle mischief rather than malice, and a stinging slap from Emeline'shand afforded them, as it did her, a certain shamed satisfaction. 

George Page came into "Delphine's" on a windy summer afternoon whenEmeline had been there for nearly five years. He was a salesman for somelines of tailored hats, a San Franciscan, but employed by a New Yorkwholesale house. Emeline chanced to be alone in the place, for MissClarke was sick in bed, and the other saleswoman away on her vacation. The trimmers, glancing out through a plush curtain at the rear, saw MissCox and the "drummer" absorbed in a three hours' conversation. From twoto five o'clock they talked; the drummer watching her in obviousadmiration when an occasional customer interrupted, and when Miss Coxwent home the drummer escorted her. Emeline had left the parental roofsome two years before; she was rooming, now, with a mild and virtuousgirl named Regina Lynch, in Howard Street. Regina was the sort of girlfrequently selected by a girl of Emeline's type for confidante andcompanion: timid, conventional, always ready to laugh and admire. Reginaconsented to go to dinner with Emeline and Mr. Page, and as she laterrefused to go to the theatre, Emeline would not go either; they allwalked out Market Street from the restaurant, and reached the HowardStreet house at about nine o'clock. Regina went straight upstairs, butEmeline and George Page sat on the steps an hour longer, under thebright summer moon, and when Emeline went upstairs she woke her roommateup, and announced her engagement. 

George came into the store at nine o'clock the next morning, toradiantly confirm all that they had said the night before, and withgreat simplicity the two began to plan for their future; from that timethey had breakfast, lunch, and dinner together every day; they were bothutterly satisfied; they never questioned their fate. In October Georgehad to go to San Diego, and a dozen little cities en route, for thefirm, and Emeline went, too. They were married in the little church ofSaint Charles in Eighteenth Street, only an hour or two before theystarted for San Jose, the first stop in George's itinerary. Emeline'smother and sisters came to her wedding, but the men of the family wereworking on this week-day afternoon. The bride looked excited and happy, colour burned scarlet in her cheeks, under her outrageous hat; she worea brown travelling gown, and the lemon-coloured gloves that were popularin that day. Emeline felt that she was leaving everything unpleasant inlife behind her. George was the husband of her dreams--or perhaps herdreams had temporarily adapted themselves to George. 

But, indeed, he was an exceptionally good fellow. He was handsome, big, dashingly dressed. He was steady and successful in his work, domestic inhis tastes, and tenderly--and perhaps to-day a little pityingly--devotedto this pretty, clever girl who loved him so, and had such faith in him. His life had kept him a good deal among men, and rather coarse men; hehad had to do more drinking than he cared to do, to play a good deal ofpoker, to listen to a good deal of loose talk. Now, George felt a greatrelief that this was over; he wanted a home, a wife, children. 

The bride and groom had a cloudless three weeks of honeymoon among ascore of little Southern towns--and were scarcely less happy during thefirst months of settling down. Emeline was entirely ignorant of what wassuitable or desirable in a home, and George had only the crude ideals ofa travelling man to guide him. They enthusiastically selected a flat offour handsome, large, dark rooms, over a corner saloon, on O'FarrellStreet. The building was new, the neighbourhood well built, and filledwith stirring, interesting life. George said it was conveniently nearthe restaurant and theatre district, and to Emeline, after MissionStreet, it seemed the very hub of the world. The suite consisted of alarge front drawing-room, connected by enormous folding doors with arear drawing-room, which the Pages would use as a bedroom, a largedining-room, and a dark kitchen, equipped with range and "water back. "There were several enormous closets, and the stairs and hall, used bythe several tenants of the house, were carpeted richly. The Pages alsocarpeted their own rooms, hung the stiff folds of Nottingham lacecurtains at the high narrow windows, and selected a set of the heavilyupholstered furniture of the period for their drawing-room. WhenEmeline's mother and sisters came to call, Emeline showed them hergold-framed pictures, her curly-maple bed and bureau, her glass closetin the dining-room, with its curved glass front and sides and itsshining contents--berry saucers and almond dishes in pressed glass, andother luxuries to which the late Miss Cox had been entirely a stranger. Emeline was intoxicated with the freedom and the pleasures of her newlife; George was out of town two or three nights a week, but when he wasat home the two slept late of mornings, and loitered over theirbreakfast, Emeline in a loose wrapper, filling and refilling her coffeecup, while George rattled the paper and filled the room with the odourof cigarettes. 

Then Emeline was left to put her house in order, and dress herself forthe day--her corsets laced tight at the waist, her black hair crimpedelaborately above her bang, her pleated skirts draped fashionably overher bustle. George would come back at one o'clock to take her to lunch, and after lunch they wandered up and down Kearney and Market streets, laughing and chatting, glad just to be alive and together. Sometimesthey dined downtown, too, and afterward went to the "Tivoli" or"Morosco's, " or even the Baldwin Theatre, and sometimes bought andcarried home the materials for a dinner, and invited a few of George'smen friends to enjoy it with them. These were happy times; Emeline, flushed and pretty in her improvised apron, queened it over the three orfour adoring males, and wondered why other women fussed so long overcooking, when men so obviously enjoyed a steak, baked potatoes, cannedvegetables, and a pie from Swain's. After dinner the men always playedpoker, a mild little game at first, with Emeline eagerly guarding alittle pile of chips, and gasping over every hand like a happy child;but later more seriously, when Emeline, contrary to poker superstition, sat on the arm of her husband's chair, to bring him luck. 

Luck she certainly seemed to bring him; the Pages would go yawning tobed, after one of these evenings, chuckling over the various hands. 

"I couldn't see what you drew, George, " Emeline would say, "but I couldsee that Mack had aces on the roof, and it made me crazy to have you goon raising that way! And then your three fish hooks!"

George would shout with pride at her use of poker terms--would laugh allthe harder if she used them incorrectly. And sometimes, sinkingluxuriously into the depths of the curly-maple bed, Emeline would thinkherself the luckiest woman in the world. No hurry about getting up inthe morning; no one to please but herself; pretty gowns and an adoringhusband and a home beyond her maddest hopes--the girl's dreams no longerfollowed her, happy reality had blotted out the dream. 

She felt a little injured, a little frightened, when the day came onwhich she must tell George of some pretty well-founded suspicions of herown condition. George might be "mad, " or he might laugh. 

But George was wonderfully soothing and reassuring; more, waspathetically glad and proud. He petted Emeline into a sort of reluctantjoy, and the attitude of her mother and sisters and the few women sheknew was likewise flattering. Important, self-absorbed, she waited herappointed days, and in the early winter a wizened, mottled littledaughter was born. Julia was the name Emeline had chosen for a girl, andJulia was the name duly given her by the radiant and ecstatic George inthe very first hour of her life. Emeline had lost interest in thename--indeed, in the child and her father as well--just then; racked, bewildered, wholly spent, she lay back in the curly-maple bed, the firstlittle seed of that general resentment against life that was eventuallyto envelop her, forming in her mind. 

They had told her that because of this or that she would not have a"hard time, " and she had had a very hard time. They had told her thatshe would forget the cruel pain the instant it was over, and she knewshe never would forget it. It made her shudder weakly to think of allthe babies in the world--of the schools packed with children--at what acost!

Emeline recovered quickly, and shut her resentment into her own breast. Julie, as she was always called, was a cross baby, and nowadays the twofront rooms were usually draped with her damp undergarments, and odorousof sour bottles and drying clothes. For the few months that Emelinenursed the child she wandered about until late in the day in a loosewrapper, a margin of draggled nightgown showing under it, her hair in atumbled knot at the back of her head. If she had to run out for a loafof bread or a pound of coffee, she slipped on a street skirt, andbuttoned her long coat about her; her lean young throat would show, bareabove the lapels of the coat, but even this costume was not conspicuousin that particular neighbourhood. 

By the time Julia was weaned, Emeline had formed the wrapper habit; shehad also slipped back to the old viewpoint: they were poor people, andthe poor couldn't afford to do things decently, to live comfortably. Emeline scolded and snapped at George, shook and scolded the cryingbaby, and loitered in the hall for long, complaining gossips with theother women of the house. 

Time extricated the young Pages from these troubled days. Julia grewinto a handsome, precocious little girl of whom both parents could beproud. Emeline never quite recovered her girlish good looks, her facewas thin now, with prominent cheek bones; there was a little frowningline drawn between her eyes, and her expression was sharp and anxious, but she became more fond of dress than ever. 

George's absences were a little longer in these days; he had been givena larger territory to cover--and Emeline naturally turned for societytoward her women neighbours. There were one or two very congenialmarried women of her own type in the same house, pleasure-loving, excitable young women; one, a Mrs. Carter, with two children in school, the other, Mrs. Palmer, triumphantly childless. These introduced her toothers; sometimes half a dozen of them would go to a matinee together, anoisy, chattering group. During the matinee Julia would sit on hermother's lap, a small awed figure in a brief red silk dress and deeplace collar. Julia always had several chocolates from the boxes thatcirculated among her elders, and usually went to sleep during the lastact, and was dragged home, blinking and whining and wretched, by oneaching little arm. 

George was passionately devoted to his little girl, and no toy was tooexpensive for Julia to demand. Emeline loved the baby, too, although sheaccepted as a martyrdom the responsibility of supplying Julia's needs. But the Pages themselves rather drifted apart with the years. Both wereselfish, and each accused the other of selfishness, although, as Emelinesaid stormily, no one had ever called her that before she was married, and, as George sullenly claimed, he himself had always been popularity'sself among the "fellows. "

In all her life Emeline had never felt anything but a resentfulimpatience for whatever curtailed her liberty or disturbed her comfortin the slightest degree. She had never settled down to do cheerfullyanything that she did not want to do. She had shaken off the claims ofher own home as lightly as she had stepped from "Delphine's" to the moretempting position of George's wife. Now she could not believe that shewas destined to live on with a man who was becoming a confirmeddyspeptic, who thought she was a poor housekeeper, an extravagantshopper, a wretched cook, and worse than all, a sloven about herpersonal appearance. Emeline really was all these things at times, andsuspected it, but she had never been shown how to do anything else, andshe denied all charges noisily. 

One night when Julia was about four George stamped out of the house, after a tirade against the prevailing disorder and some insultingremarks about "delicatessen food. " Emeline sent a few furious remarksafter him, and then wept over the sliced ham, the potato salad, and theSaratoga chips, all of which she had brought home from a nearby delicacyshop in oily paper bags only an hour ago. She wandered disconsolatelythrough the four rooms that had been her home for nearly six years. Thedust lay thick on the polished wood and glass of the sideboard and glasscloset in the dining-room; ashes and the ends of cigarettes filled halfa dozen little receptacles here and there; a welter of newspapers hadformed a great drift in a corner of the room, and the thick velour daycover of the table had been pushed back to make way for a doubled andspotted tablecloth and the despised meal. The kitchen was hideous with aconfusion of souring bottles of milk, dirty dishes, hardened ends ofloaves, and a sticky jam jar or two; Emeline's range was spotted andrusty, she never fired it now; a three-burner gas plate sufficed for thefamily's needs. In the bedroom a dozen garments were flung over the footof the unmade bed, Julia's toys and clothing littered this and thesitting-room, the silk woof had been worn away on the heavilyupholstered furniture, and the strands of the cotton warp separated toshow the white lining beneath. On the mantel was a litter of medicinebottles and theatre programs, powder boxes, gloves and slippers, packages of gum and of cigarettes, and packs of cards, as well as moreornamental matters: china statuettes and glass cologne bottles, apalm-leaf fan with roses painted on it, a pincushion of redwood bark, and a plush rolling-pin with brass screws in it, hung by satin ribbons. Over all lay a thick coat of dust. 

Emeline took Julia in her lap, and sat down in one of the patentrockers. She remained for a long time staring out of the front window. George's words burned angrily in her memory--she felt sick of life. 

A spring twilight was closing down upon O'Farrell Street. In the row ofhouses opposite Emeline could see slits of gaslight behind loweredshades, and could look straight into the second floor of theestablishment that flourished behind a large sign bearing the words, "O'Connor, Modes. " This row of bay-windowed houses had been occupied ashomes by very good families when the Pages first came to O'FarrellStreet, but six years had seen great changes in the block. A grocery andbar now occupied the corner, facing the saloon above which the Pageslived, and the respectable middle-class families had moved away, one byone, giving place to all sorts of business enterprises. Milliners anddressmakers took the first floors, and rented the upper rooms; onewindow said "Mme. Claire, Palmist, " and another "Violin Lessons"; onebasement was occupied by a dealer in plaster statuary, and another by alittle restaurant. Most interesting of all to the stageloving Emelinewas the second floor, obliquely opposite her own, which bore an immensesign, "Gottoli, Wigs and Theatrical Supplies. Costumes of all sortsDesigned and on Hand. " Between Gottoli's windows were two painted panelsrepresenting respectively a very angular, moustached young man in adress suit, and a girl in a Spanish dancer's costume, with a tambourine. Gottoli did not do a very flourishing business, but Emeline watched hisdoorway by the hour, and if ever her dreams came back now, it was atthese times. 

To-night Julia went to sleep in her arms; she was an unexacting littlegirl, accustomed to being ignored much of the time, and humoured, over-indulged, and laughed at at long intervals. Emeline sat on and on, crying now and then, and gradually reducing herself to a more softenedmood, when she longed to be dear to George again, to please and contenthim. She had just made up her mind that this was no neighbourhood forideal home life, when George, smelling strongly of whiskey, butaffectionate and repentant, came in. 

"What doing?" asked George, stumbling in the dark room. 

"Just watching the cable cars go up and down, " Emeline said, rousing. She set the dazed Julia on her feet, and groped for matches on themantel. A second later the stifling odour of block matches driftedthrough the room, and Emeline lighted a gas jet. 

"Had your supper?" said she, as George sat down and took the child intohis arms. 

"Nope, " he answered, grinning ashamedly. "Thought maybe you and I'd goto dinner somewheres, Em. "

Emeline was instantly her better self. While she flew into her bestclothes she told George that she knew she was a rotten manager, but shewas so darn sick of this darn flat--She had just been sitting therewondering if they hadn't better move into the country, say into Oakland. Her sister May lived there, they might get a house near May, with agarden for Julia, and a spare room where George could put up a friend. 

George was clumsily enthusiastic. Gosh, if she would do that--if shecould stand its being a little quiet--

"I'd get to know the neighbours, and we'd have real good times, " saidEmeline optimistically, "and it would be grand for Julie!"

Julia had by this time gone off to sleep in the centre of the large bed. Her mother removed the child's shoes and some of her clothing, withoutrousing her, loosened her garters, and unbuttoned whatever buttons shecould reach. 

"She'll be all right, " she said confidently. "She never wakes. "

George lowered the gas, and they tiptoed out. But Julie did waken halfan hour later, as it happened, and screamed for company for ten hideousminutes. Then Miss Flossie Miniver, a young woman who had recentlyrented the top floor, and of whom Emeline and the other ladies of thehouse disapproved, came downstairs and softly entered the Page flat, andgathered the sobbing little girl to her warm, soft breast. Miss Miniversoothed her with a new stick of gum and a pincushion that looked like afat little pink satin leg, with a smart boot at one end and a ruffle oflace at the other, and left Julia peacefully settled down to sleep. ButJulia did not remember anything of this in the morning, and thepincushion had rolled under the bed, so Emeline never knew of it. Sheand George had a good dinner, and later went to the Orpheum, and werehappier than they had been for a long time. 

The next Sunday they went to Oakland to see Emeline's sister, andpossibly to begin househunting. It was a cold, dark day, with a raw windblowing. Gulls dipped and screamed over the wake of the ferryboat thatcarried the Pages to Oakland, and after the warm cabin and the heatedtrain, they all shivered miserably as they got out at the appointedcorner. Oakland looked bleak and dreary, the wind was blowing chaff andpapers against fences and steps. 

Emeline had rather lost sight of her sister for a year or two, and hadlast seen her in another and better house than the one which theypresently identified by street and number. The sisters had married atabout the same time, but Ed Torney was a shiftless and unfortunate man, never steadily at work, and always mildly surprised at the discomfort oflife. May had four children, and was expecting a fifth. Two of the olderchildren, stupid-looking little blondes, with colds in their noses, anddirt showing under the fair hair, were playing in the dooryard of theshabby cottage now. The gate hung loose, the ground was worn bare bychildren's feet and dug into holes where children had burrowed, andlittered with cans and ropes and boxes. 

Emeline was genuinely shocked by the evidences of actual want inside. May was a thin, bent, sickly looking woman now, her graying hair hangingin a loose coil over her cotton wrapper. Floors everywhere were bare, afew chairs were here and there, a few beds running over with thinbedding, a table in the kitchen was covered with scattered dishes, somedirty and some clean. Ashes drifted out of the kitchen stove, and in thesink was a great tin dish-pan full of cool, greasy water. The oldestchild, a five-year-old girl, had followed these dazzling visitors in, and now mounted a box and attacked this dish-pan with pathetic energy. The two younger children sat on the floor, apathetically staring. Maymade only a few smiling apologies. They "could see how she was, " shesaid, limping to a chair into which she dropped with a sigh of relief. They had had a "fierce" time since Ed--Ed was the husband andfather--had lost his job a year ago. He had not been able to getanything permanent since. Ed had been there just a minute ago, shesaid--and indeed the odour of tobacco was still strong on the closeair--but he had been having a good deal of stomach trouble of late, andthe children made him nervous, and he had gone out for a walk. Poor May, smiling gallantly over the difficulties of her life, drew her firstbornto her knees, brushed back the child's silky, pale hair with bony, trembling fingers, and prophesied that things would be easier whenmamma's girlies got to work: Evelyn was going to be a dressmaker, andMarguerite an actress. 

"She can say a piece out of the Third Reader real cute--the childrennext door taught her, " said May, but Marguerite would not be exploited;she dug her blonde head into her mother's shoulder in a panic ofshyness; and shortly afterward the Pages went away. Uncle George gaveeach child a dime, Julia kissed her little cousins good-bye, and Emelinefelt a sick spasm of pity and shame as May bade the children thank them, and thanked them herself. Emeline drew her sister to the door, andpressed two silver dollars, all she happened to have with her, into herhand. 

"Aw, don't, Em, you oughtn't, " May said, ashamed and turning crimson, but instantly she took the money. "We've had an awful hard time--or Iwouldn't!" said she, tears coming to her eyes. 

"Oh, that's all right!" Emeline said uncomfortably, as she ran down thesteps. Her heart burned with sympathy for poor May, who had been sopretty and so clever! Emeline could not understand the change! May hadgraduated from High School with honours; she had held a good position asa bookkeeper in a grocery before her marriage, but, like Emeline, forthe real business of life she had had no preparation at all. Her ownoldest child could have managed the family finances and catered tosensitive stomachs with as much system and intelligence as May. 

On the boat Emeline spoke of her little money gift to her sister, andGeorge roused himself from a deep study to approve and to reimburse her. They did not speak again of moving to the country, and went straightfrom the boat to a French table d'hote dinner, where Julia, enchanted atfinding herself warm and near food after the long cold adventures of theday, stuffed herself on sardines and sour bread, soup and salad, andshrimps and fried chicken, and drank tumblers of claret and sugar andice water. 

There were still poker parties occasionally in the Page flat; Emelinewas quite familiar with poker phraseology now, and if George seemed lesspleased than he had been when she rattled away about hands, the men whocame were highly diverted by it. Two or three other wives generallyjoined the party now; there would be seven or eight players about theround table. 

They all drank as they played, the room would get very warm, and reek oftobacco and of whiskey and beer. Sometimes Julia woke up with aterrified shout, and then, if Emeline were playing, she would getGeorge, or one of the other men or women, to go in and quiet the littlegirl. These games would not break up until two or three o'clock. Emelinewould be playing excitedly, her face flushed, her eyes shining, everyfibre of her being alert, when suddenly the life would seem to fade outof the whole game. An overwhelming ennui would seize her, a cold, clear-eyed fatigue--the cards would seem meaningless, a chill wouldshake her, a need of yawning. The whole company would be suddenlylikewise affected, the game would break up with a few brief words, andEmeline, going in with her guests to help them with hats and wraps, would find herself utterly silent, too cold and weary for even the mostcasual civilities. When the others had gone, she and George would turnthe lights out on the wreckage of the dining-room, and stagger silentlyto bed. 

Fatigue would follow Emeline well into the next day after one of thesecard parties. If George was going out of town, she would send Julia offto play with other children in the house, and lie in bed until noon, getting up now and then to hold a conversation with some tradesmanthrough a crack in the door. At one she might sally forth in herfavourite combination of wrapper and coat to buy cream and rolls, andJulia would be regaled on sausages, hot cakes, bakery cookies, andcoffee, or come in to find no lunch at all, and that her mother had goneout for the afternoon. 

Emeline had grown more and more infatuated with the theatre and all thatpertained to it. She went to matinees twice a week, and she and hergroup of intimate friends also "went Dutch" to evening performanceswhenever it was possible. Their conversation was spattered withtheatrical terms, and when, as occasionally happened, a real actress oreven a chorus girl from the Tivoli joined their group, Emeline couldhardly contain her eagerness and her admiration. She loved, when rarechance offered, to go behind the scenes; she frankly envied theegotistic, ambitious young theatrical beginners, so eager to talk ofthemselves and their talents, to discuss every detail from grease paintto management. To poor hungry Emeline it was like a revelation ofanother, brighter world. 

She would loiter out from the brief enchantment of "Two True Hearts"into the foggy dampness of Market Street, at twilight, eagerly graspingthe suggestion of ice-cream sodas, because it meant a few minutes morewith her friends. Perhaps, sipping the frothy confection, Emeline wouldsee some of the young actresses going by, just from the theatre, buttoned into long coats, their faces still rosy from cold cream; theymust rush off for a light dinner, and be back at the theatre at seven. At the sight of them a pang always shot through Emeline, an exquisiteagony of jealousy seized her. Oh, to be so busy, so full of affairs, tomove constantly from one place to another--now dragging a spangled gown, now gay as a peasant, now gaudily dressed as a page!

Emeline would finish her soda in silence, lift the over-dressed Juliafrom her chair, and start soberly for home. Julia's short little legsached from the quick walk, yet she hated as much as her mother theplunge from brightly lighted O'Farrell Street into their own hall, solarge and damp and dark, so odorous of stale beer and rubber floorcovering. A dim point of gas in a red shade covered with symmetricalglass blisters usually burned over the stairway, but the Pages'apartment was dark, except for a dull reflected light from the street. Perhaps Julia and her mother would find George there, with his coat andshoes off, and his big body flung down across the bed, asleep. Georgewould wake up slowly, with much yawning and grumbling, Emeline would addher gloves and belt to the unspeakable confusion of the bureau, andJulia would flatten her tired little back against the curve of anarmchair and follow with heavy, brilliant eyes the argument that alwaysfollowed. 

"Well, we could get some chops--chops and potatoes--and a can of corn, "Emeline would grudgingly admit, as she tore off her tight corsets with agreat gasp of relief, and slipped into her kimono, "or you could getsome spaghetti and some mangoes at the delicatessen--"

"Oh, God, cut out the delicatessen stuff!" George invariably said; "mefor the chops, huh, Julie?"

"Or--we could all go somewhere, " Emeline might submit tentatively. 

"_Nit_, " George would answer. "Come on, Ju, we'll go buy a steak!"

But he was not very well pleased with his dinner, even when he had hisown way. When he and Julia returned with their purchases Emelineinvariably met them at the top of the stairs. 

"We need butter, George, I forgot to tell you--you'll have to go back!"she would say. Julia, tired almost beyond endurance, still preferred togo with her father. 

There was not enough gas heat under Emeline's frying pan to cook a steakwell; George growled as he cut it. Emeline jumped up for forgotten tablefurnishings; grease splashed on the rumpled cloth. After the one coursethe head of the house would look about hungrily. 

"No cheese in the house, I suppose?"

"No--I don't believe there is. "

"What's the chances on a salad?"

"Oh, no, George--that takes lettuce, you know. My goodness!" And Emelinewould put her elbows on the table and yawn, the rouge showing on herhigh cheek bones, her eyes glittering, her dark hair still pressed downwhere her hat had lain. "My goodness!" she would exclaim impatiently, "haven't you had enough, George? You had steak, and potatoes, andcorn--why don't you eat your corn?"

"What's the chances on a cup of tea?" George might ask, seizing a halfslice of bread, and doubling an ounce of butter into it, with his greatthumb on the blade of his knife. 

"You can have all the tea you want, but you'll have to use condensedmilk!"

At this George would say "Damn!" and take himself and his evening paperto the armchair in the front window. When Emeline would go in, after acursory disposition of the dishes, she would find Julia curled in hisarms, and George sourly staring over the little silky head. 

"It's up to you, and it's your job, and it makes me damn sick to comehome to such a dirty pen as this!" George sometimes burst out. "Look atthat--and look at that--look at that mantel!"

"Well--well--well!" Emeline would answer sharply, putting the mantelstraight, or commencing to do so with a sort of lazy scorn. "I can't doeverything!"

"Other men go home to decent dinners, " George would pursue sullenly;"their wives aren't so darn lazy and selfish--"

Such a start as this always led to a bitter quarrel, after whichEmeline, trembling with anger, would clear a corner of the cluttereddrawing-room table and take out a shabby pack of cards for solitaire, and George would put Julia to bed. All her life Julia Page rememberedthese scenes and these bedtimes. 

Her father sometimes tore the tumbled bed apart, and made it up again, smoothing the limp sheets with clumsy fingers, and talking to Julia, while he worked, of little girls who had brothers and sisters, and wholived in the country, and hung their stockings up on Christmas Eve. Emeline pretended not to notice either father or daughter at thesetimes, although she could have whisked Julia into bed in half the timeit took George to do it, and was really very kind to the child whenGeorge was not there. 

When George asked the little girl to find her hairbrush, and blunderedover the buttons of her nightgown, Emeline hummed a sprightly air. Shenever bore resentment long. 

"What say we go out later and get something to eat, George?" she wouldask, when George tiptoed out of the bedroom and shut the folding doorbehind him. But several hours of discomfort were not to be so lightlydismissed by George. 

"Maybe, " he would briefly answer. And invariably he presently mutteredsomething about asking "Cass" for the time, and so went down to thesaloon of "J. Cassidy, " just underneath his own residence. 

Emeline, alone, would brood resentfully over her cards. That was the wayof it: men could run off to saloons, while she, pretty and young, andwith the love of life still strong in her veins, might as well be deadand buried! Bored and lonely, she would creep into bed beside Julia, after turning the front-room light down to a bead, and flinging over the"bed lounge, " upon which George spent the night, the musty sheets andblankets and the big soggy pillows. 

But George, meanwhile, would have found warmth, brightness, companionship, and good food. The drink that was his passport to allthese good things was the least of them in his eyes. George did not careparticularly for drink, but he usually came home the worse for it onthese occasions, and Emeline had a real foundation for her furiousharangues in the morning. She would scold while she carried him in hotcoffee or chopped ice, scold while she crimped her hair and covered herface with a liquid bleach, scold as she jerked Julia's little bonnet onthe child's lovely mane, and depart, with a final burst of scolding anda bang of the door. 

One day Emeline came in to find George at home, ill. She had saidgood-bye to him only the day before, for what was supposedly a week, andwas really concerned to find him back so soon, shivering and mumbling, and apparently unable to get into bed. Emeline sent Julia flying to aneighbour, made George as comfortable as she could in the big bed, andlistened, with a conviction as firm as his own, to what he believed tobe parting instructions and messages. 

"I'm going, Em, " said George heavily. "I'm worse now than I was when Istarted for home. I wanted to see you again, baby girl, and Julia, too. I--I can't breathe----"

Julia presently came flying in with a doctor and with a neighbour, Mrs. Cotter, who had telephoned to him. The doctor said that George had asharp touch of influenza, and Emeline settled down to nurse him. 

George was a bad patient. He had a great many needs, and he mentionedone after another in the weighty, serious tone of a person impartingvaluable information. 

"Ice--ice, " said George, moving hot eyes to meet his wife's glance asshe came in. "And take that extra blanket off, Emeline, and--no hurry, but I'll try the soup again whenever you say--I seem to feel weak. Imust have more air, dear. Help me sit up, Em, and you can shake thesepillows up again. I think I'm a good deal sicker man than Allan has anyidea----"

Emeline got very tired of it, especially as George was much better onthe third day, and could sit up. He developed a stiff neck, which madehim very irritable, and even Julia "got on his nerves" and was banishedfor the day to the company of the cheerful Jewish family who lived on anupper floor. He sat in an armchair, wrapped in blankets, his rigid gazeroving a pitifully restricted perspective of street outside the window, an elaborate cough occasionally racking him. 

Emeline had gotten a fairly tempting dinner under way. She could cooksome things well, and at five o'clock she came in from the kitchen withan appetizing tray. 

"Gosh, is it dinner time?" asked George. 

"After five, " Emeline said, flitting about the bed-room. Julia had comehome now, sweet and tired, and was silently eating slice after slice ofbread and jelly. Emeline opened out the bed lounge, spread sheets andblankets smoothly, and flung a clean little nightgown for Julia acrossthe foot. Darkness had fallen outside; she lighted the gas and drew theshades. 

"This is comfortable!" said George. "I wouldn't mind being sick now andthen at this rate! Come over here and undress near Pop, Julie. I'll tellyou what, Em--you call down the air shaft to Cass, and tell him to sendHenny up to make us a nice little coal fire here. I'll give Henny aquarter. "

"She's gone into the bathroom to fix her hair and wash her face, " Juliaobserved, as Emeline did not answer. A second later the child jumped upto answer a sharp knock on the door. 

To George's disgust it was Emeline's friend, Mrs. Marvin Povey, who camein. Mrs. Povey was a tightly corseted, coarse-voiced, highly colouredlittle blonde, breathless now from running upstairs. Her sister, MyrtleMontague, was an ingenue in the little stock company at the CentralTheatre, and Mrs. Povey kept house for her and Mr. Povey, who spent allhis waking hours at the racetrack. The Poveys' flat was only a blockaway from the Pages'. 

George was furious to have this woman, whom he particularly detested, come in upon him thus informally, and find him at so great adisadvantage. His neck was better, but he could not move it very easilystill; he was trapped here in blankets like a baby; he was acutelyconscious of his three days' beard, of Julia's bed made up in the middleof the drawing-room, and of Julia's self, partly disrobed, and runningabout in the general disorder. 

"Well, how does the other feller look?" said Mrs. Povey, laughinggood-naturedly. "You look like you'd broke out of San Quentin, George, with that face! Hello, darlin', " she added, waylaying Julia. "When areyou going to come and be Aunt Mame's girl, huh? Going to come home withme to-night?"

"Em!" bellowed George, with only a sickly smile for the guest. "_Em_!"

"My God, what is it now?" said Emeline sweetly, popping in her head. "Oh, hello, Mame!" she added, coming in. "Where's the rest of thegirls?"

"They've all blew up to the house with Myrt, " said Mrs. Povey, staringblankly at Emeline. "But say, ain't you going, dear?"

"Wait till I get my dress on, and we'll talk it over while I hook up, "Emeline said, disappearing again. She did not glance at George. 

"Myrt's in a new show, and a few of us girls are going to see that shegets a hand, " Mrs. Povey said. "We're going to have supper at my house. Mary will have some of the boys there. "

"I guess Emeline will have to wait till the next time, " George saidcoldly. "She wouldn't get much pleasure out of it, leaving me here assick as I am!"

"Oh, I don't know!" Mrs. Povey half sang, half laughed. "Emeline likes agood time, like all the rest of us, George, and it don't do to keep apretty girl shut up all the time!"

"Shut up? She's never here, " George growled. 

"Well, we'll see!" Mrs. Povey hummed contentedly. A moment later Emelinecame in, wrenching the hooks of her best gown together. She had her haton, and looked excited and resolute. 

"I forgot I'd promised to go out with the girls, George, " she began. "You don't care, do you? You've had your supper, and all Julia's got todo is get into bed. "

George looked balefully from one to the other. Mrs. Povey chanced aquick little wink of approval and encouragement at Emeline, and he sawit. 

"A lot you forgot!" he said harshly to his wife. "You've been gettingready for the last hour. Don't either of you think that you're foolingme--I see through it! I could lay here and die, and a lot you'd care!You forgot--ha!"

The blood rushed instantly to Emeline's face, she turned upon him herugliest look, and the hand with which she was buttoning her glovetrembled. 

"Now, I'll tell you something, Mr. George Page!" said she, in an intenseand passionate tone, "there _are_ things I'd rather do than set aroundthis house and hear you tell how sick you are! You think I'm a whitechip in this family, but let me tell you something--there's plenty oflovely friends I got who think I'm a fool to keep it up! I had an offerto go on the stage, not a month ago, from a manager who didn't even knowI was married; didn't I, Mame? And if it wasn't for Julie there----"

"You've not got anything on me, Em, " George said, breathing hard, hisface blood red with anger. "Do you think that if it wasn't for this kid, I'd----"

"Oh, folks--folks!" Mrs. Povey said, really concerned. 

"Well, I don't care!" Emeline said, panting. She crossed the floor, still panting, kissed Julia, and swept from the room. Mrs. Povey, murmuring some confused farewell, followed her. 

Julia climbed out of her big chair. Like all children, she wasfrightened by loud voices and domestic scenes; she was glad now that thequarrel was over, and anxious, in a small girl's fashion, to blot therecent unpleasantness from her father's mind. 

She sat on his knee and talked to him, she sang, she patted his soreneck with sleek, dirty little fingers. And finally she won him. Georgelaughed, and entered into her mood. He thought her a very smart littlegirl, as indeed she was. She had a precocious knowledge of the affairsof her mother's friends, sordid affairs enough, and more sordid thanever when retailed by a child's fresh mouth. Julia talked of moneytrouble, of divorce, of dressmaker's bills, of diseases; she repeatedinsolent things that had been said to her in the street, and herinsolent replies; her rich, delicious laugh broke out over the memory ofthe "drunk" that had been thrown out of Cassidy's. 

George laughed at it all; it sounded very funny to him, coming from thisvery small person, with her round, serious eyes, and her mop of gold. Heasked her what she wanted him to bring her next time he came home, andJulia said black boots with white tops and tassels, and made him laughagain. 

Thus early did Julia act as a mediator between her parents, but of thisparticular occasion she had no recollection, nor of much that followedit. Had she been a few years older she might really have affected alasting reconciliation between them, for all that was best in Georgemade him love his daughter, and Emeline was intensely proud of thechild. As it was, Julia was too young. She might unconsciously be themeans of reuniting them now and then, but she could not at all grasp thesituation, and when she was not quite seven a decree of divorce, on theground of desertion, set both Emeline and George free, after eight yearsof married life. 

Emeline was too frightened at the enormity of the thing to be eitherglad or sorry. She had never meant to go so far. She had threatenedGeorge with divorce just as George had threatened her, in the heat ofanger, practically since her wedding day. But the emotion that finallydrove Emeline to a lawyer was not anger, it was just dull rebellionagainst the gray, monotonous level of her days. She was alone whenGeorge was away on trips; she was not less alone when he was in town. Hehad formed the habit of joining "the boys" in the evening; he was surlyand noncommittal with his wife, but Julia, hanging about the lower halldoor or playing with children in the street, always heard a burst oflaughter as he joined his friends; everybody in the world--exceptEmeline--liked George!

Poor Emeline--she could easily have held him! A little tenderness towardhim, a little interest in her home and her child, and George would havebeen won again. Had he but once come home to a contented wife and aclean house, George's wavering affection would have been regained. ButEmeline was a loud-mouthed, assertive woman now, noisily set upon herown way, and filled with a sense of her own wrongs. She had discussedGeorge too often with her friends to feel any possible interest in himexcept as a means of procuring sympathy. George bored her now; as amatter of fact, Emeline had almost decided that she would prefer alimonyto George. 

Goaded on by Mrs. Povey, and a young Mrs. Sunius, affectionately knownas Maybelle, Emeline went to see a lawyer. The lawyer surprised her byhis considerate brevity. Getting a divorce was a very simple affair, much better done than not. There were ways to make a man pay his alimonyregularly, and the little girl would stay with her mother, of course; ather age no other solution was possible. Emeline felt that she must knowhow much expense she would be put to, and was gratified to find that itwould cost her not more than fifty dollars. The lawyer asked her howsoon she could get hold of her husband. 

"Why, he'll let me know as soon as he's in town, " Emeline said vaguely;"he'll come home. "

"Come home, eh?" said the lawyer, with a shrewd look. "He knows yourintentions, of course?"

"He ought to!" said Emeline with spirit, and she began again: "I don'tthink there's a person in the world could say that I'm not a good wife, Mr. Knowles! I never so much as looked at another man--I swear to God Inever did! And there's no other man in the case. If I can have mydolling little girl, and just live quiet, with a few friends near me, that's all I ask! If Mr. Page had his way, I'd never put foot out ofdoors; but mind you, _he'd_ be off with the boys every night. And thatmeans drink, you know--"

"Well, well, " the young lawyer said soothingly, "I guess you've beentreated pretty mean, all right. "

Emeline went home to find--somewhat to her embarrassment--that Georgehad come in, and was in his happiest mood, and playing with Julia. Juliahad somehow lost her babyish beauty now; she was thin and lanky, fourteeth were missing, and even her glorious mop of hair seemed what hermother called "slinky. "

"I landed the Fox order right over Colton's head!" said George. 

Emeline said: "I wish to the Lord you'd quit opening that window, leaving the wind blow through here like a cave!"

"Well, the place smelled like a Jap's room!" George retorted, instantlyaggressive. 

"We're going to the Park!" Julia chanted. 

"How d'ye mean you're going to the Park?" Emeline asked, as she slammeddown the offending window. 

"Well, I thought maybe I'd take her there; kinder fun walking round andseeing things, what?" George submitted. 

Emeline shrugged. "I don't care what you do!"

She sat down before a dresser with a triple mirror, which had latelybeen added to the bedroom furniture, and began to ruffle the coarsepuffs of her black hair with slim, ringed fingers. 

"You've got something better to do, of course!" George said. 

"Don't go to a matinee, Mother!" said Julia, coming to lean coaxinglyagainst her mother's arm. Emeline looked down at the pale, intelligentlittle face, and gave the child a sudden kiss. 

"Mama isn't going to a matinee, doll baby. But papa ain't as crazy forher to go to the Park as you are!" she said, with an oblique andchallenging glance at George. 

"Oh, come on!" George urged impatiently. "Only don't wear that rottenhat, " he added. "It don't look like a respectable woman!"

Emeline's expression did not change, but fury seethed within her. 

"Don't wait for me, " she said levelly. "I'm not going. "

"Well, put the kid's hat on then, " George suggested, settling his ownwith some care at the mantel mirror. 

"Get your hand-embroidered dress out of your drawer, Julia, " said hermother, "and the hat Aunt Maybelle gave you!"

"I'm going to Cass's to telephone, and I need some cigarettes, " Georgeannounced from the door. "I'll be back in five minutes for Julie. "

"Don't forget to get a drink while you're in Cass's, " Emeline remindedhim, as she flung an embroidered dress over Julia's limp little draggledpetticoats. George's answer was a violent slamming of the hall door. 

Julia's little face was radiant as her mother tied on a soiled whitestraw bonnet covered with roses, and put a cologne-soaked handkerchiefinto the pocket of her blue velvet coat. The little girl did not havemany pleasures; there were very few children in the neighbourhood, andJulia was not very strong; she easily caught colds in dark O'FarrellStreet, or in the draughty hall. All winter long she had been hangingover the coal fire in the front room, or leaning against the windowwatching the busy street below--but today was spring! Sunlight glorifiedeven the dreary aspect from the windows above "J. Cassidy's" saloon, andthe glorious singing freshness of the breeze, the heavenly warmth of theblue air, had reached Julia's little heart. 

When she was quite dressed, and was standing at the window patientlywatching for her father, Emeline came and stood beside her. 

"I'll tell you what!" said Emeline suddenly. "I'll go, too! It's toogrand to be indoors today; we'll just go out to the Park and take in thewhole show! And then perhaps papa'll take us somewhere to dinner!"

She began swiftly to dress, pinning on a hat that George liked, andworking on long gray kid gloves as a complement to a gray gown. Then shecame to stand behind Julia again, and both watched the street. 

"I guess he's waiting for his change?" suggested Julia, and Emelinelaughed. 

"We'll walk over and take the Geary Street car, " said she. "We'll goright to the fountain, and get dummy seats. And we could have dinner atthe Poodle Dog--"

"Here he comes!" Julia cried. And indeed George was to be seen for amoment, between two friends, standing on the corner. 

A long wait ensued. Then steps came up the stairs. Emeline, followed byJulia, went to the door. It was not George, but a note from George, delivered by Henny, of Cassidy's saloon. 

"Dear Em, " Emeline read, "a couple of the fellows want me to go toEmeryville, have dinner at Tony's, and sit in a little game afterward. Tell Julie I will take her to the Park to-morrow--and buy her anythingshe wants. George. "

"Thanks, Henny, " Emeline said, without visible emotion. But Julia's lipquivered, and she burst into bitter crying. Six-years-old knows notomorrows, and Julia tasted the bitterness of despair. She criedquietly, her little body screwed into a big armchair, her face hidden inthe crook of a thin little arm. Emeline stood it as long as she could, then she slapped and shook Julia to stop her, and Julia strangled andshrieked hysterically. 

Peace was presently restored, and Julia was asked if she would like togo see her Auntie Mame, and assented with a hiccough. So her mottledlittle face was wiped with a soggy gray towel, and her bonnetstraightened, and they set out. 

Mrs. Povey was so sympathetic that Emeline stayed with her for dinner, acasual meal which Myrtle Montague and a sister actress came in to share. Julia sat with them at table, and stuffed solemnly on fresh bread andcheese, crab salad and smoked beef, hot tomato sauce and deliciouscoffee. The coffee came to table in a battered tin pot, and the creamwas poured into the cups from the little dairy bottle, with its metaltop, but Julia saw these things as little as any one else--as little asshe saw the disorderly welter of theatrical effects in the Poveys'neglected rooms, the paint on the women's faces, the ugly violence andcoarseness of their talk. 

But she did see that they were an impulsive, warm-hearted, generous set. Nobody ever spoke crossly to her, she was given the freedom of theirrooms, she listened to their chatter, she was often caught up forembraces heavy with cologne; they loved to dress her up in preposterouscostumes, and shouted with laughter at the sight of her in Dolly Vardenbonnets, Scotch kilts, or spectacles and wigs. "Baby doll, " "Lovey, " and"Honey Babe" were Julia's names here, and she was a child hungry forlove and eager to earn it. To-night she ate her supper in that silenceso grateful to grown people, and afterward found some stage jewelleryand played with it until her head was too heavy to hold up any longer. Then she went to sleep upon an odorous couch piled deep with all sortsof odd garments, her feet thrust into a tangle of lifeless satinpillows, her head upon the fur lining of some old cape, a banjo proddingher uncomfortably whenever she stirred. 

Julia--all pins and needles--was presently jerked up into a glare oflights, and tied into the rose-crowned bonnet, and buttoned into thevelvet coat again. She had not been covered as she slept, and sneezedand shivered in the cold night air. Emeline walked along briskly, andJulia stumbled beside her. The child was in such an agony of fatigue andchill that every separate step toward bed was dreaded by this time. Shefell against her mother, as Emeline tore off shoes and stockings, stretched blundering, blind little arms for her nightgown sleeves, andsank deliciously against her pillows, already more than half asleep. 

But Emeline sat wide eyed, silent, waiting for George. 

George did not come home at all that night. On the nextafternoon--Sunday afternoon--Julia was playing in the street with twoother small girls. Their game was simple. The three huddled into thedeep doorway that led to Julia's home, clinging tight to each other, laughing and shouting. Then at a given signal they rushed screamingforth, charged across the street as if pursued by a thousand furies, andtook shelter in a similar doorway, next to the saloon across the street. This performance had been repeated, back and forth, perhaps a dozentimes, when Julia found her father waylaying her. 

"Where y' going?" asked Julia, noticing that he carried a hand bag. 

George sat down on the dirty cement steps that connected his dwellingwith the sidewalk, and drew Julia between his knees. 

"I've got to go away, baby, " said he soberly. 

"And ain't choo going to take me to the Park--_never_?" asked Julia, witha trembling lip. 

George freed a lock of her hair that had gotten caught in her collar, with clumsy, gentle fingers. 

"Mama's mad at me, and I'm going away for a while, Babe, " said he, clearing his throat. "But you be a good girl, and I'll come take you tothe Park some day. "

Something in the gravity of his tone impressed Julia. 

"But I don't want you to go away, " she said tearfully. George got uphastily. 

"Come on, walk with Pop to the car, " he commanded, and Julia trottedcontentedly beside him to Market Street. There she gave him a child'ssoft, impersonal kiss, staring up at the buildings opposite as she didso. George jumped on a cable car, wedged his bag under his knees as hetook a seat on the dummy, and looked back at the little figure that wasmoving toward the dingy opening of O'Farrell Street, and at the springsunshine, bright on the child's hair. 

CHAPTER II

In summer the rear parlour that was Mrs. Page's bedroom was a rather dimand dreary place; such light as it had fell through one long, highwindow that gave only upon a narrow air shaft; it was only in mid-Julythat the actual sunlight--a bright and fleeting triangle--touched theworn red carpet and the curly-maple bed. In winter the window gavealmost no light at all. Julia dressed by gaslight ten months out of theyear, and had to sit up in her warm blankets and stare at the clock on acertain January morning in her fifteenth year, to make sure whether itsaid twenty minutes of eleven or five minutes of eight o'clock. It wasfive minutes of eight--no mistake about it--but eight o'clock was earlyfor the Pages, mother and daughter. Julia sighed, and cautiouslystretched forth an arm, a bare, shapely little arm, with bangles on theround wrist and rings on the smooth fingers, and picked a book from thefloor. Cautiously settling herself on the pillows she plunged into hernovel, now and then pushing back a loose strand of hair, or bringing herpretty fingernails close to her eyes for an admiring and criticalscrutiny. 

An hour passed--another hour. The clock in the front room struck asilvery ten. Then Julia slammed her book noisily together, and gave asharp push to the recumbent form beside her. 

"Ah--no--darling!" moaned Mrs. Page, tortured out of dreams. "Don't--Julie--"

"Aw, wake up, Mama!" the daughter urged. Whereupon the older womanrolled on her back, yawned luxuriously, and said, quite composedly:

"Hello, darling! What time is it?"

Emeline had aged in seven years; she looked hopelessly removed fromyouth and beauty now, but later in the day, when her hair would be takenout of its crimping kids, her sallow cheeks touched with rouge, and herveined neck covered by a high collar, a coral chain, and anostrich-feather ruff, some traces of her former good looks might bevisible. She still affected tight corsets, high heels, enormous hats. But Emeline's interest in her own appearance was secondary now to herfierce pride and faith in Julia's beauty. Drifting along the line ofleast resistance, asking only to be comfortable and to have a good time, Emeline had come to a bitter attitude of resentment toward George, toward the fate that had "forced" her to leave him. Now she began lazilyto fasten upon Julia as the means of gratifying those hopes andambitions that were vain for herself. Julia was beautiful, Julia wouldbe a great success, and some day would repay her mother for thesacrifices she had made for her child. 

Emeline dressed, went about, flirted, and gossiped still; she likedcocktails and cards and restaurant dinners; she was an authority on allthings theatrical; her favourite pose was that of the martyred mother. "All I have left, " Emeline would say, kissing her daughter effectively, before strangers. "And only God knows what it has cost me to keep mygirlie with me!"

Julia would grin good-naturedly at this. She had no hallucinations abouther mother. She knew her own value, knew she was pretty, and was gladwith the simple and pathetic complacence of fourteen. Julia at eight hadgone to dancing school, in the briefest skirts ever seen on a smallgirl, and the dirtiest white silk stockings. She had sung a shrilllittle song, and danced a little dance at a public benefit for thewidows of three heroic firemen, when she was only nine. Her lovely mophad been crimped out of all natural wave; her youthful digestion menacedby candy and chewing gum; her naturally rather sober and pensivedisposition completely altered, or at least eclipsed. Julia couldchatter of the stage, could give a pert answer to whoever accosted her, could tell a dressmaker exactly how she wanted a gown made, at twelve. While her mother slept in the morning, before the girl learned to sleeplate, too, the child would get up and slip out. Her playground wasO'Farrell Street, dry and hot in summer, wrapped in soft fog fourmornings a week the year round, reeking of stale beer, and echoing tothe rattle of cable cars. The little Julia flitted about everywhere:watching janitors as they hosed down the sidewalks outside the saloons, or rinsed cuspidors; watching grocers set out their big signs for theday; watching little restaurants open, and first comers sit down togreat cups of coffee and plates of hot cakes. Perhaps the sight of foodwould remind the little girl of her own empty stomach; she wouldstraggle home just as the first sunshine was piercing the fog, andloiter upstairs, and peep into the bedroom to see what the chances of ameal might be. 

Emeline usually rolled over to smile at her daughter when she heard thedoor open, and Julia would be sent to the delicatessen store for thecomponent parts of a substantial meal. Julia loved the cramped, clean, odorous shop that smelled of wet wood and mixed mustard pickles andsmoked fish. A little cream bottle would be filled from an immense canat her request, the shopkeeper's wife wiping it with a damp rag and abony hand. And the pat of butter, and the rolls, and the sliced ham, andthe cheese--Herr Bauer scratched their prices with a stubby pencil on anoily bit of paper, checked their number by the number of bundles, gaveJulia the buttery change, and Julia hurried home for a deliciousloitering breakfast with her mother. Emeline, still in her limp, lace-trimmed nightgown, with a spotted kimono hanging loosely over it, and her hair a wildly tousled mass at the top of her head, presided at aclear end of the kitchen table. She and Julia occupied only two rooms ofthe original apartment now; a young lawyer, with his wife and child, hadthe big front room, and the dining-room was occupied by two mysteriousyoung men who came and went for years without ever betraying anything oftheir own lives to their neighbours. Julia only knew that they wereyoung, quiet, hard working, and of irreproachable habits. 

But she knew the people in the front room quite well. Mrs. RaymondToomey was a neat, bright, hopeful little woman, passionately devoted toher husband and her spoiled, high-voiced little son. Raymond Toomey wasa big, blustering fool of a man, handsome in a coarse sort of way, noisy, shallow, and opinionated. Whenever there were races, the Toomeyswent to the races, taking the precocious "Lloydy, " in his velvetFauntleroy suit and tasselled shoes, and taking "Baby, " a shiveringlittle terrier with wet, terrified eyes. Sometimes Mrs. Toomey came outto the kitchen in the morning, to curl her ostrich feathers over the gasstove, or join Mrs. Page in a cup of coffee. 

"God, girlie, that goes to the spot, " she would yawn, stirring her cup, both elbows on the table. "We had a fierce day yesterday, and Ray took alittle too much last night--you know how men are! He had a stable tipyesterday, and went the limit--like a fool! I play hunches--there's nosuch thing as a tip!"

And sometimes she would put a little printed list of entries beforeJulia and say:

"Pick me a winner, darling. Go on--just pick any one!"

Julia soon reached the age when she could get her own breakfast, andthen, mingled with a growing appreciation of the girl's beauty, hermother felt that gratitude always paid by an indolent person to one ofenergy. She knew that her child was finer than she was, prettier, moreclever, more refined. She herself had never had any reserves; she hadalways screamed or shouted or cried or run away when things crossed her, but she saw Julia daily displaying self-control and composure such asshe had never known. There were subtleties in Julia: her sweet firmyoung mouth closed over the swift-coming words she would not say, herround, round blue eyes were wiser already than her mother's eyes. 

The girl had grown very handsome. Her joyous, radiant colouring wascontradicted by her serious expression, her proud, unsmiling mouth. Hereyes were dark, her colouring softly dark; she had the velvety, tawnyskin that usually accompanies dark hair. Yet her hair was a pure andexquisite gold. She wore it fluffed over her ears, cut in a bang acrossher forehead, and "clubbed" on her neck, in a rather absurd andartificial fashion. But the effect of her grave little face and severeexpression, with this opulent gold, and her red lips and round blueeyes, was very piquant. Even powder, earrings, and "clubbing" her hairdid not rob Julia of the appearance of a sweet, wilful, and petulantchild. Besides the powder and earrings, she indulged in cologne, inopen-work silk stockings and high heels, in chains and rings andbracelets; she wore little corsets, at fourteen, and laced them tight. 

Julia's mind, at this time, was a curious little whirlpool. She had thenatural arrogance of her years; she felt that she had nothing to learn. She had an affectionate contempt for her mother, and gave advice moreoften than she accepted it from Emeline. Julia naturally loved order andcleanliness, but she never came in contact with them. Emeline sometimesdid not air or make her bed for weeks at a time. She washed only suchdishes as were absolutely necessary for the next meal. She never sentout a bundle to the laundry, but washed handkerchiefs and some underwearherself, at erratic intervals, drying them on windows, or the backs ofvarious chairs. Emeline always had a pair or more of silk stockingssoaking in a little bowl of cold suds in the bedroom, and occasionallycarried a waist or a lace petticoat to the little French laundress onPowell Street, and drove a sharp bargain with her. Julia accepted thesituation very cheerfully; she and her mother both enjoyed their lazy, aimless existence, and to Julia, at least, the future was full of hope. She could do any one of a dozen things that would lead to fame andfortune. 

The particular day that opened for her with two hours of quiet readingprogressed like any other day. The mother and daughter arose, got theirbreakfast in the kitchen, and sat long over it, sharing the papers, thehot coffee, the cream, and dividing evenly the little French loaf. Julia's nightgown was as limp as her mother's, her kimono as dirty, andher feet were thrust in fur slippers, originally white, now gray. Buther fresh young colour, and the rich loops and waves of her golden hair, her firm young breasts under her thin wraps, and the brave blue of hereyes made her a very different picture from her mother, who satopposite, a vision of disorder, feasting her eyes upon the girl. 

There was a murder story, of which mother and daughter read every word, and a society wedding to discuss. 

"The Chases went, " said Julia, dipping her bread in her coffee, her eyeson the paper. "Isn't that the limit!"

"Why, Marian Chase was a bridesmaid, Julie!"

"Yes, I know. But I didn't think the Byron Chases would go to MaudePennell's wedding! But of course she's marrying an Addison--that helps. 'Mrs. Byron Chase, lavender brocade and pearls, '" read Julia. "Well, Maude Pennell is getting in, all right!"

"What'd Mrs. Joe Coutts wear?" Emeline asked. Among the unknown membersof the city's smartest set she had her favourites. 

"'Mrs. Joseph Foulke Coutts, '" Julia read obligingly. '"Red velvet robetrimmed with fox. '"

"For heaven's sake, Julie--with that red face!"

"And Miss Victoria Coutts in pink silk--she's had that dress for a yearnow, " Julia said. "Well, Lord!" She yawned luxuriously. "I wouldn'tmarry Roy Addison if he was made of money--the bum!" She pushed thepaper carelessly aside. "What you going to do to-day, Ma?" she askedlazily. 

"Oh, go out, " Emeline answered vaguely, still reading a newspaperparagraph. "Gladys has had to pay over a quarter of a million for thatfeller's debts!" said she, awed. 

"Well, that's what you get for marrying a duke, " Julia answeredscornfully. "Let's pile these, Ma, and get dressed. "

They went into the bedroom, where the gas was lighted again, the bureaupushed out from the wall, that the mirror might catch the best light, and where, in unspeakable confusion, mother and daughter began to dress. Julia put on her smart little serge skirt, pushing it down over her hipswith both hands. Then she fixed her hair carefully, adjusted her hat, tied on a spotted white veil, and finally slipped into amuch-embroidered silk shirtwaist, which mother and daughter decided wasdirty, but would "do. " Rings, bangles, and chains followed, a pair oflong limp gloves, a final powdering, and a ruff of pink feathers. Juliawas not fifteen and looked fully seventeen, to her great delight. Shegave herself a sober yet approving glance in the mirror; the corners ofher firm yet babyish mouth twitched with pleasure. 

She locked the doors, set an empty milk bottle out on the unspeakablydreary back stairway, and flung the soggy bedding over the foot of thebed. Then mother and daughter sauntered out into the noontime sunshine. 

It was their happiest time, as free and as irresponsible as childrenthey went forth to meet the day's adventures. Something was sure tohappen, the "crowd" would have some plan; they rarely came home againbefore midnight. But this sunshiny start into the day Was most pleasantof all, its freshness, its potentialities, appealed to them both. It wasa February day, warm and bright, yet with a delicious tingle in the air. 

"Leave us go up to Min's, Julie; some of the girls are sure to be there. There's no mat. To-day. "

"Well--" Julia was smiling aimlessly at the sunlight. Now she pattedback a yawn. "Walk?"

"Oh, sure. It's lovely out. "

It was tacitly understood that Julia was to be an actress some day, whenshe was older, and the boarding-house of Mrs. Minnie Tarbury, to whichthe Pages were idly sauntering, was inhabited almost entirely bytheatrical folk. Emeline and Julia were quite at home in the shabbyovercrowded house in Eddy Street, and to-day walked in at the basementdoor, under a flight of wooden stairs that led to the parlour floor, andsurprised the household at lunch in the dark, bay-windowed front room. 

Mrs. Tarbury, a large, uncorseted woman, presided. Her boarders, girlsfor the most part, were scattered down the long table. Luncheon wasproperly over, but the girls were still gossiping over their tea. Fliesbuzzed in the sunny window, and the rumpled tablecloth was covered withcrumbs. Mrs. Tarbury kissed Mrs. Page, and Julia settled down betweentwo affectionate chorus girls. 

"You know you're getting to be the handsomest thing that ever lived, Ju!" said one of these. Julia smiled without raising her eyes from theknives and forks with which she was absently playing. 

"She's got the blues to-day, " said her mother. "Not a word out of her!"

"Is that right, Ju?" somebody asked solicitously. 

"Just about as right as Mama ever gets it, " the girl said, still withher indifferent smile. Because her mother was shallow and violent, shehad learned to like a pose of silence, of absent-mindedness, andbecause of the small yet sufficient income afforded by the rented roomsand from alimony, Julia was removed from the necessity that drove theseother girls to the hard and constant work of the stage, and could affordher favourite air of fastidious waiting. She was going to be an actress, yes, but not until some plum worthy of her beauty and youth was offered. Meanwhile she listened to the others, followed the history of thefavourites of the stage eagerly, and never saw less than four shows aweek. Julia, at Juliet's age, had her own ideas as to the interpretationof the Balcony Scene, and could tell why she thought the art of MissRehan less finished than that of Madame Modjeska. But personally shelacked ambition, in this direction at least. 

However, she joined in the girls' talk with great zest; a manager was tobe put in his place, and several theories were advanced as to histreatment. 

"I swear to God if Max don't give me twenty lines in the next, I'll goon to New York, " said a Miss Connie Girard dispassionately. "There's aparty I know there rents a house that Frohman owns, and he'd give me aletter. What I want is a Broadway success. "

"That time we played--you know, seven weeks running, in Portland, " saida stout, aging actress, "the time my little dance made such a hit, youknow--"

"Mind jer, Max never come near us this morning, " interrupted a Miss RoseRansome firmly. "Because he knew what he done, and he wasn't looking fortrouble! He wrote a notice--"

"One of the Portland papers, in c'menting on the show--" the dancerresumed. 

"Say, Julie, want to walk down to Kearney with me?" Miss Girard said, jumping up. "I want to get my corsets, and we might drop in and see ifwe can work Foster for some seats for to-night. "

"I've got a date to-night, " said Julia, with a glance at her mother. 

"What's that?" Emeline said sharply. 

"Why, Mama, I told you I was going to the Orpheum with the Rosenthals--"

"She's going with the whole bunch, " Mrs. Page commented, with a shrug. "I can't stand them, but she can!"

"I think Mark Rosenthal's a darling, " some girl said, "I want to tellyou right now there's not anybody can play the piano as good as he can. "

"That's right, " Julia said, very low. 

"Well, excuse me from the bunch!" Mrs. Page said lazily. 

"But we've got a real pretty little blush, just the same!" Mrs. Tarburysaid, smiling at Julia. The girls shouted, and Julia grew still morered. "Never mind, baby love!" said the older woman soothingly. "It'sjust Aunt Min's nonsense! Say, but listen, Julia!" Her tone grewsuddenly intense. "I meant to ask you something--listen. Say, nofooling, Artheris wants to know if you would take a job. "

"Twenty a week, and twenty towns a month, " Julia said, still ruffled. "No, I would not!"

"No, this isn't anything like that, dearie, " explained Mrs. Tarbury. "There's going to be a big amachure show for charity at the Grand nextmonth, and they want a few professionals in it, to buck up the others. All the swells are going to be in it--it's going to be somethingelegant! Of course they'd pay something, and it'd be a lot of fun foryou! Artheris wants you to do it, and it wouldn't hurt you none to havehim on your side, Julia. I promised I'd talk to you. "

"One performance?" Julia asked. "What play?"

"I'd do it in a minute, " said the stout actress from Portland, whosedance had been so gratifying a success, "but I'm signed up. "

"One night, dear, " Mrs. Tarbury said. "I don't think they've decided onthe play. "

"I don't know, " Julia hesitated. "What d'ye think, Mama?"

"I think he's got his gall along, " Mrs. Page admitted. "One night!--andto learn the whole thing for that. I'll tell you what to tell him--youtell him this: you say that you can't do it for one cent less'n ahundred dollars!"

"Lay down, Towse!" said Connie Girard, and Mrs. Tarbury expressed thesame incredulity as she said benevolently: "What a pipe dream, Em--she'slucky if she gets ten!"

"Ten!" squeaked Julia's mother, but Julia silenced her by sayingcarelessly:

"I'll tell you what, Aunt Min. If Con and I get through in time we'll goin and see Artheris to-day. I'd do it for twenty-five--"

"You would not!" said her mother. 

"Well, you might get twenty-five, " Mrs. Tarbury said, mollified, "ifit's a long part. "

"If it don't take a lot of dressing, " Julia said thoughtfully, as sheand Miss Girard powdered their noses at the dark mirror of thesideboard. 

"Don't you be fool enough to do it for a cent under fifty, " Emelinesaid. 

Julia smiled at her vaguely, and added to her farewells a daughterly, "Your hat's all right, Mama, but your veil's sort of caught up over yourear. Fix it before you go out. We'll be back here at five--"

"Or we'll meet you at Monte's, '" said Connie. 

The two girls walked briskly down Eddy Street, conscious of their owncharms, and conscious of the world about them. Connie was nearlynineteen, a simple, happy little flirt, who had been in and out of loveconstantly for three or four years. Julia knew her very well, andadmired her heartily. Connie had twice had a speaking part in the pastyear, and the younger girl felt her to be well on her way toward fame. Miss Girard's family of plain, respectable folk lived in Stockton, andwere somewhat distressed by her choice of a vocation, but Connie wasreally a rather well-behaved girl, --and a safe adviser for Julia. 

"Say, listen, Con, " said Julia, presently, "you know Mark Rosenthal?"

"Sure, " said Connie. "Look here, Ju!" She paused at a window. "Don't youthink these Chinese hand bags are swell!"

"Grand. But listen, Con, " said Julia, shamefacedly honest as a boy. "He's got a case on me----"

"On you?" echoed Connie. "Why, he's twenty!"

"I know it, " Julia agreed. 

"But, my Lord, Ju, your Mother won't stand for that!"

"Mama don't know it. "

"Well, I don't think you ought to do that, Ju, " Connie began gravely. But Julia, with sudden angry tears in her eyes, stopped her. 

"I've _not_ done anything!" she said crossly. And suddenly Connie saw thetruth: that Julia, in spite of paint and powder, rings and "clubbed"hair, was only a little girl, after all, still unsexed, still youngenough to resent being teased about boys. 

"What's he do?" she asked presently. 

"Well, he--he--I have supper with them sometimes"--Julia's words pouredout eagerly--"and he'll kiss me, you know--"

"_Kiss_ you! The nerve!"

"Oh, before them all, I mean--like he always has done. His mother justlaughs. And then, last week, when he asked me to go to Morosco's withthem, why, it was just us two--the others had gone somewhere else. "

"Well, of all gall!" said Connie, absorbed. 

"And I've been up there with him thousands of times, " said Julia. "MaybeHannah'd be there, or Sophy, but sometimes we'd be alone--while he wasplaying the piano, you know. "

"Well, now you look-a-here, Julie, " said Connie impressively, "you cutout that being alone business, and the kissing, too. And now how aboutto-night? Are you sure his whole family is going to-night?"

"Well, that's just it, I'm not, " Julia confessed, flattered by Connie'sinterest. 

"Then you don't go one step, my dear; just you fool him a bunch! You seeyou're like a little boy, Ju: kisses don't mean nothing to you, _yet_. Butyou'll get a crush some day yourself, and then you'll feel like a foolif you've got mixed up with the wrong one--see?"

"Sure, " said Julia, hoarse and embarrassed. Yet she liked the sensationof being scolded by Connie, too, and tried shyly, as the conversationseemed inclined to veer toward Connie's own affairs, to bring it back toher own. 

The little matter of the corsets being settled, they sauntered throughthe always diverting streets toward the office of Leopold Artheris, manager of the Grand Opera House, and a very good friend of both girls. 

They found him idle, in a bright, untidy office, lined with the picturesof stage favourites, and with three windows open to the sun and air. 

"You're placed, I think, Miss Girard?" said he, giving her a fat littlepuffy hand. He was a stout, short man of fifty, with a bald spot showingunder a mop of graying curls, and a bushy moustache also streaked withgray. 

"If you call it placed, " said Connie, grinning. "We open Monday inSacramento. "

"Aha! But why Sacramento?"

"Oh, we've got to open somewhere, I suppose! Try it out on the dog, youknow!" Connie said, with a sort of bored airiness. 

"And you, my dear?" said Artheris, turning toward Julia. 

"She's come to see you about that amachure job, " said Connie, reachingover to grab a theatrical magazine from the desk, and running her eyecarelessly over its pages. Artheris's blandly smiling face underwent aninstant change. He elevated his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and noddedwith sudden interest. 

"Oh--to be sure--to be sure! The performance of 'The Amazons' for theHospital--yes, well! And what do you think of it, Miss Page?" he said. 

Julia stretched out her little feet before her, shrugged, and brought anindifferent eye to bear upon the manager. 

"What's there in it?" she asked. 

"Well, now, _that_ you'd have to settle with them, " smiled Mr. Artheris. 

"Oh, rot!" said Connie cheerfully. "_You_ manage that for her; what does_she_ know? Go on!"

"But, my dear young lady, _I_ have nothing to do with it!" the manprotested. "They come to me and wish to hire my theatre, lights, ushers, orchestra, and so, and they ask me if I know of a young actress who willtake a part--to give them all confidence, you see"--he made encouraginggestures with his fat little hands--"to--to carry the performance, asit were!"

"What part?" asked Connie shrewdly. 

"The part of--of--a splendid part, that of the Sergeant, " said Artherischeerfully. 

"Yes, I know that part, " Connie said grimly. 

"The idea is to have Miss Julie here understudy all the parts, " said themanager quickly. "These amateurs are very apt to disappoint, do you see?They feel that there would be a sense of security in having aprofessional right there to fill in a gap. "

"Why, that would mean she'd have to learn practically the whole play, "said Connie. "They ought to be willing to pay a good price for that. Ofcourse Miss Page is only seventeen, " she continued, a calculating eye onJulia, whose appearance did not belie the statement. 

"No objection at all--they are all very young! Come now, what do yousay, Miss Page?"

"Oh, I don't know, " said Julia discontentedly. "I'm not so crazy aboutacting, " she went on childishly. "I'm not so sure I want all theseswells to stand around and impose on me--" She hesitated, uncertain andvague. "And I don't believe Mama'd be so anxious, " she submitted lamely. 

Just then the door of Mr. Artheris's office was opened, and a man put inhis head. He was a young man, tall, thin, faultlessly dressed, andpossessed of an infectious smile. 

"Excuse me, Mr. Artheris, " beamed the intruder, "but could I have a lookat the stage? Far be it from me to interrupt or any little thing likethat, " he continued easily, "but my Mother'd have me dragged out andshot if I came home without seeing it!"

"Come in, come in, Mr. Hazzard, " said Artheris cordially; "you're justthe man we want to see! Miss Girard--Miss Page--Mr. Hazzard. Mr. Hazzardis managing this very affair--manager, isn't that it?"

"God knows what I am!" said Carter Hazzard, mopping his forehead, andappreciative of Miss Page's beauty and the maturer charms of MissGirard. "I'm bell-hop for the whole crowd. My sister plays Thomasine, her steady is Tweenwayes, and my Mother's a director in the hospital. Fix it up to suit yourselves; you'll see that I'm every one's goat. "

Both the girls laughed, and Artheris said:

"I am glad you came in, for Miss Page is the young lady of whom I spoketo you. Unfortunately, it seems that she has just promised to sign acontract with the Alcazar people. "

"Oh, shucks! Can't you put it off until after the fifteenth?" asked Mr. Hazzard in alarm. 

"Too much money in it, " Connie said, shaking her head. 

"Well--well, we expected to--to pay, of course, " Carter said, embarrassed at this crudeness. And Julia, blushing furiously, muttered, "Oh--it wasn't the _pay_!"

"In a word, Miss Page's price is twenty-five dollars a night, " saidArtheris. "Could your people pay it?"

"Why--why, I suppose we could, " Hazzard said uncomfortably. "It's--it'sfor a charity, you know, " he ended weakly. 

"Well, Miss Page's usual price is fifty; she's already reduced it half!"Connie said briskly. 

Julia was now bitterly ashamed of her manager and her friend; her facewas burning. 

"I'll do it, of course, " she promised. "And we'll arrange the termsafterward!"

"Good work!" said Hazzard gayly. In a few moments, when they all wentout to look at the stage, he dropped behind the others and began to walkbeside her. 

"You're sure you're old enough to be on the stage, Miss Page; no GerrySociety scandal at the last minute?" he asked banteringly. "You lookabout twelve!"

Julia flashed him an oblique look. 

"The idea! I'm nearly seventeen!" she said, with an uncertain littlelaugh. His ardent eyes embarrassed her. 

"Honest?" said Carter Hazzard, in a low, caressing tone. He laid hisfingers on her arm. "What's your hurry?" he asked. 

"We ought to keep with the others, " Julia stammered, scarlet cheeked buthalf laughing. At the same instant his inclination to cut across herpath brought her to a full stop. She backed against a heavily tasselledand upholstered old armchair that chanced to be standing in the wings, and sitting down on one of its high arms, looked straight up into hiseyes. The others had gone on; they were alone in the draughty wings. 

"Why ought we?" said Hazzard, still in a low voice full of significance, his eyes on her shoulder, where he straightened a ruffle that was caughtunder a chain of beads. "If you like me and I like you, why shouldn't wehave a little talk?"

However young she might appear, the inanities of a flirtation were afamiliar field to Julia. She gave him a demure and unsmiling glance frombetween curled lashes, and said:

"What would you like to talk about?"

By this time their faces were close together; a sort of heady lightnessin the atmosphere set them both to laughing foolishly; their voicestrembled on uncertain notes. An exhilarating sense of her own sex andcharm thrilled Julia; she knew that he found her sweet and young andwonderful. 

"I'd like to talk about _you_!" said Carter Hazzard. Julia found hisaudacity delightful; she began to feel that she could not keep up withthe dazzling rush of his repartee. "You know, the minute I saw you--" headded. 

"Now, _don't_ tell me I'm pretty!" Julia begged, with another flashinglook. 

"No--no!" the man exclaimed, discarding mere beauty with violence. "Pretty! Lord! what does prettiness matter? Of course you're pretty, butdo you know what I said to myself the minute I saw you? I said, 'I'llbet that little girl has _brains_!' You smile, " said Mr. Hazzard, withpassionate earnestness, "but I'll swear to God I did!"

"Oh, you just want me to believe that!" scoffed Julia, dimpling. 

What they said, however, mattered as little as what might be said by thetwo occupants of a boat that was drifting swiftly toward rapids. 

"Why do you think an unkind thing like that?" Carter askedreproachfully. 

"Was that unkind?" Julia countered innocently. At which Mr. Hazzardobserved irrelevantly, in a low voice:

"Do you know you're absolutely fascinating? Do you? You're just the kindof little girl I want to know--to be friends with--to have for a pal!"

Julia was quite wise enough to know that whatever qualifications shepossessed for this pleasing position could hardly have made themselvesevident to Mr. Hazzard during their very brief acquaintance, and she wasnot a shade more sincere than he as she answered coquettishly:

"Yes, that's what they all say! And then they--" She stopped. 

"And then they--what?" breathed Carter, playing with the loose ribbonsof her feather boa. 

"Then they fall in love with me!" pouted the girl, raising round eyes. 

Carter was intoxicated at this confession, and laughed out loud. 

"But you're too young to play at falling in love!" he warned her. "Howold are you--seventeen? And you haven't told me your name yet?"

"You know my name is Miss Page, " smiled Julia. 

"And do you think I'm going to call you that?" Carter reproached her. 

"It might be Jane, " she suggested. 

"Yes, but it isn't, you little devil!" Suddenly the man caught both herwrists, and Julia got on her feet, and instinctively flung back herhead. "You're going to kiss me for that!" he said, half laughing, halfvexed. 

"Oh, no, I'm not!" A sudden twist of her body failed to free her, andthe plume on her hat brushed his cheek. 

"Oh, yes, you are!" He caught both wrists in one of his strong hands, and put his arm about her shoulders like a vise, turning her face towardhim at the same time. Julia, furious with the nervous fear that thisscuffling would be overheard, and that Carter would make her ridiculous, glared at him, and they remained staring fixedly at each other for a fewmoments. 

"You _dare_!" she whispered then, held so tightly that Carter could hearher heart beat, "and I'll scream loud enough to bring every one in theplace!"

"All right--you little cat!" he laughed, freeing her suddenly. Juliatossed her head and walked off without speaking, but presently anoblique swift glance at him showed his expression to be all penitent andbeseeching; their eyes met, and they both laughed. Still laughing, theycame upon Artheris and Connie, and all walked out together on thedeserted stage. 

The great empty arch was but dimly lighted, draughty, odorous, andgloomy. Beyond the extinguished footlights they could see the curvedenormous cavern of the house, row upon row of empty seats. In theorchestra box two or three men, one in his coat sleeves, were disputingover an opera score. High up in the topmost gallery some one wasexperimenting with the calcium machine; a fan of light occasionallyswept the house, or a man's profile was silhouetted against a sputter ofblue flame. 

Artheris and young Hazzard paced the stage, consulted, and disagreed. Connie practised a fancy step in a wide circle, her skirt caught up, herface quite free of self-consciousness. Julia sat on a box, soberlylooking from face to face. 

Something had happened to her, she did not yet know what. She wasfrightened, yet strangely bold; she experienced delicious chills, yether cheeks were on fire. Love of life flooded her whole being in waves;she was wrapped, lulled, saturated, in a new and dreamy peace. 

Julia felt a sudden warm rush of affection for Connie--dear old Con--thebest friend a girl ever had! She looked about the theatre; how she lovedthe old "Grand!" Above all possible conditions in life it was wonderfulto be Julia Page, sitting here, the very hub of the world, a being tolove and be loved. 

There, at that hour, she came to that second birth all women know; shewas born into that world of drifting sweet odours, blending andiridescent colours, evasive and enchanting sounds, that is the kingdomof the heart. Julia did not know why, from this hour on, she was nolonger a little girl, she was no longer dumb and blind and unseeing. Buta new and delightful consciousness woke within her, a new sense of herown importance, her own charm. 

When she and Connie strolled out again, it was, for Julia at least, intoa changed world. The immortal hour of romance touched even sordidMission Street with gold. Julia walked demurely, but conscious of everyadmiring glance she won from the passers-by, conscious of a score ofswallows taking flight from a curb, conscious of the pathetic beauty ofthe little draggled mother wheeling home her sleepy baby, the settingsunlight glittering in the eyes of both. 

"He's nothing but a big spoiled kid, if you want to know what I think, "said Connie, ending a long dissertation to which Julia had only halflistened. 

"He--who?" asked Julia, suddenly recalled from dreams, and feeling herheart turn liquid within her. A weakness seized her knees, a deliciouschill ran up her spine. 

"Hazzard--the smarty!" Connie elucidated carelessly. 

"Oh, sure!" Julia said heavily. She made no further comment. 

She and Connie wandered in and out of a few shops, asking prices, andfingering laces and collars. They went into the dim, echoing old libraryon Post Street, to powder their noses at the mirror downstairs; theywent into the music store at Sutter and Kearney, and listened for a fewmoments to a phonograph concert; they bought violets--ten cents for agreat bunch--at the curb market about Lotta's fountain. 

The sweetness of the dying spring day flooded the city, and its veryessence pierced Julia's heart with a vague pain that was a pleasure, too. Presently she and Connie walked to California Street, and climbed asteep block or two to the Maison Montiverte. 

Julia and her mother, and a large proportion of their acquaintances, dined chez Montiverte perhaps a hundred times a year. There was aregular twenty-five-cent dinner that was extremely good, there was afifty-cent dinner fit for a king, and there were specialties de lamaison, as, for example, a combination salad at twenty cents that was ameal in itself. Irrespective of the other order, the guest of the MaisonMontiverte was regaled with boiled shrimps or crabs' legs while hewaited for his dinner, was eagerly served with all the delicious Frenchbread and butter that he could eat, and had a little cup of superb blackcoffee without charge to finish his meal. Brilliant piano music sweptthe rooms whenever any guest cared to send the waiter with a five-centpiece to the old mechanical piano, and sprightly conversation, carriedon from table to table, gave the place that tone that MonsieurMontiverte considered to be its most valuable asset. Monsieur himselfwas a dried-up little rat of a man, grizzled, and as brown as a walnut. Madame was large and superb and young, smooth faced, brown haired, regalin manner. It was said that Madame had had a predecessor, a lady nowliving in France, whose claim upon Jules Montiverte was still valid. However that might be, it did not seem to worry Jules, nor his calm andlovely companion, nor their two daughters, black-eyed baby girls, whoseheavy straight hair was crimped at the ends into bands of brownish-blackfuzz, and who wore white stockings and tasselled boots, and flounced, elaborately embroidered white dresses on Sundays. Whatever their barsinister, the Montivertes flourished and grew rich, and a suspicion ofsomething irregular, some high-handed disposition of the benefit ofclergy, helped rather than hurt their business. 

Julia and Connie were early to-night, and took their regular places at along table that was as yet surrounded only by empty chairs. Madame, whowas feeding bread and milk to a black-eyed three-year-old at a littletable in a corner, nodded a welcome, and a young Frenchwoman, puttingher head in through a swinging door at the back, nodded, too, and said, showing a double row of white teeth:

"Wait--een?"

"Yes, we'll wait for the others!" Connie called back. She and Julianibbled French bread, and played with their knives and forks while theywaited. 

The dining-room had that aspect of having been made for domestic andadapted to general use that is so typically un-American, yet so dear tothe American heart. An American manager would have torn down partitions, papered in brown cartridge, curtained in pongee, and laid a hardwoodfloor. Monsieur Montiverte left the two drawing-rooms as they were: ashabby red carpet was under foot, stiff Nottingham curtains filtered thebright sunlight, and an old-fashioned paper in dull arabesques of greenand brown and gold made a background for framed dark engravings, "Franklin at the Court of France, " and "The Stag at Bay, " and otherpictures of their type. The tablecloths were coarse, the china and glassheavy, and the menus were written in blue indelible pencil, in a curlyFrench hand. From the windows at the back one could look out upon aniron-railed balcony, a garden beyond, and the old, brick, balconiedhouses of the Chinese quarter. At the left the California Street cablecar climbed the hill, and the bell tower of old St. Mary's rose sombreand dignified against the soft sunset sky. At the right were the Park, with a home-going tide pouring through it at this hour, and KearneyStreet with its jangling car bells, and below, the square roofs of thewarehouse district, and the spire of the ferry building, and the bayframed in its rim of hills. Montiverte owned the house in which heconducted his business; it was one of the oldest in the city, built bythe French pioneers who were the first to erect permanent homes in thenew land. This had been the fashionable part of town in 1860, but itsstately old homes were put to strange uses in these days. Boarding-houses of the lowest class, shops, laundries, saloons, and suchrestaurants as Jules Montiverte's overran the district; the Chinesequarter pressed hard upon one side, and what was always called the "bad"part of town upon the other. Yet only two blocks away, straight up thehill, were some of San Francisco's most beautiful homes, the brownstonemansion, then the only one in California, that some homesick Easternerbuilt at fabulous cost, the great house that had been recently given foran institute of art, and the homes of two or three of the railroadkings. 

Patrons of Montiverte began to saunter in by twos and threes. Some ofthese the girls knew, and saluted familiarly; others were strangers, andignored, and made to feel as uncomfortable as possible. Julia's beautywas always the object of notice, and she loved to appear entirelyunconscious of it, to sparkle and chatter as if no eyes were upon her. Emeline came in, with one or two older women, and Julia looked up from agreat bowl of soup to nod to her. 

"Sign up?" asked Emeline languidly. And two or three strangers, obviously impressed by the term, waited for the answer. 

"Oh, I guess I'll do it to please Artheris!" Julia said. The girl wasfairly aglow to-night, palpitating and thrilling with youth and the joyof life. Everything distracted her--everything amused her--yet now andthen she found a quiet moment in which to take out her little memoriesof the afternoon, and to review them with a curiously palpitating heart. 

"If you like me and I like you . .. I want to talk about you . .. Do youknow you're absolutely fascinating? . .. You're going to kiss me forthat! . .. " She could still hear his voice, feel his arm about her. 

Somebody producing free seats for the Alcazar Theatre, Julia allowedherself to drift along with the crowd. They were late for theperformance, but nobody cared; they had all seen it before, and aftercommenting on it in a way that somewhat annoyed their neighbours, straggled out, in the beginning of the last act, giggling and chewinggum. Julia, raising bewildered, sweet, childish eyes to the stars abovenoisy O'Farrell Street, was brought suddenly to earth by a touch on herarm. 

It was a dark, tall young man who stepped out of a shadowy doorway toaddress her, a man of twenty, perhaps, with all the ripe and sensuousbeauty of the young Jew. His skin was a clear olive, his magnificentblack eyes were set off with evenly curling lashes, and his firm mouth, under its faint moustache, made a touch of scarlet colour among the richbrunette tones. He was dressed with a scrupulous niceness, and carried along light overcoat on his arm. 

"Julia!" he said sombrely, coming forward, his eyes only for her. 

"Why, hello, Mark!" Julia answered. And with a little concern creepinginto her manner she went on, "Why, what is it?"

Young Rosenthal glanced at her friends, and, formally offering her hisarm, said seriously: "You will walk with me?"

"We were going down to Haas's for ice-cream sodas, " Julia submittedhesitatingly. 

"Well, I will take you there, " Mark said. And as the others, noddinggood-naturedly at this, drifted on ahead, Julia found herself walkingdown O'Farrell Street on the arm of a tall and handsome man. 

It was the first time that she had done just this thing--or if not thefirst time, it had never seemed to have any particular significancebefore. Now, however, Julia felt in her heart a little flutter ofsatisfaction. Somehow Mark did not seem just a commonplace member of the"Rosenthal gang" to-night, nor did she seem "the Page kid. " Mark was aman, and--thrilling thought!--was angry at Julia, and Julia, hanging onhis arm, with a hundred street lights flashing on her little powderednose and saucy hat, was at last a "young lady!"

"What's the matter, Mark?" she asked, by way of opening theconversation. 

"Oh, nothing whatever!" Mark answered, in a rich, full voice, and withelaborate irony. "You promised to go to the Orpheum with me, and Iwaited--and I waited--and you did not come. But that is nothing, ofcourse!"

Julia's anger smote her dumb for a moment. Then she jerked her arm fromhis, and burst out:

"I'll _tell_ you why I didn't meet you to-night, Mark Rosenthal, and ifyou don't like it, you know what you can do! Last week you asked mewould I go to Morosco's with you, and I said yes, and then when it cameright down to it--your mother wasn't going, and Sophy and Hannah weren'tgoing, and Otto wasn't going--and I tell you right now that Mama don'tlike me to go to the theatre--"

"Well, well, well!" Mark interrupted soothingly, half laughing, halfaghast at this burst of rebuke from the usually gentle Julia. "Don't beso cross about it! So--" He put her arm in his again. "I like to haveyou to myself, Julia, " he said, his boyish, handsome face suddenlyflushing, his voice very low. "Do you know why?"

"No, " said Julia after a pause, the word strangling her. 

"You don't, eh?" Mark said, with a smiling side glance. 

"Nope, " said Julia, dimpling as she returned the look, and shutting herpretty lips firmly over the little word. 

"Do you know you are ador-r-rable?" Mark said, in a sort of eager rush. "Will you go to Maskey's with me, instead of joining the others atHaas's?" he asked, more quietly. 

"Well, " Julia said. She was her own mistress. Her mother had gone homeduring the play with Mrs. Toomey, who complained of a headache. So, grinning like conspirators, they stayed on the south side of the streetuntil it joined Market, and then went by the fountain and the bignewspaper buildings, and slipped into the confectioner's. Julia sent anapproving side glance at herself in the mirror, as she drew a satisfiedbreath of the essence-laden air. She loved lights, perfumes, voices--andall were here. 

An indifferent young woman wiped their table with a damp rag, as shetook their order, both, with the daring of their years, deciding uponthe murderous combination of banana ice-cream and soda with chopped nutsand fruit. Julia had no sooner settled back contentedly to wait for it, than her eye encountered the beaming faces of her late companions, who, finding Haas's crowded, had naturally drifted on to Maskey's. 

Much giggling and blushing and teasing ensued. Julia was radiant as arose; every time she caught sight of her own pretty reflection in thesurrounding mirrors, a fresh thrill of self-confidence warmed her. Sheand Mark followed the banana confection with a dish apiece of raspberryice-cream, and afterward walked home--it was not far--to the house inwhich they both lived. 

"And so we don't quarrel any more?" Mark asked, in the dim hallwayoutside her door. 

"Not if you won't play mean tricks on me!" Julia pouted, raising herface so that the dim light of the gas jet that burned year in and yearout, in the blistered red-glass shade, fell upon the soft curves of herface. 

It was a deliberate piece of coquetry, and Julia, although neither henor any other man had ever done it before, was not at all surprised tohave Mark suddenly close his strong arms about her, and kiss her, with asort of repressed violence, on the mouth. She struggled from his hold, as a matter of course, laughed a little laugh of triumph and excitement, and shut herself into her own door. 

Emeline was lying in bed, looking over some fashion and theatricalmagazines. Upon her daughter's entrance she gave a comfortable yawn. 

"Did Mark find you, Julie? He was sitting on the stairs when I got home, mad because you didn't go out with them. "

"Yep, he found me!" Julia answered, still panting. 

"It strikes me he's a little mushy on you, Julie, " Emeline said, lazily, turning a page. "And if you were a little older, or he had more of ajob, I'd give him a piece of my mind. You ain't going to marry _his_ sort, I should hope. But, Lord, you're both only kids!"

"I guess I can mind my own business, Mama, " Julia said. 

"Well, I guess you can, " Emeline conceded amiably. "Look, Ju, at thesize of these sleeves--ain't that something fierce? Get the light out assoon as you can, lovey, " she added, flinging away her magazine, androlling herself tight in the covers, with bright eyes fixed on the girl. 

Ten minutes later Emeline was asleep. But Julia lay long awake, springtime in her blood, her eyes smiling mysteriously into the dark. 

CHAPTER III

By just what mental processes Emeline Page had come to feel herself adignified martyr in a world full of oppressed women, it would bedifficult to say: Emeline herself would have been the last person fromwhom a reasonable explanation might have been expected. But it was afact that she never missed an opportunity to belittle the male sex; shehad never had much charm for men, she had none now, and consequently sheassociated chiefly with women: with widows and grass widows of her owntype, and with the young actresses and would-be actresses of the curioussocial level upon which she lived. Emeline's lack of charm was the mostvaluable moral asset she had. Had she attracted men she would not longhave remained virtuous, for she was violently opposed to any restrictionupon her own desires, no matter how well established a restriction orhow generally accepted it might be. For a little while after George'sgoing, Emeline had indeed frequently used the term "if I marry again, "but of late years she had rather softened to his memory, and enjoyedabusing other men while she revelled in a fond recollection of George'sgoodness. 

"God knows I was only a foolish girl, " Emeline would say, resting coldwet feet against the open oven door while Julia pressed a frill. "Butyour papa never was anything but a perfect ge'man, never! I'll neverforget one night when he took me to Grant's Cafe for dinner! I was alldressed up to kill, and George looked elegant--"

A long reminiscence followed. 

"I hope to God you get as good a man as your papa, " said Emeline morethan once, romantically. 

Julia, thumping an iron, would answer with cool common sense:

"Well, if I do, I want to tell you right now, Mama, I'll treat him agood deal better than you did!"

"Oh, you'll be a wonder, " Emeline would concede good-naturedly. 

At very long intervals Emeline dressed herself and her daughter aselaborately as possible, and went out into the Mission to see herparents. With the singular readiness to change the known discomfort forthe unknown, characteristic of their class, the various young members ofthe family had all gone away now, and lonely old Mrs. Cox, a shrivelledlittle shell of a woman at sixty-five, always had a warm welcome for heroldest daughter and her beautiful grandchild. She would limp about herbare, uninviting little rooms, complaining of her husband's increasingmeanness and of her own physical ills, while with gnarled, twisted oldhands she filled a "Rebecca" teapot of cheap brown glaze, or cut into afresh loaf of "milk bread. "

"D'ye see George at all now, Emeline?"

"Not to speak to, Mom. But"--and Emeline would lay down the littlemirror in which she was studying her face--"but the Rosenthal childrensay that there's a man who's _always_ hanging about the lower doorway, andthat once he gave Hannah----"

And so on and on. Mrs. Cox was readily convinced that George, repentant, was unable to keep away from the neighbourhood of his one and only love. Julia, dreaming over her thick cup of strong tea, granted only a polite, faintly weary smile to her mother's romances. She knew how glad Emelinewould be to really believe even one tenth of these flatteringsuspicions. 

A few weeks after Julia's long day of events with Artheris, with CarterHazzard, and young Rosenthal, she chanced to awaken one Saturday morningto a pleasant, undefined sensation that life was sweet. She thought ofMr. Hazzard, whom she had seen twice since their first meeting, but notalone again. And she reflected with satisfaction that she knew her partof "The Amazons" perfectly, and so was ready for the first rehearsalto-day. This led to a little dream of the leading lady failing to appearon the great night, and of Julia herself in Lady Noel's part; of Juliasubsequently adored and envied by the entire cast; of Carter Hazzard----

Julia had made an engagement with Mark for to-day, but the rehearsalplan must interfere. She wondered how she could send him word, andfinally decided to see him herself for a moment early in the afternoon. Mark, originally employed as office boy, pure and simple, had now madehimself a general handy man, reference and filing clerk, in the bigpiano house of Pomeroy and Parke. He had all the good traits of hisrace, and some of the traits that, without being wholly admirable, helpa man toward success. No slur at himself or his religion was keen enoughto pierce Mark's smiling armour of philosophy, no hours were too hardfor him, no work too menial for him to do cheerfully, nor too importantfor him to undertake confidently. A wisdom far older than his years washis. Poverty had been his teacher, exile and deprivation. When otherchildren were in school, repeating mechanically that many a little madea mickle, that genius was an infinite capacity for taking pains, andthat a man has no handicaps but those of his own making, Mark _knew_ thesethings, he knew that the great forces of life were no stronger than hisown two hands, and that any work of any sort must bring him to hisgoal--the goal of wealth and power and position. 

He knew that his father was not so clever as he was, and why. He sawthat his mother was worn out with housework and child-bearing. He didnot idealize their home, where father, mother, and seven children werecrowded into four rooms, and where of an evening the smell of cabbagesoup and herrings, of soap-suds and hot irons on woollen, of inky schoolbooks and perspiring humanity, mingled with the hot, oily breath of thelamp. 

Yet Mark saw beyond this, too. The food was good, if coarse, the billswere paid, the bank account grew. Some day the girls would be married, the boys in good positions; some day the mother should have a littlecountry house and a garden, and the father come home early to smoke hispipe and prune his rose bushes. Not a very brilliant future--no. But howbrilliant to them, who could remember Russia!

As for him, Mark, there was no limit to his personal dream at all. Someday, while yet as young as Mr. Parke, he would be as rich as Mr. Pomeroy, he would have five splendid children, like the Pomeroychildren, he would have a wife as beautiful as young Mrs. Parke. To hisbeautiful Jackson Street palace the city's best people should come, andsometimes--for a favoured few--he would play his rippling etudes andnocturnes, his mazurkas and polonaises. 

Julia Page, an unnoticed little neighbour for many years, had, just atpresent, somewhat ruffled the surface of his dream. Julia was not theideal wife of his mind or heart; nor was she apt to grow to fill thatideal. Mrs. Mark Rosenthal must be a Jewess, a wise, ripened, poised, and low-voiced woman, a lover of music, babies, gardens, cooking, andmanaging. 

Yet there had been a certain evening, not long before that springevening upon which Julia's own awakening came, when Mark had beenastonished to find a sudden charm in the little girl. She was only alittle girl, of course, he said to himself later; just a kid, but shewas a mighty cunning kid!

Julia often had dinner with the Rosenthals; she loved every separatemember of the family and she knew they all loved her. She used to runupstairs and pop her pretty head into the Rosenthal kitchen perhapstwice a week, sure of a welcome and a good meal. On the occasion sosignificant to Mark she had been there when he got in from work, helpinghis sisters Sophy and Hannah with that careless disposition of ironknives, great china sugar bowl, oddly assorted plates, and thick cupsthat was known as "setting the table. "

Mark had noticed then that Julia's figure was getting very pretty, andhe watched her coming and going with a real pleasure. She sat next himat table, and, conscious as he was of her nearness and of himself, hefound her unconsciousness very charming. Julia had burned her armserving the fried hominy, and she held it up for Mark to see, the bare, sweet young arm close to his face. 

And since then, poor Mark seemed to be bewitched. He could not think ofanything but Julia. It made him angry and self-contemptuous, but he wasno better off for that. He did not want to fall in love with Julia Page;he would not admit that what he felt for Julia was love; he raged withdisappointment at the mere thought of bondage so soon, and especiallythis bondage. But the sweetness of her stole upon his sensesnevertheless, tangling about him like a drifting bit of vaporous mist;he had no sooner detached one section of it than another blew across hiseyes, set pulses to beating in his temples, and shook his whole bodywith a delicious weakness. 

And then came the night when she had not kept her appointment, and hehad followed her to the Alcazar Theatre, and later kissed her in thedark hallway. Then Mark knew. From the instant her fresh lips touchedhis, and he felt the soft yielding as he drew her to him, Mark knew thathe was of the world's lovers. He wanted her with all the deep passion offirst love--first love in an ardent and romantic and forceful nature. His dreams did not change; Julia changed to fit them. She was everythingfor which he had ever longed, she was perfection absolute. She becamehis music, his business, his life. Every little girl, every old womanthat he passed in the street, made him think of Julia, and when hepassed a young man and woman full of concern for, and of shy pride in, their lumpy baby in its embroidered coat, a wave of divine envy sweptMark from head to foot. 

To-day he whistled over his work, thinking of Julia. They were to meetat three o'clock, "just to bum, " as the girl said, laughing. Markthought that, as the season was well forward, they might take a car tothe park or the beach, but the plan had been left indefinite. 

He ate his lunch, of butterless bread and sausage, and an entirefive-cent pie, in a piano wareroom, taking great bites, with dreamystudying of the walls and long delays between. Then he wandered downthrough the empty offices--it was Saturday afternoon and Pomeroy andParke closed promptly at twelve--had a brief chat with the Japanesejanitor, and washed his hands and combed his hair very conscientiouslyin the president's own lavatory. 

At half-past one he went into one of the glass showrooms, a prettilyfurnished apartment whose most notable article of furniture was a grandpiano in exquisitely matched Circassian walnut. Absorbed and radiant, Mark put back the cover, twirled the stool, and carefully opened a greenbook marked "Chopin. " Then he sat down, and, with the sigh of a happychild falling upon a feast, he struck an opening chord. 

The big flexible fingers still needed training, but they showed theresult of hours and hours of patient practice, too. Through his sevenyears in the music house, Mark had been faithful to his gift. He made nosecret of it, his associates knew that he came back after dinner to thevery rooms that they themselves left so eagerly at the end of the day. Mark had indeed once asked old Mr. Pomeroy to hear him play, an occasionto which the boy still looked back with hot shame. For when his obligingold employer had settled himself to listen after hours on an appointedafternoon, and Mark had opened the piano, the performer suddenly foundhis spine icy, his hands wet and clumsy. He felt as if he had nevertouched a piano before; the attempt was a failure from the first note, as Mark well knew. When he had finished he whisked open another book. 

"That was rotten, " he stammered. "I thought I could do it--I can't. Butjust let me play you this--"

But the great man was in a hurry, it appeared. 

"No--no, my boy, not to-day--some other time! Perhaps a little bit tooambitious a choice, eh? We must all be ambitious, but we must know ourlimitations, too. Some other time!"

Then Mr. Pomeroy was gone and Mark left to bitterest reflection. 

But he recovered very sensibly from his boyish chagrin, and verysensibly went at his practicing again. On this particular Saturdayafternoon he attacked a certain phrase in the bass, and for almost anhour the big fingers of his left hand rippled over it steadily. Mark, twisted about halfway on the bench, watched the performance steadily, his right hand hanging loose. 

"Damn!" he said presently, with a weary sigh, as a sharp and familiarlittle pain sprang into his left wrist. 

"Mark!" breathed a reproachful voice behind him. He whirled about, tosee Julia Page. 

She had come noiselessly in at the glass doorway behind him, and wasstanding there, laughing, a picture of fresh and demure beauty, despitethe varied colours in hat and waist and gown and gloves. 

"I had to see you!" said Julia, in a rush. "And nobody answered yourtelephone--there's a rehearsal of that play at the theatre to-day, so Ican't meet you--and the janitor let me in----"

Mark found her incoherence delicious; her being here, in his ownfamiliar stamping-ground, one of the thrilling and exciting episodes ofhis life. He could have shouted--have danced for pure joy as he jumpedup to welcome her. Julia declared that she had to "fly, " but Markinsisted--and she found his insistence curiously pleasant--upon showingher about, leading her from office to office, beaming at her whenevertheir eyes met. And he _must_ play her the little Schumann, he said, butno--for that Julia positively would _not_ wait; she jerked him by one handtoward the door. Mark had his second kiss before they emerged laughingand radiant into the gaiety of Kearney Street on a Saturday afternoon. 

And Julia was not late for her rehearsal, or, if late, she was at leastearlier by a full quarter hour than the rest of the caste. She took anorchestra seat in the empty auditorium at the doorkeeper's suggestion, and yawned, and stared at the coatless back of a man who was tuning theorchestra piano. 

Presently two distinguished looking girls, beautifully dressed, came in, and sat down near her in a rather uncertain way, and began to laugh andtalk in low tones. Neither cast a glance at Julia, who promptly decidedthat they were hateful snobs, and began to regard them with burningresentment. They had been there only a few moments when two young mensauntered down the aisle, unmistakably gentlemen, and genuine enough toexpress their enjoyment of this glimpse of a theatre betweenperformances. Two of them carried little paper copies of "The Amazons, "so Julia knew them for fellow-performers. 

Then a third young woman came in and walked down the aisle as the othershad done. This was an extremely pretty girl of perhaps eighteen, withdark hair and dark bright eyes, and a very fresh bright colour. Her gownwas plain but beautifully fitting, and her wide hat was crowned with asingle long ostrich plume. She peered at the young men. 

"Hello, Bobby--hello, Gray!" she said gayly, and then, catching sight ofthe two other girls across the aisle, she added: "Oh, hello, Helen--howdo you do, Miss Carson? Come over here and meet Mr. Sumner and Mr. Babcock!"

Babel ensued. Three or four waiting young people said, "Oh, Barbara!" intones of great delight, and the fourth no less eagerly substituted, "Oh, Miss Toland!"

"How long have you poor, long-suffering catfish been waiting here?"demanded Miss Barbara Toland, with a sort of easy sweetness that Juliafound instantly enviable. "Why, we're all out in the foyer--Mother'shere, chaperoning away like mad, and nearly all the others! And"--shewhisked a little gold watch into sight--"my dears, it's twenty minutesto four!"

Every one exclaimed, as they rushed out. Julia, unaccountably nervous, wished she were well out of this affair, and wondered what she ought todo. 

Presently some twenty-five or thirty well-dressed folk came streamingback down the main aisle in a wild confusion of laughter and talk. Somehow the principals were filtered out of this crowd, and somehow theygot on the stage, and got a few lights turned on, and assembled for theadvice of an agitated manager. Dowagers and sympathetic friends settledin orchestra seats to watch; the rehearsal began. 

Julia had strolled up to the stage after the others; now she sat on ashabby wooden chair that had lost its back, leaned her back against apiece of scenery, and surveyed the scene with as haughty and indifferentan air as she could assume. 

"And the Sergeant--who takes that?" demanded the manager, a young fellowof their own class, familiarly addressed as "Matty. "

The caste, which had been churning senselessly about him, chorussed anexplanation. 

"A professional takes that, Mat, don't you remember?"

"Well, where is she?" Matty asked irritably. 

Julia here sauntered superbly forward, serenely conscious of youth, beauty, and charm. Every one stared frankly at her, as she saidlanguidly:

"Perhaps it's I you're looking for? Mr. Artheris--"

"Yes, that's right!" said Matty, relieved. He wiped his forehead. "Miss--Page, isn't it?" He paused, a little at a loss, eying the otherladies of the caste dubiously. The girl called Barbara Toland now cameforward with her ready graciousness, and the two girls looked fairlyinto each other's eyes. 

"Miss Page, " said Barbara, and then impatiently to the manager, "Do goahead and get started, Matty; we've got to get home some time to-night!"

Julia's introduction was thus waived, and business began at once. Thewavering voices of the principals drifted uncertainly into the theatre. "Louder!" said the chaperons and friends. The men were facetious, interpolating their lines with jokes, good-humoured under criticism; thegirls fluttered nervously over cues, could not repeat the simplest linewithout a half-giggling "Let's see--yes, I come in here, " and were onlyfairly started before they must interrupt themselves with an earnest, "Mat, am I standing still when I say that, or do I walk toward her?"

Julia was the exception. She had been instructed a fortnight before thatshe must know her lines and business to-day, and she did know them. Almost scornfully she took her cues and walked through her part. "Matty"clapped his hands and overpraised her, and Julia felt with a great rushof triumph that she had "shown those girls!" She had an exhilaratingafternoon, for the men buzzed about her on every possible occasion, andshe knew that the other girls, for all their lofty indifference, werekeenly conscious of it. 

She went out through the theatre with the others, at an early six. Theyoung people straggled along the aisle in great confusion, laughing andchattering. Mrs. Toland, a plump, merry, handsomely dressed woman, wasanxious to carry off her tall daughter in time for some early boat. 

"_Do_ hurry, Barbara! Sally and Ted may be on that five-fifty, and if Dadwent home earlier they'll have to make the trip alone!"

At the doorway they found that the street was almost dark, and foggy. Much discussion of cars and carriages marked the breaking-up. EnidHazzard, a rather noisy girl, who played Noel Belturbet, elected to gohome with the Babcocks. This freed from all responsibility her brotherCarter, who had suddenly appeared to act as escort. Julia, slipping upthe darkening street, after a few moments spent in watching this crowdof curious young people, found him at her side. 

"No coat, Miss Page?" said the easy tones. 

"I didn't know it would be so foggy!" said Julia, her heart beginning tothump. 

"And where are you going?"

"Home to get a coat. "

"I see. Where is it? I'll take you. "

"Oh, it's just a few blocks, " Julia said. She knew nothing of thereputation of San Francisco's neighbourhoods, but Carter gave her asurprised look. When Julia, quite unembarrassed, stopped at the doorbeside the saloon, he was the more confused of the two, although theaccident of seeing him again had set the blood to racing in Julia'sveins and made speech difficult. She had been longing for just this; shewas trembling with eagerness and nervousness. 

"Father and Mother live here?" asked Carter. 

"Just Mama--she rents rooms. "

"Oh, I see!" He had stepped into the deep doorway, and catching her bythe shoulders he said now, inconsequently: "Do you know you're theprettiest girl that ever _was_?"

"Am I?" said Julia, in a whisper. 

"You know you are--you--you little flirt!" Hazzard said, his eyes threeinches from hers. For a tense second neither stirred, then the manstraightened up suddenly: "Well!" he said loudly. "That'll be about allof _that_. Good-night, my dear!"

He turned abruptly away, and Julia, smiling her little inscrutablesmile, went slowly upstairs. The bedroom was dark, unaired, and indisorder. Julia looked about it dreamily, picked her library book fromthe floor and read a few pages of "Aunt Johnnie, " sitting meanwhile onthe edge of the unmade bed, and chewing a piece of gum that had beenpressed, a neat bead, upon the back of a chair. After a while she gotup, powdered her nose, and rubbed her finger-nails with a buffer--abuffer lifeless and hard, and deeply stained with dirt and red grease. Emeline had left a note, "Gone up to Min's--come up there for supper, "but Julia felt that there was no hurry; meals at Mrs. Tarbury's wereusually late. 

During the ensuing fortnight there were two or three more rehearsals of"The Amazons" at the Grand Opera House, which only confirmed Julia'sfirst impression of her fellow-players. The men she liked, and flirtedwith; for the girls she had a supreme contempt. She found herselfyounger, prettier, and a better actress than the youngest, prettiest, and cleverest among them. While these pampered daughters of wealth wentawkwardly through their parts, and chatted in subdued tones amongthemselves, Julia rattled her speeches off easily, laughed and talkedwith all the young men in turn, posed and pirouetted as one born to thefootlights. If Julia fancied that any girl was betraying a preferencefor any particular man, against that man she directed the full batteryof her charms. Carter Hazzard came to every rehearsal, and was quiteopenly her slave. He did not offer to walk home with her again, butJulia knew that he was conscious of her presence whenever she was nearhim, and spun a mad little dream about a future in which she queened itover all these girls as his wife. 

It was all delightful and exciting. Life had never been dark to Julia;now she found the days all too short for her various occupations andpleasures. Mark was assuming more and more the attitude of a lover, andJulia was too much of a coquette to discourage him utterly. She reallyliked him, and loved the stolen hours in Pomeroy and Parke's big pianohouse, when Mark, flinging his hair out of his eyes, played like anangel, and Julia nibbled caramels and sat curled up on the davenport, watching him. And through the casual attentions of other men, theoccasional flattering half-hours with Carter Hazzard, the evenings ofgossip at Mrs. Tarbury's, and round the long table at Montiverte's, Julia liked to sometimes think of Mark; his admiration was a littlewarm, reassuring background for all the other thoughts of the day. 

At the end of the fourth or fifth rehearsal Julia noticed that prettyBarbara Toland was trying to manage a moment's speech with her alone. She amused herself with an attempt to avoid Miss Toland just from puremischief, but eventually the two came face to face, in a garishlylighted bit of passage, Barbara, for all her advantage in years and inposition, seeming the younger of the two. 

"Oh, Miss Page, " said Barbara nervously, "I wanted to--but were yougoing somewhere?"

"Don't matter if I was!" said Julia, airily gracious, but watchingshrewdly. 

"Well, I--I hope you won't think this is funny, but, well, I'll tellyou, " stammered Barbara, very red. "I know you don't know us all verywell, you know--it's different with us--we've all been brought uptogether--but I didn't know whether you knew--perhaps you did--thatCarter Hazzard is married?"

Julia felt stunned, and a little sick. She got only the meaning of thewords, their value would come later. But with a desperate effort shepulled herself together, and smiled with dry lips. 

"Yes, I knew that, " she said, pleasantly, not meeting Barbara's eye. 

"Oh, well, then it's all _right_, " Barbara said hastily, relieved. "Buthe--he has a teasing sort of way, you know. His wife is in San Diegonow, with her own people. "

"Yes, he told me that, " Julia said, only longing to escape before amaddening impulse to cry overpowered her. Barbara saw the truth, andlaid a friendly hand on Julia's arm. 

"I just wanted you to know, " she said in her kindliest tone. 

Suddenly Julia burst out crying, childishly blubbering with her wristsin her eyes. Barbara, very much distressed, shielded her as well as shecould from the eyes of possible passers-by, and patted her shoulder witha gloved hand. 

"I don't know why--perfectly _crazy_--" gulped Julia, desperately fightingthe sobs that shook her. "And I've had a dreadful headache all day, " shebroke out, pitifully, beginning to mop her eyes with a foldedhandkerchief, her face still turned away from Barbara. 

"Oh, poor thing!" said Barbara. "And the rehearsal must have made itworse!"

"It's splitting, " Julia said sombrely. She gave Barbara one grave, almost resentful, look, straightened her hat and fluffed up her hair, and went away. Barbara looked after her, and thought that Carter was abeast, and that there was something very pitiful about common littleignorant Miss Page, and that she wouldn't tell the girls about this, andgive them one more cause to laugh at the little actress. For BarbaraToland was a conscientious girl, and very seriously impressed with thegravity of her own responsibility toward other people. 

Meanwhile Julia walked toward the Mechanics' Library in a very fury ofrage and resentment. She hated the entire caste of "The Amazons, " andshe hated Barbara Toland and Carter Hazzard more than the rest! He couldplay with her and flirt with her and deceive her, and while she, Julia, fancied herself envied and admired of the other girls, this delicatelyperfumed and exquisitely superior Barbara could be deciding in allsisterly kindness that she must inform Miss Page of her admirer's realposition. Angry tears came to Julia's eyes, but she went into theMechanics' Library and washed the evidences of them away, and madeherself nice to meet Mark. 

But a subtle change in the girl dated from that day; casual and foolishas the affair with Carter had been, it left its scar. Julia's heartwinced away from the thought of him as she herself might have shrunkfrom fire. She never forgave him. 

It was good to find Mark still enslaved, everything soothing andreassuring. When Julia left him, at her own door at six o'clock, she washer radiant, confident self again, and they kissed each other at partinglike true lovers. To his eager demand for a promise Julia still returneda staid, "Mama'd be crazy, Mark. I ain't sixteen yet!" but on thisenchanted afternoon she had consented to linger, on Kearney Street, before the trays of rings in jewellers' windows, and it was in thewildest spirits that Mark bounded on upstairs to his own apartment. 

Julia had expected to find her mother at home. Instead the room wasempty, but the gas was flaring high, and all about was more than thecustomary disorder; there were evidences that Emeline had left home insomething of a hurry. The girl searched until she found the explanatorynote, and read it with knitted brow. 

"I'm going to Santa Rosa on important business, deary, " Emeline hadscribbled, "and you'd better go to Min's for a few days. I'll write andleave you know if there is anything in it, otherwise there's no usegetting Min and the girls started talking. There's ten dollars in thehairpin box. With love, Mama. "

"Well, I'd give a good deal to know what struck Em, " said Mrs. Tarbury, for the hundredth time. It was late in the evening of the same day, andthe lady and Julia were in the room shared by Miss Connie Girard andMiss Rose Ransome. Both the young actresses had previously appeared in askit at a local vaudeville house, but had come home to prepare for asupper to be given by friends in their own profession, after thetheatres had closed. Each girl had a bureau of her own, hopelesslycluttered and crowded, and over each bureau an unshielded gas jetflared. 

"Well, I'm _going_ to know!" Julia added, in a heavy, significant tone. She had come to feel herself very much abused by her mother's treatment, and was inclined to entertain ugly suspicions. 

"Oh, come now!" Rose Ransome said, scowling at herself in a hand mirroras she carefully rouged her lips. "Don't you get any silly notions inyour head!"

"No, " Mrs. Tarbury added heavily, as she rocked comfortably to and fro, "no, that ain't Em. Em is a cut-up, all right, and she's a great one fora josh with the boys, but she's as straight as a string! You'll findthat she's got some good reason for this!"

"Well, she'd better have!" Julia said sulkily. "I'm going out to see mygrandmother to-morrow and see if she knows anything!"

But she really gave less thought to her mother than to the stingingmemory of Barbara Toland's generosity and Carter Hazzard's deception. She settled down contentedly enough, sharing the room with Connie andRose, and sharing their secrets, and her visit to old Mrs. Cox wasindefinitely postponed. The girls drifted about together, in and out oftheatres, in and out of restaurants and hotels, reading cheap theatricalmagazines, talking of nothing but their profession. The days were longand dull, the evenings feverish; Julia liked it all. She had no veryhigh ideal of home life; she did not mind the disorder of their room, the jumbled bureau drawers, the chairs and tables strewn with garments, the fly-specked photographs nailed against the walls. It was acomfortable, irresponsible, diverting existence, at its worst. 

Emeline did not write her daughter for nearly two weeks, but Julia wasnot left in doubt of her mother's moral and physical safety for thattime. Only two or three days after Emeline's disappearance Julia wascalled upon by a flashily dressed, coarse-featured man of perhaps fortywho introduced himself--in a hoarse voice heavy with liquor--as DickPalmer. 

"I used to know your Pop when you's only a kid, " said the caller, "and Iknow where your Mamma is now--she's gone down to Santa Rosa, see?"

"What'd she go there for?" Julia demanded clearly. 

Mr. Palmer cast an agitated glance about Mrs. Tarbury's dreadfuldrawing-room, and lowered his voice confidentially:

"Well, d'ye see--here's how it is! Your Papa's down there in Santa Rosa. I run acrost him in a boarding-house a few days ago, and d'ye see--he'ssick. That's right, " added the speaker heavily, "he's sick. "

"Dying?" said Julia dramatically. 

"No, he ain't dying. It's like this, " pursued the narrator, still withhis air of secrecy, "there's a party there that runs theboarding-house--her name's Lottie Clute, she's had it for years, andshe's got on to the fact that George is insured for nine thousanddollars, d'ye see? Well, she's got him to promise to make the policyover to her. "

"Ha!" said Julia, interested at last. 

"Well, d'ye see?" said Mr. Palmer triumphantly. "So I come up to townlast week, and I thought I'd drop in on your Mamma! No good letting thisother little lady have it _all_ her own way, you know!"

"That's right, too, she's no more than a thief!" Julia commented simply. "I don't know what Mama can do, but I guess you can leave it to Mama!"

Mr. Palmer, agreeing eagerly to this, took his leave, after paying ahoarse tribute to the beauty of his old friend's daughter, and Juliadismissed the matter from her mind. 

She told Connie that she meant, as soon as this amateur affair was over, to try the stage in real earnest, and Connie, whose own last venture hadended somewhat flatly, was nevertheless very sanguine about Julia'ssuccess. She took Julia to see various managers, who were invariablyinterested and urbane, and Julia, deciding bitterly that she would haveno more to do with her fellow-performers in the caste of "The Amazon, "had Connie accompany her to rehearsals, and went through her part with asort of sullen hauteur. 

She and Connie were down in the dressing-rooms one day after a rehearsalchatting with the woman star of a travelling stock company, who chancedto be there, when Barbara Toland suddenly came in upon them. 

"Oh, Miss Page, " said Barbara in relief, "I _am_ so glad to find you! Idon't know whether you heard Mr. Pope announce that we're to have ourdress rehearsal on Saturday, at the yacht club in Sausalito? There isquite a large stage. "

Julia shook her head. 

"I don't know that I can come Saturday, " she objected, only anxious tobe disobliging. 

"Oh, you _must_, " said Barbara brightly. "_Do_ try! You take theone-forty-five from the Sausalito ferry, and somebody'll meet you! Andif we should be kept later than we expect, somebody'll bring you home!"

"I have a friend who would come for me, " said Julia stiffly, thinking ofMark. 

For just a second mirth threatened Barbara's dignity, but she saidstaidly:

"That's fine! And remember, we _depend_ on you!"

CHAPTER IV

The family of Dr. Robert Toland, discovered at breakfast in the Tolands'big house in Sausalito on an exquisite May morning, presented to thecasual onlooker as charming a picture of home life as might be found inthe length and breadth of California. The sunny dining-room, with itswindows wide open to sunshine and fresh sea air, the snowy curtainsblowing softly to and fro, the wide sideboard where the children'soutgrown mugs stood in a battered and glittering row, the one or twostiff, flat, old oil portraits that looked down from the walls, the jarsof yellow acacia bloom, and bowls of mingled wild flowers; these made asetting wonderfully well suited to the long table and the happy familyabout it. 

There were seven children, five girls and two boys; there was thegracious, genial mother at the head and the wiry, gray-haired andgray-bearded surgeon at the foot; there was, as usual, Jim Studdiford, and to-day, besides, there was Aunt Sanna, an unmarried younger sisterof the doctor, and a little black-eyed, delicate ten-year-old guest ofthe eleven-year-old Janie, Keith Borroughs, who was sitting near toJanie, and evidently adoring that spirited chatterbox. And there wasAddie, a cheerful black-clad person in a crackling white apron, comingand going with muffins and bacon, and Toy, who was a young cousin ofHee, the cook, and who padded softly in Addie's wake, making himselfgenerally useful. 

Barbara, very pretty, very casual as to what she ate, sat next to herfather; she was the oldest of the seven Tolands, and slipping veryreluctantly out of her eighteenth year. Ned, a big, handsome fellow ofsixteen, came next in point of age, and then a tall, lanky, awkwardblond boy, Richie, with a plain thin face and the sweetest smile of themall. Richie never moved without the aid of a crutch, and perhaps neverwould. After Richie, and nearing fourteen, was a sweet, fat, gigglinglump of a girl called Sally, with a beautiful skin and beautiful untidyhair, and a petticoat always dragging, a collar buttoned awry, and abelt that never by any chance united her pretty shirt waist to her crisplinen skirt. Only a year younger than Sally was Theodora, whose staid, precocious beauty Barbara already found disquieting--"Ted" was alreadygiving signs of rivalling her oldest sister--then came Jane, bold, handsome, boyish at eleven, and lastly eight-year-old Constance, adelicate, pretty, tearful little girl who was spoiled by every member ofthe family. 

The children's mother was a plump, handsome little woman with bright, flashing eyes, dimples, and lovely little hands covered with rings. There was no gray in her prettily puffed hair, and, if she was stouterthan any of her daughters, none could show a more trimly controlledfigure. Mrs. Toland had been impressed in the days of her happy girlhoodwith the romantic philosophies of the seventies. To her, as an impulsiveyoung woman brimful of the zest of living, all babies had been "just toodear and sweet, " all marriages were "simply _lovely_" regardless ofcircumstances, and all men were "just the dearest great big manlyfellows that ever _were_!" As Miss Sally Ford, Mrs. Toland had flashedabout on many visits to her girl friends admiring, exclaiming, rejoicingin their joys, and now, as a mother of growing girls and boys, therestill hung between her and real life the curtain of her unquenchableoptimism. She loved babies, and they had come very fast, and been caredfor by splendid maids, and displayed in effective juxtaposition to theirgay little mother for the benefit of admiring friends, when opportunityoffered. And if, in the early days of her married life, there had everbeen troublous waters to cross, Sally Toland had breasted themgallantly, her fixed, confident smile never wavering. 

At first Doctor Toland had felt something vaguely amiss in thispersistent attitude of radiant and romantic surety. "Are you sure theboy understands?" "D'ye think Bab isn't old enough to know that you'rejust making that up?" he would ask uneasily, when a question ofdisciplining Ned or consoling Barbara arose. But Mrs. Toland always wassure of her course, and would dimple at him warningly: "Of course it'sall right, Daddykins, and we're all going to be happy, and not eventhink of our naughty old troubles any more!"

So the doctor gave her her way, and settled back to enjoy his childrenand his wife, his yacht and his roses; growing richer and more famous, more genial and perhaps a little more mildly cynical as time went on. And the children grew up, their mother, never dreaming that Barbara ateighteen was more than the sweet, light-hearted, manageable child shehad been at ten; that Ned was beginning to taste of a life of whoseexistence she was only vaguely aware; that Sally was plotting an escapeto the ranks of trained nurses; that Ted needed a firm hand and closewatching if she were not to break all their hearts. No, to Mrs. Tolandthey were still her "rosebud garden, " "just the merriest, romping crowdof youngsters that ever a little scrap of a woman had to keep in order!"

"Now, you're going to wipe that horrid frown off your forehead, Daddy, "she would say blithely, if Doctor Toland confessed to a misgiving in thecontemplation of any one of his seven, "and stop worrying about Richie!His bad old hip is going to get well, and he'll be walking just like anyone else in no time!" And in the same tone she said to Barbara: "I knowmy darling girl is going to that luncheon, and going to forget that herhat isn't quite the thing for the occasion, " and said to littleConstance, "We're going to forget that it's raining, and not think aboutdismal things any more!" No account of flood or fire or outrage wasgreat enough to win from her more than a rueful smile, a sigh, and abrisk: "Well, I suppose such things _must_ be, or they wouldn't bepermitted. Don't let's think about it!"

Women who knew Mrs. Toland spoke of her as "wonderful. " And indeed shewas wonderful in many ways, a splendid manager, a delightful hostess, and essentially motherly and domestic in type. She was always happy andalways busy, gathering violets, chaperoning Sally or Barbara at thedentist's, selecting plaids for the "girlies'" winter suits. Her marriedlife--all her life, in fact--had been singularly free from clouds, andshe expected the future to be even brighter, when "splendid, honourablemen" should claim her girls, one by one, and all the remembered romanceof her youth begin again. That the men would be forthcoming she did notdoubt; had not Fate already delivered Jim Studdiford into her hands forBarbara?

James Studdiford, who had just now finished his course at medicalcollege, was affectionately known to the young Tolands as "Jim, " andstood to them in a relationship peculiarly pleasing to Mrs. Toland. Hewas like a brother, and yet, actually, he bore not the faintest realkinship to--well, to Barbara, for instance. Years before, twenty yearsbefore, to be exact, Doctor Toland, then unmarried, and unacquainted, asit happened, with the lovely Miss Sally Ford, had been engaged to abeautiful young widow, a Mrs. Studdiford, who had been left with a largefortune and a tiny boy some two years before. This was in Honolulu, where people did a great deal of riding in those days, and it presentlybefell that the doctor, two weeks before the day that had been set forthe wedding, found himself kneeling beside his lovely fiancee on a rockyheadland, as she lay broken and gasping where her horse had flung her, and straining to catch the last few agonized words she would ever say:

"You'll--keep Jim--with you, Robert?"

How Doctor Toland brought the small boy to San Francisco, how he met thedashing and indifferent Sally, and how she came at last to console himfor his loss, was another story, one that Mrs. Toland never tired oftelling. Little Jim had his place in their hearts from their weddingday. Barbara was eleven years old when, with passionate grief, shelearned that he was not her half brother, and many casual friends didnot know it to this day. Jim, to the doctor's delight, chose to followthe profession of his foster father, and had stumbled, with not too muchapplication, through medical college. Now he was to go to New York forhospital work, and then to Berlin for a year's real grind, and until theEastern hospital should open classes, was back in his old enormousthird-floor bedroom upstairs, enjoying a brief season of idleness andpetting, the handsome, unaffected, sunshiny big brother of Mrs. Toland'sfondest dreams. 

"And he can hardly keep his eyes off Babbie, " the mother confided to hersister-in-law. 

Miss Toland gave her a shrewd glance. 

"For heaven's sake don't get that notion in your head, Sally! Babbie maybe ready to make a little fool of herself, but if ever I saw a man who_isn't_ in love, it's Jim!" said Miss Toland, who was a thin, gray-haired, well-dressed woman of forty, with a curious magnetism quite her own. Miss Toland had lived in France for the ten years before thirty, and hada Frenchwoman's reposeful yet alert manner, and a Frenchwoman's art indressing. After many idle years, she had suddenly become deeplyinterested in settlement work, had built a little settlement house, "TheAlexander Toland Neighbourhood House, " in one of the factory districtssouth of San Francisco, and was in a continual state of agitation andupset because worthy settlement workers were at that time almost anunknown quantity in California. Just at present she was availing herselfof her brother's hospitality because she had no assistant at all at the"Alexander, " and was afraid to stay in its very unsavoury environmentalone. She loved Barbara dearly, but she was usually perverse with hersister-in-law. 

"You may say what you like about notions in my head, " Mrs. Tolandanswered with a wise little nod. "But the dear girl is _radiant_ everytime she looks at him, and both Dad and I think we notice a new_protective_ quality in Jim--"

"Did Robert say so?" Miss Toland asked dryly. To this Mrs. Tolandanswered with a merry laugh and a little squeeze of her sister-in-law'sarm. 

"Oh, you old Sanna!" she chided. "You won't believe that there's ablessed time when Nature just takes the young things by the hand andpushes them right into happiness, whether or no!"

This little talk had taken place just before breakfast, and now Mrs. Toland was reassuring herself of her own position with many a glance atBarbara and at Jim. Barbara seemed serious almost to ungraciousness--thatmight be a sign. Jim was teasing Sally, who laughed deeply and richly, like a child, and spilled her orange juice on her fresh gown. Perhaps hewas trying to pique Barbara by assuming an indifferent manner--thatmight be it----

"Jim!" It was Barbara speaking. Jim did not hear. "Jim, " said Barbaraagain, patient and cold. 

"I beg your pardon!" Jim said with swift contrition. His glance flashedto Barbara for a second, flashed back to Sally. "Now, you throwthat--you throw that, " said he to the latter young woman, in referenceto a glass of water with which she was carelessly toying, "and you'll besorrier than you ever were in your life!"

"Sally, what are you thinking of!" her mother said. 

"Look out--look out!" Sally said, swinging the glass up and down. Suddenly she set it back on the table firmly. "You deserve that straightin your face, Jim, but Mother'd be mad!"

"Well, I should think Mother would!" Mrs. Toland said, in smilingreproof. "But we interrupted Bab, I think. Bab had something dreadfullyimportant to say, " she added playfully, "to judge from that great bigfrown!"

"It wasn't dreadfully important at all, " Barbara said, in coldannoyance. 

"Oh, wasn't it? And what was it, dear?"

"It was simply--it was nothing at all, " Barbara protested, reddening. "Iwas just thinking that we have to have that rehearsal at the clubhousethis afternoon, and I was wondering if Jim would walk down there with menow, and see about getting the room ready----"

"Dad's got an eleven-o'clock operation, and I'm going to assist, " saidJim. 

"Did you forget that, dear?" Mrs. Toland asked. 

"It's of no consequence, " said Barbara, her voice suddenly thick withtears. Her hand trembled as she reached for a muffin. 

"Keith, do you want to go down with us to the rehearsal this afternoon?"said Sally amiably to the little guest. 

"Oh, I don't think the whole pack of us ought to go!" Ted protested inalarm. "You aren't going to let Janey and Con go, are you, Mother?"

"Oh, why not?" Mrs. Toland asked soothingly. Barbara here returned tothe discussion with a tragic: "Mother, they _can't_! It would lookperfectly awful!"

"Well, you don't own the yacht club, you know, Babbie, " Ted suppliedsweetly. 

"Well, " said Barbara, rising, and speaking quickly in a low voice, "ofcourse the whole family, including Addie and Hee, can troop down thereif they want to, but I think it's too bad that I can't do a thing inthis family without being tagged by a bunch of _kids_!"

The door closed behind her; they could hear her running upstairs. 

"Now she'll cry; she's getting to be an awful cry baby, " said Janey, wide eyed, pleasurably excited. 

"Doesn't seem very well, does she, Mummie? Not a bit like herself, " saidthe head of the house, raising mild eyebrows. 

"Now, never mind; she's just a little bit tired and excited over this'Amazon' thing, " Mrs. Toland assured him cheerfully, "and she'll have alittle talk with Mother by and by, and be her sweet self again by lunchtime!"

The little episode was promptly blotted out by the rising tide oflaughter and conversation that was usual at breakfast. Miss Tolandpresently drifted into the study for some letter writing. Jim took adeep porch rocker, and carried off the morning papers. Richie, sittingat his father's left, squared about for one of the eager rambling talksof which he and his father never tired. The doctor's blue eyes twinkledover his theories of religion, science, history, poetry, and philosophy. Richie's lean, colourless face was bright with interest. Tedvolunteered, as she often volunteered of late, to go for the mail, andsauntered off under a red parasol, and Mrs. Toland slipped from thetable just in time to waylay her oldest son in the hall. 

"Not going to catch the 9:40, Ned?" she asked. 

"Sure pop I am!" He was sorry to be caught, and she saw it under hisbluff, pleasant manner. 

"You couldn't take the 10:20 with Dad and Jim?"

"I've got to meet Reynolds at half-past ten, Mother, " the boy saidpatiently. 

"Reynolds!" she frowned. "Don't like my fine big boy to have friendslike that--" His eyes warned her. "Friends that aren't as fine and dearand good as he is!" she finished, her hands on his shoulders. 

"Reynolds is all right, " said Ned, bored, and looking coldly beyond her. 

"And you'll be home for dinner, Ned?"

"Sure! Unless the Orpheum should be awfully long. In that case we mayget a bite somewhere. "

"Try to be home for dinner, " persisted the mother. And, as if to warrantthe claim on his consideration, she added: "I paid the Cutter billmyself, dear, and Dad will pay Jordan next month. I didn't say anythingabout Cutter, but he begged me to make you _feel_ how wrong it is to letthese things run. You have a splendid allowance, Ned, " she was almostapologetic, "and there's no necessity of running over it, dear!"

"Sure. I'm not going to do that again, " Ned said gruffly, uncomfortably. 

"That's right, dear! And you will--you'll try to be home for dinner?"

"Sure I'll try!" and Ned was gone, down through the roses and throughthe green gate. 

Mrs. Toland watched him out of sight. Then she trotted off to Hee'sdomain. Sally straggled out into the garden, with Janey and Constanceand the small boy following after. There was great distress because thelittle girls were all for tennis, and Keith Borroughs frankly admittedthat he hated tennis. 

The Tolands' rambling mansion was built upon so sharp a hill that thegarden beds were bulkheaded like terraces, and the paths were steep. Roses--delicious great white roses and the apricot-coloured San Rafaelrose--climbed everywhere, and hung in fragrant festoons from the low, scrub-oak trees that were scattered through the garden. Every vistaended with the blue bay, and the green gate at the garden's foot openeddirectly upon a roadway that hung like a shelf above the water. 

Sally and the children gathered nasturtiums and cornflowers and fernsfor the house. The place had been woodland only a few years ago, theearth was rich with rotting leaves, and all sorts of lovely forestgrowths fringed the paths. Groups of young oaks and an occasional bay ormadrone tree broke up any suggestion of formal arrangement, and therewere still wild columbine and mission bells in the shady places. 

Presently, to the immense satisfaction of her little sisters, Sallydismissed them for tennis, and carried the music-mad small boy off tothe old nursery, where he could bang away at an old piano to his heart'scontent, while she pasted pictures in her camera book, in a sunnywindow. Now and then she cast a look full of motherly indulgence at thelittle figure at the piano: the pale, earnest little face; the tumbledblack hair, the bony, big, unchildlike hands. 

The morning slipped by, and afternoon came, to find Barbara welcomingthe arriving players at the yacht club, and looking her very prettiestin a gown of striped scarlet and white, and a white hat. Hello, Matty--Hello, Enid--Hello, Bobby--and did any one see Miss Page? Ah, howdo you do, Miss Page, awfully good of you to make it. 

The girls dressed in a square room upstairs, lined with hooks andmirrors. Julia was not self-conscious, because, while different from thecrisp snowy whiteness of the other girls' linen, it did not occur to herthat her well-worn pink silk underwear, her ornate corset cover, and hershabby ruffled green silk skirt were anything but adequate. 

Carter Hazzard was not in evidence to-day, to Julia's relief. Therehearsal dragged on and on, everybody thrown out because Miss DorothyChase, the girl who was to play Wilhelmina, failed to appear. Julia tookthe part, when it was finally decided to go on without Dorothy, but bythat time it was late, and the weary manager assured them that theremust be another rehearsal that evening. Hilariously the young peopleaccepted this decree, and Julia was carried home with the Tolands todinner. 

Good-hearted Mrs. Toland could be nothing less than kind to any younggirl, and Julia's place at table was next to the kindly old doctor, whoonly saw an extremely pretty girl, and joked with her, and looked outfor her comfort in true fatherly fashion. Julia carried herself withgreat dignity, said very little, being in truth quite overawed andnervously anxious not to betray herself, and after the first frightenedhalf-hour she enjoyed the adventure thoroughly. 

The evening rehearsal went much better, a final rehearsal was set forSunday, and Julia was driven to the ten o'clock boat in the stationomnibus, which smelled of leather and wet straw. She sat yawning in theempty ferry building, smiling over her recollection of dinner at theTolands': the laughter, the quarrels, the joyous confusion of voices. 

Suddenly struck by the deserted silence of the waiting-room, Juliajumped up and went to the ticket office. 

"Isn't there a train at 10:03?"

The station agent yawned, eyed her with pleasant indifference. 

"No train now until 12:20, lady, " said he. 

For a moment Julia was staggered. Then she thought of the telephone. 

A few minutes later she climbed out of the station omnibus again, thistime to be warmly welcomed into the Tolands' lamp-lighted drawing-room. Barbara and her mother were still at the yacht club, but the old doctorhimself was eagerly apologetic. Doctor Studdiford, Ned, and Richie addedtheir cheerful questions and regrets to the hospitable hubbub, andSally, who had been at the piano, singing Scotch ballads to her father, took possession of Julia with heartening and obvious pleasure. 

Sally took her upstairs, lighted a small but exquisitely appointed guestroom, found a stiffly embroidered nightgown, a wrapper of dark-blueJapanese crepe, and a pair of straw slippers. Julia, inwardly tremblingwith excitement, was outwardly calm as she got ready for bed; she hungher clothes in a closet delightfully redolent of pine, and brushed andbraided her splendid hair. Sally whisked about on various errands, andpresently Mrs. Toland bustled in, brimful of horrified apologies andregrets, and Barbara dawdled after, rolling her belt and starched stock, generally unhooking and unbuttoning. 

Perhaps the haughty Barbara found the round-eyed, golden-haired girl ina blue wrapper a little more companionable than the dreadful Miss Page, or perhaps she was a little too lonely to-night to be fastidious in herchoice of a confidante. At all events, she elected to wander in and outof Julia's room while she undressed, and presently sat on Julia's bed, and braided her dark hair. And if the whole adventure had excited Julia, she was doubly excited now, frantic to win Barbara's friendship, nervously afraid to try. 

"You're an actress, Miss Page?" asked Barbara, scowling at herhairbrush. 

"Will be, I guess! I've had dozens of chances to sign up already, butMama don't want me to be in any rush. "

The other girl eyed her almost enviously. 

"I wish I could do something--sometimes, " she sighed. And she added, giving Julia a shamefaced grin, "I've got the blues to-night. "

It was from this second that Julia dated her love for Barbara Toland. Adelicious sensation enveloped her--to be in Barbara's confidence--toknow that she was sometimes unhappy, too; to be lying in this fragrant, snowy bed, in this enchanting room--

"Well, " said Barbara presently, jumping up, "you'll want _some_ sleep. Ifyou hear us rushing about, at the screech of dawn to-morrow, it'sbecause some of us may go out with Dad in the Crow, if there's a breeze. Do you like yachting? Would you care to go?"

"I've never been, " said Julia. 

"Oh, well, then, you ought to!" Barbara said with round eyes. "I'll tellyou--I'll peep in here to-morrow, and if you're awake I'll give you acall!" she arranged, after a minute's frowning thought. 

"I sleep awfully sound!" smiled Julia. 

But she was awake when Barbara, true to her plan, peeped in at fiveo'clock the next morning, and presently, in a bluejacket's blouse andbrief blue skirt, with a white canvas hat on her head, and a boy's oldgray jersey buttoned loosely about her, followed muffled shapes throughthe cold house and into the wet, chilly garden. Richie was going, Sallyhad the gallant but shivering Jane and the dark-eyed Keith by the hand, and Barbara hung on her father's arm. 

The waters of the bay were gray and cold; a sharp breeze swept theirsteely surfaces into fans of ruffled water. The little Crow rocked ather anchor, her ropes and brasswork beaded with dew. Julia, sitting indesperate terror upon a slanting upholstered ledge, felt her teethchatter, and wondered why she had come. 

Barbara, Sally, Richie, and their father all fell to work, andpresently, a miracle to Julia, the little boat was running towardRichardson's Bay under a good breeze. Presently glorious sunlightenveloped them, flashed from a thousand windows on San Francisco hills, and struck to dazzling whiteness the breasts of the gulls that circledSausalito's piers. Everything sparkled and shone: the running blue waterthat slapped the Crow's side, the roofs of houses on the hillside, thegreen trees that nearly concealed them. 

Growing every instant warmer and more content, Julia sat back and lether whole body and soul soak in the comfort and beauty of the hour. Hereyes roved sea and sky and encircling hills; she saw the last wisp ofmist rise and vanish from the stern silhouette of Tamalpais, and saw anearly ferryboat cut a wake of exquisite spreading lacework across thebay. And whenever her glance crossed Sally's, or the doctor's, orRichie's glance, she smiled like a happy child, and the Tolands smiledback. 

They all rushed into the house, ravenous and happy, for a nine o'clockbreakfast, Julia so lovely, in her borrowed clothing and with herbright, loosened hair, that the young men of the family began, withoutexception, to "show off" for her benefit, as Theodora scornfullyexpressed it. And there was bacon and rolls and jam for every one, bluebowls of cereal, glass pitchers of yellow cream, smoking hot coffeealways ready to run in an amber stream from the spout of the big silverurn. 

"And you must eat at least four waffles, " said Ned, "or my father willnever let you come again! He has to drum up trade, you know--"

It was all delightful, not the less so because it was all tinged, forJulia, with a little current of something exquisitely painful; not envy, not regret, not resentment, a little of all three. This happy, care-free, sun-flooded life was not for her, how far, far, far from her, indeed! She was here only by accident, tolerated gayly for hospitality'ssake, her coming and going only an insignificant episode in their lives. Wistfully she watched Mrs. Toland tying little Constance's sash andstraightening her flower-crowned hat for church; wistfully eyed thecheerful, white-clad Chinese cook, grinning as he went to gatherlettuces; wistfully she stared across the brilliant garden from her deepporch chair. Barbara, in conference with a capped and aproned maid atthe end of a sunny corridor, Sally chatting with Richie, as shestraightened the scattered books on the library table, Ted dashing off apopular waltz with her head turned carelessly aside to watch theattentive Keith; all these to Julia were glimpses of a life so free, sofull, so invigorating as to fill her with hopeless longing andadmiration. 

All her affectation and arrogance dropped from her before their simple, joyous naturalness. Julia had no feeling of wishing to impress them, toassert her own equality. Instead she genuinely wanted them to like her;she carried herself like the little girl she looked in her sailorblouse, like the little girl she was. 

At twelve o'clock a final rehearsal of "The Amazons" was held at theyacht club, and to-day Julia entered into her part with zest, herenthusiasm really carrying the performance, as the appreciative "Matty"assured her. She had the misfortune to step on a ruffle of her borrowedwhite petticoat, at the very close of the last act, and slipped into thedressing-room to pin it up as soon as the curtain descended. 

The dressing-room was deserted. Julia found a paper of pins, and, putting her foot up on a chair, began to repair the damage as well asshe could. The day was warm, and only wooden shutters screened the bigwindow that gave on one of the club's wide porches. Julia, hummingcontentedly to herself, presently became aware that there were chairsjust outside the window, and girls in the chairs--Barbara Toland andTed, and Miss Grinell and Miss Hazzard, and one or two Julia did notknow. 

"Yes, Mother's a darling, " Barbara was saying. "You know she didn't getthis up, Margaret; she had _nothing_ to do with it, and yet she'spractically carrying the whole responsibility now! She'll be as nervousas we are to-morrow night!"

Julia pinned on serenely. It was in no code of hers to move out ofhearing. 

"The only thing she really bucked at was when she found Miss Page at ourhouse last night, " Ted said. "Mother's no snob--but I wish you couldhave seen her face!"

"Was she perfectly awful, Ted?" somebody asked. 

"Who, Miss Page? No-o, she wasn't perfectly awful--yes, she was prettybad, " Theodora admitted. "Wasn't she, Babbie?"

"Oh, well"--Barbara hesitated--"she's--of course she's terribly common. Just the second-rate actress type, don't you know?"

"Did she call your Mother 'ma'am'?" giggled Enid Hazzard. "Do youremember when she said 'Yes, ma'am?' And did she say 'eyether, ' and'between you and I' again?" Something was added to this, but Julia didnot catch it. The girls laughed again. 

"Listen, " said Ted, "this is the richest yet! Last night Sally said toher, 'Breakfast's at nine, Miss Page; how do you like your bath?' andshe looked at Sally sort of surprised and said, '_I_ don't want abath!'"

"Oh, I don't think that's fair, Teddy, " Barbara protested; "she's neverhad any advantages; it's a class difference, that's all. She's simplynot a lady; she never will be. You'd be the same in her place. "

"Oh, I would not! I wouldn't mark my eyebrows and I wouldn't wear suchdirty clothes, and I wouldn't try to look twenty-five--" Ted began. 

Again there was a quick commentary that Julia missed, and another laugh. Then Barbara said:

"Poor kid! And she looked so sweet in some of Sally's things. "

Julia, still bent over her ruffle, did not move a muscle from theinstant she first heard her name until now, when the girls dismissed thesubject with a laugh. She felt as if the house were falling about her, as if every word were a smashing blow at her very soul. She felt sickand dizzy, cold and suddenly weak. 

She walked across the room to the door, and stood there with her hand onthe knob, and said in a whisper: "Now, what shall I do? What shall Ido?"

At first she thought she would hide, then that she would run away. Thenshe knew what she must do: she opened the dressing-room door, and walkedunchallenged through the big auditorium. Groups of chattering peoplewere scattered about it; somebody was banging the piano; nobody paid theleast attention to Julia as she went down the stairs, and started towalk to the Toland house. 

She was not thinking now. She only wanted to get away. 

Nobody stopped her. The house was deserted. A maid put her head inJulia's door, and finding Julia dressing immediately apologized. 

"I beg your pardon, Miss Page! I thought--"

"That's all right, " said Julia quietly. She was very pale. "Will youtell Mrs. Toland that I had to take the two o'clock boat?"

"Yes'm. You won't be here for dinner?"

"No, " said Julia, straining to make a belt meet. 

"Could I bring you a cup of tea or a sandwich?"

"Oh, no, thank you!"

The maid was gone. Julia went down through the house quietly, a fewmoments later. Her breath came quick and short until she was fairly onthe boat, with Sausalito slipping farther and farther into thebackground. Even then her mind was awhirl, and fatigue and perhapshunger, too, made it impossible to think seriously. Far easier to leanback lazily in the sun, and watch the water slip by, and make no attemptto control the confused, chaotic thoughts that wheeled dreamily throughher brain. Now and then memory brought her to a sudden upright position, brought the hot colour to her face. 

"I don't care!" Julia would say then, half aloud. "They're nothing to meand I'm nothing to them; and good riddance!"

May--but it was like a midsummer afternoon in San Francisco. A hot windblew across the ferry place; papers and chaff swept before it. Julia'sskirt was whisked about her knees, her hat was twisted viciously abouton her head. She caught a reflection of herself in a car window, dishevelled, her hat at an ugly angle, her nose reddened by the wind. 

Mrs. Tarbury's house, when she got to it, presented its usual Sundayafternoon appearance. The window curtains were up at all angles in thedining-room, hot sunshine streamed through the fly-specked panes, thedraught from the open door drove a wild whirl of newspapers over theroom. Cigarette smoke hung heavy upon the air. 

Julia peeped into the dark kitchen; the midday meal was over, and aJapanese boy was hopelessly and patiently attacking scattered heaps ofdishes and glassware. The girl was hungry, but the cooling wreck of aleg of mutton and the cold vegetables swimming in water did not appealto her, and she went slowly upstairs, helping herself in passing to nomore substantial luncheon than two soda crackers and a large greenpickle. 

Mrs. Tarbury, dressed in a loose kimono, with her bare feet thrust intowell-worn Juliet slippers, was lying across her bed, in the pleasantleisure of Sunday afternoon, a Dramatic Supplement held in one fatringed hand, her head supported by her pillows in soiled muslin cases, and several satin and velvet cushions from a couch. In the room alsowere Connie Girard and Rose Ransome, who had a bowl of soapsuds andseveral scissors and orange-wood sticks on the table between them, andwere manicuring each other very fastidiously. A third actress, a youngEnglishwoman with a worn, hard face, rouged cheeks, and glittering eyes, was calling, with her little son, upon Mrs. Tarbury. 

"Hello, darling!" said the lady of the house herself, as Julia came in. The girls gave her an affectionate welcome, and Julia was introduced tothe stranger. 

"Mrs. Cloke is my real name, " said the Englishwoman briskly. "But you'dknow me better as Alice Le Grange, I daresay. You'll have heard of mylittle sketches--the Mirror gave Mr. Cloke and I a whole page when firstwe came to this country, and we had elegant bookings--elegant. I'd mylittle flat in New York all furnished, and, " she said to Mrs. Tarbury, "I was used to _everything_--the managers at home all knew me, and all, you know--" She laughed with some bitterness. "It does seem funny to beout here doing this, " she added. "But there was the kiddy toconsider--and, as I told you, there was trouble!"

"Parties who used their influence to get 'em out!" said Miss Girarddarkly, in explanation, with a glance at Julia. "Favouritism--"

"And jealousy, " added Alice Le Grange. 

Julia was sympathetic, but not deeply impressed. She had heard thisstory in many forms before. She attracted the attention of little EricCloke, and showed him the pictures of the Katzenjammer Kids and FoxyGrandpa in the newspaper. Later she accompanied Rose and Connie to theirroom, put on loose clothing, and lay on her bed watching them dress. 

The girls were to dine together, with two admirers, and urged Julia toask a third man, and come, too. Julia refused steadily; she was veryquiet and the others thought her tired. 

She lay on her side, one hand falling idle over the edge of the bed, herserious, magnificent eyes moving idly from Connie's face to Rose's, androving over the room. Hot sunlight poured through the dirty windows andthe torn curtains of Nottingham lace, and flamed on the ugly wallpaperand the flawed mirrors. A thousand useless knickknacks made the roomhideous; every possible surface was strewn with garments large andsmall, each bureau was a confusion of pins and brushes, paste and powderboxes, silk stockings and dirty white gloves, cologne bottles andpowdered circles of discoloured chamois, hair kids and curls of falsehair, handkerchiefs and hat pins, cheap imitations of jewellery, cheapbits of lace, sidecombs, veils and belts and collars, and a hundredother things, all wound up in an indistinguishable mass. From thesesomewhat sodden heaps Connie and Rose cheerfully selected what theyneeded, leaning over constantly to inspect their faces closely in themirrors. 

Julia watched them with a sudden, new, and almost terrifying distastegrowing in her heart. How dirty and shiftless and common--yes, common--these girls were! Julia felt sick with the force of therevelation. She saw Connie lace her shabby pink-brocade corset togetherwith a black shoestring; she saw Rose close with white thread a greathole in the heel of a black silk stocking. Their crimped hair nauseatedher, their rouge and powder and cologne. She could hardly listen inpatience to their careless and sometimes coarse chatter. 

And when they were gone she still lay there, thinking--thinking--thinking! The sunlight crept lower and lower over the room's disorder;its last bright triangle was gone, twilight came, and the soft earlydarkness. 

Mrs. Tarbury presently called Julia, in mellifluous accents, and thegirl pulled herself stiffly from the bed, and went blinking down to animprovised supper. They two were alone in the big house, and fell intointimate conversation over their sardines and coffee and jam, discussingthe characters of every person in the house with much attention totrivial detail. At nine o'clock some friends came in to see Mrs. Tarbury, and Julia went upstairs again. 

She lighted the bedroom, and began idly to fold and straighten theclothes that were strewn about everywhere. But she very speedily gave upthe task: there were no closets to hang things in, and many things weretoo torn or dirty to be hung up, anyway! Julia went down one flight ofstairs to the nearest bathroom, in search of hot water, but both faucetsran cold, and she went upstairs again. She hunted through Connie'sbureau and Rose's for a fresh nightgown, but not finding one, had to puton the limp and torn garment one of the girls had loaned her a week ortwo before. 

Now she sat down on the edge of her bed, vaguely discouraged. Tears cameto her eyes, she did not quite know why. She opened a novel, andcomposed herself to read, but could not become interested, and finallypushed up the window the two inches that the girls approved, turned outthe lights, and jumped into bed. She would want her beauty sleep for"The Amazons" to-morrow night. Julia had been fully determined, when shegot home, to abandon the amateur company, to fail them at the very hourof their performance, but a casual word from Connie had caused her tochange her mind. 

"Don't you be a fool and get in Dutch with Artheris!" Connie had said, and upon sober reflection Julia had found the advice good. 

But she got no beauty sleep that night. She lay hour after hour wakefuland wretched, the jumbled memories of the last twenty-four hoursslipping through her mind in ceaseless review: the green, swift-rushingwater, with gulls flying over it; the coffee pot reflecting a dozenjoyous young faces; the garden bright with roses--

And then, with sickening regularity, the clubhouse and the girls'voices--

How she hated them all, Julia said to herself, raising herself on oneelbow to punch her sodden pillow, and sending a hot, restless glancetoward the streak of bright light that forced its way in from a streetlamp. How selfish, how smug, how arrogant they were, with their dailybaths, and their chests full of fresh linen, and their assured speech!What had Sally and Theodora Toland ever done to warrant theirinsufferable conceit? Why should they have lovely parents and an idealhome, frocks and maids and delightful meals, while she, Julia, was bornto the dirt and sordidness of O'Farrell Street?

Barbara--but no, she couldn't hate Barbara! The memory of that moment ofconfidence last night still thrilled Julia to her heart's core. Barbarahad been kind to her in the matter of Carter Hazzard, had defended herto-day, in her careless, indifferent fashion. Julia's heart ached withfierce envy of Barbara, ached with fierce longing and admiration. Shetortured herself with a picture of the charm of Barbara's life: herwaking in the sunshine, her breakfast eaten between the old doctor andthe young, her hours at her pretty writing-desk, on the porch, at thepiano. Always dignified, always sweet and dainty, always adored. 

Well, she, Julia, should be an actress, a great actress. But even as sheflung herself on her back and stared sternly up at the ceiling, resolving it, her heart failed her. It was a long road. Julia wasfifteen; she must count upon ten or fifteen years at least of slavery instock companies, of weeks spent in rushing from one cheap hotel toanother, of associating with just such women as Connie and Rose. No onethat she knew, in the profession, had bureaus full of ruffled freshlinen, had a sunshiny breakfast table with flowers on it--

Julia twisted about on her arm and began to cry. She cried for a longtime. 

True, she could marry Mark, and Mark would be rich some day. But wouldBarbara Toland Studdiford--for Julia had married them as a matter ofcourse--ever stoop to notice Julia Rosenthal? No, she wouldn't marryMark. 

Then there was her mother's home, over the saloon. Julia finally went tosleep planning, in cold-blooded childish fashion, that if her fatherdied, and left her mother a really substantial sum of money, she wouldpersuade Emeline to take a clean, bright little flat somewhere, andleave this neighbourhood forever. 

"And we could keep a few boarders, " thought Julia drowsily, "and I willlearn to cook, and have nice little ginghams, like Janey's--"

The amateur performance of "The Amazons" duly took place on thefollowing night, with a large and fashionable audience packing the oldGrand Opera House, and society reporters flitting from box to boxbetween the acts. Julia found the experience curiously flat. She had noopportunity to deliver to Barbara a withering little speech she hadprepared, and received no attention from any one. The performers wereexcited and nervous, each frankly bent upon scoring a personal andexclusive success, and immediately after the last act they swarmed outto greet friends in the house, and Babel ensued. 

Walking soberly home with Mark at half-past eleven, with her cheque inher purse, Julia decided bitterly that she washed her hands of them all;she was done with San Francisco's smart set, she would never giveanother thought to a single one of them. 

CHAPTER V

Days of very serious thinking followed this experience. The face of theworld was changed. Much that had been unnoticed, or taken for granted, became insufferable to Julia now. She winced at Connie's stories, shelooked with a coldly critical eye at Mrs. Tarbury's gray hair showingthrough a yellow "front"; the sights and sounds of the boarding-housesickened her. She was accustomed to helping Mrs. Tarbury with thehousework, not in any sense as payment for her board--for never washospitality more generously extended--but merely because she was there, and idle, and energetic; but she found this a real hardship now. Thehot, close bedrooms, odorous of perfume and cigarette smoke, the grayishsheets and thin blankets were odious to her; she longed to set fire tothe whole, and start afresh, with clean new furnishings. 

Presently Connie asked her if she would care to talk to a manager aboutgoing on an "eleven weeks' circuit, " as assistant to a sleight-of-handperformer. 

"Twenty a week, " said Connie, "and a whole week in Sacramento andanother in Los Angeles. All you have to do is wear a little suit like apage, and hand him things. Rose says he looks like an old devil--Ihaven't seen him, but you can sit on him easy enough. And the Nevillesare making the same trip, and she's a real nice woman. Not much, Ju, butit's a start, and I think we could land it for you. "

"Yes, I know, " Julia said vaguely. 

"Well, wake up!" said Connie briskly. "Do you want it?"

"I'd rather wait until Mama gets here, " the younger girl decideduncomfortably. And that afternoon, in vague hope of news of her mother, she took a Mission Street car and went out to call on her grandmother. 

As usual, old Mrs. Cox's cheap little house reeked of soapsuds andcarbolic acid. Julia, admitted after she had twisted the little gong setin the panels of the street door, kissed her grandmother in a stiflingdark hall. Mrs. Cox was glad of company, she limped ahead into herlittle kitchen, chattering eagerly of her rheumatism and of familymatters. She told Julia that May's children, Evelyn and Marguerite, werewith her, Marguerite holding a position as dipper in a nearby candyfactory, and Evelyn checking in an immense steam laundry. 

"How many children _has_ Aunt May now?" Julia asked, sighing. 

"She's got too many!" Mrs. Cox said sharply. "A feller like Ed, whonever keeps a position two weeks running, has got no business to raisesuch a family! For a while May had two of the boys in a home--"

"Oh, really!" said Julia, distressed. 

"Lloyd and Elmer--yes, but they're home again now, " the old womanpursued. "May felt dreadful when they went, but I guess she wasn't soawfully glad to get them back. Boys make a lot of work. "

"Elmer and Lloyd, and then there was Muriel, and another baby?" Juliaasked. 

"Muriel and Geraldine, and then the baby, Regina. "

"Has Aunt May seven children?" Julia asked, awed. 

Mrs. Cox delayed the brewing of a pot of tea while she counted them witha bony knotted hand. Then she nodded. Julia digested the fact infrowning silence. 

"Grandma, " said she presently, "did you ever have enough money?"

Mrs. Cox, now drinking her tea from a saucer, smiled toothlessly. 

"Oh, sure, " said she, with a cackle of laughter, "Why, there's nobodyknows it, but I'm rich!" But immediately the sorry joke lost flavour. The old woman sighed, and into her wrinkled face and filmed eyes therecame her usual look of patient and unintelligent endurance. "I've neveryet had a dollar that didn't have to do two dollars' work, " said she, suddenly, in a mighty voice, staring across the kitchen, and lifting onehand as if she were taking an oath. "I've never laid down at night whenI wasn't so tired my back was splitting. I've never had no thanks and noease--the sixty years of my life! There's some people meant to be rich, Julia, and some that'll be poor the longest day of their lives, andthat's all there is to it!"

"I know--but it don't seem fair, " Julia mused. She presently went on anerrand for her grandmother, and came back with sausages and fresh pulpybread and large spongy crullers from the grocery. By this time the windysummer twilight was closing in, and the homegoing labourers and factoryhands were filing home through the dirty streets. Julia found her twocousins in the lamp-lighted kitchen, Evelyn rather heavy and coarselooking, Marguerite reedy and thin, both wearing an unwholesome pallor. They made a little event of her coming, and the three girls chattedgayly enough throughout the meal, which was eaten at the kitchen tableand washed down with strong tea. 

Julia's grandfather, a gnarled old man in a labourer's rough clothes, who reeked of whiskey, mumbled his meal in silence, and afterward wentinto the room known as the parlour, snarling as he went that some onemust come in and light his lamp. Julia went in with Evelyn to the ratherpitiful room: a red rug was on the floor, and there were two chairs anda cheap little table, besides the big chair in which the old man settledhimself. 

"Ain't he going out, Grandma?" said Evelyn, returning to the kitchen, and exchanging a rueful look with Marguerite. 

"Well, I thought he was!" Mrs. Cox made a pilgrimage to the parlourdoor, and returned confident. "He'll go out!" she said reassuringly. 

"Comp'ny coming?" Julia asked smilingly. The other girls giggled andlooked at each other. 

"Well, why couldn't Grandpa sit in the kitchen?" the girl asked. "There's a better light out here!"

"Catch him doing anything decent, " Evelyn said, and Marguerite added:"And, Ju, he'll sit there sometimes just to be mean, and he'll take hisshoes off, and put his socks up----"

"And nights he knows we want the parlour he'll stay in on purpose, "Evelyn supplemented eagerly. 

"I wouldn't _stand_ for it, " Julia asserted. 

"Pa's awfully cranky, " Mrs. Cox said resignedly. "He's always been thatway! You cook him corn beef--that's the night he wanted pork chops;sometimes he'll snap your head off if you speak, and others he'll askyou why you sit around like a mute and don't talk. Sometimes, if you askhim for money, he'll put his hand in his pocket real willing, and othertimes for weeks he won't give you a cent!"

"I wouldn't put up with it, " said Julia again. "What does he _do_ with hismoney?"

"Oh, he treats the boys, and sometimes, when he's drunk, they'll borrowit off him, " said his wife. "Pa's always open-handed with the boys!"

Evelyn, who had washed her coarse, handsome face at the kitchen sink, began now to arrange her hair with a small comb that had been wedgedinto the sinkboard. Marguerite, having completed similar operations, offered to walk with Julia to the Mission Street car. 

"The worst of Grandpa is this, " said Marguerite, on the way, and Juliaglancing sideways under a street lamp surprised an earnest and mostwinning expression on her cousin's plain, pale face, "he don't giveGrandma any money, d'you see?--and that means that Ev and I have to giveher pretty much what we get, and so we can't help Mamma, and that makesme awfully blue. "

"But--but Uncle Ed's working, Rita?"

"Pop works when he can, Ju. Work isn't ever very steady in his line, youknow. But he don't drink any more, Mamma says, only--there's fivechildren younger'n we are, you know--"

"Sure, " said Julia, heavy oppressed. But Marguerite was cheered at thispoint by encountering two pimply and embarrassed youths, and Julia, climbing a moment later into a Mission Street car, looked back to seeher cousin walking off between the two masculine forms, and heard theirloud laughter ring upon the night. 

About ten days later, unannounced, Emeline came home, and with her camea stout, red-faced, grayhaired man, in whom Julia was aghast to find herfather. They reached Mrs. Tarbury's at about four o'clock in theafternoon, and Julia, coming in from a call on a theatrical manager, found them in the dining-room. George had been very ill, and movedponderously and slowly. He looked far older than Julia's memory of him. There were sagging red pockets under his eyes, and his heavy jowls weredarkened with a day's growth of gray stubble. He and Emeline had had acomplete reconciliation, and entertained Mrs. Tarbury with the historyof their remarriage and an outline of their plans. 

George took a heavy, sportive interest in his pretty girl, but Juliacould not realize their relationship sufficiently to permit of anyliberties. She smiled an uneasy, perfunctory smile when George kissedher, and moved away from the arm he would have kept about her. 

"Don't liked to be kissed?" asked George. 

"Oh, I don't mind, " said Julia, in a lifeless voice, and with avertedeyes. "Did you go to the flat, Mama?" she asked, clearing her throat. 

"I did, " Emeline answered, biting a loose thread from a finger of herdirty white gloves. "I got Toomey's rent, and told them that we mightwant the room on the first. "

"Going to give up the flat?" Julia asked, in surprise. 

"Well"--Emeline glanced at her husband--"it's this way, Ju, " said she:"Papa can't stand the city, sick as he is now--"

George coughed loosely in confirmation of this, and shook his head. 

"And Papa's got a half interest in a little fruit ranch down in SantaClara Valley, " Emeline pursued. "So I'm going to take him down there fora little while, and nurse him back to real good health. "

"My God, Em, you'll die!" Mrs. Tarbury said frankly. "Why'n't you gosomewhere where there's something doing?"

"My sporting days are over, Min, " George said with mournfulsatisfaction. "No more midnight suppers in mine!"

"Nor mine, either. I guess I'm old enough to settle down, " Emeline addedcheerfully. She and Mrs. Tarbury exchanged a look, and Julia knewexactly what concessions her mother had made before the reconciliation;knew just how sincere this unworldly wifely devotion was. 

"Doc says I am to have fresh air, and light, nourishing foods, and quietnights, " George explained, gravely important. 

"And what about Julie?" asked Mrs. Tarbury. 

"Well, we thought we'd leave Julie here, Min, " Emeline begancomfortably, "until we see if it works. Then in, say, a month--"

"Mama, you can't!" Julia interrupted, cheeks hot with shame. "Aunt Min'sgot to rent that room--"

"You see how it is, Em, " the lady of the house explained regretfully:"Connie's gone off on the road now, and Rose Ransome's gone to VirginiaCity, and there's a party and wife that'll give me twenty a month forthe room. And as it happens I'm full up now, Em--"

"Well, of course we'll pay--" George was beginning, somewhat haughtily, but Emeline, who had grown rather red, interrupted:

"It don't make the slightest difference, " she said, with spirit. "Iguess I'm the last woman in the world to want my child to stay where sheisn't welcome!"

"It ain't that at all, Em, " Mrs. Tarbury threw in pacifically, butEmeline was well launched now. 

"If it hadn't been that George was all but passing away with kidneytrouble, " Emeline said, her voice rising, "I never would of let such anarrangement go on for five minutes! But there was days when we neverknew from hour to hour that George wasn't dying, and what with havinghim moved and that woman holding up his clothes, and telling the doctorlies about me, I guess I had troubles enough without worrying aboutJulie. But I want to tell you right now, Min, " said Emeline, with kindlysuperiority, "that this isn't the kind of a house I'm crazy about havingmy daughter in, anyway. It ain't you, so much--"

"Ha! that's good!" Mrs. Tarbury interpolated, with a sardonic laugh. 

"But you know very well that such girls as Rosie and Con--" Emelinerushed on. 

"Oh, my God, Em!" Mrs. Tarbury began in a low voice rich with feeling, but Julia took a hand. 

"Don't be such a fool, Aunt Min!" she said, going over to sit on an armof Mrs. Tarbury's chair, and putting a caressing arm about hershoulders. "And cut it out, Mama! Aunt Min's been kinder to me than anyone else, and you know it--and I've felt pretty darn mean living hereday after day! And now I say if Aunt Min has a chance to rent herroom--"

"God knows you're welcome to that room as long as you'll stay, Julie, "Mrs. Tarbury said tremulously; "it's only--"

"If every one was as good to me as you are, Aunt Min!" Julia said, beginning to cry. Mrs. Tarbury burst into sobs, and they clung together. 

"I never meant that you wasn't awfully good to her, Min, " Emeline saidstiffly. Then her eyes watered, and she, too, began to cry, and gropedfor her handkerchief. "I'm just worn out with worrying and taking careof George, I guess, " sobbed Emeline, laying her head on the arm sheflung across a nearby table. 

"Don't cry, Mama!" Julia gulped, leaving Mrs. Tarbury's lap to come andpat her mother's shoulder. Emeline convulsively seized her, and theirwet cheeks touched. 

"If any one ever says that I don't appreciate what you've done for meand mine, " choked Emeline, "it's a lie!"

"Well, it didn't _sound_ like you, Em, " Mrs. Tarbury said, drying eyesbetween sniffs. 

Emeline immediately went over and kissed her, and all three laughedshakily over a complete reconciliation, which was pleasingly interruptedby George's gallant offer to take the whole crowd to dinner, if theydidn't mind his eating only tea and toast. 

Still, it was decided that Julia should not stay at Mrs. Tarbury's, butshould spend the next week or two with her grandmother in the Mission. Julia's quiet acceptance of this arrangement was both unexpected andpleasing to her parents. 

But as a matter of fact the girl was rather dazed, at this time, toodeeply sunk in a miserable contemplation of her own affairs to beconscious of the immediate discomfort of the moment. She had dreamedmany a happy dream, as the years went by, of her father: had thought hewould claim her some day, be proud of her. She had fancied a little homecircle of which she would be the centre and star, spoiled alike byfather and mother. Dearer than any dream of a lover had been to Juliathis hope for days to come, when she should be a successful youngactress, with an adoring Daddy to be proud of her. Now the dream wasclouded; her father was an old man, self-absorbed; her mother--but Juliahad always known her mother to be both selfish and mercenary. More thanthis, her little visit in Sausalito had altered her whole viewpoint. Ignorant of life as she was, and bewildered by the revelations of thatvisit, she was still intelligent enough to feel an acute discontent withher old world, an agonizing longing for that better and cleaner andhigher existence. How to grasp at anything different from life as it waslived in her mother's home--in her grandmother's, in Mrs. Tarbury's--Julia had not the most remote idea. Until a few months agoshe had not known that she wanted anything different. 

She brooded over the problem night and day; sometimes her hours ofgloomy introspection were interrupted by bursts of rebellious fury. Shewould _not_ bear it, she would _not_ be despised and obscure and ignorant, when, so close to her, there were girls of her own age to whom Fate hadbeen utterly kind; it was not her fault, and it was not _right_--it wasnot right to despise her for what she could not help! But usually herattitude was of passive if confused endurance. 

Julia pored over the society columns of the Sunday papers, in thesedays, and when she came across the name of Barbara Toland or EnidHazzard, it was as if a blow had been struck at her heart. Barbara'sface, smiling out at her from a copy of the News Letter, made Juliawretched for a whole day, and the mere sight of the magazine thatcontained it was obnoxious to her for days to come. Walking with Mark, she saw in some Kearney Street window an enlarged photograph of a littleyacht cutting against a stiff breeze, and felt a rush of unwelcomememories suddenly assail her. 

Mark was very much the devoted lover just now, but the contemplation ofmarriage with Mark never for a moment entered Julia's head. She hadreally liked him much better when he was only Hannah's big brother, whoignored all small girls in kindly, big-boy fashion. His adoring devotionembarrassed her, and his demand for a definite answer to his suggestionof marriage worried and perhaps a little frightened her. 

One summer Sunday Mark asked her to go to the Park with him, and the twomade the trip on a Geary Street dummy front, and wandered through wide, sunny stretches of lawn and white roadway to the amphitheatre, whereseveral thousand persons of all ages and conditions were alreadylistening to the band. Benches were set in rows under a grove of youngmaple and locust trees, and Julia and Mark, sauntering well up to thefront, found seats, and settled themselves to listen. 

Julia, enjoying the sunshine and the good hour, looked lazily at thecuriously variegated types about them: young men who lay almosthorizontally in their seats, their eyes shut, newspapers blowing abouttheir feet; toddling babies in Sunday white; young fathers and motherswith tiny coats laid across their laps; groups of middle-aged Teutonscritically alert, and, everywhere, lovers and lovers and lovers. Markwas pleasantly aware that his companion's beauty made her conspicuous, even though Julia was plainly, almost soberly, dressed to-day, andshowed none of her usual sparkle and flash. She wore a trim little gownof blue serge, with a tiny white ruffle about its high collar for itsonly relief, her gloves were black, her small hat black, and she wore norings, no chains, and no bangles, a startling innovation for Julia. Thechange in her appearance, and some more subtle change in face and voiceand manner, affected Mark like a strong wine. 

"Do you know you're different from what you uster be, Julie?" he said, laying his arm about her shoulders, on the back of the bench, andsquaring about so that his handsome black eyes could devour her. 

"Getting older, maybe, " Julia smiled indifferently. "I'll be sixteen inno time, now!"

"My mother was only fifteen when she was married, " Mark said, in a deepand shaken voice, yet with pride and laughter in his eyes. Julia flushedand looked at the toe of her shoe. 

"Well, what about it--eh?" Mark pursued in an eager undertone. Julia wassilent. "What about it?" he said again. 

"Why--why, I don't know, " Julia stammered, uncomfortably, with a nervousand furtive glance about her; anywhere but at his face. 

"Suppose I _do_ know?" he urged, tightening a little the arm that layabouther. "Suppose I know for us both?"

Julia straightened herself suddenly, evading the encircling arm. 

"Don't, Mark!" she pleaded, giving him a glimpse of wet blue eyes. 

"I'm not teasing you, darling, " he said tenderly. "I'm not going totease you! But you do love me, Julia?"

A silence, but she tightened the hold of the little glove that rested onhis free hand. 

"Don't you, Julie?" he begged. 

"Why--you know I do, Mark!" the girl said, and both began to laugh. 

"But then what's the matter?" Mark asked, serious again. 

"Well--" Julia looked all about her, and finally brought her troubledeyes to rest on his. 

"Well, what, you darling?"

"Well, it's just this, Mark. I don't know whether I can get it over toyou. " The girl interrupted herself for a little puzzled laugh. "I don'tknow that I can get it over to myself, " she said. "But it's this: I feelas if I didn't know _myself_ yet, d'ye see? I don't know what I want, myself, and of course I don't know what I want my husband to belike--d'ye see, Mark? I--I feel as if I didn't know _anything_--I don'tknow what's good and what's just common. I haven't read books, I haven'thad any one to tell me things, and show me things!" She turned to himeyes that he was amazed to see were brimming again. "My mother nevertold me about things, " she burst out incoherently, "about how to talk, and taking baths--and not using cologne!"

Mark could not quite follow this argument, but he was quick withsoothing generalities. 

"Aw, pshaw, Julie, as if you aren't about as good as they make 'em, justas you are! Why, I'm crazy about you--I'm crazy about the way you lookand about the way you act; you're good enough for _me_! Julie, " his voicesank again, "Julie, won't you let me pick out a little flat somewheres?Pomeroy said I could have any one of the old squares for nothing; wecould get some rugs and chairs from the People's Easy Payment Company. Just you and me, Julie; what do you think?"

"I-I'd like to have a cute little house, " said Julia, with a shakysmile. 

"Sure you would! And a garden--"

"Oh, I'd love a little garden!" The girl smiled again. 

"Well, then, why not, Julia?"

She looked at him obliquely. 

"Suppose I stopped loving you, Mark?"

Mark gave a great laugh. 

"Once I have you, Ju, I'll risk it!"

Child that she was, a glimpse of that complete possession stained hercheeks crimson. 

"I have to go down to Mama in Santa Clara next week, " she submittedawkwardly. 

"Well, go down. But--how about New Year's, Julie? Will you marry methen?"

Julia got up, and they walked away across the soft green of the grass. 

"I don't honestly know what I want to do, Mark, " she said a littledrearily. "I'm not crazy to go to Santa Clara, and yet it's somethingawful--living at my grandmother's house! I'd like to kill mygrandfather, I know that. He's the meanest old man I ever saw. I supposeI could keep at Artheris for an engagement--he's awfully decent--but nowthat Rose and Connie have gone, I have to go round alone, and--it isn'tthat I'm afraid of anything, but I simply don't seem to care any more! Idon't believe I want to be an actress. Artheris offered me small partswith the Sacramento Star Stock, playing fourteen weeks and twenty plays, this winter, but I thought of getting up there, and having to hunt up aboarding-house--" Her voice sank indifferently. "I don't believe I'dtake anything less than ingenue, " she added presently. "Florence Pittplayed ingenue in stock when she was only fifteen!"

"You could work up, Ju, " Mark suggested, honestly anxious to console. 

"Yes, the way Connie and Rose have!" the girl answered dryly. "Con'sbeen in the business six years and Rose nine!" Her eyes travelled theblue spaces of the summer sky. "I wish I could go to New York, " she saidvaguely. 

"They say New York is jam-packed with girls hanging round theatricalagencies, " Mark submitted, to which Julia answered with a dispirited, "Iknow!"

George had promised to send five dollars each week to old Mrs. Cox forJulia's board, so that her stay in the Mission Street house wasagreeable for more than one reason, and her cousins understood perfectlythat Julia was to remain idle while they continued to beself-supporting. They had no room in their crowded lives for envy of theprettier and more fortunate Julia, but Julia vaguely envied them, seeingthem start off for work every morning, and joined by other girls andyoung men as they reached the corner. Evelyn and Marguerite had each anadmirer, and between the romance of their evenings and the thousandlittle episodes of the factory day, they seemed to find life cheerfulenough. 

Julia tried, early in her stay, to make the room she shared with hercousins, and her grandmother's kitchen, a little more attractive. Butthe material to her hand was not very easily improved. In the barebedroom there was an iron bed, large enough to be fairly comfortable forthree tenants, two chairs, a washstand, and a chest of drawers thatwould not stand straight. The paper was light, and streaked with dirtand mould, and the bare wooden floor was strewn with paper candy bagsand crumpled programs from cheap theatres. There were no curtains at thetwo windows, and the blue-green roller shades were faded by the sun. Nota promising field for a reformer whose ideal was formed on a memory ofthe Tolands' guest room!

The kitchen was quite as bad; worse in the sense that while Julia mightdo as she pleased in the bedroom, her grandmother resented anyinterference in what old Mrs. Cox regarded as her own domain. The oldwoman found nothing amiss in the dirty newspapers that covered thetable, the tin of melting grease on the stove, the odds and ends of ragsand rope and clothespins and stockings that littered the chairs andfloor, the flies that walked on the ceiling and buzzed over the sugarbowl. Julia quite enraged her on that morning that she essayed to cleana certain wide shelf that, crowded to its last inch, hung over the sink. 

"Do you need this, Grandma--can I throw this away?" the girl said overand over, displaying a nearly empty box of blacking, a moist bag tightlyrolled over perhaps a pound of sugar, a broken egg beater, a stoppedalarm clock, a bottle of toothache drops, a dog's old collar, a crackedsaucer with a cake of brown soap tightly adhering to it, a few driedonions, a broken comb, the two halves of a broken vase, and a score ofsimilarly assorted small articles. 

"Jest don't meddle with 'em, Julia, " Mrs. Cox said over and over againuneasily. "I'm going to give all that a thorough cleaning when I getaround to it!"

She was obviously relieved when Julia gave the whole thing up as a badjob, and went back to her aimless wandering about the house. Mrs. Coxnever went out except to church, but now and then Julia went down toMrs. Tarbury's and vaguely discussed the advisability of taking atheatrical engagement, exactly as if several very definite offers wereunder consideration. 

Just at this time Julia's youngest uncle, Chester Cox, wrote his motherfrom the big prison at San Quentin that he was coming home. The letter, pencilled on two sheets of lined, grayish paper, caused a good deal ofdiscussion between Mrs. Cox, her husband, and her granddaughters. Chester, now about thirty years old, had been pardoned because of lateevidence in his favour, when a five-year term for burglary was but onequarter served, but in his old father's eyes a jailbird was a jailbird, and Chester was still in some mysterious way to blame. Mrs. Cox was onlyconcerned because the boy was ill and out of a job and apt to prove aburden, but the three girls, frankly curious about him, neverthelessreserved judgment. He had always been an idler, he had always been aweakling, but if he really were accused falsely, they could champion himstill. 

The day he had set for his return was a Sunday, but he arrivedunexpectedly on the Saturday afternoon, to find great trouble in theMission Street house. Evelyn and Marguerite were free for the afternoon, and were in the kitchen with Julia and their grandmother. It had latelycome to Evelyn's ears that her grandfather had been borrowing money onthe little property, and old Mrs. Cox was beside herself with anger andfear. The house was her one hope against a destitute old age. She fairlywrithed at the contemplation of her husband's treachery in underminingthat one stay. While she was slaving and struggling, he had airilydisposed of three hundred dollars. She was stifled by the thought. 

"He'd ought to be sent to jail for it!" the old woman said bitterly. 

"You can't do it, " Evelyn, the bearer of the badnews, assured herimpatiently. 

"Well, he'll see what I can do, when he gets home!" Mrs. Cox muttered. Julia, distressed by the scene, laid her hand over her grandmother's oldknotted one, as she sat beside her at the table, but could find no wordswith which to comfort her. Her soul was sick with this fresh sordidrevelation; she felt as if she must scream in another minute ofexistence in this dreary, dirty house, with the glaring sunshinestreaming in the kitchen window and a high summer wind howling outside. 

The talk was ended by a ring at the door, and Julia went through thedark, stifling passage to admit a lean, pale young man, with a roughgrowth of light hair on his sunken cheeks, and a curious look of notbelonging to his clothes. 

"It's Uncle Chess, Grandma, " said she, leading the way back to thekitchen. Mrs. Cox gave her youngest child a kiss, assuring him that shenever would have known him, he looked like a ghost, she said, andChester sat down and talked a little awkwardly to his mother and nieces. His voice was husky, full of apologetic cadences; he explainedpainstakingly the chance that had brought him home twenty-four hoursearly, as if it were the most important thing in the world. Julia, helping her grandmother with preparations for dinner, did not know whyshe found Chester's presence unendurably trying; she did not know thatit was pity that wrung her heart; she only wished he were not there. 

An hour's talk cheered the newcomer amazingly, as perhaps did also thedinner odours of frying potatoes and bacon. He was venturing upon ahistory of his wrongs when a damper fell upon the little company withthe arrival of the man of the house. Her husband's return brought backin a flood to old Mrs. Cox's heart the memory of his outrageousnegotiations regarding the house; the three girls all cordially detestedthe old man and were silent and ungracious in his presence, and Chesterflushed deeply as his father came in, and became dumb. 

Old Cox made no immediate acknowledgement of the newcomer's arrival, butgrunted as he jerked a chair to the table, indicating his readiness fordinner, and dinner was served with all speed. It was only when he haddrunk off half a cup of scalding strong tea that the man of the houseturned to his last born and said:

"So, you're out again?"

"I should never have been in!" Chester said, eagerly and huskily. 

"Yes, I've heard lots of that kind of talk, " the old man assured him. "'Cording to what you hear there's a good many up there that never donenothing at all!"

Julia saw the son shrink, and a look of infinite wistfulness for amoment darkened his eyes. He was a stupid-looking, gentle-faced fellow, pitiable as a sick child. 

"Perhaps you'll read these, Pa, " he said, fumbling in his pockets for amoment before producing two or three short newspaper clippings from aninner coat pocket. "There--there's the truth of it; it's all there, " hesaid eagerly. "'Cox will immediately be given his freedom--after sixteenmonths as an innocent victim of the law'--that's what it says!"

"I'll read nothin', " the old man said, sweeping back the slips with ascornful hand, his small, deep-set eyes blinking at his son like amonkey's. 

"Well, all right, all right, " Chester answered, his thin face burningagain, his voice hoarsely belligerent. 

"That's the jestice you'll get from your father!" the old woman said, with a cackle. Julia gathered up the newspaper clippings. 

"Aren't you mean, Grandpa!" she said, indignantly, beginning to read. 

"Maybe I am, maybe I am, " he retorted fiercely. "But you'll find there'sno smoke without some fire, my fine lady, and when a boy that's alwaysbeen a lazy, idle shame to his father and mother gets a taste of blame, you can depend that no newspaper is going to make a saint of him!"

"Grandma, don't let him talk that way!" Julia protested, her breastrising and falling. Chester turned to his father. 

"Maybe if you'd a-give me a better chance, " he said sullenly, "maybe ifus boys hadn't been kicked around so much, shoved into the first jobthat came handy, seeing Ma and the girls afraid to breathe while you wasin the house--"

Both men were now standing, their faces close together. 

"Well, you ain't going to have another chance here!" the old manshouted. "I'll have no jailbirds settin' around here to be petted andbabied! Get that into your head! Don't you let me come into the houseand find you here again----"

"Pa!" protested Mrs. Cox, fired by the eyes of her granddaughters. "Yes--an' 'Pa'!" he snarled, pulling on his old hat, and opening thekitchen door. "But it'll be Pa on the wrong side of your face if youmake any mistake about it! Jailbird!" he muttered to himself, with afinal slam at the door. The others looked at each other. 

"That's a sweet welcome home, " said Chester, with a bitter laugh. He wasstanding, his head lowered; there was bewilderment as well as anger inhis look. 

"Pa's got to be a terrible crank, " said Mrs. Cox, returning to herteapot, after a glance through the window at her retiring lord. "Hecarries on something terrible sometimes. "

"Well, he won't carry on any longer as far as I am concerned!" Chestersaid, a little vaguely. 

"I don't know what's got into Pa!" his wife complained. 

"Don't you care, Uncle Chess, " Marguerite submitted with timid sympathy. 

"Oh, no, sure I don't care, " the man said with a short laugh. "Of courseit's nothing to me! A man comes home to his own folks, he's had a toughtime--" His voice sank huskily. The sleeves of his coat were too shortfor him, and Julia noticed how thin his wrists were, as he gathered uphis newspaper clippings and restored them to his inside pocket. Thewomen watched him in silence. Presently he stooped down and kissed hismother's forehead, at the edge of her untidy, grizzled hair. 

"Good-bye, Ma!" he said. "Good-bye, girls!"

"It'll be a judgment on your father, " Mrs. Cox protested. "I don't knowwhat's gotten into him!"

But she made no further objection; she did not get up from her place attable when Chester crossed the kitchen, opened the street door, and wentout. 

"Grandpa's a prince, all right!" said Marguerite then, and Evelyn added, "Wouldn't it give you a pain?"

"But I notice that none of us did anything about it!" Julia saidbitterly. 

"If your grandpa found Chess here when he got home to-night, there'd bea reckoning!" the old woman asserted dully. 

"And what is Uncle Chess supposed to do?" Julia demanded. 

"I betcher he kills himself, " Evelyn submitted. 

"I betcher he does, " her sister agreed. 

"Well, it'll be on your grandfather's head!" the old woman said. Shebegan to cry, still drinking her tea. 

"I wonder if he has any money?" speculated Julia. 

"Where'd he get money?" Evelyn said. Julia, following an uncomfortableimpulse, went to the window in the close little parlour and looked outinto the street. It was about six o'clock, and still broad day. The windhad died down, but the street was dirty, and the glaring light of thesinking sun fell full on the faces of the home-going stream of men andwomen. Julia's quick eye found Chester instantly. He had loitered nofarther than the corner, a hundred feet away, and was standing there, irresolute, stooped, still wearing his look of vague bewilderment. 

The girl ran upstairs, and snatched her hat and a light coat. Twominutes later she was downstairs again, the chatelaine bag in which allgirls carried their money in those days jumping at her belt. 

But in those two minutes Chester had disappeared. Julia felt sick withdisappointment as she reached the corner only to find him gone. Shestood looking quickly about her: up the street, down the street; he wasgone. It seemed to the girl that she could not go back to hergrandmother's house again; a disgust for everything and everybody in itshook her from head to foot. She was sorry for them, her grandmother, her cousins, but the simple fact remained that they could bear this sortof existence and she could not; it was stifling her; it was killing her. 

"If they minded things as I do they would change them, somehow!" saidJulia to herself, walking on blindly. "My grandmother should never havelet things get to such a pass--I can't bear it! The smells and thefights--"

She stopped a car, one of the cable cars that ran out into the factorydistrict. Julia had no idea where she was going, nor did she care. Shegot on because one of the small forward outside seats was empty, and shecould sit there comfortably. The car went on and on, through a less andless populated district, but Julia, buried in unhappy thought, paid noattention to route or neighbourhood. 

"All off!" shouted the conductor presently. Julia had meant to keep herseat for the return trip, but the man's glance at her young beautyannoyed her, and she got off the car. 

She walked aimlessly along a battered cement sidewalk, betweenirregularly placed and shabby little houses. These were of too familiara type to interest Julia, but she presently came to a full stop before awide, one-story brick building, with a struggling garden separating itfrom the street, and straggling window boxes at every one of the widewindows. A flight of steps led up from the garden to the pretty whitefront door, and a neat brass plate, screwed to the cement at the turn ofthe steps, bore the words: "Alexander Toland Neighbourhood House. "

It would have been a pretty house anywhere, with its crisp dotted muslincurtains, its trim colonial walls, but in this particular neighbourhoodit had an added charm of contrast, and Julia stood before it literallyspellbound by admiration, and smitten, too, with that strange sickfascination to which the mere name of Toland subjected her. 

And while she stood there, Miss Anna Toland came to the door and stoodlooking down at the street. Julia's heart began to beat very fast, andthe blood rushed to her face. She bowed, and Miss Toland bowed. 

"Oh, Miss Page!" said Miss Toland then, crisply ready with the name andthe request. "This is very fortunate! I wonder if you won't come in andhelp me a moment? I've been trying for one hour to make the hall keywork. "

Julia said nothing. She mounted the steps and followed Miss Toland intothe hall. 

CHAPTER VI

The Alexander Toland Neighbourhood House, familiarly known by all whohad anything to do with it as The Alexander, was small, as neighbourhoodhouses go, but exceptionally pretty and complete, and financially sowell backed by a certain group of San Francisco's society women as to beentirely free from the common trouble of its kind. Miss Toland had builtit, and had made it her personal business to interest some of herfriends in its success, but she now found herself confronted by anunexpected problem: it seemed impossible to get an experienced woman asresident worker with whom Miss Toland could live in peace. The few womenwho had been qualified to try the position had all swiftly, quietly, andfirmly resigned, with that pained reticence that marks the trainedworker. Miss Toland told her committees, with good-humoured tolerance, that Miss Smith or Mrs. Brown had been a splendid person, perfectlysplendid, but unable to understand the peculiar conditions that madesocial work in San Francisco utterly--and totally--different from socialwork elsewhere. Meanwhile, she did the best she could with volunteerworkers, daily bewailing the fact that, without the trained worker, hergirls' clubs and classes, her boys' and mothers' clubs, had beendifficult to start, and maintained but a languishing existence. She wasa sanguine woman, and filled with confidence in the eventual success ofThe Alexander, and with energy to push it toward a completely fruitfulexistence, but she herself was inexperienced, and Julia had chanced uponher in a thoroughly discouraged mood. 

Julia's first aid--in climbing through a transom and opening a stubborndoor--being entirely successful, Miss Toland kept her to show her thelittle establishment, and was secretly soothed and pleased by the girl'sdelight. 

The front door opened into a wide square hall, furnished with neatMission chairs and tables, and with a large brown rug. There were twodoors on each side, and a large double door at the back. One door on theright led to a model kitchen, floored in bright blue-and-whitelinoleum, and with a shining stove, a shining dresser full ofblue-and-white china, a tiled sink, a table, and two chairs. The otherright-hand door opened into a little committee room, where there werewall closets full of ginghams and boxes of buttons and braid, and moreMission furniture. On the left each door opened into a bedroom, oneoccupied by Miss Toland and littered by her possessions, one empty andimmaculate. The two were joined by a shining little bath. Julia lookedat the white bed in the unoccupied room, the white bureau, the whitechairs, the white dotted curtains at the windows, the dark-blue rugs ona painted floor, and a gasp of honest admiration broke from her. MissToland gave her a quick approving glance, but said nothing. 

Through the big double door they stepped straight on the stage thatfilled one end of the tiny auditorium, Miss Toland touching an electricbutton that flooded the room with light, for Julia's benefit. There werewide windows, curtained in crisp dotted white, all about the hall, and adoor at the far end that gave, as Julia afterward learned, on a sidestreet. An upright piano was on the stage, and at one side a flight ofthree or four steps led down to the hall. The main floor was broken bytables and benches, a hundred sewing bags of blue linen hung on numberedhooks on the wall, and at the far end there were two deep closets forkindergarten materials and sewing supplies. 

The tour of inspection was ended in the kitchen, where Miss Toland putseveral paper bags on the table, dropped into a chair, and asked Juliaalso to be seated. 

"Well, what do you think of it?" she said, reaching behind her to get aknife from a drawer. With the knife she cut a spongy crust from a loafof bread, without fairly withdrawing it from the bag, and subtracting athin pink slice of ham from some oiled paper in another bag, she foldedit into the crust and began to eat it. "I picnic here--when I come, "said Miss Toland, unembarrassed. "You've had your dinner?"

"Oh, yes, " said Julia, "but do let me--" And without further words shetook two plates from the dresser, served the ham neatly, cut a slice ortwo of bread, and removed the bags. 

"Ah, yes, that's _much_ better!" Miss Toland said. "There's tea there. Isuppose you couldn't manage a cup?"

A deep and peculiar pleasure began to thrill through Julia. She steppedto the entrance hall, laid aside her hat and jacket, and returned to setabout tea-making with deftness and quickness. She found a wilted sliceof butter in a safe, and set out cups and sugar beside it. Miss Tolandstopped eating, and watched these preparations with great satisfaction. Presently she stood up to pin her handsome silk-lined skirt about herhips, and pushed her face veil neatly above the brim of her hat. Thewater in the white enamelled kettle boiled, and Julia made tea in a blueJapanese pot. 

"This is _much_ better!" said Miss Toland again. "I get to be a perfectbarbarian--eating alone!" She rummaged in a closet. "Here's some jamSally sent, " said she, producing it. "They are always sending me piesand fresh eggs and jelly; they are always afraid of my starving todeath. "

They began the meal again, and this time Julia joined her hostess, andreally enjoyed her tea and bread and jam. It was dark now, and they drewthe shades at the two street windows and turned on the electric light. Julia knew by some instinct that she need not be afraid of thegray-haired, eccentric, kindly woman opposite; in that very hour sheassumed a maternal attitude that was to be the key to her relationshipwith Miss Toland for many years. The two, neither realizing it, instantly liked each other. Never in her rather reserved little life hadJulia shown her heart as she showed it in this hour over the teacups. 

"So you like it?" said Miss Toland. "It's small, but it's the mostcomplete thing of the kind in the State. I've been scrambling along hereas best I might for three months, but as soon as I get a resident headworker, we'll get everything straightened out. " She gave her nose asudden rub with her hand, frowned in a worried fashion. 

"Girls--regularly appointed girls ought to take care of all this!" shewent on, indicating the kitchen with a wave of her hand. "But no! Youcan't get them to systematize! Now I tell you, " she added sternly, "I amgoing to lay down the law in this house! They do it in other settlementhouses, and it shall be done here! Every yard of gingham, every thimbleand spool of thread, is going to be _accounted_ for! Do you suppose thatat the Telegraph Hill House they allow the children to run aboutgrabbing here and grabbing there--poh! They'd laugh at you!"

"Of course, " said Julia vaguely. 

"Classes of the smaller girls should keep this kitchen and bathroom likea _pin_, " said Miss Toland sharply. "And, as soon as we get a regularmanager in here--Now that's what I tell my sister Sally, that is Mrs. Toland, " she broke off to say. "Here's Barbara, home from a finishingschool and six months abroad. Why couldn't she step in here? But no!Barbara'll come in now and then if it's a special occasion--"

"But she has such wonderful good times at home; she has everything inthe world now, " Julia said wistfully. Miss Toland gave her a shrewdglance; it was as if she saw Julia for the first time. 

"Barbara?" Barbara's aunt poured herself another cup of tea, and fellinto thought for a few moments. Then she set down her cup, straightenedherself suddenly, and burst forth: "Barbara! That's one of the mostabsurd things in the world, you know--the supposition that a girl likeBarbara is perfectly happy! Perfectly wretched and discontented, if youask me!"

"Oh, no!" Julia protested. 

"Oh, yes! Barbara's idle, she's useless, she doesn't know what to dowith herself. No girl of her age does. I know, for my mother brought meup in the same way. She got a lot of half-baked notions in school; shehad a year of college in which to get a lot more; she came home afraidto go back to college for fear of missing something at home, afraid ofstaying home for fear of missing something at college; compromised onsix months in Europe. Now, here she is, the finished product. We've beenspending twelve years getting Barbara ready for something, and, as aresult, she's ready for nothing! What does she know of the world?Absolutely nothing! She's never for one instant come in contact withanything real--she can't. She's been so educated that she wouldn't knowanything real if she saw it! Mind you, " said Miss Toland, fixing thesomewhat bewildered Julia with a stern eye, "mind you, I admit it's hardfor people of income to bring a girl up sensibly. 'But, ' I've said to mysister-in-law, 'hand me over one of the younger girls--I'll promise youthat she'll grow up something more than a poor little fashionablydressed doll, looking sidewise out of her eyes at every man she meets, to see whether he'll marry her or not!' Of course there's only oneanswer to that. I've never married, and I don't know anything about it!"

"Miss Toland will marry, " Julia submitted. 

"Perhaps she will, " her aunt said. "Perhaps, again, she won't. But atall events, it's a rather flat business, all this rushing about todinners and dances; it'll last a few years perhaps--then what? I tellyou what, my dear, there's only one good thing in this world, and that's_work_--self-expression. It hurts my pride every time I see a nice girlgrowing older year after year, idle, expensive, waiting for some man tomiraculously happen along and take her out of it. I tell you theinteresting lives are those of people who've had to work up from thebottom. A working girl may have her troubles, but they're _real_. Why, let's suppose that Barbara marries, that she marries the man her motherhas picked out, for example, still she doesn't get away from the tiring, the sickening conventions that all her set has laid down for her! I wishI had my own girlhood to live over--I know that!" finished the olderwoman, with a gloomy nod. 

"Miss Toland seems to me to have everything in the world, " Julia said, in childish protest. "She's--she's beautiful, and every one loves her. She's always been rich enough to do what she pleased, and go places, andwear what she liked! And--and"--Julia's eyes watered suddenly--"andshe's a lady, " she added unsteadily. "She's always been told how to dothings, she's--she's different from--from girls who have had no chances, who--"

Her voice thickened, speech became too difficult, and she stopped, looking down at her teacup through a blur of tears. Miss Toland watchedher for a silent moment or two; despite all her oddities, no woman whoever lived had a kinder heart or a keener insight than Anna Toland. Itwas in a very winning tone that she presently said:

"Tell me a little something about yourself, Miss Page!"

"Oh, there's nothing interesting about _me_!" Julia said, ashamed ofshowing emotion. She jumped up, and began to put the kitchen in order. But the recital came, nevertheless, beginning with Chester, and endingwith Julia's earliest memories of the O'Farrell Street house. The girltumbled it out regardless of sequence, and revealing far more than sheknew. Julia told of the episode of Carter Hazzard; she repeated theconversation she had overheard at the club. 

Miss Toland did not once interrupt her; she listened in an appreciativesilence. They washed and put away the dishes, straightened the kitchen, and finally found themselves standing in the reception room, Julia stilltalking. 

". .. . So you see why it sounds so funny to me, your talking about yourniece, " Julia said. "Because she--she seems to me such _miles_ ahead--sheseems to have everything I would like to have!" She paused, and thensaid awkwardly: "I'll never be a lady, I know that. I--I wish I had achance to be!"

And she sat down at the little Mission table, and flung her arms outbefore her, her face tired and wretched, her blue eyes dark with pain. Miss Toland's face, from showing mere indulgent interest, took on asharper look. She was a quick-witted woman, and this chanced to touchher in a sensitive spot. 

"As for a lady, ladies are made and not born, " she said decidedly. "Don't ever let them fool you. Barbara may run around until she's tiredtalking about belonging to the Daughters of Southern Officers; she canstick a sampler up here, and lend a Copley portrait to a loan exhibitionnow and then; but you mark my words, Barbara had to learn things likeany other girl. One sensible mother in this world is worth sixteendistinguished great-grandmothers!"

Julia said nothing; she began to think it was time for her to go. ButMiss Toland was well launched in a favourite argument. 

"Why, look here, " said the older woman, who was enjoying herself, "you're young, you're pretty, you're naturally inclined to choose whatis nice, what is refined. You say you're not a lady--how do you know?You may take my word for it--Julia, your name is?--Julia, then, that ifyou make up your mind to be one, nothing can stop you. Now I've beenthinking while we talked. Why couldn't you come here and try this sortof thing? You could keep things running smoothly here; you could workinto the girls' clubs, perhaps; no harm to try, anyway. Do you sing?"

Julia had to clear her throat before she could say huskily:

"I can play the piano a little. "

"You see--you play. Well, what do you think of it, then?"

"Live here?" stammered Julia. 

"Certainly, live right here. I want some one right _here_ with me. You canarrange your own work, you can read all the books you want, you'll comein contact with nice people. I'm afraid to be here alone at night verymuch, and I've come to the conclusion that we'll never accomplishanything until I can stay, day out and in. Why don't you try it, anyway?Telephone your grandmother--sleep right here to-night!"

Julia struggled for absolute control of her facial muscles. 

"Here?" she asked, a little thickly. 

"Right in here--you can but try it!" Miss Toland urged, throwing openthe door of the immaculate, unused bedroom. Julia looked again at thefresh white bed, the rug, the bureau. Her own--her own domain! Just whatentering it meant to her she never tried to say, but the moment was amemorable one in her life. She presently found herself telephoning amessage to the drug store that was nearest her grandmother's home. Sheselected a flannelette nightgown from a deep drawer marked: "Nightgownsand petticoats--Women's. " She assured Miss Toland that she could buy atoothbrush the next day, and when the older woman asked her how sheliked her bath in the morning, Julia said very staidly: "Warm, thankyou. "

"Warm? Well, so do I, " said Miss Toland's approving voice from the nextroom. "This business of ice-cold baths! Fad. There's a gas heater in thekitchen. "

Julia, laying her underwear neatly over a chair, was struck by theenormity of the task she had undertaken. A great blight of utterdiscouragement swept over her--she never could do it! Her mother--allher kin--seemed to take shadowy shape to menace this little haven shehad found. Chester--suppose he should find her! Suppose Mark should!Sooner or later some one must discover where she was. 

And clothes! These clothes would not do! She had no money; she mustborrow. And how was she to help in sewing classes and cooking classes, knowing only what she knew?

". .. . Said to her as nicely as I could, but firmly, " Miss Toland wassaying, above the rasp of a running faucet in the bathroom, '"Well, mydear Miss Hewitt, you may be a trained worker and I'm not, but you can'texpect your theories to work under conditions--'"

"What a bluffer I am, " thought Julia, getting into bed. She snapped herlight off, but Miss Toland turned it on again when she came to the doorto look at Julia with great satisfaction. 

"Comfortable, my dear?"

"Oh, yes, thank you. "

"Have you forgotten to open your window?"

Julia raised herself on an elbow. 

"Well, I believe I have, " said she. 

Miss Toland flung it up. 

"We're as safe as a church here, " she said, after a moment's study ofthe street. "Sometimes the Italians opposite get noisy, but they'reharmless. Well, I'm going to read--you'll see my light. Sleep tight!"

"Thank you, " said Julia. 

Miss Toland went back to her room, and Julia, wide awake, lay staring ather own room's pure bare walls, the triangle of light that fell in thelittle passageway from Miss Toland's reading lamp, and the lights in thestreet outside. Now and then a passing car sent lights wheeling acrossher ceiling like the flanges of a fan; now and then a couple of menpassing just under her window roused her with their deep voices, or atired child's voice rose up above the patter of footsteps like a bird'spipe in the night. Cats squalled and snarled, and fled up the street; asoprano voice floated out on the night air:

"But the waves still are singing to the shore As they sang in the happydays of yore--"

To these and a thousand less sharply defined noises, to the constant, steady flicking of stiff pages in Miss Toland's room, Julia fell asleep. 

Miss Toland told her family of the arrangement some three months later. She met her sister-in-law and oldest niece downtown for luncheon one dayin November, and when the ladies had ordered their luncheon and piledsuperfluous wraps and parcels upon a fourth chair, Barbara, staringabout the Palm Room, and resting her chin on one slender wrist, askedindifferently:

"And how's The Alexander, Aunt Sanna?"

"Why don't you come and see?" asked her aunt briskly. "You've alldeserted me, and I don't know whether I'm on speaking terms with you ornot! We're getting on splendidly. Nineteen girls in our Tuesday eveningclub; mothers' meetings a great success. I've captured a rare littlepersonality in Julia. "

She enlarged upon the theme: Julia's industry, her simplicity, hernatural sympathy with and comprehension of the class from which thefrequenters of The Alexander were drawn. Mrs. Toland listened smilingly, her bright eyes roving the room constantly. Barbara did not listen atall; she studied the scene about her sombrely, with heavy-lidded eyes. 

Barbara was at an age when exactly those things that a certain smallgroup of her contemporaries did, said, and thought, made all her world. She wished to be with these young people all the time; she wished fornothing else, to-day she was heartsick because there was to be a weekendhouse party to which she was not invited. A personal summons from thegreatest queen of Europe would have meant nothing to Barbara to-day, except for its effect upon the little circle she desired so eagerly toimpress. Parents, sisters, and brothers, nature, science, and art, werebut pale shapes about her. The burning fact was that Elinor Sparrow hadasked the others down for tennis Saturday and to stay overnight, and hadasked her, Barbara, to join them on Sunday for luncheon--

"Tell Aunt Sanna about the wedding, dear!" commanded Mrs. Tolandsuddenly. Barbara smiled with mechanical brightness. 

"Oh, it was lovely! Every one was there. Georgie looked stunning--everso much prettier than Hazel!" she said, rather lifelessly. 

"Tell Aunt Sanna who got the bride's bouquet!"

"Oh, " Barbara again assumed an expression of animation. "Oh, I did. "

"Jim go?"

"Oh, yes, he went with the Russells. That's getting to be quite a case, you know, " Barbara said airily. 

"I _thought_ that was Elinor Sparrow and her mother, " Mrs. Toland said, bowing to two ladies who were now at some distance, and were leaving theroom. "They were at that table, but I couldn't be sure who they wereuntil they got up. "

"Was Elinor right there?" Barbara asked quickly. 

"Why, yes; but as I say--"

Barbara pushed back her broiled bird with a gesture of utterexasperation. 

"I think you might have _said_ something about it, Mother, " she said, angry and disappointed. 

"Why, my darling, " Mrs. Toland began, fluttered, "how could Idream--besides, as I say, I couldn't see--"

"You knew how I felt about Saturday, " Barbara said bitterly, "and youlet them sit there an hour! I could have turned around--I could have--"

"Listen to Mother, dear. You--"

"And I can't understand why you wouldn't naturally mention it, " Barbarainterrupted, in a high, critical voice. Tears trembled into her eyes. "Iwould have given a great deal to have seen Elinor to-day, " she saidstiffly. 

Mrs. Toland, smitten dumb with penitence, could only eye her withsympathy and distress. 

"Listen, dear, " she suggested eagerly, after a moment. "Suppose you runout and see Elinor in the cloakroom? Mother's so sorry she--"

"No, I couldn't do that, " Barbara answered moodily. "It would have beenall right to have it just seem to happen--No, it doesn't make anydifference, Mother. Please--_please_--don't bother about it. "

"I'm sure Elinor didn't see you, " Mrs. Toland continued. Barbara, throwing her a glance of utter weariness, begged politely:

"_Please_ don't bother about it, Mother. _Please_. I'd rather not. "

"Well, " Mrs. Toland conceded, with dissatisfaction. An uncomfortablesilence reigned, until Miss Toland began suddenly to talk of Julia. 

"She's a very unusual girl, " said she. "She's _utterly_ and _entirely_satisfactory to me. "

"I think you're very fortunate, Sanna, " Mrs. Toland commented absently. She speculated a little as to Julia; there really must be somethingunusual about the girl; Sanna was notoriously difficult to live with. 

"She's not stiff--she's amenable to reason, " Miss Toland said, smilingvaguely. "We--we have really good times together. "

"I hope she's improved in appearance, " Mrs. Toland remarked severely. "You remember how dreadfully she looked, Barbara?"

Barbara smiled, half lifted dubious brows, and shrugged slightly. 

"She's _enormously_ improved, " Miss Toland said sharply. "She wears anextremely becoming uniform now. "

"She's evidently got _your_ number, Auntie, " Barbara said, watching threeyoung men who were entering the room. "She evidently knows that you'renutty about appearances!"

"I am not nutty about appearances at all, " her aunt responded, as sheattacked an elaborate ice. "I like things done decently, and I like tosee Julia in her nice, trim dresses. That Eastern woman I tried, MissKnox, wouldn't hear of wearing a uniform--not she! Julia has moresense. "

"I expect that Julia hasn't an idea in her head that you haven't putthere, " Barbara said dryly. 

"Don't you believe it!" her aunt said with fire. She seemed ready forfurther speech, but interrupted herself, and was contented with a mererepetition of her first words, "Don't you _believe_ it. "

"Your geese are all swans, Sanna, " Mrs. Toland said, with a tolerantsmile. 

"Very likely, " Miss Toland said briefly, drinking off her black coffeeat a draught. "Now, " she went on briskly, "where are you good peoplegoing? Julia's to meet me here in the Turkish Room at two; we have topick out a hundred books, to start our library. "

"It's after that now, " Barbara said. "She's probably waiting. Let's goout that way, Mother, and walk over to Sutter?"

They sauntered along the wide passage to the Turkish Room, and justbefore they reached it a young woman came toward them, a slender, erectperson, under whose neatly buttoned long coat showed the crisp hem of ablue linen dress. Julia bowed briefly to the mother and daughter, buther eyes were only for Miss Toland. She was nervous and constrained;bright colour had come into her cheeks; she could not speak. But Barbaramerely thought that the cheap little common actress had miraculouslyimproved in appearance and manner, and noted the blue, blue eyes, andthe glittering sweep of hair under Julia's neat hat, and Miss Tolandfelt herself curiously touched by the appealing look that Julia gaveher. 

"Now for the books, Julia, " said she, beaming approval. The two went offtogether, chattering like friends and equals. 

"What does Aunt Sanna _see_ in her?" marvelled Barbara, watching. 

"Your aunt is peculiar, " Mrs. Toland said, with vague disapproval, compressing her lips. 

"Well, the way she runs The Alexander is curious, to say the least, "Barbara commented vigorously. "I couldn't stay out there one _week_, myself, and have Aunt Sanna carrying on the way she does, planning athing, and forgetting it in two seconds, and yelling at the children oneday, and treating them to ice-cream the next! Why, the last time I wentout there Aunt Sanna was in bed, at eleven o'clock, because she feltlike reading, and she'd called off the housekeeping class for no reasonat all except that she didn't feel like it!"

"Yes, I know, I know, " Mrs. Toland said, picking her way daintily acrossMarket Street. "But she has her own money, and I suppose she'll go herown gait!" But she looked a little uneasy, and was silent for somemoments, busy with her own thoughts. 

Long before this Julia's whereabouts had been discovered by her ownfamily, and by at least one of her friends, Mark Rosenthal. Mark walkedin upon her one Sunday afternoon, when she had been about a month at TheAlexander. Miss Toland had gone for a few hours to Sausalito, and Juliawas alone, and had some leisure. She put on her hat, and she and Markwalked through the noisy Sunday streets; everybody was out in thesunshine, and saloons everywhere were doing a steady business. 

"Evelyn told me where you were, " Mark explained. Julia made a littlegrimace of disapproval, and the man, watching her, winced. 

"Are you so sorry to have me know?" he asked, a sword in his heart. 

"Oh, it's not that, Mark! But"--Julia stammered--"but I only went hometo see grandma Thursday, and it struck me that Evelyn hadn't lost muchtime!"

"Wouldn't you ever have written me?" Mark asked, his dark eyes caressingher. 

"Oh, of course I would. Only I wanted to get a start first. Why do youlaugh?" Julia broke off to ask offendedly. 

"Just because I love you so, darling. Just because I've been hungry foryou all these weeks--and it's just ecstasy to be here!" Mark's eyes weremoist now, though he was still smiling. "You don't know it, but I just_live_ to see you, Julie. I can't think of anything else. This--this newjob isn't going to make any difference about our marrying, is it, darling?"

Julia surveyed a stretch of dirty street lined with dirty yet somewhatpretentious houses. Women sat on drifts of newspapers on the steps, white-stockinged children quarrelled in the hot, dingy dooryards. 

"I wish you didn't care that way, Mark, " she said, uncomfortably. 

"Why, dearest?" he said eagerly. "Because I care more for you than youdo for me? I know that, Julie. " He watched the cool little cheek nearesthim. "But wait until we're married, Julie, you'll love me then; I'll_make_ you!"

But all his young fire could not touch her. He could only win anoccasional troubled glance. 

"I want to stay here a long, long time, you know, Mark--if I can. I wantto read things and study things. I want to be let alone. It'll be _years_before I want to marry!" Julia raised her anxious, harassed eyes to his. "I don't really think of men or of marriage at all, " said she. 

"Well, that's all right, darling, " Mark said, smiling down at her, alittle touched. "I'm going to be sent up to Sacramento for a while; I'llnot worry you. But see here, if I go back to the house with you again, do I get a kiss?"

Julia gave him a grave smile, and let him follow her into the settlementhouse. But Mark did not get his kiss, for Miss Toland was there, and agroup of eager club girls who had something to arrange for a meeting thefollowing night. Mark left the lady of his delight staidly discussingthe relative merits of lemonade and gingersnaps and two pounds of"broken mixed" candy, as evening refreshments, and carried away atroubled heart. He wrote Julia, at least twice a week, shylyaffectionate and honestly egotistical letters, but it was some monthsbefore he saw her again. 

Julia's visit to her grandparents, through which Mark had been able totrace her, had taken place some days before, on a certain Wednesdayafternoon. Suddenly, after the daily three o'clock sewing class had hadits meeting in the big hall, the thought had come to her that she mustsee her own people. It was a still autumn afternoon, a little chilly, and Julia, setting forth, felt small relish for her errand. 

Her grandmother's house presented a dingy, discouraging front. Juliatwisted the familiar old bell, and got the familiar old odours ofcarbolic acid and boiling onions, superimposed upon a basis of thick, heavy, stale air. But the hour she spent in the dirty kitchen wasnevertheless not an unpleasant one. Her grandmother was all alone, andwas too used to similar vagaries on the part of all her family to resentJulia's disappearance and long silence. 

"We had your postal, " she admitted, in answer to her granddaughter'sembarrassed query. "You look thin, me dear; you've not got your oldbold, stylish look about you. "

And she wrinkled her old face and studied Julia with blinking eyes. "Thegirls was glad enough to use your dresses. Marguerite looked real nicein the one she took. Your Mama wrote in to know what kind of a job youhad--Sit down, Julia, " she said as she poked about the stove with a lidlifter. 

Julia, who had drawn a long breath to recount her experiences, suddenlyexpelled it. It occurred to her, with a great relief, that hergrandmother was not interested in details. Her hard life had left her nocuriosity; she was only mildly satisfied at finding her granddaughterapparently prosperous and well; Mrs. Cox was never driven to thenecessity of borrowing trouble. 

Julia learned that her own father and mother were in Los Angeles, whereGeorge was looking for employment. Evelyn had developed a suddenambition to be a dressmaker, Marguerite had a new admirer. Pa, Mrs. Coxsaid, was awful cross and cranky. Julia, with a premonition of trouble, asked for Chester. 

"He's fine; he's the only one Pa'll speak to, " her grandmother said, unexpectedly. 

"Oh, " said Julia eagerly, "he's here?"

"Sure, he come back, " Mrs. Cox assured her indifferently. "He's got goodwork. "

Walking home in the early darkness, Julia could have danced for verylightness of heart. She had dreaded the call, dreaded their jealousy ofher new chance, dreaded the possibility of their wishing to share thejoys of The Alexander with her. She found them entirely uninterested inher problems, and entirely absorbed in themselves. Marguerite remarkedthat she did not see why Julia "let them make" her wear the plain linenuniform of which Julia was secretly so proud. Evelyn was frettingbecause dressmakers' apprentices could depend upon such very poor pay, and vouchsafed Julia a moment's attention only when Julia observed thatthe Tolands patronized a very fashionable dressmaker, and might say agood word to her for Evelyn. This excited Evelyn very much, and shesuggested that perhaps she herself had better see Miss Toland. 

"No--no! I'll do it, " Julia said hastily. 

Mrs. Cox, upon her departure, extended her granddaughter a warminvitation. 

"If they don't treat you good, dearie, you come right back here andGrandma'll take good care of you, " said she, and Evelyn and Marguerite, eying Julia over their cups of tea, nodded half pityingly. They thoughtit a very poor job that did not permit one to come home to this kitchenat night, even less desirable than their own despised employments. Julia's being kept at night only added one more item to the long totalthat made the helplessness of the poor. It was as if Julia, dancing backto The Alexander in the early darkness, hugged to her heart theassurance that these kinswomen were as contentedly independent of her asshe of them. 

These experiences belonged to early days at The Alexander. There wereother experiences, hours of cold discouragement and doubt, hours ofbitter self-distrust. Julia trembled over mistakes, and made a hundredmistakes of which she never knew. But by some miracle, she never chancedto offend her erratic superior. To Miss Toland there was smallsignificance in the fact of an ill-cut pattern or a lost key. At themothers' meetings, when Julia was dismally smitten with a sense of herown uselessness, Miss Toland thought her shy little attempts atfriendliness very charming, and when she casually corrected the faultsof Julia's speech, she gave no further thought to the matter, althoughJulia turned hot and cold at the recollection for many a day to come. 

Julia never made any objection, never hinted by so much as a reproachfuleyelid, that Miss Toland's way of doing things was not that usuallyadopted. Julia would show her delight when a shopping tour and a lunchdowntown were substituted for a sewing lesson; she docilely pushed backher boiling potatoes and beef stew when Miss Toland was for delayingsupper while they went out to buy a waffle iron, and made someexperiments with batter. On three or four mornings each week there wereno classes, and on these mornings the two loitered along over theircoffee and toast, Miss Toland talking, Julia a passionately interestedlistener. Perhaps the older woman would read some passage from Meredithor de Balzac, after which Julia dipped into Meredith for herself, butfound him slow, and plunged back into Dickens and Thackeray. It amusedMiss Toland to watch her read, to have Julia burst out, with flamingcheeks:

"Oh, I _hope_ Charles Darney won't be such a fool as to go to Paris_now_--oh, _does_ he?" or:

"You wouldn't catch _me_ marrying George Osborne--a spoiled, selfish pig, that's what _he_ is!"

So the months went by, and the day came when Julia, standing shylybeside Miss Toland, said smilingly:

"Do you know what day _this_ is, Miss Toland?"

"To-day?" Miss Toland said briskly. "No, I don't. Why?"

"I've been here a year to-day, " Julia said, dimpling. 

"You _have_?" Miss Toland, handling bolts of pink-and-white gingham at along table, straightened up to survey her demure little assistant. "Well, now I'll tell you what we'll do to celebrate, " she said, after athoughtful interval. "I understand that the Sisters over on Lake Merritthave a very _remarkable_ sewing school. Now, we ought to see that, Julia, don't you think so?"

"We might get some ideas, " Julia agreed. 

"Precisely. So you put the card--'No Classes Today'--on the door, andwe'll go. And put your milk bottle out, because we may be late. I hateto do it, but I really think we should know what they're doing overthere. "

"I do, too, " Julia said. This form preceded most of their excursions. Afew moments later they were out in the open air, with the long sunny daybefore them. 

The months sped on their way again, and Julia had been in the settlementtwo years--three years. She was eighteen, and the world did not standstill. She was nineteen--twenty. She changed by slow degrees from thefrightened little rabbit that had fled to Miss Toland for refuge to anobservant, dignified young woman who was quietly sure of herself and herwork. The rumpled ashen glory that had been her hair was transformedinto the soft thick braids that now marked Miss Page's head apart fromthose of the other girls of her day. The round arms were guiltless ofbracelets; Julia wore her severe blue uniform, untouched by anyornament; her stockings and shoes were as plain as money could buy. 

Her beauty, somewhat in eclipse for a time, presently shone out again. But there were few to see it. Miss Watts, the simple, sweet, middle-agedteacher of the kindergarten, admired it wistfully, and Miss Tolandwatched it with secret pride. But the society girls and young matronswho flitted in once or twice a week to teach their classes never saw itat all, or, seeing it, merely told each other that little Miss Pagewould be awfully pretty in decent things, and the women and girls andchildren who formed the classes at The Alexander never saw her at all. The women were too much absorbed in their own affairs, children areproverbially blind to beauty, and the girls who came to the monthlydances, the evening sewing classes and reading clubs, thought theirsober little guardian rather plain, as indeed she was, when judged bytheir standard of dress, their ruffled lace collars and high-heeledshoes, their curls and combs and coloured glass jewellery. 

Julia's amazing detachment from the ordinary ideals of girlhood was anunending surprise to Miss Toland. 

"She has simply and quietly set that astonishing little mind of hersupon making herself a lady, " Miss Toland said now and then to hersister-in-law. Mrs. Toland would answer with only an abstracted smile. If she had any convictions at all in her genial view of life, shecertainly believed a lady to be a thing born, not made. But she was notconcerned about Julia; she hardly realized the girl's existence. 

Miss Toland, however, was keenly concerned about Julia. Julia had cometo be the absorbing interest of her life. It was quite natural thatJulia should love her, yet to the older woman it always seemed amiracle, tremulously dear. That any one so young, so lovely, so ardentas Julia should depend so utterly upon her was to Anna Toland anunceasing delight. Julia had been bewildered and heartsick when sheturned to The Alexander, but she had never in her life known such anaching loneliness as had been Miss Toland's fate for many years. To sucha nature the solitary years in Paris, the solitary return to California, the tentative and unencouraged approaches to her nieces, all made a darkmemory. Rich as she was, independent and popular as she was, MissToland's life had brought her nothing so sweet as this young thing, toteach, to dominate, to correct, and to watch and delight in, too. AsJulia's grammar and manner and appearance rapidly improved, Miss Tolandbegan to exploit her, in a quiet way, and quietly gloried in the girl'salmost stern dignity. When the members of the board of directors werebuzzing about, Julia, with her neatly written report, was a little studyin alert and silent efficiency. 

"She's a cute little thing, " said Mrs. Von Hoffmann, president of TheAlexander Toland Neighbourhood House, after one of these meetings of theboard, "but she never has much to say. "

"No, she's a very silent girl, " Miss Toland agreed, with that littlewarmth at her heart the thought of Julia always brought. 

"You imported her, Sanna?"

"Oh, no. She's a Californian. "

"Really? And what do we pay her?"

"Forty. "

"Forty? And didn't we pay that awful last creature sixty-five?"

"Seventy-five--yes. " Miss Toland smiled wisely. "But she had beenspecially trained, Tillie. "

"Oh, specially trained!" Mrs. Von Hoffmann, flinging a mass of richsables about her throat, began to work on the fingers of her whitegloves. "This girl's worth two of her, " she asserted, "with her nicelittle silent ways and her little uniform!"

"I'll see that she's treated fairly, " Miss Toland promised. 

"Well, do! Don't lose her, whatever you do! I suppose she has beaus?"

"Not Julia! She's entirely above the other sex. No; there's a young Jewin Sacramento who writes her now and then, but that's a mereboy-and-girl memory. "

"Well, let's hope it remains one!" And the great lady, sailing out toher waiting coupe, stopped on the outer steps to speak to Miss Page, whowas tying up some rain-beaten chrysanthemums in the little front garden. 

"How crushed they are! Do you like flowers, Miss Page?"

"Oh, yes, " smiled Julia, looking like a flower herself in the cleartwilight. 

"You must come and see Mr. Von Hoffmann's orchids some day, " Mrs. VonHoffmann volunteered. Julia smiled again, but did not speak. The olderwoman glanced up and down the desolate street, and shuddered. "Dreadfulneighbourhood!" she said with a rueful smile and a shake of the head, and climbing into her carriage, she was gone. Julia looked about her, but found the neighbourhood only interesting and friendly, as usual, andso returned to her flowers. 

When her chrysanthemums were trim and secure once more, perhaps--ifthis were one of the club evenings--she put on her long coat, and thehat with the velvet rose, and went upon a little shopping expedition, abrown twine bag dangling from one of her ungloved arms. The bakery wasalways bright and odorous, and at this hour filled with customers. Theperspiring Swedish proprietress and a blond-haired daughter or two wouldbe handling the warm loaves, the flat, floury pies, and the browncookies as fast as hands could move; the cash register behind thecounter rang and rang, the air was hot, the windows obscured with steam. Men were among the customers, but the Weber girls had no time to flirtnow. They rustled the thin large sheets of paper, snapped the flimsypink string, lifted a designated pie out of the window, or weighed poundcake with serious swiftness. 

From the bakery Julia crossed an indeterminate street upon which shabbyscattered houses backed or faced with utter disregard of harmony, andentered a dark and disorderly grocery, which smelled of beer and broomsand soap and stale cakes. Tired women, wrapped in shawls, their moneyheld tight in bony, bare hands, sat about on cracker boxes and cheesecrates, awaiting their turn to be served. A lamp, with a reflector, gavethe only light. The two clerks, red-faced young men in their shirtsleeves, leaned on the dark counter as they took orders, listening withimpatient good nature to whispered appeals for more credit, grindingcoffee in an immense wheel, and thumping each loaf of bread as theybrought it up from under the counter. 

Julia, out in the street again and enjoying, as she always did enjoy, the sense of being a busy householder, facing the tide of home-goers, would perhaps have an errand in the damp depth of the big milk depot, would get chops or sausages at some small shop, or stop a fruit cart, driving by in the dimness, for apples or oranges. 

Then home to the brightly lighted little kitchen, the tireless littlegas stove. Julia, cheerfully attempting to do ten things at once, wouldlook up to see Miss Toland, comfortably wrappered and corsetless, in thedoorway. 

"Don't forget your window shades, Julie. "

"I know, but I wanted to get this oven started--if these sweets are tobake. "

"Give me something to do!" And the older woman, seated, was pleased tocut bread and fill salt shakers at the request of her busy assistant. "To-night's the older girls, is it?" she would yawn. "Is Miss Piercecoming? Good! Well, tell me if you need me, and I'll dress and comeout. "

"Oh, we're not doing much to-night, " Julia invariably assured her. MissToland never questioned the verdict that freed her for an evening ofrestful reading. Julia it was who lighted the hall and opened the streetdoor, and welcomed the arriving club girls. Sometimes these young womenbrought their sewing--invariably fancywork. Sometimes there was aconcert to rehearse, or they danced with each other, or stood singingabout Julia at the piano while she banged away at the crudeaccompaniments of songs. Miss Pierce or Miss Watts, older women, usuallycame in for a little while to see what was going on, but again it wasJulia alone who must bid the girls good-night and lock and darken thehall. 

Once a month there was a dance for the older girls, to which their"friends, " a word which meant to each girl her foremost male admirer, were asked, and at which cake and ice-cream were served. Julia alwayswore her uniform to these dances, but she also danced, when asked, andnever attempted to deny that she enjoyed herself. But that there was animmense gulf already widening between her and these other girls, one ofwhom she might have been, she soon began to perceive. They were noisy, ignorant, coarse young creatures, like children unable to see beyond thepleasure or the discomfort of the day, unable to help themselves out ofthe sordid rut in which they had been born. Julia watched them soberly, silently, as the years went by. One by one they told her of theirwedding plans, and introduced the boyish, ill-shaven, grinning lads whowere to be husbands and fathers soon. One by one Julia watched thepitifully gay little weddings, in rooms poisonous with foul air andcrowded with noisy kinspeople. One by one she welcomed old members ofthe Girls' Club as new members of the Mothers' Club. The young mother'sfigure would be curiously shapeless now, her girlish beauty swept awayas by a sponge, her nervous pride in the beribboned baby weakened by herown physical weakness and clouded by the fear that already a secondchild's claim was disputing that of the first. And already her youngvoice would borrow some of the hopeless whining tones of the olderwomen's. 

Julia was really happiest in her relationship with the children. Shefrequently peeped into the kindergarten during the morning, and had herdearly loved favourites among the tiny girls and boys, and she couldnever be absent from the sewing class every afternoon when some fortysmall girls scattered themselves about the assembly hall, and chatteredand sang as they worked. Volunteers from among the city's best familieswere usually on hand to inspect the actual sewing--vague, daintilydressed girls who alternately spoiled and neglected their classes, whocame late and left early--but Julia kept order, supplied materials, recited the closing prayer, and played the marches by which the childrenmarched out at five o'clock. Now and then she incited some small girl tosing or recite for the others, and two or three times a year the sewingclasses gave an evening entertainment--extraordinary affairs at thememory of which Julia and Miss Toland used to laugh for weeks. To drillthe little, indifferent, stupid youngsters in songs and dances, tospangle fifty costumes of paper cambric and tissue, to shout emphaticdirections about the excited murmurings of the churning performers, tochalk marks on the stage, and mark piano scores, were all duties thatfell to the two resident workers. Julia sacrificed her immaculatebedroom for a green room, the perspiration would stream from her face asshe whipped off one dirty little frock after another, fastened the fairyregalia over unspeakable undergarments, and loosened sticky braids ofblack or yellow hair into something approaching a fairylike fluffiness. One second to straighten her own tumbled hair at a mirror, another towarn her carefully ranged performers in the passage, and Julia was offto light the hall and open the street door to the clamorous audience. Opening the performance with a crash of chords from the piano, fifteenminutes later, she would turn her face to the stage, that the singersmight see her lips framing the words they were so apt to forget, andmanage to keep a watchful eye upon the noisy group of boys that filledthe back benches and the gaslights that might catch a fairy's spear or awitch's wand. 

"Well, we've had some _awful_ performances in the place, but really Ithink to-night's was _about_ the worst!" Miss Toland might remark, whenthe last dirty little garment had been claimed by its owner, and thelast fairy had reluctantly gone away. 

"Well, the mothers and fathers thought it was fine, " Julia would submit, with a weary grin. 

"When that awful Cunningham child, with her awful, flat, slapping feet, began to dance the Highland Fling, I truly thought I would strangle, trying not to laugh!" Miss Toland, gazing absently over her book, wouldadd reflectively. 

"And the Queen of the Elves in those _dirty_ pink stockings! And poorHazel, bursting into tears as usual!" Julia, collapsed in a chair, dishevelled and rosy, would give a long sigh of relaxation and relief. 

"But we don't do the slightest good this way, " Miss Toland sometimessaid with asperity. "We merely amuse them; it goes no further. Now, nexttime, we will make it an absolute condition that every child has a bathbefore coming, and wears clean clothes!"

"But we made that a condition this time, and it didn't do any good. "

"Very well. Next time"--flushed at the merest hint of opposition, MissToland would speak with annoyance--"next time every child who hasn't hada bath will go straight into that tub, I don't care if the performancedoesn't begin until midnight!"

"Well, " Julia would concede tolerantly. She very speedily learned not todispute these vigorous resolutions. Miss Toland always forgot thembefore morning; she would not have considered them seriously in anycase. 

"We are the laughing-stock of the city, " she would frequently say withbitterness, upon being informed that more thimbles were needed, or thatthe girls hated to sew on the ugly gray ginghams. But sometimes Juliafound her giving out candy and five-cent pieces, without regard for thegirls' merits and achievements, for the mere pleasure of hearing theirthanks. 

Or sometimes, when for any reason the attendance upon the sewing classeswas poor, Miss Toland bought herself a new blank book, dated itfiercely, and proceeded to ransack the neighbourhood for children in ahouse-to-house canvass. Julia and she would take a car into MissionStreet, eat their dinner at the Colonial dining-room, where all sortsof wholesome dairy dishes were consumed by hungry hundreds every night, and where a white-clad man turned batter cakes in the window. 

"They do that everywhere in New York, " said Miss Toland, therebythrilling Julia. "What, d'you like New York?" asked the older woman. 

"I've never seen it!" Julia breathed. 

"Well, some day we'll go on--study methods there. Spring's the time, "said Miss Toland, raising gold-rimmed eyeglasses to study the grimy andspotted menu. "Spring afternoons on the Avenue, or driving in thePark--it's quite wonderful! I see they have chicken pie speciallystarred, thirty-five cents; shall we try that?"

After the meal the canvassing began, Miss Toland doing all the talking, while Julia stared about the small, stuffy interiors, and smiled at thebabies and old women. Miss Toland jotted down in her book all thedetails she gathered in each house, and only stopped in her quest whenthe hour and the darkened houses reminded her that the evening wasflying. 

This might keep up every free evening for two weeks; it would end assuddenly as it began, and Miss Toland enter upon a lazy and luxuriousphase. She would spend whole mornings and even afternoons in bed, reading and dozing, and fresh from a hot bath at four o'clock, wouldsummon her assistant and make a suggestion or two. 

"Julia, suppose we go down to the Palace for tea?"

Julia, standing gravely in the doorway, considered. 

"The girls won't be gone for another hour, Miss Toland!"

"The--Oh, the girls, to be sure. Of course. Who else is there, Julia?"

"Miss Parker and Miss Chetwynde. And Mrs. Forbes Foster was here for alittle while. "

Miss Toland, drawing on silk stockings, would make a grimace. 

"What did you tell them?"

"Sick headache. "

"Oh, yes, quite right! Well, get through out there, and we'll gosomewhere. "

The assistant, about to depart, would hesitate:

"I have nothing to wear but my tailor-made and a white waist, MissToland. "

"And quite good enough! No one will notice us. "

Perhaps truly no one noticed the eagerly talking, middle-aged woman andher pretty and serious little companion, as they sat in a quiet cornerof the big grill-room, eating their dinner, but Julia noticedeverything, and even while she answered Miss Toland politely, her eyeswere moving constantly to and fro. She watched the cellarer, in hisleather apron, the well-dressed, chattering men and women who came andwent; she drank in the warm, perfumed air as if it were the elixir oflife. The music enchanted her, the big room with its lofty ceiling, itsclustered lights and flowers, swam in a glorious blur before her. 

Miss Toland would bow now and then, and tell Julia about the people towhom she bowed. Once they saw Doctor Studdiford laughing and talking ata distant table with a group of young men, and once it was Barbara, lovely in a blue evening gown, who came across the room to speak to heraunt. 

"And hello, Julia!" said Barbara pleasantly, on this occasion, restingher armful of blue brocade and eiderdown upon a chair back. "It'sawfully nice to see you two enjoying yourselves!"

"What are you doing, dear?" her aunt asked. 

"Mrs. Maitland's party--and we're going to the Orpheum. I don't caremuch for vaudeville, though" And idly eying Julia, she added, "Do you, Julia?"

Julia's heart leaped, her mouth felt dry. 

"I like plays, " she stammered, trying to smile, and clearing her throat. 

"Well, so do I. " Barbara shrugged, gathered up her coat again, anddrifted away. Julia heard nothing else that night but the kindly, insolent little voice that seemed to make a friend and equal of her, andwhen she was alone in bed in the dark, she went over and over the littlescene again, and thrilled again at Barbara's graciousness. 

Perhaps six times a year Miss Toland went to Sausalito for a few days, and then, during her first year as a settlement worker, Julia went toher grandmother's house. Evelyn was now working with Ryan, the Tolands'fashionable dressmaker, and doing extremely well. Marguerite was engagedto be married, and as foolishly happy as if her eyes had been fixed uponideal unions since the days of her childhood. Nobody paid very muchattention to Julia except Marguerite's promised husband, who disgustedher by hoarsely assuring her that she was a little peach, and attemptingto kiss her. There were several letters from her mother, from whichJulia learned that her father was well again, but that he had left hermother, who had entered, with a friend, upon the boarding-house businessin Los Angeles. She wrote her mother an affectionate letter, and, aftera few months, stopped going to her grandmother's house. 

Miss Pierce, a delicate, refined, unmarried woman, was a daily teacherin the kindergarten, and grew very fond of the grave, demure, silentMiss Page. Julia felt enormously flattered when Miss Pierce suggestedthat she come home with her during one of Miss Toland's brief absences, and as merry, impulsive, affectionate little Miss Scott followed suit, she usually had the choice of two pleasant places in which to spend herholidays. 

Miss Pierce lived with her old mother in a handsome upper flat onBroadway. Julia liked the quiet, dignified neighbourhood, and thoughtMrs. Pierce a lovely old lady. She chattered with Adachi, the Japaneseboy, tried the piano, whistled at the canary, and sat watching Mrs. Pierce's game of patience with the absorption of a rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed child. Miss Pierce, glancing up now and then from herneedlework, thought it very nice to see pretty Miss Page there and Mammaso well amused, and wished that she had more inducements to offer heryoung guest. But Julia found the atmosphere, the quiet voices and quietlaughter, inducement enough, and quite touched Mrs. Pierce with hergratitude. 

The first visit to Miss Scott's house, however, was a revelation, andthe memory of it stood out in such bold colours as made the decorouspleasures of the visit to Miss Pierce turn pale. Julia was rushed intothe centre of a group of eager, noisy, clever young people, six brothersand sisters who had been motherless from babyhood, and were in mourningnow for their father. The Scotts were bold and outspoken in their griefas in everything else; they showed Julia their father's picture beforeshe had been ten minutes in the house, and Kennedy--Julia's "Miss Scott"of The Alexander--flung open the big desk so violently as to bring twovases and a calendar to the floor, and read Julia various notes andletters that had been sent them at the time of their father's death, until tears stood in more than one pair of lovely black eyes. Dinner wassomehow cooked in a Babel of voices, served in a rush, and afterwardtheir chatter rose above the hissing of dishwater and the clash of hotplates. Julia laughed herself tired at the nonsense, the mad plans, anduntrammelled dreams. Kennedy was to be a writer, 'Lizabeth the presidentof a girls' college, little Mary wanted to live in "Venith. " The boyswere all to be rich; Peter, the oldest, drew his brothers into a long, serious discussion as to the exact proportions of the ideal private car. 

"We'll have the finish mahogany, d'ye see?" said Peter, "and the wallsand curtains of dark green velvet. "

"Dark green velvet!" Kennedy said, from the couch where she was sitting, busy with a torn sleeve lining. "Oh, horrors! Why not red velvet andgold braid!"

"Well, what would _you_ have?" Peter asked belligerently. 

"Oh, grayish blue velvet, " 'Lizabeth suggested rapturously. 

"Very pale, you know, and silvery curtains, " Kennedy agreed, "and onegorgeous bluish-grayish-pinkish rug, like the two-thousand-dollar oneat the White House!"

"Well, " Peter said, satisfied. "And what colour upholstery?"

"Dark blue might be beautiful, " Julia submitted timidly. 

"Dark blue--you're on, Miss Page!"

"Or a sort of blue brocade, " 'Lizabeth said dreamily. 

"And I'll tell you what we'll name the cars, " George, the secondbrother, suddenly contributed; "you know they've got to be named, Pete. We'll call the dining-car, 'Dinah, ' and the sleeper, 'Bertha'; do yousee?"

The others shouted approval, Peter adding with a grin, a moment later:

"And we might call the observation car 'Luke'!"

"Oh, _Peter_!" Kennedy expostulated, laughing. She presently interruptedthe completing details of the private train by general suggestions ofbed. The four girls went upstairs together. 

"Oh, Mary, you've fixed everything, you little angel, you!" saidKennedy, seeing that hats and wraps had been put away, and a couch madeup in a large shabby bedroom. 'Lizabeth, professing that she loved acouch, settled herself upon it with great satisfaction, Julia had asingle bed, and Kennedy and the little Mary shared a somewhat largerone. 

Julia watched the sisters with deep admiration; they were all tired, sheknew, yet vigorous ablutions went on in the cold little bathroom, andclothes were brushed and made ready for to-morrow's need. Their joyoustalk was pitifully practical, Mary raising the dread topic of new shoesfor Stephen, the youngest, and Kennedy somewhat ruefully conceding thatthe shoes must be had, even at the cost of the needed gallon of oliveoil. 

"No salads for a month, and they're so cheap!" she mourned. "And thatyoung terror seems to me to need shoes every week! Don't ever have sons, Miss Page, they're a heart scald wid the bould ways av thim! Stephen hadnine pairs of shoes in eight months--that's true, isn't it, 'Lizabeth?For we were keeping accounts then--while Dad's will was in probate, wehad to. "

"A good thing to have a will to fall back on, " said Julia. 

"Even if we only inherited one hundred and sixteen dollars apiece, "'Lizabeth added. 

"Dad had had losses--it wasn't any one's fault--everything went tosmash, " Kennedy supplemented instantly. "And of course when we foundthat Steve had been braking his coaster with his feet, that helped. Butme--I'm going to have only girls--five darling little gray-eyed girlswith brown hair!"

"I'd like a boy to start off with, " 'Lizabeth said. "He could take hissisters to parties--"

"Yes, but they never do; they take other girls to parties!" thefifteen-year-old Mary said suddenly, and the older girls laughedtogether at her sapience. 

"Peter has a girl, " Kennedy said. "But naturally he won't desert thebunch. Next year, when some bills we simply couldn't help--"

"Doctor and nurse when George and Mary had typhoid, " 'Lizabethexplained. 

"--are paid off, " Kennedy continued. "Then, if he still likes her, hemight. But he never stays in love very long, " she ended hopefully. 

The four girls talked late into the night, and after a picnic the nextday, a Sunday, Julia felt as if she loved them all, and she and Kennedybegan shyly to call each other by their given names. Peter and Georgedid not go on the picnic, having plans of their own for the day, but theothers spent a dreamy day on Baker's Beach, and the two older boys, joining the group at dinner, ended the holiday happily. Julia carriedaway definite impressions to be brooded over in her quiet times. TheScotts were "ladies, " of course. Somehow, although they were very poor, they all worked very hard, and all dressed very shabbily, they were"ladies, " and knew only nice people. The sisters were really strongerand braver than the brothers, and loved their brothers more than theywere loved. Julia wondered why. Also she came a little reluctantly tothe conclusion, as girls at twenty, whether they be Julias or Barbaras, usually do, that if there were a great many nice young men in the world, there were a great many marriageable girls, too. No girl could expect avery wide choice of adorers, there were too many other girls. Andaffairs of the heart, and offers of marriage, occurred much more oftenin books than in life. 

Two or three times a week Miss Toland liked to rise early and go to thebeautiful eight o'clock mass at St. Anne's, the big institution forunfortunate girls that was not far from The Alexander TolandNeighbourhood House. There was no church in the immediate vicinity, andin asking for permission to come to the convent chapel, Miss Toland hadfelt herself doing no extraordinary thing, had felt almost within herrights. 

But the good nuns in charge of St. Anne's had whetted her appetite forthe experience by interposing unexpected objections. Their charges, theyexplained, about two hundred in number, were very impressionable, veryeasily excited. A stranger in the chapel meant a sensation. Of course, the lay workers of the institution and the old people from the Homeacross the way sometimes came in, but they were so soberly dressed. Perhaps if Miss Toland and Miss Page would dress in dark things, andassure Good Mother that they would not speak to the girls--

"Oh, certainly!" Miss Toland had agreed eagerly. Julia, awed by theairy, sombre interior of the great building, the closed doors, thefar-away echoes of footsteps and subdued voices, was a little pale. 

"And this is your little assistant?" said Good Mother, suddenly, turninga smile of angelic brightness upon Julia. "Well, come to mass by allmeans, both of you. And pray for our poor children, dear child; we arealways in need of prayers. "

"You must have extraordinary experiences here, " Miss Toland said. 

"And extraordinary compensations, " said the nun. "Of course, some of ourpoor children are very wild--at first. We do what we can. I had a littlepet of mine here until yesterday, Alice, ten years old; she is--"

"_Ten_!" ejaculated Miss Toland. 

"Oh, yes, my dear! And younger; she was but eight when she came. What Iwas going to say was that her mother took her away yesterday, and SisterPhilip Neri was amused to see how sad I was to have her go. She remindedme that when Alice first came here she had bitten my hand to the bone, so that I could not use it for three weeks. Ah, well!" And Good Mothergave the sweet toneless laugh of the religious. "That is not the worstof it--a clean bite on the hand!"

Miss Toland bought an alarm clock on the way home, and she and Juliawent to early mass on the very next morning. Julia found this firstexperience an ordeal; she and Miss Toland were in a side pew before thebig gong struck, and Julia did not raise her eyes from her book as thegirls filed in. The steady rustle of frocks and shuffle of feet made herfeel cold and sick. 

A day or two later she could watch them, although never without profoundemotion. Two hundred girls, ranging in years from ten to twenty, withroughly clipped hair, and the hideous gray-green checked aprons of theinstitution. Two hundred faces, sullen or vacuous, pretty, silly faces, hard faces, faces tragically hopeless and pale. These young things wereoffenders against the law, shut away here behind iron bars for the goodof the commonwealth. Julia, whose life had made her wise beyond heryears, watched them and pondered. Here was an almost babyish face; whatdid that innocent-looking twelve-year-old think of life, now that shehad thrown her own away? Here was a sickly looking girl a few yearsolder, coughing incessantly and ashen cheeked; why had some woman borneher in deathly anguish, loved her and watched her through the years thatleast need loving and watching? This thing that they had all done--thistreasure they had all thrown away--what did they think about it?

She would come out very soberly into the convent garden, and walk home, through the delicious airs of a spring morning, without speaking, perhaps to break out, over her belated coffee:

"Oh, I think it's horrible--their being shut up there, the poor littlethings!"

"They have sensible work, plenty to eat, and they're safe, " Miss Tolandmight answer severely. "And that's a great deal more than they deserve!"

"Nobody worried about them until it was too late, " Julia suggested once, in great distress. "Lots of them never would have done anything wrong ifthey'd had work and food _then_!"

"Well, the nuns are very kind to them, " Miss Toland answeredcomfortably; and Julia knew this was true, as far as possible. 

One morning, when Julia slipped into her place in St. Anne's, she saw, two feet away from her, on an undraped trestle, a narrow coffin, and inthe coffin the rigid form of a girl who had been prayed for a fewmornings earlier as very ill. There was not a flower on the still, flatyoung breast, and no kindly artifice beautified the stern face or thebare, raw little hands that protruded from the blue-green ginghamsleeves. The ruined little tenement that had served some man's pleasureand been flung aside lay there as little beholden to the world in deathas it had been in life. And as if the usual silence of the chapel wouldbe too hard to bear, the living girls chanted to-day the "Dies Irae" andthe "Libera me. "

When winter came, the little trestle was often in requisition, for theinmates of St. Anne's were ill-fitted to cope with any sickness. Once itwas a nun, in her black robes, who lay there, her magnificent still facewearing its usual deep, wise smile, her tired hands locked about hercrucifix. For her there were flowers, masses of flowers, and more thanone black-robed priest, and a special choir, and Julia knew that theother nuns envied that one of their number who had gone on to other workin other fields. 

She grew grave, who was always grave, thinking of these things, andtalked them over with Kennedy Scott. Kennedy was deeply, evenpassionately, concerned for a while, and she and Julia decided toestablish a home some day for girls who were still to be saved. 

Time went very swiftly now: years were not as long as they used to be, one birthday was in sight of another. Sometimes Julia was astonished anda little saddened, as is the way of youth, at the realization of theflying months. She was busy, contented, beloved; she was accomplishingher ambition--but at what a cost of years! The great moment might comenow at any time--Prince Charming might be on his way to her now, butmeantime she must work and eat and sleep--and the birthdays came apace. Sometimes she grew very restless; this was not life! But a visit to hergrandmother's house usually sent her back to The Alexander with freshcourage. No possible alternative offered itself anywhere. 

Just at first she had hoped for inspiring frequent glimpses of heradored Tolands, but these were very few. Sometimes Barbara or theyounger girls would come to Easter or Christmas entertainments at thesettlement, but Julia, always especially busy on these occasions, saw nomore than Barbara's pretty, bored face, framed in furs, across a roomfull of people, or returned a dignified good-bye to Sally's hasty, "Mother and the others have gone on, Miss Page; they asked me to saygood-bye!" But then there was the prospect of a day with Kennedy Scott, to console her, or perhaps the reflection that little Mr. Craig, whocame out on Tuesday evenings to the meetings of the Boys' Club, was inlove with her. She did not wish to marry Mr. Craig, still it was nice ofhim to admire her; it was nice to have a new hat; it was pleasant tovisit the San Jose convent, with Miss Toland, and be petted by the nuns. So Julia cheated herself, as youth forever cheats itself, with thelesser joys. 

She went home for three or four days at the time of her father's death, and afterward deliberately decided not to accompany her mother on a tripsouth. Emeline had nine thousand dollars of life insurance, and thoughtof buying a half interest in a boarding-house in Los Angeles. 

"All the theatrical trade goes there, " said Emeline, "and you could geta berth as easy as not!"

"Yes, I know, " Julia said, gently, concealing an inward shudder. Shewent quietly back to The Alexander, when the funeral was over, to hermother's disgust. Emeline did not go south, but lingered on at home, drinking tea and gossiping with her mother, quarrelling with her oldfather, and gradually eating into her bank account. She called upon herdaughter, to Julia's secret embarrassment, though the girl introducedthis overdressed, sallow, hard-eyed mother with what dignity she couldmuster to Miss Pierce, Miss Scott, and Miss Toland. Emeline laughed andtalked with an air of ease, was forced into silence when Julia said theclosing prayer, and burst out laughing at its close. 

"That does sound so funny, dolling! But I mustn't laugh, " said Emeline. "I'm sure you do wonders for these girls, and they need it, " she addedgraciously to Miss Toland. She followed Julia into the little kitchen. 

"Don't she help you cook?" she asked in a low tone, indicating MissToland with a jerk of her much-puffed head. 

"Sometimes she does, " Julia answered, annoyed. 

"H'm!" Emeline said. And she asked curiously a moment later, "Why you doit is what gets me! Here's Marguerite going to get married, and Ev hasan elegant job, and I want you to go south with me; you'd have a _grand_time!"

She stopped on a complaining note, her eyes honestly puzzled. Juliaclosed the oven door upon some potatoes, and stood up. 

"I'm perfectly satisfied, Mama, " said she briefly. "I'm doing what Iwant to do. "

"Lord!" Emeline ejaculated, discontentedly, vaguely baffled by thegirl's definiteness and dignity. She left soon after, Julia dutifullywalking with her to her car. Miss Toland said nothing of the visitorwhen Julia came back, but she knew the girl was troubled, and lay awakea long time herself that night, conscious that Julia, in the next room, was restless and wakeful. 

Besides a certain troubled consciousness of her failure to please herown people, Julia had in these years a more definite source of worry. Mark Rosenthal was still her patient adorer, and if, like Julia, heallowed the flying months to steal a march upon him, and drifted alongin the comfortable conviction that "a little while" would bring a changein Julia's feeling, still he was none the less a watchful and ardentlover, with whom she sometimes found it very difficult to deal. 

Mark, always tall, was broad as well now, an imposing big fellow, prosperous, shrewd, and self-confident. He had handsome dark eyes, andshowed white teeth when he laughed; he dressed well, but notconspicuously; his shoes might be well worn, but they were alwaysbright; and if his suit were shabby, still he was never without gloves. He liked to talk business; he had long ago given up his music anddevoted himself with marvellous success to his work. He was no longerwith the piano house, but had an excellent position as adjuster ofdamages, out of court, for one of the street railway companies. Thehistory of his various promotions and his favour with his employers wasabsorbing to him; but the time came, when Julia was about twenty-two, when his determination to win her became a serious menace to her peace. 

His manner, which had once been boyish and uncertain, was in these daysgood-humouredly proprietary. He laughed at little Julia's earnestexplanations, and would answer her most eager appeal only with a lover'sfond comment upon her eyes. 

"Yes, darling, I wasn't listening--forgive me!" he said one day, when, with a spark of real anger, Julia had begged him to make his calls atthe settlement house a little less frequent and less conspicuous. "Whatwas it?" And with twinkling eyes he caught up the hand that lay near himon the table and kissed it. 

"I want you not to do that, Mark, " said Julia gravely, moving a littlefarther away, "and please don't call me darling!"

"All right, darling!" smiled Mark. 

"I'm not joking, " Julia said resentfully, two red spots in her cheeks. 

Mark moved to lay his hand over hers penitently, and said, in the low, gentle voice Julia dreaded:

"Do you know what's the matter with you, Julie? I'll tell you. You loveme and you won't admit it. Girls never will. But that's what makes youso unhappy--you won't let yourself go. Ah, Julia! be fair to yourself, darling! Tell me that you care for me. I've waited seven years for you, dear--"

"Oh, you have not!" Julia said impatiently. 

"I'd like to know why I haven't!" Mark said challengingly. "Ah, but youknow I have, darling. And I want my wife. " It was a Saturday afternoon, and Miss Toland was dozing in her own room. Julia and Mark were alone inthe deserted assembly hall. Suddenly he slipped on his knees beside her, and locked one arm about her waist. "You will, won't you, Julia?" hestammered. 

Julia, scarlet cheeked, tried to rise, and held him off with her hands. 

"Oh, please, _please_, " she begged. "I can't, Mark. You are awfully goodto me--I'm not worth it, and all that--but I _can't_. I--it's not my faultI don't want to, is it? It would be wrong to do it, feeling this way--"

She was on her feet now, and Mark stood up, too. Both were breathinghard; they looked at each other through a widening silence. Flies buzzedagainst the closed windows, a gust of summer wind swept along the streetoutside. Suddenly Mark caught Julia fiercely in his arms, and felt herheart beating madly against him, and forcing up her chin with a gentlebig hand, kissed her again and again upon her unresponsive lips. 

"There!" he said, freeing her, a laugh of triumph in his voice. "Now youbelong to me! That's the kind of a man that's in love with you, my girl, and don't you think for one instant that you can play fast and loosewith him!"

Julia sat still for a long time after the street door banged, staringstraight ahead of her. She was going for this week-end to the littlehouse the Scotts had been loaned in Belvedere for the season, and shedressed and packed her suitcase very soberly. Miss Toland went with herto the ferry, both glad to get the fresh breath of the water, and Juliahad a riotous dinner with the Scotts, and a wonderful evening driftingabout in their punt between the stars in the low summer sky and thestars in the bay. When they were in their porch beds she told Kennedyall about Mark, and Kennedy commented that he certainly was agratifyingly ardent admirer. 

"Ardent? I should think so!" sighed Julia, and went to sleep, notill-pleased with her role of the inaccessible lady. But the fact thatMark's persistence could not be discouraged fretted her a good deal. Herarely gave her a chance for a definite snub; if she was ungracious, hishumble patience waited tirelessly upon her mood; and if she smiled, heshowed such wistful delight that even Julia's cool little heart wasstirred. That he never stirred her in any deeper way, that his kissesdid not warm her, was not a serious trouble to Mark. She would be allthe sweeter to win; he would wake her in his arms to the knowledge thatshe loved him! And Julia won, as his little wife, would be dearer eventhan the demure and inaccessible Julia of to-day. Mark fed his hungryheart on love tales; many a man had won a harder fight than his; thesecold, shy girls made the best wives in the world!

Julia began seriously to consider the marriage. She visioned a safe andpleasant life, if no very thrilling one. Mark was handsome, devoted, hewas making money, he would be faithful to his wife and adore hischildren. Julia would have no social position, of course. She sighed. She would be a comfortable little complacent wife among a thousandothers. She would have her silk gowns, her cut glass; she could affordan outing at Pacific Grove with the children; some day she and Markwould go to New York--

No, not she and Mark! She couldn't; she didn't love him enough to sitopposite him all the mornings of her life, to sell her glowing dreamsfor him! She had come so far from the days that united her childhoodwith all the Rosenthals--she had not seen Mrs. Tarbury, nor Rose, norConnie for years. She was climbing, climbing, away from all those oldassociations. And she could climb faster alone!

CHAPTER VII

One warm morning in August, when Miss Toland was stretched out on thereception-room couch, and Julia, who had washed her hair, was shakingit, a flying, fluffy mop, over the sill of the bathroom window, a suddenhubbub broke out in the kindergarten. Miss Toland flung down her bookand Julia gathered her loose wrapper about her, and both ran to the doorof the assembly hall. The children, crying and frightened, were gatheredin a group, and in the centre of it Julia, from the elevation of thestage, could see Miss Pierce half-kneeling and leaning over as if shetried to raise something from the floor. While they watched she arose, holding the limp body of a five-year-old child in her arms. 

"What is it--what is it?" screamed Miss Toland, but as every one elsewas screaming and crying, and Julia's automatic, "Is she dead?" wasanswered over and over again only by Miss Pierce's breathless, "No--no--no--I don't think so!" it was some time before any clear ideaof the tragedy could be had. The small girl was carried in to Julia'sbed, where she lay half-conscious, moaning; great bubbles of bloodformed from an ugly skin wound in her lip, and her little frock wasstained with blood. As an attempt to remove her clothes only roused herto piercing screams, Julia and Miss Pierce gave up the attempt, and fellto bathing the child's forehead, which, with the baby curls pushed awayfrom it, gave a ghastly look to the little face. 

"Well, you've killed her, Miss Pierce!" said Miss Toland, beside herselfwith nervousness. "That's a dying child, if I ever saw one. That ruins_this_ Settlement House! That ends it! Poor little thing!"

"I was at the board, " said Miss Pierce, white-lipped, and in a low tone. 

"I don't care where you were, " said Miss Toland. "There, there, darling!I pay you to watch these children! It's a fine thing if a child is goingto be killed right here in the house! Where was Miss Watts?" she brokeoff to ask. 

"Miss Watts is at home, sick, " Miss Pierce said eagerly. "And I was atthe board, when some of those bigger boys set a bench up on top ofanother bench. I heard the noise and turned around; this child--poorlittle Maude Daley, it is--was standing right there, and got the fullweight of both benches as they fell. "

"This boy is back, " said Julia, coming from the front door, "and he saysthat Doctor White is out and Doctor McGuire is out, too!"

"Great heavens!" Miss Toland began despairingly. "No doctor! of course, eleven o'clock they're all out on morning rounds! And the child'smother, where is she? Am I the only person here who can do somethingexcept sit around and say 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry!'"

"She has no mother, and her grandmother's out, " Julia said soothingly. "Miss Toland, if I telephone do you think I can catch Doctor Studdifordat the City and County?"

"A two hours' trip from Sausalito!" Miss Toland said scornfully. "Youmust be crazy, that's all! No! Go into Mission Street--"

"I don't mean in Sausalito, " Julia said firmly; "he's at the City andCounty on Wednesday mornings, you know. I could get him there. "

Miss Toland stared at her unblinkingly for a second. 

"Yes, do that!" she said then. "Yes, that's a good idea!" And as Juliaran to the telephone she called after her, "Yes, that's a very goodidea!"

Julia's heart thumped as she called the big institution, thumped whenafter a long wait a crisp voice, out of utter silence, said:

"Yes? This is Doctor Studdiford!"

She explained as concisely as she could, feeling that he listenedattentively. 

"Keep the child flat, no pillow, " he said, as Julia concluded. "Tell myaunt I'll be there in fifteen minutes. "

Julia, thrilled by she knew not what, knotted her flying hair loosely onher neck and buttoned on a fresh uniform. Ten minutes later she admittedDoctor Studdiford to the sickroom. 

He had laid aside his hat and washed his hands. Now he sat down by thebed and smiled at the dazed, moaning little Maude. Julia felt somethingexpand in her heart as she watched him, his intense, intelligent face, his singularly winning smile, the loose lock of dark hair on hisforehead. 

"Now, then, Maude, " said he, his clever, supple fingers on her wrist, "where does it hurt?"

Maude whimpered something made unintelligible by the fast-stiffeningcut in her lip. 

"Her back's broken, Jim, no doubt about it, " said Miss Toland grimly. 

"I think her side hurts, " Miss Pierce submitted eagerly. 

"Well, we'll see--we'll see!" Doctor Studdiford said soothingly. "Now, if you'll help me, Miss Page, we'll get off these clothes--ah!" For ananguished moan from the sufferer coincided with his discovery that thelittle left arm hung limp. Julia loosened the sleeve as the surgeon'sscissors clipped it away, and she held the child while the arm was setand bandaged. Miss Pierce was faint, and Miss Toland admitted freelythat she hated to see a child suffer, and went away. "Only a cleandislocation, Aunt Sanna!" said Jim, cheerfully, when he came out of thesickroom. "She'll have to lie still for a while, but that's all. The cuton her mouth doesn't amount to anything. She's all right, now--Miss Pageis telling her stories. She ought to have a glass of milk, or soup, orsomething; then she'll go to sleep. I'll be in to-morrow. By the way, you have a little treasure there in Miss Page!"

"Julia? Glad you have the sense to see it, Jim!"

"She--is--a--peach!" the doctor mused, packing his very smart littleinstrument case. "Who is she?"

"A little girl I found. Yes, she's a nice child, Julia. She's been heresix years now. "

"Six years! Great Scott! How old is she?"

"Twenty-two--twenty-three--something like that. "

"It doesn't sound much of a life for a young girl, Aunt Sanna. Imaginethe Barbary-flower!" Doctor Studdiford shook his thermometer, looked atit, and screwed it into its case. 

"How _is_ Barbara?" Miss Toland asked dryly. 

"Fine! Mother came to me with a long tale, the other day, about herbeing run down, or blue, or something, but I don't see it. She has adandy time. "

"Why doesn't she marry? Barbara must be twenty-six, " her aunt said, withdirectness. 

"Oh, I don't know; why don't all the girls? The fellows they run withare an awfully bum lot, " Jim said contentedly. "Look at me! Why don'tI?" he added, laughing. 

"Well, why don't you?"

"I'm waiting to settle the others off, I guess. Besides, you know, I'vebeen working like the devil! Sally's been worrying Mother with heraffairs lately, " said Jim. 

"_Sally_--and who?"

"Keith Borroughs!" Jim announced, grinning. 

"Keith Borroughs? Why, he's ten years younger!"

"He's about three years younger, and he's an awful fool, " said Jim, "buthe's very much in love with Sally, and she certainly seems to like it!"

"I think that's disgusting!" said Miss Toland. "Has he a _job_?"

"Job? He's a genius, my dear aunt. His father pays for his musiclessons, and his mother gives him an allowance. He's a pianist. "

"H'm!" commented the lady briefly. 

"Ned has definitely announced his intention of marrying his Goldfieldgirl, " pursued Jim. 

"Yes, I knew that. Kill your mother!"

"It'll just about kill her. And the latest is Ted--falling in love withBob Carleton!"

"Carleton! Not the lumber man? But he's fifty!"

"He's forty-five, forty-seven perhaps. "

"But he's married, Jim!"

"Divorced, Aunt Sanna. "

"Oh, Jim, that's awful!" said his aunt, horrified. 

"Well, it may come to nothing. Ted's only twenty--I hope devoutly itwill. There--that's all the news!" Jim jumped up from his chair, andgave his aunt a kiss. "Why don't you come over and get it for yourself, now and then! I don't know how much there is in any of this stuff, because I use my rooms at the club a good deal, but it's all in thewind. That little Julia Page is a peach, isn't she?"

"You said that once, " Miss Toland said dispassionately. Jim grinned, unabashed. He had been in love with one girl or another since hisfourteenth year, and liked nothing so much as having his affairs of theheart discussed. 

"Well, it's true, and I'll say it again for luck!" said he. "Who is she?I suppose Pius Aloysius Maloney, or some good soul who comes to teachthe kids boxing, has got it all framed up with her?"

"I don't know any Mr. Maloney, " Miss Toland answered imperturbably. "Mr. Craig is director of the Boys' Club, and I know he admires her, and shehas another admirer, too, who comes here now and then. But how likelyshe is to marry I really can't say! She's an extremely ambitious girl, and she has determined to raise herself. "

"Raise herself!" Jim said, with a casual laugh. "I don't suppose shestarted much lower than other people?"

"Oh, I imagine she did. Her father was a--I don't know--a sort ofdrummer, I guess, but her mother is an awful person, and her grandfatherwas a day labourer!"

"Ha!" Jim said, discomfited. "Well, see you tomorrow!" he added, departing. He walked briskly to the corner of the street, andexperienced a thump at the heart when a casual backward glancediscovered Julia, in a most fetching hat, coming out of the settlementhouse with a market basket on her arm. She did not see him, and Jimdecided not to see her. Of course she _was_ a little peach, but thatlabourer grandfather was too much. 

That same evening Julia used the accident to little Maude as an excuseto break a half engagement with Mark. He was to be given only a fewmoments' chat before the Girls' Club met for a rehearsal, but he showedsuch bitter disappointment at losing it that Julia, half against herwill, promised to spend at least part of her Sunday afternoon with him. 

This was on Wednesday, and on Thursday and Saturday Doctor Studdifordcame to see his little patient, and both times saw Julia, too. He askedJulia what books she liked, and, surprised that she knew nothing ofBrowning, he sent her a great volume of his poetry, a leather-boundexquisite edition that Jim had taken some trouble to find. With the bookcame a box of violets, and Julia, opening the package, suddenlyremembered that he was a rich man, and stood, flushed and palpitating toa thousand emotions, looking down at the damp, fragrant flowers. 

She wore a few violets at the breast of her sober little gown when shemet Mark on Sunday for the promised walk. Julia had been most reluctantto go, but Maude had been moved to her own home, and the child's fatherwas sitting with her, so that Julia had no excuse to visit her. 

"I want to show you something--something you'll like!" said Markeagerly. "We take the Sixteenth Street car and transfer downSacramento. "

Julia accepted his guidance good-naturedly, and they crossed the city, which lay in a clear wash of the warm September sunlight. Mark led Juliafinally to the ornate door of a new apartment house in SacramentoStreet. 

"What is it, Mark?" the girl asked, as they went in. "Some one we knowlive here?"

"You wait!" Mark said mysteriously. He went to a desk in the handsomeentrance hall, and talked for a few moments to a clerk who sat there. Then a quiet-looking, middle-aged woman came out, and Mark and Juliawent upstairs with her, in a little elevator. 

The woman turned a key in a door, and led them into a charmingly brightfront apartment of four good-sized rooms and a shining bathroom. Therewas a bedroom with curly-maple furniture, a dining-room with a hanginglamp of art glass on a brass chain, and Mission oak table and chairs, akitchen delightfully convenient and completely equipped, and a littledrawing-room, with a gas log, a bookshelf, a good rug, a little desk, and some rocking chairs and small tables. The sun shone in through freshnet curtains, and the high windows commanded a bright view of city roofsand a glimpse of the bay. 

Julia began to feel nervous and uncomfortable. She did not understand atall what Mark meant by this, but it was impossible to doubt, from hisbeaming face, that some plan involving her was afoot. He couldn't havefurnished this apartment in the hope--?

"Whose place _is_ this, Mark?" she asked, trying to laugh naturally. 

"Do you like it?" Mark countered, his eyes dancing. 

"Like it? It's simply sweet, of course! But whose is it?"

"Well, now listen, " Mark explained. "It's Joe Kirk's furniture; he'sjust been married, you know. He and his wife had just got back fromtheir honeymoon when Joe got an offer of a fine job in New York. Heasked me to see if I couldn't find a tenant for this--two years' leaseto run--just as it stands; no raise in rent. And the rent's fifty-five?"he called to the woman in the next room. 

"Fifty, Mr. Rosenthal, " she answered impassively. 

"Fifty!" Mark exulted. "Think of getting all this for fifty! Ah, Julia"--he came close to her as she stood staring down from the window, and lowered his voice--"will you, darling? Will you? You like it, don'tyou? Will you marry me, dearest, and make a little home here with me?""Oh, Mark!" Julia stammered, a nervous smile twitching her lips. 

"Well, why won't you, Ju? Do you doubt that I love you? Answer me that!"

"Why, no--no, I don't, of course. " Julia moved a little away. 

"Don't go over there; she'll hear us! And you love me, don't you, Ju?"

"But not that way I don't, Mark, " Julia said childishly. 

"Oh, 'not that way'--that's all rubbish--that's the way girls talk;that's just an expression they have! Listen! Do you doubt that I'llalways, _always_ love you?"

"Oh, no, Mark, of course not!" Julia admitted. "But I don't want tomarry any one--"

"Well, what do you want? Haven't I loved you since you were a littlegirl?"

"Yes, I know--of course you have! Only"--Julia gave him a desperatesmile--"only I can't discuss such things here, " she pleaded, "with thatwoman so near!"

"You're right!" Mark said, with military promptness, and as one wholoves to receive his lady's orders. "We'll go out. Only--I wanted you tosee it!"

And as they went out he must stop to show her the admirably deep drawersof the little sideboard and the ingenious arrangement by which the gaswas electrically lighted. 

They thanked the woman, and began the long ride back to the settlementhouse, for Julia never left Miss Toland long alone. In the SacramentoStreet car they both had to stand, but Mark found seats withoutdifficulty on the dummy of the Fillmore Street car, and laying his armalong the back of Julia's seat, swung about so that his face was veryclose to hers. A world of wistful tenderness filled his voice as he saidagain:

"Well, darling, what do you think of it?"

Poor Mark! Perhaps if he had asked her only a week earlier, his ladymight have given him a kinder answer. But Julia was walking in a goldendream to-day, a dream peopled only by herself and one other, and shehardly noticed his emotion. She fixed her blue eyes vaguely on the blackeyes so near, and smiled a little. 

"Oh, answer me, Julia!" Mark said impatiently. And a second later heasked alertly: "Where'd you get the violets?"

"Oh--somebody, " Julia temporized. Pink flooded her cheeks. 

"Who?" said Mark, very calm. 

"Oh, Mark, what a tone! Nobody you know!" Julia laughed. 

"Is he in love with you?" Mark asked fiercely. 

"Oh, don't be so silly! No, of course he's not. "

"Tell me who he is!" Mark commanded grimly. 

"Now, look here, Mark, " Julia said sternly, "you stop that nonsense, oryou can get straight off this car, and I'll go home alone! And don't yousulk, either, for it's too ridiculous, and I won't have it!"

Mark succumbed instantly. 

"It's because I love you so, " he said humbly. There was a littlesilence, then Julia, watching the Sunday streets, said suddenly:

"Look, Mark, look at the _size_ of that hat!"

Mark, disdaining to turn his eyes for the fraction of a moment from herface, said reproachfully:

"Are you going to answer me, Julia?"

"How do you mean?" Julia said nervously. 

"You know what I mean, " Mark answered, with an impatient nod. 

"No, I don't, " Julia said, with a little laugh. 

"Now, you look-a-here, Julia--you look-a-here, " Mark began, almostangrily. "I am going to ask you to marry me! You've fooled about it, andyou've laughed about it, and I've got a right to _know_! I think about itall the time; I lie awake at night and think about it. I"--his voicesoftened suddenly--"I love you awfully, Julia, " he said. And then, witha sort of concentrated passion that rather frightened the girl, headded, "So I'm going to ask you once more. I want you to answer me, d'yesee?"

The car sped on, clanged across Market Street, turned into the Mission. Julia had grown a little pale. She gave Mark a fleeting glance, lookedaway, and finally brought her eyes back to him again. 

"I wish you wouldn't take things so _seriously_, Mark, " she beganuneasily. "You're always forcing me to say things--and I don't wantto--I don't want to get married _at all_--"

"Nonsense!" said Mark harshly. 

"It's not nonsense!" Julia protested, glad to feel her anger rising. Mark saw her heightened colour, and misread it. 

"Yes, " he said sneeringly. "That's all very well, but I'll bet you'dfeel pretty badly if I never came near you again--if I let the wholething drop!"

"Oh, Mark, " said Julia fervently, "if you only _would_--I don't meanthat!" she interrupted herself, compunction seizing her at the look ofmortal hurt on his face. "But I mean--if you only didn't love me! Yousee, I'm perfectly happy, Mark, I've got what I want. And if Miss Tolandtakes me abroad with her next year, why, it'll mean more to me than _any_marriage could, don't you see that? You know what my childhood was, Mark; my mother didn't love my father--" And as a sudden memory of theold life rose to confront her, Julia's tone became firm; she felt acertain sureness. "Married people ought to love each other, Mark, " shesaid positively. "I _know_ that. And I won't--I _never_ will marry a man Idon't love. If everything goes wrong, after that, you have only yourselfto blame. And so many times it goes wrong, Mark! I should be unhappy, Ishould keep wondering if I wouldn't be happier going my own way--wonderingif I wouldn't have--have gotten farther--do you understand me?"

This was a long speech for Julia, and during it Mark had twisted about, and pulled his hat over his face. Now, in a voice curiously dead andhard, he asked briefly:

"Gotten farther--_where_?"

"I don't know, " said Julia candidly. "But the more I read, and the moreI think, the more it seems to me that anyone can be anything in thisworld; there's some queer rule that makes you rise if you want to rise, if only you don't compromise! The reason so many people _don't_ ultimatelyget what they want is because they stop trying for it, and takesomething else!"

"And marriage with me would be a compromise, is that it?" Mark mutteredsullenly. 

"It would be for me, " Julia answered serenely. "Because staying where Iam keeps me nearer what I want. "

"Money, huh?" asked Mark. 

"Oh, money, _no_! Books and talk--things. And--and if I loved you, Mark, then don't you see it _would_ be the right thing to marry you?" she addedbrightly. "But now, it would only be because it was easier, or because Iwas tired of The Alexander, do you see?"

"I suppose so, " Mark answered drearily. 

A long silence ensued. In silence they got off the car, and walkedthrough the cheerless twilight of the dirty streets, and they werealmost in sight of the settlement house before Mark burst out, a littlehuskily:

"Then there's no chance for me at all, Julie?"

"Oh, Mark, I feel rotten about it!" said Julia frankly, her eyes full ofpity and regret, and yet a curious relief evident in her voice. "I _am_ sosorry! I've just been thinking of girls who like this sort of thing--Idon't see how they _can_! I _am_ so sorry! But you won't mind very long, Mark; you won't always care; you'll--why, there's Doctor Studdiford'sautomobile!"

For they were in sight of The Alexander now, and could see the electricrunabout at the door. Motor cars were still new to San Francisco and tothe world, and a crowd of curious children surrounded the machine. 

"What's he there for?" Mark asked gruffly. 

Julia explained: the accident--the emergency call. 

"Well, but the kid is not there now, you say?"

"Yes, I know. But he didn't know that. I suppose he's calling on hisaunt. "

To this Mark made no immediate answer. Presently he said:

"City and County! I'll bet the city pays for his automobile!"

"Oh, no!" Julia protested. "He's a rich man in his own right, Mark. "

They were at the house now, and went up the steps together. DoctorStuddiford was in the little reception hall with Miss Toland. He lookedvery handsome, very cheerful, as he came forward with his fine eyes onJulia. And Julia stood looking up at him with an expression Mark neverhad won from her, her serious, beautiful little face flooded with light, her round eyes soft and luminous. A woman at last, she seemed as shestood there, a grave and wise and beautiful woman, ripe for her share ofloving and living, ready to find her mate. 

"You got the book?" Jim said, with a little laugh. He laughed becausehis heart was shaking curiously, and because the sudden sight of Juliadisconcerted him so that he hardly knew what he said. 

Julia did not answer; she only touched the wilting and fragrant violetson her breast with her free hand. Jim still held one hand. 

"You--you'll like Browning, " added Jim. And inconsequentially he added, "I was thinking of our little talk yesterday--all night. "

"So was I, " Julia breathed. They turned suddenly and self-consciouslyto Miss Toland and Mark. Julia introduced the men; her breath was comingunevenly and her colour was exquisite; she talked nervously, and did notmeet Mark's eye. Mark was offered a lift in Doctor Studdiford's motorcar, and declined it. The doctor seemed to be in no hurry to go;wandered into her room to advise his aunt upon the placing of atelephone extension. Julia and Mark loitered about the assembly hall fora few empty moments, and then Mark said he must go, and Julia, absentlyconsenting, went with him toward the stage door. 

"And he's rich, is he?" said Mark. 

Julia came out of a brief dream. 

"He's very rich--yes!" she smiled. 

She mounted to the stage as she spoke, and Mark held out his hand andturned about as if to say goodbye. The next instant Julia felt as if thedull twilight room had turned to brass and was falling with a wildclamour; she felt as if her heart were being dragged bodily to her lips, and she heard her own wild scream. 

Silence fell, and Mark was still staring at her, still smiling. But nowhe toppled slowly toward her and stumbled, and as his body, with ahideous, slithering sound, slipped down to the floor, his arm fell lax, and the still smoking revolver slid to Julia's very feet. 

"_Stop_, Julia--what is it?--what is it?" Miss Toland was crying. Shelocked her arms tight about the girl, and drew her back into thereception hall. Julia was silent, suddenly realizing that she had beenscreaming. She moved her tongue over her dry lips, and struggled toexplain. 

"Now we understand perfectly!" Doctor Studdiford said soothingly. "Heshot himself, poor fellow. I'm going to take care of him, do you see?Just keep _still_, Aunt Sanna, or we'll have a crowd here. Aunt Sanna, doyou want this to get into the papers?" For Miss Toland's surmises weredelivered at a sort of shriek. 

"Oo--oo--oo!" shuddered Julia, fearful eyes on the assembly room door. "He was--we were just talking--"

"Is he dead, Jim?" asked Miss Toland fearfully. 

"I think so. I'm going to call the hospital for an ambulance, anyway. "Doctor Studdiford was all brisk authority. 

"But what ever possessed him?" shrilled Miss Toland again. "Of all_things_!"

"Had you quarrelled?" asked Jim, keen eyes on Julia as he rattled thetelephone hook. 

"No, " Julia said shortly, like a child who holds something back. Thenher face wrinkled, and she began to cry. "He wanted to marry me, " shesaid piteously. "He wanted me to promise! But he always has askedme--ever since I was fifteen years old, and I always said no!"

"Well, now, " Jim said soothingly. "Don't cry. You couldn't help it. Doyou know why he carried a revolver?"

"He has to carry it, his business isn't a very safe one, " Julia saidshakily. "He's shown it to me once or twice!" Her voice dropped on atrembling note, and her eyes were wild with fright. 

"Now, Aunt Sanna, " said Jim quietly, after telephoning, "I think thatyou and Miss Page ought to get out of here. You'll have a raft ofreporters and busybodies here to-morrow. It's a ghastly thing, ofcourse, and the quieter we keep it the better for every one. I'll managemy end of it. I'll have as conservative an account as I can in thepapers--simply that he was despondent over a love affair and, in a fitof temporary aberration--and so on. Could you close this place up for aweek?"

"Certainly!" said Miss Toland, with Spartan promptness, beginning toenjoy the desperate demand of the hour. 

"And could you take that poor child somewhere, out of the public eye?"

"I will indeed, Jim!"

"Well, that's the best way to do. You're a trump, Aunt Sanna! I will saythat Miss Page is naturally prostrated, and gone away to friends. "

"Jim, has that poor boy a chance?"

"A chance? No. No; he died instantly. It was straight through the brain. Yes, terrible--naturally. Now, will you take what you need--""Instantly!" said Miss Toland, with a shudder. "Oh, Jim, I'm so gladyou're a doctor, " she added weakly, clutching his arm, "and so coldblooded and reliable!"

"I'm glad I was here, " Jim answered simply. "Hello, look at poor littleMiss Page! She's fainted!"

CHAPTER VIII

It was Christmas time before Julia saw Doctor Studdiford again, and thenit was but for a few minutes. Christmas Eve was wet and blowy out ofdoors, but the assembly hall of The Alexander looked warm and bright;there were painfully made garlands of green looped about the windows, bells of red paper hung from all the chandeliers, and on the stage anenormous Christmas tree glittered with colour and light. Six hundredpeople were crowded into the room, more than half of them children. Babies twisted and climbed on the laps of their radiant mothers, smallgirls and boys everywhere were restless with excitement andanticipation. Miss Toland only appeared at intervals, spending most ofthe afternoon with a few chosen guests in the reception hall, but Juliawas everywhere at once. She wore a plain white linen gown, with a bit ofholly in her hair and on her breast, and whether she was marshallingsmall girls into groups, stopping to admire a new baby, meeting theconfectioner's men and their immense freezers at the draughty side door, talking shyly with the directors in Miss Toland's room, or consolingsome weeping infant in the hall, she was followed by admiring eyes. 

At three o'clock the general restlessness visibly increased, and the airin the hall, between steaming wet garments and perspiring humanity, became almost insufferable. Julia experimentally opened a door and letin a wet blast of air, but this was too drastic, and her eyes werebrought back from a wistful study of the high windows by a voice thatsaid:

"Merry Christmas! Give me a stick, and I'll do it for you!"

The girl found her hand in Doctor Studdiford's, and their eyes met. 

"I didn't know you were here!" said Julia, in swift memory of their lastmeeting. 

"Just come. " He looked at her, all kindliness. "How goes it?"

"Finely, " Julia answered. When he had opened a window, he followed heracross the room. "I may stay near you, mayn't I?"

"I am just going to begin, " Julia said, taking her place at the piano, and facing the room across the top of it. Her small person seemedsuddenly fired with authority. She struck a full chord. "Children!" shesaid. "_Children_! Who is talking? Some one is still talking! Keep still, everybody, please! Keep still, every one. 

"Now we are going to sing the 'Adeste'--four verses. And then we'll giveout the presents. Listen, every one! We are going to sing the 'Adeste, 'and then give out the presents. The presents, of course, go only to ourown girls and boys, do you understand that? Listen, children, please!

"But we have a box of candy for every child here, whether that childcomes to any of the classes or not! So don't go home without your candy. And don't come up for your present until you hear your name called, doyou understand that? If I see any child coming up before Miss Piercecalls her name, I'll send her right back to her seat! Now, the 'Adeste, 'please!"

Jim had listened in intense amusement. How positive she was and howauthoritative! Her straight little back, her severe braids, her sternblue eyes roving the hall as she touched the familiar chords, were allso different from the vague young women who were Barbara's friends. Sheplayed a few wandering chords after the distribution of gifts began, watching the children file up the aisle, and listening, with only anoccasional lifting of her blue eyes to his face, to Doctor Studdiford'ssmiling comments. Her heart was beating high under a flood of unsensedjoy, she did not know why--but she was happy beyond all words. 

"I'm afraid I'll have to go help Miss Pierce and Miss Furey, Doctor, "she said presently, standing up. "Our Miss Scott, who got married twoyears ago, used to be a perfect wonder at times like this! Here, littlegirl, little girl! You don't come to the classes, do you? No? Well, then, go back to your seat and wait--you see!" She turned despairinglyto Jim. "You see, they're simply making a _mess_ of it!"

"I have to go, anyway, " said Jim. 

"Oh?" Julia turned surprised eyes toward him, and said the one thing shemeant to avoid. "But Mrs. Toland and Miss Barbara are coming, " shesubmitted. 

"And what of it?" Jim said meaningly. It was his turn to say the awkwardthing. "How are the nerves these days?" he asked quickly. 

Colour flooded Julia's face. 

"Much better, thank you! I gave the tonic up weeks ago. It was justnerves, " explained Julia, "a sort of breakdown after we came back fromCloverdale! And I'm so much obliged to you!" she ended shyly. 

"Oh, not at all, not at all!" Jim protested gruffly. An unmanageablesilence hung between them for a few seconds; then Julia, with a murmuredexcuse, went to the extrication of Miss Pierce, now hopelessly involvedin a surge of swarming children, and Jim went on his way. He carriedwith him a warm memory of the erect young figure in white, and the thicktwisted braid, set against a background of Christmas green. For Juliathe rest of the afternoon was enchanted; an enchantment subtly flavouredwith the odour of evergreen, and pierced by rapturous voices, and by theglowing colours of the Christmas tree, and the slapping rain at thewindow. 

She and Miss Toland sat down, exhausted and well satisfied, at seveno'clock, to a scrappy little supper in the littered dining-room: onedirector had left chocolates, another violets; a child's soiled hairribbon, still tied, lay on the floor; the chairs were pushed about atall angles. 

"Give me some more coffee, dear, and open that box of candy, " said MissToland luxuriously. "We'll sleep late, and go to high mass at theCathedral. Alice always has room in her pew. And then we might go overto Sausalito and say 'Merry Christmas. ' They'll all be scattered; Jimtells me he and my brother have an operation at twelve, poor wretches!And I suppose Barbara and little Sally will be off somewhere. Sallyalways tries to keep them together for Christmas Eve, but in my opinionthey're all bored by this tree and stocking business. But of course Nedand his extraordinary wife will be all over the place!"

"I've not been in Sausalito, except once, for eight years, " Julia saidreflectively. 

"I know you've not. Well, we'll go to-morrow. " Miss Toland reached for acigarette; yawned as she lighted it. But Julia's heart began to beatfast in nervous anticipation. 

Mrs. Toland received them very graciously the next day, and Julia was atonce made to feel at home in the pretty house, which was litteredcharmingly to-day with all sorts of Christmas gifts, and bright withopen fires. Barbara was there, and the crippled Richie, but Sally hadgone to a Christmas concert with her devoted little squire, KeithBorroughs, and Mrs. Toland presently took Miss Sanna aside for a long, distressed confidence. Theodora, it seemed, had had a stormy argumentwith her father on the subject of her admirer, Robert Carleton, somedays before, and yesterday had left, in defiance of all authority, tomeet him for a walk, and lunch with him. She and her father had notspoken to each other since, and Ted was keeping her room. Julia metNed's wife, a pretentious, complacent little gabbling village belle, andwas dragged about by the younger sisters to look at everybody'spresents. 

"Must be a long time since we saw you here, Miss Page?" said the olddoctor, smiling at her over his glasses, as he carved at luncheon. 

"I was here two years ago, one afternoon, " Julia smiled. "But I think Ihaven't seen _you_ since 'The Amazons'--eight years ago!"

"Eight years!" Barbara said, struck. "Mother, do you realize that it iseight years since I was in that play with the Hazzards and Gray Babcockand the Grinells? Isn't that _awful_?" She fell into sombre thought. 

Julia went through the day in a sort of deep study. This was theenchanted castle that had stood to her for so long as the unattainableheight of dreams; these were the envied inhabitants of that castle. Everything was the same, except herself, yet how incredibly the changein her affected everything about her! She was at home here now, couldanswer the table pleasantries with her ready, grave smile, could feelthat her interest in Constance and Jane was a pleasure to them, or couldpick a book from the drawing-room table with the confidence that whatshe said of it would not be ridiculous. She could even feel herselfhappier than Barbara, who listened so closely to what Julia said of thesettlement house, and sighed as she listened. 

After luncheon Richie took her driving over cold country roads, behind abig-boned gray mare, and adored her, though she never dreamed it, because she neither offered to take the reins nor asked him at intervalsif his back was tired. He was finishing work at the school of medicinenow, and although he could never hope to be in regular practice, histhin, bony face was very bright as he outlined his plans. Julia listenedto him sympathetically, and said good-bye to him at the boat with asense of genuine liking on both sides. Miss Toland was waiting for heron the upper deck, her long nose nipped and red in the cold air. 

"Well, he saw that you didn't miss it, after all!" said she, with awelcoming light for Julia in her sharp eyes, though she did not smile. "Sit down! I've been hearing nice things about you, my dear! I said toSally, 'So there _is_ something in old maids' children, eh?'" Miss Tolandchuckled; she was well pleased with her protegee. Julia settled herselfcomfortably beside her. She liked to watch the running gray water, andto feel the cold December wind in her face. The thought of Mark wasalways with her, poor Mark! so much more in her heart dead than living!But to-day his memory seemed only a part of the tender past; it wastoward the future that her heart turned; she felt young and strong andfull of hope. 

In the new year Jim began to come pretty regularly to the settlementhouse. Sometimes he stayed but for two minutes, never for more than ten, and usually, even if Julia was out, he left some little gift for her, abook or a magazine, flower seeds, or violets, or a box of candy. Shewould glance up from the soiled and rumpled sewing of some small girl tofind Jim smiling at her from the stage door, or come back from herlittle shopping round and have a moment's chat with him on the steps. She grew more and more silent, more and more self-contained, but herbeauty deepened daily, and her eyes shone like blue stars. 

"God, I will not believe it--I _cannot_ believe it!" said Julia, on herknees, at night, her hands pressed tight against her eyes. "But I thinkhe is beginning to love me!" And she walked in a strange dazzle ofhappiness, rejoicing in every sunny morning that, with its warmth andblueness and distant soft whistles from the bay, seemed to promise thespring, and rejoicing no less when rain beat against the windows of TheAlexander, and the children rushed in upon her at three o'clock withraindrops in their hair and on their glowing cheeks. The convent garden, in the February mornings, the assembly room, with late uncertainsunlight checking its floor in the long afternoons, the Colonialrestaurant filled with lights and the odours of food at night, all thesefamiliar things seemed strangely new and thrilling, and the arrival ofthe postman was, twice a day, a heart-shaking event. 

In April Doctor Toland went on a fortnight's trip to Mexico, and tookhis third daughter with him, in the undisguised hope of winning somesmall share of her confidence, and convincing her of his owndisinterested affection. Two days later Barbara telephoned her aunt theharrowing news of Sally's elopement with Keith Borroughs, and MissToland went at once to Sausalito, taking Julia along. 

They found the big house full of excitement. Richie was with his mother, who had retired to her room and was tearful and hysterical; Ned and hiswife had gone back after Christmas to the country town, where he held asmall position under his father-in-law; and Jim was doing both his ownwork and that of his foster father for the time being, and could not befound by telephone; so Julia was received by Barbara and the two youngergirls, who were not inclined to make light of the event. 

"Four years younger than Sally!" said Constance, not for the first time. 

"It's not _that_, " Barbara contributed disgustedly. "But he's onlynineteen--not of age, even! And he hasn't one single penny! Why, Mrs. Carter was thinking of sending him abroad for two years' work with hismusic. I _see_ her doing it now! Little sloppy-haired, conceited idiot, that's what _he_ is!"

"And Richie says he'll have to have his mother's consent before he canmarry her, " said Jane with a virtuous air. 

"It's too disgusting!" Barbara added, giving Jane a sharp glance. "Andyou oughtn't talk that way, Jane; it doesn't sound very well in a girlyour age to talk about any one's having to marry any one!"

"I know this, " said Constance gloomily. "It's going to give this familya horrible black eye. A fine chance we'll have to marry, we youngerones, with Sally disgracing every one this way!" Constance was thehandsomest of all the Tolands, and felt keenly the disadvantages ofbeing the youngest of four unmarried sisters. 

"Don't worry about your marriage until it comes along, Con, " saidBarbara wearily. 

"I'll bet I marry before you do!" said Constance, without venom. 

"I long ago made up my mind never to marry at all, " Barbara said, with abored air. Julia chuckled. 

"It is so funny to hear you go at each other, " she explained. "It soundsso cross--and it really isn't at all! Don't worry, Miss Toland, " sheadded soothingly, "Miss Sally wouldn't marry him if she didn't lovehim--"

"Oh, she loves him fast enough!" Barbara admitted, consoled. 

"And if people love each other, it's all right, " Julia went on. Barbarasighed. 

"Oh, I hope it is, Julia!" said she, as conscious of the littlefamiliarity for all her abstracted air as Julia was, and suspecting thatit thrilled Julia, as indeed it did. 

"And it's all the result of idleness, that's what it is, and that's whatI've been telling your mother, " said Miss Toland, coming in. "You've allgot nothing to do except sit about and think how bored you are!"

"Oh, Auntie, aren't you low?" Barbara said tranquilly, going to take anarm of her chair. "All sorts of people elope--there's nothing sodisgraceful in _that_. "

"It's disgraceful considering what a father you've got, and what amother!" Miss Toland said vexatiously. "And Ted worrying your father todeath about that scamp, too! I declare it's too much!"

"He's a pretty rich scamp, and a pretty attractive scamp, " Barbara saidin defence of Theodora's choice. "He's not like that _kid_ of a Keith!"

Julia heard the garden gate slam, and a quick, springing step on theporch before the others did, but it was Jane who said, "Here's Jim!" andBarbara who went to let him in. 

"Oh, Jimmy, have you heard of Sally?" she faltered, and as they came infrom the hall Julia's quick eye saw that she was half clinging to hisshoulder, sister fashion, and that his arm was half about her. 

"Hello, every one!" said his big, reassuring voice. "How's Mother?Hello, Aunt Sanna--and Miss Page, too! Well, this is fun, isn't it? Yes, Miss Babbie, I've heard of Sally, Sally Borroughs, as she is now--"

"What! Married?" said every one at once, and Mrs. Toland, making animpressive entrance with Richie, sank into a deep chair and echoed:"Married?"

"Married, Mother dear, " said Jim. "They found me in Dad's office at fiveo'clock; Keith's father, a fierce sort of man, was with them, and wasfor calling the whole thing off. Sally was crying, poor girl, and Keithmiserable--"

"Oh, poor old Sally!" said Barbara's tender voice. 

"You should have brought her straight home to me!" Mrs. Toland addedseverely. 

"Well, so I thought at first. But they had their license, which would bein the morning papers anyway, and Sally had done the fool thing ofmailing letters to two girl friends when she left here this morning--"

"She left me a mere scribble, pinned to her pin-cushion, " said hermother, magnificently. "Just as any common actress--"

"Oh, Mother! it wasn't pinned to her cushion at all!" Barbara protested. "She had no pincushion, she has a pin tray. "

"I hardly see how it matters, Babbie; it was on her bureau, anyway! Justlike a servant girl!" Mrs. Toland persisted. 

"Well, anyway, it seemed best to push it right through, " said Jim, "especially as they persisted that they would do it again or die--orrather, Sally did!"

"Oh, Jim, _don't_!" wailed Sally's mother. "Poor, deluded child!"

"I don't mean that Keith wasn't fiery enough, " Jim hastened to say. "He's a decent enough little fellow, and he's madly in love. So we allwent up to the French church, and Father Marchand married them--"

"A child of mine!" said Mrs. Toland, stricken. 

"Keith's father and I witnessed, " pursued Jim, "and we both kissed thebride--"

"Sally! And she was such a dear sweet baby!" whispered Mrs. Toland, bigtears beginning to run down her cheeks. 

"Ah, Mother!" Constance said soothingly, at her mother's knees. 

"Sally's of age, of course, " Jim argued soothingly, "and one couldn'tbring her home like a child. The thing would have gotten out, and she'dhave been a marked girl for life! There's really no _reason_ why theyshouldn't marry, and the boy--Keith, that is, put her into a carriagequite charmingly, and they drove off. They'll go no farther thanTamalpais or the Hotel Rafael, probably, for Keith has to be back atwork on Monday, and I made him promise to bring Sally here on Sundaynight. "

"And what will they live on?" Mrs. Toland asked stonily. 

"That isn't worrying them. Sally has--what? From those bonds of hergrandfather's?"

"Three hundred a year, " Mrs. Toland said discouragingly. 

"And Keith gets fifty-five a month. That's eighty--h'm!" pursued Jim. 

"Well, some of us simply will have to help them, " suggested Mrs. Toland, with a swift, innocent glance at Miss Sanna. 

"His father will have to help, " Miss Toland countered firmly. 

They presently adjourned to the dining-room, all still talking--evenJulia--of Sally. Sally would have to take the Barnes cottage, at fifteendollars a month, and do her own cooking, and her own sewing--

"They can dine here on Sundays, " said Sally's mother, sniffing andwiping her eyes. 

"And wouldn't it be awful if they had a baby!" Jane flung out casually. 

Every one felt the indelicacy of this, except Julia, who relieved allJane's hearers by saying warmly:

"Oh, don't say awful! Why, you'd all go wild over a dear little baby!"

Doctor Studdiford gave her a curious look at this, and though Julia didnot see it, Barbara did. After dinner the doctor and Barbara playedwhist with the older ladies, and Julia sat looking over their shouldersfor a few minutes, and then went upstairs with Constance and Jane for along, delightful gossip. The girls must show her various pictures ofKeith and Sally, books full of kodak prints, and everywhere Julia sawJim, too: Jim from the days of little boyhood on to to-day, Jim as campcook, Jim as tennis champion, Jim riding, yachting, fishing; a youngerJim, in the East at college, a small, stocky, unrecognizable Jim, inshort trousers and straw hat. And everywhere, with him, Barbara. 

"That's when they gave a play--I was only five, " Constance said. "See, this is Jim as Jack Horner, and Babbie as Mother Goose. And look! here'sJim on a pony--that's at his grandfather's place in Honolulu, He stayedthere a month every year, when he was a little boy, and Mother andBarbara visited there once. Here we all are, swimming, at Tahoe. Andhere's Bab in the dress she wore at her coming-out tea--isn't it dear?And look! here she is in an old dress of Jim's mother, and see the oldpearls; aren't they lovely? Jim gave them to her when she was twenty. "

"Jim was crazy about her then, " said Jane. 

"_I_ don't think he was, " Constance said perversely. 

"Oh, Con, you know he was!" Jane protested. "He _was_, too, " she added, toJulia. 

"_I_ don't think he was, " persisted Constance lightly. 

Barbara came in a second later, and again the talk went back to Sally. 

"Mother and Aunt Sanna said good-night, " reported Barbara, "and AuntSanna said to leave the door between your rooms open, and--oh, yes, Doctor Studdiford has been teasing Aunt Sanna to stay for a few days, Miss Page; he says you look as pale as a little ghost!"

"I liked so much to have you call me Julia, " was Julia's extremelytactful answer to this. Barbara, perhaps glad to find her message socasually dismissed, smiled her prettiest. 

"Julia--then!" and Barbara sat down on a bed, and began to roll up herbelt. "Aunt Sanna says she gives Sally and Keith about three months--"she began. 

Two days later, on Sunday, the bride and groom came home. Sally, wholooked particularly well and was quite unashamed, rushed into hermother's arms, and laughed and cried like a creature possessed. Shekissed all her sisters, and if there was a note of disapproval in herwelcome, she did not get it. Richie having charitably carried off thesomewhat sullen young husband, the bride was presently free to open herheart to the women of the house. 

"It's all so different when you're married, isn't it, Mother?" bubbledSally. "Going into hotels and everything--you don't care who looks atyou, you know you've a perfect right to go anywhere with your husband!Now, that look that Keith just gave me, as he went off withRichie--_blazing_! Well, it would just have amused me when we wereengaged, but now I know that he's simply wretched with jealousy, andI'll have to pet him a little and quiet him down! He is a perfect childabout money; he _will_ spend too much on everything, and if we go abroadI'll simply have to--"

"Go abroad?" every one echoed. 

"Oh, I think we must, for Keith's music, " Sally said gravely. "He can'tsettle down here, you know. He's got to live abroad, and he's got tohave lessons--expensive lessons. Office work makes him too nervous, anyway. "

"Well, my dear, I hope you have money enough to carry out these pleasingplans, " said Miss Toland dryly. 

"Well, we have my twenty-five a month, " Sally said capably, "and Keith'sfather _ought_ to give him another twenty-five, because the expense ofhaving Keith live at home will be gone, and"--Sally fixed a hopeful eyeon her mother--"and I should think Dad would give me at least that, Mother, " said she. "I must cost him much more than that!"

"Oh, I--don't--know!" said Mrs. Toland guardedly, taken unawares, andslowly shaking her head. 

"Then I thought, " pursued the practical Sally, "that if you would giveme half the clothes of a regular trousseau, and if Dad would give us ourtravelling expenses to Berlin for a wedding present--why, there youare!"

"But you two couldn't live on seventy-five dollars a month, Sally!"

"Oh, Mother, Jeannette said you could get a lovely room for two--in apension--for a dollar a day! And that leaves forty for lessons, two aweek, and five dollars over!"

"For laundry and carfare and doctor's bills, " said Miss Tolandunsympathetically. 

"Well!" Sally flared, resentful colour in her cheeks. 

"And Dad will never consent to anything so _outrageously_ unfair as livingon thirty-five and spending forty for lessons!" said Barbara. 

Poor little Sally looked somewhat crushed. 

"For heaven's sake don't let Keith hear you say that, Babbie!" she saidnervously. "It makes him frantic to suggest that you can get decentlessons in harmony for nothing! I don't know what you know about it, anyway. I'll fix it with Dad!"

"If Dad allows Sally so much, he ought to do the same for the rest ofus, " Constance suggested. Julia, foreseeing a scene, slipped out of theroom. 

In the hallway she encountered Doctor Studdiford, who was justdownstairs after a late sleep. Jim had the satisfied air of a man whohas had a long rest, a shave and a bath, and a satisfactory breakfast. 

"Family conference?" he said, nodding toward the sitting-room door. 

"Sally and Keith are here, " Julia announced. 

"Oh, are they? Well, I ought to go in. But I also ought to walk up tothe Ridge, and see that poor fellow who ran a shaft into his leg. " Jimhesitated. "I suppose you wouldn't like to go with me?" he asked, withhis sudden smile. Julia's heart jumped; her eyes answered him. "Well, wrap up snug, " said Jim, "for there's the very deuce of a wind!"

So Julia tied herself into the most demure of hats, and buttoned herlong coat about her, and Jim shook himself into his heaviest overcoat, and pulled an old cap down over his eyes. They let themselves out at aside door, and a gust of wet wind howled down upon them, and shook ashower from the madly rippling ivy leaves. The sky was high and pale, and crossed by hurrying and scattered clouds; a clean, roaring gale toreover the hills, and ruffled the rain pools in the road, and bowed thetrees like whips. The bay was iron colour; choppy waves chased eachother against the piers. Now and then a pale flicker of sunlightbrightened the whole scene with blues and greens and shadowsspectacularly clear; then the clouds met again, and the wind sang like asnapped wire. 

Julia and the doctor climbed the long flights of stairs that cutstraight up through the scattered homes on the hill. These earthen stepswere still running with the late rain, and moss lay on them like a greenfilm. Julia breathed hard, a veil of blown hair crossed her bright eyes, her stinging cheeks glowed. 

"I love this kind of a day!" she shouted. Jim's gloved hand helped herto cross a wide pool, and his handsome eyes were full of all delight ashe shouted back. 

Presently, when they were in a more quiet bit of road, he told her ofsome of his early boyish walks. "Listen, Julia!" he said, catching herarm. "D'you hear them? It's the peepers! We used to call them that, little frogs, you know--sure sign of the spring!"

And as the wind lulled Julia heard the brave little voices of a hundredtiny croakers in some wet bit of meadow. "We'll have buttercups nextweek!" said Jim. 

He told her something of the sick man to whom they were going, and spokeof other cases, of his work and his hopes. 

"Poor Kearney!" said Jim, "his oldest kid was sick, then his wife had anew baby, and now this! You'll like the baby--he's a nice little kid. Itook him in my arms last time I was here, and I wish you could have seenthe little lip curl up, but he wouldn't cry! A kid two months old can beawfully cunning!" He looked a little ashamed of this sentiment, butJulia thought she had never seen anything so bright and simple andlovable as the smile with which he asked her sympathy. 

She was presently mothering the baby, in the Kearneys' little hotliving-room, while Doctor Studdiford caused the patient in the roombeyond to shout with pain. The howling wind had a sinister sound, heardup here within walls, and Julia was glad to be out in it, and going downthe hills again. 

"Well, how do you like sick calls?" asked Jim. 

"I was glad not to have to see him, " Julia confessed. "But it is adarling baby, and such a nice little wife! She has a sister who comes upevery afternoon, so she can get some sleep, poor thing. His mother isgoing to pay their rent until he gets well, and he gets two dollars aweek from his union. But she said that if you hadn't--"

"Well, you know now, for such a quiet little mouse of a girl, Julia, youare a pretty good confidence woman!"

"And the baby's to be named for you!" Julia ended triumphantly. 

"Lord, they needn't have done that!" said the doctor, with his confused, boyish flush. "Look, Julia, how the tide has carried that ferryboat outof her course!"

Julia's heart flew with the winds; she felt as if she had never knownsuch an hour of ecstasy before. They had crossed the upper road, andwere halfway down the last flight of steps, when Jim suddenly caught herhand, and turned her about to face him. Dripping trees shut in thisparticular landing, and they were alone under the wind-swept sky. Jimput his arms about her, and Julia raised her face, with all a child'sserene docility, for his kiss. 

"_Do_ you love me, Julie?" said Jim urgently, then. "Do you love me, little girl? Because I love you _so_ much!"

Not the words he had so carefully chosen to say, but he said them ascore of times. If Julia answered, it was only with a confused murmur, but she clung to him, and her luminous eyes never moved from his own. 

"Oh, my God, I love you so!" Jim said, finally releasing her, only tocatch her in his arms again. "Won't you say it once, Julia, just to letme hear you?"

"But I did say it, " Julia said, dimpling and rosy. 

"Oh, but darling, you don't know how _hungry_ I am to hear you!"

"How--how could I help it?" Julia stammered; and now the blue eyes sheraised were misty with tears. 

Jim found this satisfactory, intoxicatingly so. They went a few stepsfarther and sat on a bit of dry bulk-heading, and began to discuss themiracle. About them the winds of spring shouted their eternal promise, and in their hearts the promise that is as new and as old as spring cameto dazzling flower. 

"My clever, sweet, little dignified girl!" said Jim. "Julia, do you knowthat you are the most fascinating woman in the world? I never saw anyone like you!"

"I--Oh, Jim!" was all that Julia said, but her dimples and the nearnessof the blue eyes helped the stammered words. 

"Among all the chattering, vapid girls I know, " pursued Jim, "you standutterly alone, you with your ambitions, and your _wiseness_! By George!when I think what you have made of yourself, I could get down andworship you. I feel like a big spoiled kid beside you! I've always hadall the money I could spend, and you, you game little thing, you'vegrubbed and worked and made things do!"

"I never had any ambition as high as marrying _you_, " Julia said, with themysterious little smile that at once baffled and enchanted him. "When Ithink of it, it makes me feel giddy, like a person walking in a valleywho found himself set down on top of a mountain! I never thought ofmarriage at all!"

"But you are going to marry me, sweet, aren't you?" Jim asked anxiously. "And you _are_ happy, dear? For I feel as if I would die of joy andpride!"

"Oh, I'm happy!" Julia said, and instantly her lip quivered, and hereyes brimmed with tears. She jumped to her feet, and caught him by thehand. "Come on!" she said. "We _mustn't_ be so long!"

"But darling, " said Jim, infinitely tender, "why the tears?"

For answer she caught his coat in her shabbily gloved little hands. 

"Because I love you so, Jim, " she faltered, trying to smile. "You don'tknow how much!" Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and for a moment hereyes looked far beyond him, down into the valley, and at the iron-coldbay with its racing whitecaps. Then she took his hand, and they began todescend the steps. 

"I may tell my mother, Julie?" Jim asked joyously. "And Aunt Sanna? Anddo you know that Julia is one of my favourite names--"

"No, I want you not to tell any one, " Julia decided quickly. "You mustpromise me that. Nobody. " Something in her tone surprised, a littlechilled, him. 

"Julie--but why?"

"Well, because we want to be _sure_--"

"Oh, sure! Why, but, dearest, _aren't_ you--"

"No, but wait a moment, " Julia interrupted, and Jim, turning toward her, saw a real trouble reflected in her face. "I want you to meet my mother, and my own people, " she said, scarlet cheeked. Jim's grave, comprehensive look met hers. 

"And I want to, dear, " he said. And then, as her face did not brighten:"Why, my dearest, you aren't going to worry because your people aren'tin the Social Register, and don't go to the Brownings'? I know all sortsof people, Ju--Kearney, up there, is a good friend of mine! And I knowfrom Aunt Sanna that you're a long way ahead of your own people. "

"I don't know whether it's 'ahead' or not, " said Julia, with a worriedlaugh. "I suppose only God knows the real value of finger bowls andtoothbrushes and silk stockings! I _suppose_ it's 'ahead'!"

She opened the Tolands' side gate as she spoke, and they went into thebare garden. 

"Well--but _don't_ go in, " pleaded Jim, "there'll be a mob about us in notime, and I've never had you to myself before! When may I come see yourpeople?"

"Will you write?" Julia asked at the side door. 

"Oh, but darling, when we've just begun to talk!" fretted Jim. "Wouldyou dare to kiss me right here--no one could possibly see us!"

"I would _not_!" And Julia flashed him one laughing look as she opened thedoor. A moment later he heard her running up the stairway. 

Julia found Miss Toland upstairs, hastily packing. "Well, runaway!" saidthe older lady. And then, in explanation, "I think we'd best go, Julia, for my brother and Teddy have just got home, and there'll have to be agreat family council to-night. "

"Would you stay if I went?" Julia asked, coming close to her. 

"No, you muggins! I'd pack you off in a moment if that was what I meant!No, I'm glad enough to get out of it!" Miss Toland stood up. "What's JimStuddiford been saying to you to give you cheeks like that?" she asked. 

"I don't know, " Julia whispered, with a tremulous laugh. And for thefirst time she went into Miss Toland's open arms, and hid her face, andfor the first time they kissed each other. 

"Anything settled?" the older woman presently asked in greatsatisfaction. 

"Not--quite!" Julia said. 

"Not quite! Well, that's right; there's no need of hurry. Oh, law me!I've seen this coming, " Miss Toland assured her; "he all but told mehimself a week ago! Well, well, well! And it only goes to show, Julia, "she added, shaking a skirt before she rolled it into a ball and laid itin her suitcase, "that if you give a girl an occupation, she's betteroff, she's more useful, and it doesn't keep her fate from finding herout! You laugh, because you've heard me say this before, but it's true!"

Julia had laughed indeed; her heart was singing. She would have laughedat anything to-day. 

Four days later, at four o'clock in the afternoon, Doctor Studdifordcalled at The Alexander, and Miss Page joined him, in street attire, atonce. They walked away to the car together, in a street suddenly floodedwith golden sunshine. 

"Did you tell your mother I was coming, dear?"

"Oh, Jim, of course! I never would dare take them unawares!"

"And did you tell her that you were going to be my adored and beautifullittle wife in a few months?"

"In a few months--hear the man! In a few years! No, but I gave them tounderstand that you were my 'friend. ' I didn't mention that you are amulti-millionaire and a genius on leg bones--"

"Julia, my poor girl, if you think you are marrying a multi-millionaire, disabuse your mind, dear child! Aren't women mercenary, though! Here Ithought I--No, but seriously, darling, why shouldn't your mother havethe satisfaction of knowing that your future is pretty safe?"

"Well, that's hard to say, Jim. But I think you will like her better ifshe takes it for granted that you are just--well, say just the sort ofdoctor we might have called in to the settlement house, establishing apractice, but quite able to marry. I feel, " said Julia, finding herwords with a little difficulty, "that my mother might hurt myfeelings--by doubting my motives, otherwise--and if she hurt myfeelings she would anger you, wouldn't she?"

"She certainly would!" Jim smiled, but the look he gave his pluckylittle companion was far removed from mirth. 

"And I do dread this call, " Julia said nervously. "I came down hereyesterday, just to say we were coming, and it all struck me asbeing--However, there's the house, and you'll soon see for yourself!"

The house itself was something of a shock to Jim, but if Julia guessedit, he gave her no evidence of his feeling, and was presently taken intothe stifling parlour, and introduced to Julia's mother, a little graynow, but hard lipped and bright eyed as ever, and to Mrs. Cox, who hadbeen widowed for some years, and was a genial, toothless, talkative oldwoman, much increased in her own esteem and her children's as the actualowner of the old house. 

"Mother, we want some air in here!" Julia said, going to a window. 

"Julia's a great girl for fresh air, " said Emeline. "Sit down, Doctor, and don't mind Ma!" Mrs. Cox, perhaps slightly self-conscious, waswandering about the room picking threads from the carpet, straighteningthe pictures on the walls, and dubiously poking a small stopped clock onthe mantel. 

"How's your arm to-day?" Julia asked, stopping behind her mother'schair, and laying two firm young hands on her shoulders. 

"What do you think of a girl that runs off and doesn't see her motherfor weeks at a time, Doctor?" Mrs. Page demanded a little tartly. "Herpapa and I was devoted to her, too! But I suppose if she marries, she'llbe too grand for us altogether!"

"Now, Mother!" said Julia pleadingly, half vexed, half indulgent. 

"I had an elegant little place myself when I was first married, " Mrs. Page continued, in a sort of discontented sing-song. "Julia must havetold you about her papa--"

Julia's serious eyes flashed a look to Jim, and he saw something almostlike humour in their blue deeps. 

"That's a crayon enlargement of my youngest son, " the old woman waspresently saying, "Chess. A better boy never lived, but he got in withbad companions and they got him in jail. Yes, indeed they did! On'y thegovernor let him out again--"

The call was not long. Doctor Studdiford shook hands with both theladies, in departing, and Julia kissed her mother and grandmotherdutifully. The two walked almost in silence to the car. 

"Downtown?" asked Julia, in surprise. 

"Downtown, for tea, " Jim said. And when they were comfortablyestablished in a secluded corner of the Golden Pheasant, he expelled along breath from his lungs, and sent Julia his sunniest smile as hesaid:

"Well, you're a wonder!"

"I?" Julia touched her heart with her fingers, and raised her eyebrows. 

"Oh, yes, you are!" Jim repeated. "You're a little wonder! To makeyourself so sweet and fine and dear, it shows that you're one of the bigpeople of the world, Julie! Some one of the writers, Emerson I guess itwas, says that when you find a young person who is willing to accept thewisdom of older people, and abide by it, why, you may watch that youngperson for great things. And you see, I propose to!"

Julia had no answering smile ready. Instead her face was very grave asshe said musingly:

"I hardly know why I wanted you to meet my mother and grandmother, Jim. I don't know quite what I expected when you _did_ meet them, but--but youmustn't make light of the fact that they _are_ different from your people, and different from me, too. For three or four days and nights now I'vebeen thinking about--us. I've been wondering whether this engagementwould be a--a happy thing for you, Jim. I've wondered--"

"But, sweetheart!" he interrupted eagerly, "I love you! You're the onlywoman I ever wanted to marry! I love you just because you _are_ different, you are so much wiser and deeper and truer than any other girl I everknew, and if your people and your life have made you that, why I lovethem, too! And you do love me, Julie?"

Julia raised heavy eyes, and he could see that tears were pressing closebehind them. She did not speak, but her look suddenly enveloped him likea cloud. Jim felt a sudden prick of tears behind his own eyes. 

"Sweetness, " he said gravely, "I know you love me! And Julia, my wholesoul is simply on fire for you. Don't--_don't_ let any mere trifle comebetween us now. Let me tell my mother and father to-morrow!"

A clear light was shining in Julia's eyes. Now, as she automaticallyarranged the tea things before her, and poured him his first cup of tea, she said:

"Jim, I told you that I haven't thought much about marriage for myself. I suppose it's funny that I shouldn't, for they say most girls do! Butperhaps it was because the biographies and histories I began to readwhen I came to the settlement house were all about men: how Lincolnrose, how Napoleon rose, how this rich man sold newspapers when he was alittle boy, and that other one spent his first money in taking hismother out of the poorhouse. And of course marriage doesn't enter somuch into the lives of men. It came to me years ago that what wise menare trying to din into young people everywhere is just this: that if youmake yourself ready for anything, that thing will come to you. Just doyour end, and somewhere out in the queer, big, incomprehensiblemachinery of the world your place will mysteriously begin to get readyfor you--Am I talking sense, Jim?"

"Absolutely. Go on!" said Jim. 

"Well, and so I thought that if I took years and years I might--well, you won't see why, but I wanted to be a lady!" confessed Julia, her lipssmiling, but with serious eyes. "And, Jim, everything comes so much moreeasily than one thinks. Your aunt knew I wasn't, but I happened to bewhat she needed, and I kept quiet, and listened and learned!"

"And suppose you _hadn't_ happened upon the settlement house?" asked Jim, his ardent eyes never moving from her face. 

"Why, I would have done it somehow, some other way. I meant to take aposition in some family, and perhaps be a trained nurse when I wasolder, or study to be a librarian and take the City Hall examinations, or work up to a post-office position! I had lots of plans, only ofcourse I was only a selfish little girl then, and I thought I woulddisappear, and never let my own people hear from me again!"

"But you softened on that point, eh?" asked Jim. 

"Oh, right away!" Julia's wonderful eyes shone upon him with somethingunearthly in their light. "Because God decides to whom we shall belong, Jim, " said she, with childish faith, "and to start wrong with my ownpeople would mean that I was all wrong, everywhere. But my highestambition then was to grow, as the years went on, to be useful to nicepeople, and to be liked by them. I never dreamed every one would be sofriendly! And when Miss Pierce and Miss Scott have asked me to theirhomes, and when Mrs. Forbes took me to Santa Cruz, and Mrs. Chetwyndeasked me to dine with them, well, I can't tell you what it meant!"

"It meant that you are as good--and better, in every way--than all therest of them put together!" said the prejudiced Jim. 

"Oh, Jim!" Julia looked at him over her teacup, a breach of mannerswhich Jim thought very charming. "No, " she said, presently, pursuing herown thoughts, "but I never thought of marriage! And now you come along, Jim, so--so good to me, so infinitely dear, and I can't--I can't helpcaring--" And suddenly her lip trembled, and tears filled her eyes. Shelooked down at her teacup, and stirred it blindly. 

"You angel!" Jim said. 

"Don't--make--me--cry--!" Julia begged thickly. A second later shelooked up and laughed through tears. "And I feel like a person who hasbeen skipped over four or five grades at school; I don't know whether I_can_ be a rich man's wife!" she said whimsically. "I know I can go on asI am, reading and thinking, and listening to other people, and keepingquiet when I have nothing to say, but--but when I think of being Mrs. James Studdiford--"

"Oh, I love to hear you say it!" Jim leaned across the table, and putone warm big hand over hers. "My darling little wife!"

The word dyed Julia's cheeks crimson, and for the long hour that theylingered over their tea she seemed to Jim more charming than he had everfound her before. Her gravity, with its deep hint of suppressed mirth, and her mirth that was always so delicate and demure, so shot withsudden pathos and seriousness, were equally exquisite; and her beautywon all eyes, from the old waiter who hovered over their happiness, tothe little baby in the street car who would sit in Julia's lap andnowhere else. Jim presently left Julia to her Girls' Club, consolinghimself with the thought that on the following night they were to maketheir first trip to the theatre together. 

But when, at half-past seven the next evening, Jim presented himself atthe settlement house, he found Julia alone, and obviously not dressedfor the theatre. She admitted him with a kiss that to his lover'senthusiasm was strangely cool, and drew him into the reception hall. 

"Your aunt had to go out with Miss Parker, " said Julia. "But she'llpositively be here a little after eight. "

"My darling, I didn't come to see Aunt Sanna!" Jim caught her to him. "But, sweetheart, " he said, "how hot your face is, and your poor littlehands are icy! Aren't you well?"

"No, I don't believe I'm very well!" Julia admitted restlessly, lightingthe shaded lamp on the centre table, and snapping off the side lightsthat so mercilessly revealed her pale face and burning eyes. 

"Not well enough for the theatre? Well, but darling, I don't care onesnap for the theatre, " Jim assured her eagerly. "Only I hate to see youso nervous and tired. Has it been a hard day? Aunt Sanna--?"

"No, your aunt's an angel to me--no, it's been an easy day, " Julia said, dropping into a chair, and pushing her hair back from her face with afeverish gesture. A second later she sprang up and disappeared into theassembly hall. "I thought I mightn't have locked the door, " she said, returning. 

"Why, sweetheart, " Jim said, in great distress, "what is it? You're notone bit like yourself!"

"No, I know I'm not, " Julia said wildly. She sat down again. "I've beenthinking and thinking all day, until I feel as if I must go _crazy_!" shesaid with a desperate gesture. "And it's come to this, Jim--Don't thinkI'm excited--I mean it. I--we can't be married, Jim. That's all. Don't--don't look so amazed. People break engagements all the time, don't they? And we aren't really engaged, Jim; nobody knows it. And--andso it's _all_ right!"

Anything less right than Julia's ashen face and blazing eyes, and thetouch of her cold wet little hands, Jim thought he had never seen. Hestepped into the bathroom, and ran his eye along the trim row oflabelled bottles on the shelf. 

"Here, drink this, dear, " he said, coming back to her with somethingclear and pungent in a glass. "Now, come here, " and half lifting thelittle figure in his arms he put her on the couch, and tucked a plaidwarmly about her. "Don't forget that your husband is also a doctor, "said Jim, sitting down so that he could see her face, and hold one handin both of his. "You're all worn out and excited, and no wonder! Yousee, most girls take out their excess emotion on their families, but mylittle old girl is too much alone!"

Julia's eyes were fixed on him as if she were powerless to draw themaway. It was sweet--it was poignantly sweet--to be cared for by him, tofeel that Jim's warm heart and keen mind were at her service, that theswift smile was for her, the ardour in his eyes was all her own. Forperhaps half an hour she rested, almost without speaking, and Jim talkedto her with studied lightness and carelessness. Then suddenly she satup, and put her hands to her loosened hair. 

"I must look wild, Jim!"

"You look like a ravishing little gipsy! But I wish you had more colour, mouse!"

"Am I pale?" Julia asked, with a little nervous laugh. Jim dropped onone knee beside her, and studied her with anxious eyes, and she pushedthe hair off his forehead, and rested her cheek against it with a longsigh as if she were very tired. 

"What is it, dear?" asked Jim, with infinite solicitude. 

"Well!" Julia put the faintest shadow of a kiss on his forehead, thengot abruptly to her feet and crossed the room, as if she found hisnearness suddenly insufferable. "I can't break my engagement to you thisway, Jim, " said she. "For even if I told you a thousand times that I hadstopped loving you"--a spasm of pain crossed her face, she shut herhands tightly together over her heart--"even then you would know that Ilove you with my whole soul, " she said in a whisper with shut eyes. "Butyou see, " and Julia turned a pitiful smile upon him, "you see there'ssomething you don't understand, Jim! You say I have climbed up alone, from being a tough little would-be actress, who lived over a saloon inO'Farrell Street, to this! You say--and your aunt says--that I am wise, wise to see what is worth having, and to work for it! But has it neveroccurred to _one_ of you--" Julia's voice, which had been rising steadily, sank to a cold, low tone. "No, " she said, as if to herself, sitting downat the table, and resting her arms upon it. "No, it has never occurredto one of them to ask _why_ I am different--to ask just what made me so!Life boils itself down to this, doesn't it?" she went on, staringdrearily at the shadowy corner of the room beyond her. "That women havesomething to sell, or give away, and the question is just how much eachone can get for it! That's what makes the most insignificant marriedwoman feel superior to the happiest and richest old maid. She says toherself, 'I've made my market. Somebody chose me!' That's whatmotherhood and homemaking rest on: the whole world is just one great bigquestion of sex, spinning away in space! And even after a woman ismarried, she still plays with sex; she likes to feel that men admireher, doesn't she? At dinners there must be a man for every woman; atdances no two girls must dance together! And here, the minute a new girlcomes to join my clubs, I try to read her face. Is she pure, or has shealready thrown away--"

"Julia, _dear_!" said Jim, amazed and troubled, but she silenced him witha quick gesture. Her cheeks were burning now, and her words came fast. 

"Those poor little girls at St. Anne's, " she said feverishly, "they'vethrown their lives away because this thing that is in the air all aboutthem came too close. They were too young legally to be trusted as Naturehas trusted them for years! They heard people talk of it, and laughabout it--it didn't _seem_ very dangerous--"

"Julia!" Jim said again, pleadingly. 

"Just one moment, Jim, and I'll be done! When they had learned theirlesson, when they had found out what sorrow it brought, when they knewthat there was only loss and shame in it for them--then it was too late!Then men, and women, too, expected them to go on giving; there wasnothing else to do. Oh, " said Julia, in a heartbreaking voice, bringingher locked hands down upon the table as if she were in physical agony, "if the law would only take a hand before and not afterward! Or if, whenthey are sick to death of men, they could believe that time would washit all away; that there was clean, good work for them somewhere in theworld!"

"My darling, why distress yourself about what can't possibly concernyou?" Jim said. Julia stared at him thoughtfully for a few silentseconds. 

"It _does_ concern me. That's how I bought my wisdom, " she said quietlythen, with no emotion deeper than a mild regret visible in her face. Voice and manner were swept bare of passion; she seemed infinitelyfatigued. "That's why I can't marry you, Jim. "

"What do you mean?" Jim said easily, uncomprehendingly, the indulgentsmile hardly stricken from his lips. 

Julia's eyes met his squarely across the lamplight. 

"That, " she said simply. 

There was a silence, and no change of expression on either face. ThenJim stood up. 

"I don't believe it!" he said, with a short laugh. 

"It's true, " said Julia. "I was not fifteen. How long ago it was! Nobodyhas ever known--you need not have known. But I am glad I told you. Ihave been thinking of nothing else but telling you for two days and twonights. And sometimes I would say to myself that what that old littleignorant Julia did would not concern you--"

Jim made an inarticulate sound, from where he sat with his elbows on hisknees, with his face dropped in his hands. 

"But I see it does concern you!" Julia said, quickly, with greatsimplicity. "I--luckily I decided to tell you this morning, " she said, "for I am absolutely exhausted now. It was a terrible thing to keepthinking about, and I could not have fought it out any longer! Therewere extenuating circumstances, I suppose. I was a spoiled littleempty-headed girl; the girls all about me were reckless in everyway; Idid not know the boundary-line, or dream that it mattered very much, solong as no one knew! My mother had been unhappy in my childhood, andused to talk a good deal about the disappointment of marriage. Perhaps Idon't make myself clear?"

"_You_! Julia!" Jim whispered, his hands still over his face. 

"Yes, I know, " Julia said drearily. "I don't seem like that sort of agirl, I know. "

Then there was a long silence. 

"You--poor--little--kid!" Jim said, after a while, getting up andbeginning to walk the floor. "Oh, my God! My God! Poor little kid!"

"I suppose there are psychological moments when one wakes up to things, "Julia went on, in a tone curiously impersonal. "I was in sometheatricals with your sister, years ago. Every one snubbed me, and nowonder! There was a man named Carter Hazzard--and I suddenly seemed towake up at about that time--"

"Carter Hazzard!" The horror in Jim's voice rang through the room. Juliafrowned. 

"I only saw him two or three times, " she said. "No. But he flirted withme, and flattered me, and then Barbara told me he was married, and thenI found out that they all thought I was vulgar and common--and so I was. And I suppose I wanted to be loved and made much of, and he--thisman--was good to me!"

"Not you--of all women!" Jim said dully, as if to himself. 

"I know how you feel, " Julia said without emotion, "because of course Ifeel that way, too--now! And I never loved him, never even thought Idid! It was only a little while--two weeks or three, I guess--before Itold him I couldn't ever love him. I said I thought I might, but it waslike--like realizing that I had been throwing away gold pieces fordimes. Do you know what I mean? And the most awful disgust came over me, Jim--a sort of disappointment, that this talked-of and anticipated thingwas no more than that! And then I came here, and I knew that keepingstill about it was my only chance, and oh, how sick I was, soul andbody, for a fresh start! And then your aunt talked to me, and said whata pity it is that young girls think of nothing but love and lovers, andso throw away their best years, and I thought that I was done with love;no more curiosity--no more thrill--and that I would do something with mylife after all!"

Her voice dropped, and again there was silence in the room. Jimcontinued to pace the floor. 

"Why, there's never been a morning at St. Anne's that I haven't lookedat those girls, " Julia presently resumed, "and said to myself that Imight have been there, with my head shaved and a green check dress on!Lots of them must be better than I!"

"Don't!" Jim said sharply, and there was a silence until Julia saidwonderingly:

"Isn't it funny that all last night, and the night before, I thought Iwas going to _die_, telling you this--and now it just doesn't seem tomatter at all?"

"That's why you've never married?" Jim said, clearing his throat. 

"I've never wanted to until now, " Julia said. "And I--I am so changednow that somehow I would never think of that--that bad old time, inconnection with marriage! It was as if that part of my life was sealedbeyond opening again--

"And then you came. I only wanted no one to guess that I cared at first. And then, when I saw that you were beginning to care, too, oh, my God! Ithought my heart would burst!"

And with sudden terrible passion in her voice, she got up in her turnand began to pace the room. Jim, who had flung himself into a chairopposite hers, rested his elbows on the table, and his face in hishands. 

"But I feel this about your caring for me, Jim, " Julia said. "In astrange, mysterious way I feel that giving you up--giving you up, mybest and dearest, is purification! When--when this is over, I shall havepaid! It may be"--tears flooded her eyes, and she came back to her chairand laid her head on her arm--"it may be that I can't bear it, and thatI will die!" sobbed Julia. "But I shall always be glad that I told youthis to-night!" There was a long silence, and then again Jim came tokneel beside her, and put one arm about her. 

"My own little girl!" said he. At his voice Julia raised her head, andput her arms about his neck like a weary child, and rested her wet faceagainst his own. 

"My own brave girl!" Jim said. "I know what courage it took to have youtell me this! It will never be known to any one else, sweetheart, and wewill bury it in our hearts forever. Kiss me, dearest, and promise methat my little wife will stop crying!"

For a moment it was as if she tried to push him away. 

"Jim, " she whispered, tears running down her face, "have youthought--are you _sure_?"

"Quite sure, sweetheart, " he said soothingly and tenderly. "Why, Julie, wouldn't you forgive me anything I might have done when I was only anignorant little boy?"

Julia tightened her arms about him, and sobbed desperately for a longwhile. Then her breathing quieted, and she let Jim dry her eyes with hisown handkerchief, and listened, with an occasional long sigh, to hiseager, confident plans. They were still talking quietly when the streetdoor was flung open and Miss Toland came in, on a rush of fresh air. 

"Rain!" said Miss Toland. "Terrible night! Not an umbrella in the Parkerhouse until Clem came home--it's quarter to ten!"

"Congratulate us, Aunt Sanna, " said Jim, rising to his feet with his armstill about Julia. "Julia has promised to marry me!"

End of Part One

PART II

CHAPTER I

Yet Dr. James Studdiford, walking down to his club, an hour later, withthe memory of his aunt's joyous congratulations ringing in his ears, andof Julia's last warm little kiss upon his cheek, was perhaps moremiserable than he had been before in the course of his life. Julia washis girl--his own girl--and the thrill of her submission, the enchantingrealization that she loved him, rose over and over again in his heart, like the rising of deep waters--only to wash against the firm barrierof that hideous Fact. 

Jim could do nothing with the Fact. It did not seem to belong to him, orto Julia, to their love and future together, or to her gallant, all-enduring past. Julia was Julia--that was the only significant thing, the sweetest, purest, cleverest woman he knew. And she loved him! A rushof ecstasy flooded his whole being; how sweet she was when he made hersay she loved him--when she surrendered her hands, when she raised hergravely smiling blue eyes! What a little wife she would be, what a gaylittle comrade, and some day, perhaps, what a mother!

Again the Fact. After such a little interval of radiant peace it seemedto descend upon him with an ugly violence. It was true; nothing thatthey could do now would alter it. And, of course, the thing was serious. If anything in life was serious, this was. It was frightful--it seemedsacrilegious to connect such things for an instant with Julia. Dearlittle Julia, with her crisp little uniforms, her authority in theclassroom, her charming deference to Aunt Sanna! And she loved him----

"Damn it, the thing either counts or it doesn't count!" Jim muttered, striding down Market Street, past darkened shops and corners wherelights showed behind the swinging doors of saloons. Either it was allimportant or it was not important at all. With most women, allimportant, of course. With Julia--Jim let his mind play for a fewminutes with the thought of renunciation. There would be no trouble withJulia, and Aunt Sanna could easily be silenced. 

He shook the mere vision from him with an angry shake of the head. Shebelonged to him now, his little steadfast, serious girl. And she haddeceived them all these years! Not that he could blame her for it!Naturally, Aunt Sanna would never have overlooked that, and presumablyno other woman would have engaged her, knowing it, even to wash dishesand sweep steps. 

"Lord, what a world for women!" thought Jim, in simple wonder. Hunteddown mercilessly, pushed at the first sign of weakening, they know notwhere, and then lost! Hundreds of thousands of them forever outcast, topay through all the years that are left to them for that hour ofyielding! Hundreds of thousands of them, and his Julia only differentbecause she had made herself so--

It seemed to Jim, in his club now, and sunk in a deep chair before thewood fire in the quiet library, that he could never marry her. It mustsimply be his sorrow to have loved Julia--God, how he did love her!

But, through all their years together, there must not be that shadowupon their happiness; it was too hideous to be endured. "It must beendured, " mused Jim wretchedly. "It is true!

"Anyway, " he went on presently, rousing himself, "the thing is no moreimportant than I choose to make it. Ordinarily, yes. But in this casethe thing to be considered is its effect on Julia's character, and ifever any soul was pure, hers is!

"And if we marry, we must simply make up our minds that the past isdead!" And suddenly Jim's heart grew lighter, and the black mood of thepast hour seemed to drop. He stretched himself luxuriously and foldedhis arms. "If Julia isn't a hundred per cent, sweeter and better andfiner than these friends of Babbie's, who go chasing about to bad playsand read all the rottenest books that are printed, " he said, "thenthere's no such thing as a good woman! My little girl--I'm not halfworthy of _her_, that's the truth!"

"Hello, Jim!" said Gray Babcock, coming in from the theatre, andstretching his long cold hands over the dying fire. "We thought youmight come in to-night. Hazzard and Tom Parley had a little party forMiss Manning, of the 'Dainty Duchess' Company, you know--awfully prettygirl, straight, too, they say. There were a couple of other girls, andRoy Grinell--things were just about starting up when I came away!"

Jim rose, and kicked the scattered ends of a log toward the flame. 

"I've not got much use for Hazzard, " he observed, frowning. 

Babcock gave a surprised and vacant laugh. 

"Gosh! I thought all you people were good friends!"

"Hazzard's an ass, " observed Jim irritably. "There are some things thataren't any too becoming to college kids--however, you can forgive them!But when it comes to an ass like Hazzard chasing to every beauty show, and taking good little girls to supper--"

"Alice don't care a whoop what he does, " Babcock remarked hastily. 

"Yes, so of course that makes everything all right, " Jim saidironically. But Mr. Babcock was in no mood to be critical of tones. 

"Sure it does!" he agreed contentedly. And when Jim had disgustedlydeparted, he remained still staring into the fire, a pleased smile uponhis face. 

Julia spent the next day in bed fighting a threatened nervous breakdown, and Jim came to see her at two o'clock, and they had a long andmemorable talk, with Jim's chair drawn close to the couch, and thegirl's lax hand in his own. She had not slept all night, she told him, and he suspected that she had spent much of the long vigil in tears. Tears came again as she begged a hundred times to set him free, but hequieted her at last, and the old tragedy that had risen to haunt themwas laid. And if Julia felt a rush of blind gratitude and hope when theysealed their new compact with a kiss, Jim was no less happy--everythinghad come out wonderfully, and he loved Julia not less, but more than hehad ever loved her. The facts of her life, whatever they had been, hadmade her what she was; now let them all be forgotten. 

"Still, you are not sorry I told you, Jim?" Julia asked. 

"No, oh, no, dearest! If only because you would have been sure to wantto do it sooner or later--it would have worried you. But now I do know, Julie, you little Spartan! And this ends it. We'll never speak of itagain, and we'll never think of it again. You and I are the only two whoknow--And we love each other. When all's said and done, it's I that amnot good enough for you, darling, not worthy to tie your little shoelaces!"

"Oh, _you_!" Julia said, in great content. 

The rest followed, as Julia herself said, like "a house-maid's dream. "Jim went home to tell his own people that night, and the very nextmorning Julia, surprised and smiling, took in at the door a trim littlepackage that proved to be a blue-and-white Copenhagen teacup, with acard that bore only the words "Miss Barbara Lowe Toland. " Julia twistedit in her fingers with a curious little thrill at the heart. The"nicest" people sent cups to engaged girls, the "nicest" people senttheir cards innocent of scribbled messages. She, Julia Page, was one ofthe "nicest" people now, and these were the first tentacles of her newestate reaching out to meet her. 

Notes and flowers from the Tolands and the warm-hearted Tolandsthemselves followed thick and fast, and in a day or two notes andcups--cups--cups--were coming from other people as well. The MissesSaunders, the Harvey Brocks, the George Chickerings, Mr. Peter Coleman, Mr. Jerome Phillips, Mrs. Arnold Keith, and Miss Mary Peacock--all hadfound time to go into Nathan Dohrmann's, or Gump's, or the White House, and pick out a beautiful cup to send Miss Julia Page. 

Six weeks--five weeks--three weeks to the wedding, sang Julia's heart;the time ran away. She had dreaded having to meet Jim's friends, and haddreaded some possible embarrassment from an unexpected move on the partof her own family, but the days fled by, and the miracle of theirhappiness only expanded and grew sweeter, like a great opening rose. Their hours together, with so much to tell each other and so much todiscuss, no matter how short the parting had been, were hours ofexquisite delight. And as Julia's beauty and charm were praised on allsides, Jim beamed like a proud boy. As for Julia, every day brought toher notice something new to admire in this wonderful lover of hers: hisscowl as he fixed his engine, the smile that always met hers, theinstant soberness and attention with which he answered any question asto his work from the older doctor--all this was delightful to her. Andwhen he took her to luncheon, his careless big fingers on the ready goldpieces and his easy nod to the waiter were not lost upon Julia. She hadloved him for himself, but it was additionally endearing to learn thatother people loved him, too, to be stopped by elderly women who smiledand praised him, to have young people affectionately interested in hisplans. 

"You know you are nothing but a small boy, Jim, " Julia said one day, "just a sweet, happy kid! You were a spoiled and pitied little boy, withyour big eyes and your velvet suits and your patent leathers; you lovedevery one--every one loved you; you had your allowance, you were born tobe a surgeon, and chance made your guardian a doctor--"

"I fell down on my exams, " Jim submitted meekly. "And there was a fellowat college who said I bored him!"

"Oh, dearest, " Julia said, beginning to laugh at his rueful face, "andare those the worst things that ever happened to you?"

"About, " said Jim, enjoying the consolatory little kiss she gave him. 

"And your youngness baffles me, " pursued Julia thoughtfully. "You're tenyears older than I am, you've been able to do a thousand things I neverdid, you're a rising young surgeon, and yet--and yet sometimes there's asort of level--level isn't the word!--a sort of _positive_ youth about youthat makes me feel eighty! It's just as if you had been born everythingyou are, ready made! When you have to straighten a child's hip, you pushyour hair back like a nice little kid, and say to yourself, 'Sure--Ican do that!' You seem as pleased and surprised as any one else wheneverything comes out right!"

"Well, gosh! I never can put on any lugs!" said James, rumpling his hairin penitential enjoyment. 

"I have to learn things so _hard_, " Julia mused, "they dig down right intothe very soul of me--"

"You're implying that I'm shallow, " said the doctor sternly. "You thinkI'm a pampered child of luxury, but I'm not! I just think I'm a prettyordinary fellow who came in for an extraordinary line of luck. I wouldhave made a pretty good bluff at supporting myself in any sort of life;as it was, when I was a youngster, growing up, I used to say to myself, 'You think you're going to be rich, but half the poor men in the worldare born rich, anything may happen!' However, I enjoyed things just thesame, and I went to medical college just because Dad said every manought to be able to support himself. Then I got interested in the thing, and old Fox was a king to me, and told me I ought to go in for surgery. My own father was a surgeon, you know. Some hands are just naturallybetter for it than others, and his were, and mine are. And attwenty-five I came of age, and found that my money was pretty safelyfixed, and that Dad was kind of counting on my going in with him. Sothere you are! Things just come my way; as I say, I'd have beensatisfied with less, but I've got in the habit of taking my luck forgranted. "

"And some people, like--well, like my grandmother, for instance, justget in the habit of bad luck, " Julia said, with a sigh. "And some, likemyself, " she added, brightening, "are born in the bad belt, and pushinto the good! And we're the really lucky ones! I shall never put on afresh frock, or go downtown with you to the theatre, without a specialseparate joy!"

Jim said, "You angel!" and as she jumped up--they had been sitting sideby side in the hall at The Alexander--he caught her around the waist, and Julia set a little kiss on the top of his hair. 

"But you do love me, Ju?" Jim asked. 

"But I do indeed!" she answered. "Why do you always ask me in thatargumentative sort of way? But me no buts!"

"Ah, well, it's because I'm always afraid you'll stop!" Jim pleaded. "And I do so want you to begin to love me as much as I do you!"

"You must have had thousands of girls!" Julia remarked, idly rumplinghis hair. 

"I never was engaged before!" he assured her promptly. "Except to thatDelaware girl, as I told you, and after five years she threw me over fora boy named Gregory Biddle, with several millions, but no chin, Julia, and had the gall to ask me to the wedding!"

"Jim, and you went?"

"Sure I went!" Jim declared. 

"Oh, Jim!" and Julia gave him another kiss, through a gale of laughter, and ran off to change her gown and put on her hat. 

It was a Saturday afternoon, and they were going to Sausalito. But firstthey went downtown in the lazy soft spring afternoon, to buy gloves forJulia and a scarf pin for Richie, who was to be Jim's best man, and togo into the big railroad office to get tickets for the use of Dr. AndMrs. James Studdiford three days later. 

"Where are we going?" Julia asked idly, her eyes moving about the brightpigeonholed office, and to the window, and the street beyond. Jim foranswer put his thumb upon the magic word that stared up at her from thelong ticket. 

"New York!" she whispered; her radiant look flashed suddenly to him. "Oh, Jim!" And as they went out he heard a little sigh of utter contentbeside him. "It's too much!" said Julia. "To go to New York--with you!"

"Wherever you go, you go with me, " he reminded her, with a glance thatbrought the swift colour to her face. 

Then they went down to the boat. It was the first hot afternoon of theseason; there was a general carrying of coats, and people were using thedeck seats; there was even some grumbling at the heat. But Sausalito wasat its loveliest, and Julia felt almost oppressed by the exquisitepromise of summer that came with the sudden sound of laughter and voicesin lanes that had long been silent, and with the odour of dying grassand drooping buttercups beside the road. The Toland garden was full ofroses, bright in level sunshine, windows and doors were all wide open, and the odours from bowls of flowers drifted about the house. Barbara, lovely in white, came to meet them. 

"Come in, you poor things, you must be roasted! Jim, you're as red as abeet; go take a bath!" said Barbara. "And Julia, Aunt Sanna is here, andshe says that you're to lie down for not less than an hour. And thereare some packages for you, so come up and lie down on my bed, and we'llopen them!"

"Barbara, I am so happy I think my heart will burst!" said Julia, tenminutes later, from Barbara's pillows. 

"Well, you ought to be, my good woman! Jim Studdiford--when he'ssober--is as good a husband as you're likely to get!" said Barbara, laughing. "Now, look, Julia, here's a jam pot from the Fowlers--FredericFowlers--I call that decent of them! Janey, come in here and put thisjam pot down on Julia's list! And this heavy thing from the Penroses. Ihope to goodness it isn't more carvers!"

It was Barbara who said later to Julia, in a confidential undertone:

"You know you've got to write personal notes for every bit of thisstuff, Julia, right away? Lots of girls do it on their honeymoons. "

"Well, I wanted to ask you, Barbara: how do I sign myself to thesepeople I've never seen: 'Yours truly'?"

"Oh, heavens, no! 'Sincerely yours' or 'Yours cordially' and make 'emshort. The shorter they are the smarter they are, remember that. "

"And if I sign J. P. Studdiford, or Julia P. Studdiford--then oughtn't'Mrs. J. N. ' go in one corner?"

"Oh, _no_, you poor webfoot! No. Just write a good splashy 'Julia PageStuddiford' all over the page; they'll know who you are fast enough!"

"Thanks, " said Julia shyly. 

"You're welcome, " Barbara said, smiling. "Are you ready to go down?"

After dinner the young Tolands, augmented by several young men, and byJulia and the doctor, all wandered out into the thick darkness, rejoicing in the return of summer. Sausalito's lanes were sweet withroses, lights shone out across the deep fresh green of gardens, andlights moved on the gently moving waters of the bay. A ferryboat, a massof checkered brightness, plowed its way from Alcatraz--far off the citylay like a many-stranded chain of glittering gems upon the water. Juliaand Doctor Studdiford let the others go on without them, and sattogether in the dim curve of the O'Connell seat, and the heartbreakingbeauty of the night wrapped them both in a happiness so deep as to touchthe borderland of pain. 

"Was there ever such a night?" said little Julia. "Shall we ever be sohappy again?"

Jim could not see her clearly, but he saw her bright, soft eyes in thegloom, the shimmer of her loosened hair, the little white-clad figure inthe seat's wide curve, and the crossed slim ankles. He put his arm abouther, and she rested her head on his shoulder. 

"Don't say that, darling!" said Jim. "This is great, of course. But it'snothing to all the happy months and years that we'll belong to eachother. Nothing but death will ever come between you and me, Julie!"

"And I shouldn't be afraid of death, " murmured Julia, staring up at thestars. "Strange--strange--strange that we all must go that way someday!" she mused. 

"Well, please God, we'll do some living first, " Jim said, with healthyanticipation. "We'll go to New York, and gad about, and go to Washingtonand Boston, and pick up things here and there for the house, do you see?Then we'll come back here and go to a hotel, and find a house and fix itup!"

"That'll be fun, " said Julia. 

"You bet your life it'll be fun! And then, my dear, we'll give somecorking dinners, and my beautiful wife will wear blue velvet, or whitelace, or peachy silk--"

"Or all three together, " the prospective wife suggested, "with the flagsof all nations in my hair!"

"Then next year we'll visit old Gilchrist, at Monterey, and go up toTahoe, " continued Jim, unruffled. "Or we could take some place inRoss--"

"And then I will give a small and select party for one guest, " saidJulia whimsically, "and board him, free, for fifteen or twenty years--"

"Julia, you little _duck_!" Jim bent his head over her in the starlight, and felt her soft hair brush his face, and caught the glint of herlaughing eyes close to his own, and the vague delicious little perfumeof youth and beauty and radiant health that hung about her. "Do you knowthat you are as cunning as a sassy kid?" he demanded. "Now, kiss me onceand for all, and no nonsense about it, for I can hear the others comingback!"

Two days later they were married, very quietly, in the little Church ofSaint Charles Borromeo, where Julia's father and mother had been marrieda quarter of a century ago. They had "taken advantage, " as Julia said, of her old grandfather's death, and announced that because the bride'sfamily was in mourning the ceremony would be a very quiet one. Even thepress was not notified; the Tolands filled two pews, and two more werefilled by Julia's mother, her grandmother, and cousins. Kennedy ScottMarbury and her husband were there, and sturdy two-year-old ScottMarbury, who was much interested in this extraordinary edifice andimpressive proceeding, but there were no other witnesses. Julia wore adark-blue gown, and a wide black hat whose lacy brim cast a mostbecoming shadow over her lovely, serious face. She and Miss Toland drovefrom the settlement house, and stopped to pick up Mrs. Page, who wasawed by Julia's dignity, and a little resentful of the way in whichothers had usurped her place with her daughter. However, Emeline hadvery wisely decided to make the best of the situation, and treated MissToland with stiff politeness. Julia was in a smiling dream, out of whichshe roused herself, at intervals, for only a gentle, absent-minded "Yes"or "No. "

"I tried to persuade her to be married at the Cathedral, by His Grace, "said Miss Toland to Mrs. Page. "But she wanted it this way!"

"Well, I'm sure she feels you've done too much for her as it is, "Emeline said mincingly. "Now she must turn around and return some ofit!"

To this Miss Toland made no answer except an outraged snort, and acloser pressure of her fine, bony hand upon Julia's warm little fingers. They presently reached the church, and Julia was in Barbara's hands. 

"You look lovely, darling, and your hat is a dream!" said Barbara, wholooked very handsome herself, in her brown suit and flower-trimmed hat. "We go upstairs, I think. Jim's here, nervous as a _fish_. You'rewonderful--as calm! I'd simply be in spasms. Ted was awful; you'd thinkshe had been married every day, but Robert--his collar was _wilted_!"

They had reached the upper church now, and Miss Toland and Mrs. Pagefollowed the girls down the long aisle to the altar. Julia saw herlittle old grandmother, in an outrageous flowered bonnet, and Evelyn whowas a most successful modiste now, and Marguerite, looking flushed andexcited, with her fat, apple-faced young husband, and three lumpy littlechildren. Also her Aunt May was there, and some young people: Muriel, who was what Evelyn had been at fifteen, and a toothless nine-year-oldRegina, in pink, and some boys. On the other side were the elegantTolands, the dear old doctor in an aisle seat, with his hands, holdinghis eye-glasses and his handkerchief, fallen on either knee; Ted lovelyin blue, Constance and Jane with Ned and Mrs. Ned, frankly staring. 

As Julia came down the aisle, with a sudden nervous jump of her heart, she saw Jim and Richie, who was limping badly, but without his crutch, come toward her. The old priest came down the altar steps at the sametime. She and Jim listened respectfully to a short address withouthearing a word of it, and found themselves saying the familiar wordswithout in the least sensing them. Julia battled through the prayer witha vague idea that she was losing a valuable opportunity to invoke theblessing of God, but unable to think of anything but the fact that thebride usually walked out of church on the groom's arm, and that St. Charles's aisle was long and rather dismal in the waning afternoonlight. 

"Here, darling, in the vestry!" Jim was whispering, smiling his dear, easy, reassuring smile as he guided her to the nearby door. And in asecond they were all about her, her first kiss on the wet cheek of AuntSanna, the second to her mother--"Evelyn, you were a darling to come wayacross the city, and Marguerite, you were a darling to bring thoseprecious angels"--and then the old doctor's kiss, and Richie's kiss, anda pressure from his big bony fingers. Julia half knelt to embrace littleScott Marbury. "He's beautiful, Kennedy; no wonder you're proud!" Andshe tore her beautiful bunch of roses apart, that each girl might have afew. 

"I've got to get her to the train!" Jim protested presently, tryingpatiently to disengage his wife's hands, eyes, and attention. "Julia!Julia Studdiford!"

"Yes, I know!" Julia laughed, and was snatched away, half laughing andhalf in tears, and hurried down to the side street, where a carriage waswaiting. And here there was one more delay: Chester Cox, a thinshambling figure, came forward from a shadowy doorway, and rathertimidly held out his hand. 

"I couldn't get away until jest now, " said Chester. "But of course Iwish you luck, Julia!"

"Why, it's my uncle!" Julia said, cordially clasping his hand. "Mr. Cox--Doctor Studdiford. I'm so glad you came, Chess!"

"Glad to know you, Mr. Cox, " Jim said heartily. 

"And I brought you a little present; it ain't much, but maybe you canuse it!" mumbled Chester, terribly embarrassed, and with a nervous laughhanding Julia a rather large package somewhat flimsily wrapped and tied. 

"Oh, thank you!" Julia said gratefully. And before she got in thecarriage she put her hand on Chester's arm, and raised her fresh, exquisite little face for a kiss. 

"Now, about this--" Doctor Studdiford began delicately, glancing atChester's gift, which Julia had given him to hold. "I wonder if itwouldn't be wise to ask your uncle to send this to my mother's until weget back, Ju. You see, dear--"

"Oh, no-no!" Julia said eagerly, leaning out of the carriage, and takingthe package again. She sent Chester a last bright smile, as Jim jumpedin and slammed the door, but it was an April face that she turned asecond later to her husband. 

"They're all so good to me, and it just breaks my heart!" she said. 

"At last--it's all over--and you belong to me!" exulted Jim. "I havebeen longing and _longing_ for this, just to be alone with you, and haveyou to myself. Are you tired, sweetheart?"

"No-o. Just a little--perhaps. "

"But you do love me?"

"Oh, Jim--you idiot!" Julia slipped her hand into his, as he put one armabout her, and rested against his shoulder. "When I think that I willoften ride in carriages, " she mused, half smiling, "and that, besidesbeing my Jim, you are a rich man, it makes me feel as if I wereCinderella!"

"You shall have your own carriage if you want it, Pussy!" he smiled. 

"Oh, don't--don't give me anything more, " begged Julia, "or a clocksomewhere will strike twelve, and I'll wake up in The Alexander, withthe Girls' Club rehearsing a play!"

When she had examined every inch of her Pullman drawing-room, andcommented upon one hundred of its surprising conveniences, and when hersmart little travelling case, the groom's gift, had been partlyunpacked, and when her blue eyes had refreshed themselves with a longlook at the rolling miles of lovely San Mateo hills, then young Mrs. Studdiford looked at her Uncle Chester's wedding gift. She found a brushand comb and mirror in pink celluloid, with roses painted on them, locked with little brass hasps into a case lined with yellow silk. 

"Look, Jim!" said Julia pitifully, not knowing whether to laugh or tocry. 

"Gosh!" said the doctor thoughtfully, looking over the coat he wasneatly arranging on a hanger. "I've often wondered who buys thosethings!"

"I'll give it to the porter, " Julia decided. "He may like it. Dear oldChess!" And Jim grinned indulgently a few minutes later at the pictureof his beautiful little wife enslaving the old coloured porter, andgravely discussing with him the advantages and disadvantages of hiswork. 

"You know, we could have our meals in here, Ju, " Jim suggested. "Claudehere"--all porters were "Claude" to Jim--"would take care of us, wouldn't you, Claude?"

"Dat I would!" said Claude with husky fervour. But Julia's face fell. 

"Oh, Jim! But it would be such fun to go out to the dining-car!" shepleaded. 

Jim shouted. "All right, you baby!" he said. "You see, my wife's only alittle girl, " he explained. "She's--are you eight or nine, Julia?"

"She sho' don't look more'n dat, " Claude gallantly assured them, as hedeparted. 

"I'll be twenty-four on my next birthday, " Julia said thoughtfully, afew moments later. 

"Well, at that, you may live three or four years more!" Jim consoledher. "Do you know what time it is, Loveliness? It's twenty minutes pastsix. We've been married exactly two hours and twenty minutes. How do youlike it?"

"I love it!" said Julia boldly. "Do I have to change my dress fordinner?"

"You do not. "

"But I ought to fix my hair, it's all mashed!" Julia did wonders to itwith one of the ivory-backed brushes that had come with the newtravelling case, fluffing the thick braids and tucking the loose goldenstrands about her temples trimly into place. Then she rubbed her facewith a towel, and jumped up to straighten her belt, and run aninvestigating finger about the embroidered "turn-down" collar thatfinished her blue silk blouse. Finally she handed Jim her newwhisk-broom with a capable air, and presented straight little shouldersto be brushed. 

Jim turned her round and round, whisking and straightening, andoccasionally kissing the tip of a pink ear, or the straight white linewhere her hair parted. 

"Here, you can't keep that up all night!" Julia suddenly protested, grabbing the brush. "I'll do you!" But Jim stopped the performance bysuddenly imprisoning girl and whiskbroom in his arms. 

"Do you know I think we are going to have great fun!" said he. "You'resuch a good little sport, Ju! No nerves and no nonsense about you! It'ssuch fun to do things with a person who isn't eternally fussing aboutheat and cold, and whether she ought to wear her gloves into thedining-car, and whether any one will guess that she's just married!"

"Oh, I have my nervous moments, " Julia confessed, her eyes lookinghonestly up into his. "It seems awfully strange and queer, rushingfarther and farther away from home, alone with you!" Her voice sank alittle; she put up her arms and locked them about his neck. "I have tokeep reminding myself that you are just you, Jim, " she said bravely, "who gave me my Browning, and took me to tea at the Pheasant--and thenit all seems right again! And then--such lots of nice people _have_ gotmarried, and gone away on honeymoons, " she ended, argumentatively. 

The laughter had gone from Jim's eyes; a look almost shy, almostashamed, had taken its place. He kept her as she was for a moment, thengave her a serious kiss, and they went laughing through the rocking carsto eat their first dinner together as man and wife. And Jim watched heras she radiantly settled herself at table, and watched the frown ofchildish gravity with which she studied her menu, with some new andtender emotion stirring at his heart. Life had greater joys in it thanhe had ever dreamed, and greater potentialities for sorrow, too. Whatwas bright in life was altogether more gloriously bright, and what wasdark seemed to touch him more closely; he felt the sorrow of age in thetrembling old man at the table across the aisle, the pathos of youth inthe two young travelling salesmen who chattered so self-confidently overtheir meal. 

Several weeks later young Mrs. Studdiford wrote to Barbara that New Yorkwas "a captured dream. " "I seem to belong to it, " wrote Julia, "and itseems to belong to me! I can't tell you how it _satisfies_ me; it is goodjust to look down from my window at Fifth Avenue, every morning, and sayto myself, 'I'm still in New York!' For the first two weeks Jim and Idid everything alone, like two children: the new Hippodrome, and ConeyIsland, and the Liberty Statue, and the Bronx Zoo. I _never_ had such agood time! We went to the theatres, and the museums, and had breakfastat the Casino, and _lived_ on top of the green 'busses! But now Jim haslet some of his old college friends know we are here, and we arespinning like tops. One is an artist, and has the most fascinatingstudio I ever saw, down on Washington Square, and another is an editor, and gave us a tea in his rooms, overlooking Stuyvesant Square, andBarbara, everybody there was a celebrity (except us) and all so sweetand friendly--it was a hot spring day, and the trees in the square wereall such a fresh, bright green. 

"They make a great fuss about the spring here, and you can hardly blamethem. The whole city turns itself inside out; people simply stream tothe parks, and the streets swarm with children. Some of the poorer womengo bareheaded or with shawls, even in the cars--did you ever see abareheaded woman in a car at home? But they are all much nearer thepeasant here. And after clean San Francisco, you wouldn't believe howdirty this place is; all the smaller stores have shops in the basements, and enough dirt and old rags and wet paper lying around to send DoctorBlue into a convulsion! And they use pennies here, which seems so petty, and paper dollars instead of silver, which I hate. And you say 'L' or'sub' for the trains, and always 'surface cars' for the regularcars--it's all so different and so interesting. 

"Tell Richie Jim is going to assist the great Doctor Cassell in somedemonstrations of bone transplanting, at Bellevue, next week--oh, andBarbara, did I write Aunt Sanna that we met the President! My dear, wedid. We were at the theatre with the Cassells, and saw him in a box, andDoctor Cassell, the old darling, knows him, and went to the President'sbox to ask if we might be brought in and presented, and, my dear, he gotup and came back with Doctor Cassell to our box, and was simply _sweet_, and asked me if I wasn't from the South, and I nearly said, 'Yes, southof Market Street, ' but refrained in time. I had on the new apricotcrepe, and a black hat, and felt very Lily-like-a-princess, as Janesays. 

"But we're both getting homesick; it will seem good to see the old ferrybuilding again--and Sausalito, and all of you. "

Early in July they did start homeward, but by so circuitous a route, andwith such prolonged stops at the famous hotels of Canada, that it was ona September afternoon that they found themselves taking the Tolandhousehold by storm. And Julia thought no experience in her travels sosweet as this one: to be received into the heart of the family, and tosettle down to a review of the past five months. Richie was so brotherlyand kind, the girls so admiring of her furs and her diamonds, so full ofgay chatter, the old doctor so gallant and so affectionate! Mrs. Tolandchirped and twittered like the happy mother of a cageful of canaries;and Julia, when they gathered about the fire after dinner, took a lowstool next to Miss Toland's chair and rested a shoulder, little-girlfashion, against the older woman's knee. 

"It was simply a tour of triumph for Ju, " said Doctor Jim, packing hispipe at the fireplace, with satisfied eyes on his wife. "She has friendsin the Ghetto and friends in the White House. We went down to theDuponts', on Long Island, and Dupont said she--"

"Oh, please, Jim!" Julia said seriously. 

"Dupont said she was one of the most interesting women he ever talkedto, " Jim continued inexorably, "and John Mandrake wanted to paint her!"

"Tell me the news!" begged Julia. "How's The Alexander, Aunt Sanna--howis Miss Striker turning out?"

"She's turned out, " said Miss Toland grimly, her knitting needlesflashing steadily. "She came to me with her charts and rules, and oh, she couldn't lie in bed after half-past six in the morning, and shecouldn't put off the sewing class, and she would like to ask me not toeat my breakfast after nine o'clock! A girl who never cared what sheate--sardines and tea!--and she wouldn't come in with me to dinner atthe Colonial because she was afraid they used coal tar andformaldehyde--ha! Finally she asked me if I wouldn't please keep theexpenditures of the house and my own expenditures separate, and that wasthe _end_!"

Jim's great laugh burst out, and Julia dimpled as she asked demurely:

"What on _earth_ did you say?"

"Say? I asked her if she knew I built The Alexander, and sent herpacking! And now"--Miss Toland rubbed her nose with the gesture Juliaknew so well--"now Miss Pierce is temporarily in charge, but she won'tstay there nights, so the clubs are given up, " she observeddiscontentedly. 

"And what's the news from Sally?" Julia pursued. 

"Just the loveliest in the world, " Mrs. Toland said. "Keith is workinglike a little Trojan; and Sally sent us a perfectly charming descriptionof the pension, and their walks--"

"Yes, and how she couldn't go out because she hadn't shoes, " Jane added, half in malice, half in fun. "_Don't_ look so shocked, Mother dear, youknow it's true. And the landlady cheating them out of a whole week'sboard--"

"Gracious me!" said Mrs. Toland, in a low undertone full of annoyance. "Did any one ever hear such nonsense! All that is past history now, Janey, " she reminded her young daughter, in her usual hopeful voice. "Dad sent a cheque, like the dear, helpful daddy he is, and noweverything's lovely again!"

Julia did not ask for Ted until she saw Barbara alone for a moment thenext day. It was about ten o'clock on a matchless autumn morning, andJulia, stepping from her bedroom's French window to the wide sunny porchthat ran the width of the house, saw Barbara some forty feet awaysitting just outside her own window, with a mass of hair spread to thesun. 

Julia joined her, dragged out a low, light chair from Barbara's room, and settled herself for a gossip. 

"Had breakfast?" Barbara smiled. "Jim downstairs?"

"Oh, hours ago!" Julia said to the first question, and to the second, with the young wife's conscious blush, "Jim's dressing. He's the mostimpossible person to get started in the morning!"

Barbara did not blush but she felt a little tug at her heart. 

"Come, " she said, "I thought Jim had no faults?"

"Well, he hasn't, " Julia laughed. And then, a little confused by her ownfervent tone, she changed the subject, and asked about Ted. 

"Why, Ted's happy, and rich, and simply adored by Bob Carleton, " Barbarasummarized briefly, in a rather dry voice, "but Mother and Dad neverwill get over it, and I suppose Ted herself doesn't like the idea ofthat other wife--she lives at The Palace, and she's got a seven-year-oldgirl! It's _done_, you know, Julie, and of course Ted's acceptedeverywhere; she'll go to the Brownings' this year, and Mrs. Morton hasasked her to receive with her at some sort of dinner reception nextmonth, you'll meet her everywhere. But I do think it's terribly hard onMother and Dad!"

"But how _could_ she, that great big black creature?"

"Oh, she loves him fast enough! It was perfectly legal, of course. Ithink Dad was at the wedding, and I think Richie was, but we girls neverknew anything until it was all over. Mother simply announced to us onenight that Ted was married, and that there was to be no open break, butthat she and Dad were just about _sick_! I never saw Mother give way so!She said--and it's true--that if ever there was a mother who deservedher children's confidence, and so on! All the newspapers blazed aboutit--Ted's picture, Bob's picture--and, as I say, society welcomed herwith open arms. They've got a gorgeous suite at the St. Francis, and Tedreally looks stunning, and acts as if she'd done something very smart. Con says that when she called, it reminded her of the second act of abad play. Ted came here with Bob, one Saturday afternoon, but Motherhasn't been near her!"

"It seems too bad, " Julia said thoughtfully, "when your father andmother are always so sweet!"

"There must be some reason for it, " Barbara observed, "I suppose we wereall spoiled as kids, with our dancing schools and our dresses fromParis, and so now when we want things we oughtn't have, we just take'em, from habit! I remember a governess once, a nice enough littleDanish woman, but Ned and I got together and decided we wouldn't standher, and Mother let her go. It seems funny now. Mother used to say thatnever in her life did she allow her children to want anything she couldgive them; but I'm not at all sure that's a very wise ideal!"

"Nor I, " said Julia earnestly. Barbara had parted and brushed her darkhair now, and as she gathered it back, the ruthless morning sunlightshowed lines on her pretty face and faint circles about her eyes. 

"Because life gets in and gives you whacks, " Barbara presently pursued, "you're going to want a lot of things you can't have before you getthrough, and it only makes it harder! Sally's paying for her jump in thedark, poor old Ned is condemned to Yolo City and Eva for the rest of hislife, and somehow Ted's the saddest of all--so confident and noisy andrich, boasting about Bob's affection, buying everything she sees--and so_young_, somehow! As for me, " said Barbara, "my only consolation is thatnearly every family has one of me, and some have more--a nice-looking, well-liked, well-dressed young woman, who has cost her parents anenormous amount of money, to get--nowhere!"

"Why, Lady Babbie!" Julie protested. "It's not like you to talk so!"

Barbara patted the hand that had been laid upon her knee, and laughed. 

"And the moral of that is, Ju, " she said, "if you have children, don'tspoil them! You've had horribly hard times, but they've given you somesense. As for Jim, he's an exception. It's a miracle he wasn'truined--but he wasn't!" And she gathered up her towels and brushes to goback into her room. "But I needn't tell you that, Julie!" said she. 

"Ah, well, Jim!" Julia conceded, smiling. 

Jim had no faults, of course. Yet the five-months wife sighedunconsciously as she went back to her room. Jim had qualities that hadnow and then caused a faint little cloud to drift across Julia's life, but that sheer loyalty had kept her from defining, even in her inmostheart. Now this talk with Barbara had suddenly seemed to make themclear. Jim was--spoiled was too harsh a word. But Jim wanted his ownway, in little things and big--all the time. The world just now for Jimheld only Julia. What she wanted he wanted, and, at any cost, he wouldhave. If her gown was not right for the special occasion, she shouldhave a new gown; if the motor car was out of order, telephone foranother; if the steward assured them that there was not another table inthe dining-room--tip him, tip everybody, make a scene, but see that the"Reserved" card comes off somebody's table, and that the Studdifords areseated there in triumph. 

At first Julia had only laughed at her lord's masterful progress. It wasvery funny to her to see how quickly his money and his determination wonhim his way. A great deal of money was wasted, of course, but then, thiswas their honeymoon, and some day they would settle down and spendrationally. Jim, like all rich men, had an absolute faith in the powerof gold. The hall maid must come in and hook Mrs. Studdiford's gown; oh, and would she be here at, say, one o'clock, when Mrs. Studdiford camehome? She went off at twelve, eh? Well, what was it worth to her to stayon to-night, until one? Good. And by the way, Mrs. Studdiford had torn alace gown and wanted it to-morrow; could the maid mend it and press it?She didn't think so? Well, come, there must be somebody who would rushit through for Mrs. Studdiford? Ah, that was fine, thank you very much, that would do very nicely. Or perhaps it was a question of theatretickets, and Jim would stop his taxicab on Broadway at the theatre'sdoor. Here, boy! Boy, come here! Go up and ask him what his best forto-night are? There's a line of people waiting, eh?--well, go up and asksome fellow at the top of the line what it's worth to him to get twoseats for me. Oh, fine. Much obliged to you, sir. Thank you. Andhere--boy!

"Do you think the entire world circles about your convenience, Jim?"Julia asked amusedly one day, after some such episode. "Sure, " heanswered, grinning. 

"Jim, you don't think you can go through life walking over people thisway?"

"Why not, my good lady?"

"Well, " said Julia gravely, "some day you may find you want somethingyou _can't_ buy!"

"There ain't no such animal, " Jim assured her cheerfully. 

Only a trifling cloud, after all, Julia assured herself hardily. Butthere was a constant little sensation of uneasiness in her heart. Shetried to convince herself that the sweetness of his nature had not beenundermined by this ability to indulge himself however fast his fanciesshifted; she reasoned that because so many good things were his, he neednot necessarily hold them in light esteem. Yet the thought persistedthat he knew neither his own mind nor his own heart; there had been nodiscipline there, no hard-won battles--there were no reserves. 

"I call that simply borrowing trouble!" said Kennedy Scott Marburyhealthily, one day when she and the tiny Scott were lunching with Juliaat the hotel. Kennedy was close to her second confinement, and theladies had lunched in Julia's handsome sitting-room. "Lord, Julie dear!It seems sometimes as if you have to have _something_ in this world, "Kennedy went on cheerfully; "either actual trouble or mental worries!Anthony and I were talking finances half last night: we decided that wecan't move to a larger house, just now, and so on--and we both said _what_would it be like to be free from money worries for ten minutes--"

"But, Ken, don't you see how necessary you are to each other!" saidJulia, kneeling before the chair in which her fat godson was seated, anddisplaying a number of gold chains and bracelets for his amusement. "Youhave to take a turn at everything--cooking and sewing and caring for oldSweetum here--Anthony couldn't get on without you!"

"And I suppose you think Doctor Studdiford could find twenty wives aspretty and clever and charming as you are, Ju?"

"Fifty!" Julia answered. 

"Well, now, that just shows what a little idiot you are!" Mrs. Marburyscolded. "Not but what most women feel that way sooner or later, " sheadded, less severely. "I remember that phase very well, myself! But thething for you to do, Julie, is to remember that you're exactly the samewoman he fell in love with, d'you see? Just mind your own affairs, andbe happy and busy, and try not to fancy things!"

"What a sensible old thing you are, Ken!" said Julia gratefully. And asKennedy came over to stand near her, Julia gave her a little rub withher head, like an affectionate pony. "I think it's partly this hotelthat's demoralizing me, " Julia went on, a little shamed. "I feel souseless--getting up, eating, dressing, idling about, and going to bedagain. Jim has his work, and I'll be glad when I have mine again!"

CHAPTER II

In these days, the Studdifords were househunting in all of Jim's freehours; confining their efforts almost entirely to the city, although atrip to San Mateo or Ross Valley made a welcome change now and then. Itwas not until late in October that the right house was found, on PacificAvenue, almost at the end of the cable-car line. It was a new house, large and square, built of dignified dark-red brick, and with a roomyand beautiful garden about it. There was a street entrance, barred by aniron gate elaborately grilled, and giving upon three shallow brick stepsthat led to the heavily carved door. On the side street was an entrancefor the motor car and tradespeople, the slope of the hill giving roomfor a basement kitchen, with its accompanying storerooms and laundries. 

Upstairs, the proportions of the rooms, and their exquisite finish, madethe house prominent among the city's beautiful homes. Even Jim couldfind nothing to change. The splendid dark simplicity of the drawing-roomwas in absolute harmony with the great main hall, and in charmingcontrast to the cheerful library and the sun-flooded morning-room. Thedining-room had its own big fireplace, with leather-cushioned ingleseats, and quaint, twinkling, bottle-paned windows above. On the nextfloor the four big bedrooms, with their three baths and threedressing-rooms and countless closets, were all bright and sunny, withshining cream-coloured panelling, cretonne papers in gay designs offlowers and birds, and crystal door knobs. Upstairs again were maids'rooms, storerooms lined in cedar, and more baths. 

"Perfect!" said Jim radiantly, on the afternoon when, the Studdifordsfirst inspected the house. "It's just exactly right, and I'm strong forit!" He came over to Julia, who was thoughtfully staring out of adrawing-room window. Her exquisite beauty was to-day set off by a longloose sealskin coat, for the winter was early, and a picturesque littlemotor bonnet, also of seal, with a velvet rose against her soft hair. "Little bit sad to-day, sweetheart?" Jim asked, kissing the tip of herear. 

"No--o. I was just thinking what a lovely, sheltered backyard!" Juliasaid sensibly, raising her blue eyes. But she had brightened perceptiblyat his tenderness. "I love you, Jim, " she said, very simply. 

"And I adore you!" Jim answered, his arms about her. "I've been thinkingall day how rotten that sounded this morning!" he added in a lower tone. "I'm so sorry!"

"As if it was your fault!" Julia protested generously. And a momentlater she charmed him by declaring herself to be entirely satisfied withthis enchanting house, and by entering vigorously upon the question offurnishings. 

The little episode to which Doctor Studdiford had made a somewhatembarrassed allusion had taken place in their rooms at the hotel thatmorning, while they were breakfasting. Plans for a little dinner partywere progressing pleasantly, over the omelette and toast, when Jimchanced to suggest that a certain Mrs. Pope be included among theguests. 

"Oh, Jim--not Mrs. Jerry Pope?" Julia questioned, wide eyed. 

"Yes, but she calls herself Mrs. Elsie Carroll Pope now. Why not?"

"Oh, Jim--but she's divorced!"

"Well, so are lots of other people!"

"Yes, I know. But it was such a horrid divorce, Jim!"

"Horrid how?"

"Oh, some other man, and letters in the papers, and Mr. Pope kept boththe children! It was awful!"

"Oh, come, Ju--she's a nice little thing, awfully witty and clever. Whygo out of your way to knock her!"

"I'm not going out of my way, " Julia answered with dignity. "But she wasa great friend of Mary Chetwynde, who used to teach at The Alexander, and she came out there two or three times, and she's a noisy, yellingsort of woman--and her hair is dyed--yes, it _is_, Jim!"

"Lord, you women do love to rip each other up the back!" Jim smiledlazily, as he wheeled his chair about, and lighted a cigarette. 

"I'm not ripping her up the back at all, " Julia protested with spirit. "But she's not a lady, and I hate the particular set she goes with--"

"Not a lady--ha!" Jim ejaculated. "She was a Cowdry. "

Julia leaned back in her chair, and opened a fat letter from SallyBorroughs in Europe, that had come in her morning's mail. 

"Ask her by all means to dinner, " she said calmly. "Only don't expect meto admire her and approve of her, Jim, for I won't do it; I know toomuch about her!"

"It's just possible Mrs. Pope isn't waiting for your admiration andapproval, my dear, " Jim said, nettled "But I doubt, whatever she knew ofyou, if she would speak so unkindly about _you_!"

Julia turned as scarlet as if a whip had fallen across her face. Shestared at him for a moment with fixed, horrified eyes, then crushed herletter together with a spasmodic gesture of the hands, and let it fallas she went blindly toward the bedroom door. Jim sat staring after her, puzzled at first, then with the red blood surging into his face. Hedropped his cigarette and his newspaper, and for perhaps three minutesthere was no sound in the apartment but the coffee bubbling in thepercolator, and the occasional clank of the radiator. 

Then Jim jumped up suddenly and flung open the door of the bedroom. Julia was sitting at her dressing-table, one elbow resting upon it, andher head dropped on her hand. She raised heavy eyes and looked at him. 

"Don't be a fool, Ju, " Jim said, solicitous and impatient. "You know Ididn't mean anything by that. I wouldn't be such a cad. You know Iwouldn't say a thing like that--I couldn't. Come on back and finish yourcoffee. "

But he did not kiss her; he did not put his arm about her; and Juliafelt curiously weary and cold as she came slowly back to her place. Jimimmediately lighted a fresh cigarette, and began to rattle away somewhatnervously of his plans for the day. He was going over to the OaklandHospital to look at his man with the spine--better not try to meet forlunch. But how about that Pacific Avenue house? If Julia took the motorand stopped at the agent's for the key, he would meet her there atfour--how about it?

Agreed. Gosh! It was nearly ten o'clock, and Jim had to get out to theChildren's Hospital before he went to Oakland. Julia had a quick kiss, and was advised to take good care of herself. Then Jim was gone, and shecould fling her arm across the table and sob as if her heart wouldbreak. 

Julia cried for a long time. Then she stopped resolutely, and spent along half hour in serious thought, her fingers absently tracing thethreads of the tablecloth with a fork, her thoughts flying. 

Presently she roused herself, telephoned Jim's chauffeur and the agentof the Pacific Avenue house, bathed her reddened eyes, and inspected hernew furs, just home from the shop. Now and then her breast rose with along sigh, but she did not cry again. 

"I'll wear my new furs, " she decided soberly. "Jim loves me to lookpretty. And I _must_ cheer up; he hates me to be blue! Who can I lunchwith, to cheer up? Aunt Sanna! I'll get a cold chicken and some cake, and go out to The Alexander!"

So the outward signs of the storm were obliterated, and no one knew ofthe scar that Julia carried from that day in her heart. Only a tiny, tiny scar, but enough to remind her now and then with cold terror thateven into her Paradise the serpent could thrust his head, enough toprove to her bitter satisfaction that there was already something thatJim's money could not buy. 

The furnishing of the Pacific Avenue house proceeded apace--it was aneminently gratifying house to furnish, and Jim and Julia almost wishedtheir labours not so light. All rugs looked well on those beautifulfloors; all pictures were at their best against the dull rich tones ofthe walls. Did Mrs. Studdiford like the soft blue curtains in thelibrary, or the dull gold, or the coffee-coloured tapestry? Mrs. Studdiford, an exquisite little figure of indecision, in a greatElizabethan chair of carved black oak, didn't really know; they were allso beautiful! She wondered why the blue wouldn't be lovely in thebreakfast room, if they used the gold here? Then she wouldn't use theEnglish cretonne in the breakfast room? Oh, yes, of course, she hadforgotten the English cretonne!

At last it was all done, from the two stained little Roman marblebenches outside the front door, to the monogrammed sheets in the atticcedar closet. The drawing-room had its grand piano, its great mahoganydavenport facing the fire, its rich dark rugs, its subdued gleam ofcopper and crystal, dull blue china and bright enamel. The littlereception room was gay with yellow-gold silk and teakwood; Jim's librarywas severely handsome with its dark leather chairs and rows of darkleather bindings. A dozen guests could sit about the long oak table inthe dining-room; the great sideboard with its black oak cupids andsatyrs, and its enormous claw feet, struck perhaps the only pretentiousnote in the house. A wide-lipped bowl, in clear yellow glass, held rosypippins or sprawling purple grapes on the table in the window, thesideboard carried old jugs and flagons in blackened silver or dullpottery. 

Upstairs the sunny perfection of the bedrooms was not marred by the needof so much as a cake of violet soap. Julia revelled in details here:flowers in the bedrooms must match the hangings; there must be so manyfringed towels and so many plain, in each bathroom. She amused as wellas edified Jim with her sedate assurance in the matter of engagingmaids; her cheeks would grow very pink when interviews were afoot, butshe never lost her air of calm. 

"We are as good as they are, " said Julia, "but how hard it is toremember it when you are talking to them!"

Presently Foo Ting was established supreme in the kitchen, Lizziesecured as waitress, and Ellie, Lizzie's sister, engaged to do upstairswork. Chadwick, Jim's chauffeur, was accustomed occasionally to enactalso the part of valet, so that it was with a real luxury of servicethat the young Studdifords settled down for the winter. 

Julia had anticipated this settling as preceding a time of quiet, whenshe and Jim should loiter over their snug little dinners, should come toknow the comforts of their own chairs, at each side of the library fire, and laugh and cry over some old book, or talk and dream while theystared into the coals. The months were racing about to her first weddinganniversary, yet she felt that she really knew Jim only in a certainsuperficial, holiday sense--she knew what cocktail he liked best, ofcourse, and what seats in the theatre; she was quite sure of the effectof her own beauty upon him. But she longed for the real Jim, the soulthat was hidden somewhere under his gay mask, under the trim, cleanshaven, smiling face. When there was less confusion, less laughingand interrupting and going about, then she would find her husband, Juliathought, and they would have long silent hours together in which tobuild the foundation of their life. 

Her beautiful earnest face came to have a somewhat strained and wistfullook, as the weeks fled past without bringing the quiet, empty time forwhich she longed. All about her now stretched the glittering spokes ofthe city's great social wheel, every mail brought her a flood of notes, every quarter hour summoned her to the telephone, every fraction of theday had its appointed pleasure. Julia must swiftly eliminate from herlife much of the rich feminine tradition of housewifery; it was not forher to darn her husband's hose, to set exquisite patches in thinningtable linen, to gather flowers for jars and vases. Julia never saw Jim'sclothing except when he was wearing it, the table linen was Ellie'saffair, and Lizzie had the entire lower floor bright and fragrant withfresh flowers before Jim and Julia came down to breakfast. Young Mrs. Studdiford found herself readily assuming the society woman's dry, briefmannerisms. Jim used to grin sometimes when he heard her at thetelephone:

"Oh, that would be charming, Mrs. Babcock, " Julia would say, "if you'lllet me run away at three, for I must positively keep an appointment withCarroll at three, if I'm to have my gown for dear Mrs. Morton's balmasque Friday night. And if I'm just a tiny bit late you won't be cross?For we all do German at twelve now, you know, and it _will_ run over thehour! Oh, you're very sweet! Oh, no, Mrs. Talcott spoke to me about it, but we can't--we're both _so_ sorry, but this week seems to be just_full_--no, she said that, but I told her that next week was just as bad, so she's to let me know about the week after. Oh, I know she is. And I_did_ want to give her a little tea, but there doesn't seem to be a_moment_! I think perhaps I'll ask Mrs. Castle to let us dine with hersome other time, and give Betty a little dinner Monday--"

And so on and on, in the quick harassed voice of one who must meetobligations. 

"You're a great social success, Ju, " Jim said, smiling, one morning. 

Julia made a little grimace over her letters. 

"Oh, come off, now!" her husband railed good-naturedly. "You know youlove it. You know you like to dress up and trot about with me and beadmired!"

"I like to trot about with you, " Julia conceded, sighing in spite of hersmile. "But I get very tired of dinners. Some other woman gets you, andsome other woman's husband gets me, and we say such _flat_ things, aboutmotor cars, or the theatre--nothing friendly or intimate orinteresting!"

"Wait until you know them all better, Ju. Besides, you couldn't getintimate at a dinner, very well. Besides"--Jim defended the institutionsof his class--"you didn't look very gay when young Jo Coutts seemedinclined to get very friendly at dinner the other night!"

"Jo Coutts was drunk, " Julia asserted briefly. "As they very often are, "she added severely. "Not raging drunk, but just silly, or sentimentaland important, you know. "

"I know, " Jim laughed. 

"And it makes me furious!" Julia said. "As for knowing them better, theyaren't one bit more interesting when they're old friends. They're morefamiliar, I admit that, but all this cheeky yelling back and forth isn'tinteresting--it's just tiresome! 'I'm holding your husband's hand, Alice!' 'All right, then I'm going to kiss your husband!'" Her voicerose in mimicry. "And then Kenneth Roberts tells some little shadystory, and every one screams, and every one goes on telling it over andover! Why, that little silly four-line verse Conrad Kent had lastnight--every one in the room had to learn it by heart and say it sixhundred times before we were done with it!"

"You're a cynic, woman, " Jim said, kissing his wife, who by this timehad come around to his chair. "It's all too easy for you, that's thetrouble! They've accepted you with open arms; you're the rage! You oughtto have been kept for a while on the anxious seat, like the poor Groves, and Mrs. McCann; then you'd appreciate High Sassiety!"

"Well, I wouldn't make myself ridiculous and pathetic like the Groves, trying to burst into society, and giving people a chance to snub me!"Julia said thoughtfully. "Never mind, " she added, "next month Lentbegins, and then there must be some let-up!"

However, Lent had only begun when the Studdifords made a flying trip toHonolulu, where Jim had a patient. The great liner was fascinating toJulia, and, as usual, her beauty and charm, and the famous youngsurgeon's unostentatious bigness, made them friends on all sides, sothat the life of cocktail mixing and card playing and gossip went on asmerrily as it had in San Francisco. Julia could not spend the empty daysstaring dreamily out at the rolling green Pacific; every man on boardwas anxious to improve her acquaintance, from the Captain to theseventeen-year-old little English lad who was going out to his father inIndia, and to not one of them did it ever occur that lovely little Mrs. Studdiford might prefer to be left alone. 

But the sea air shook Julia into splendid health and energy, and she washer sweetest self in Honolulu; she and Jim both seemed to recapture heresome of the exquisite tenderness of their honeymoon a year ago. Neitherwould admit that there had been any drifting apart, they had never beenless than lovers, yet now they experienced the delights of areconciliation. Julia, in her delicate linens and thin embroideredpongees, with a filmy parasol shading her bright hair, seemed morewonderful than ever before, and lovely Hawaii was a setting for one oftheir happiest times together. 

On the boat, coming home, however, there occurred a little incident thatdarkened Julia's sky for a long time to come. On the very day ofstarting she and Jim, with some other returning San Franciscans, werestanding, a laughing group on the deck, when a dark, handsome youngwoman came forward from a nearby cabin doorway, and held out her hand. 

"Do you remember me, Julia?" said she, smiling. 

Julia, whose white frock was draped with a dozen ropes of brilliantflowers, and who looked like a little May Queen in her radiant bloom, looked at the newcomer for a few moments, and then said, with a clearingface:

"Hannah! Of course I know you. Mrs. Palmer, may I present DoctorStuddiford?"

Jim smilingly shook hands, and as the rest of the group melted away, Mrs. Palmer explained that her husband's business was in Manila, but shewas bringing up her two little children to visit her parents in Oakland. 

"She's extremely pretty, " Jim said, when he and Julia were alone intheir luxurious stateroom. "Who is she?"

"I don't know why I supposed you knew that she is one of Mark'ssisters, " Julia said, colouring. "I saw something of them all, after--afterward, you know. "

"Oh!" Jim's face, which he chanced to be washing, also grew red; hescowled as he plunged it again into the towel. Julia proceeded with herown lunch toilet in silence, humming a little now and then, but thebrightness was gone from the day for her; the swift-flying green wateroutside the window had turned to lead, the immaculate little apartmentwas bleak and bare. Jim did not speak as they went down to lunch, norwas he himself when they met again, after a game of auction, at dinner. In fact, this marked Julia's first acquaintance with a new side of hischaracter. 

For Jim's sunny nature was balanced by an occasional mood so dark as tomake him a different man while it lasted. Barbara had once lightlyhinted this to Julia--"Jim was glooming terribly, and did nothing butsnarl"--and Miss Toland had confirmed the hint when she asked him, atChristmas dinner, when he and Julia had been eight months man and wife:"Well, Jim, never a blue devil once, eh?"

"Never a one. Aunt Sanna!" Jim had responded gayly. 

"What should he have blue devils about?" Julia had demanded on thisoccasion, presenting herself indignantly to them, and looking in herblack velvet and white lace like a round-eyed child. 

She thought of that happy moment this afternoon, with a little chill ather heart. For there was no doubt that Jim had blue devils now. When shecame back to her stateroom at six o'clock, he was already there, flungacross the bed, his arms locked under his head, his sombre eyes on theceiling, where green water-lights were playing. 

"Jim, don't you feel well, dear?"

"Perfectly well, thank you!" Jim said coldly. 

Slightly angered by his tone, Julia fell silent, busied herself with herbrushes, hooked on a gown of demure cherry colour and gray, caught up agreat silky scarf. 

"Anything I can do for you, Jim?" she said then, politely. 

"Just--_let me alone_!" Jim answered, without stirring. 

Hurt to the quick, and with sudden colour in her face, Julia left theroom. She held her head high, but she felt almost a little sick with theshock. Five minutes later she was the centre of a chattering group onthe deck. A milky twilight held the sea, the skyline was no longer to bediscerned in the opal spaces all about them, the ship moved over a vastplain of pearl-coloured smooth waters. Where staterooms were lighted, long fingers of rosy brightness fell across the deck; here and there inthe shelter of a bit of wall were dark blots that were passengers, wrapped and reclining, and unrecognizable in the gloom. 

Julia and a young man named Manners began to pace the deck. Mr. Mannerswas a poet, and absorbed in the fascinating study of his ownpersonality, but he served Julia's need just now, and never noticed herabstraction and indifference. He described to Julia the birth of his ownsoul, when he was what the world considered only a clumsy, unthinkinglad of seventeen, and Julia listened as a pain-racked fever patientmight listen with vague distress to the noise of distant hammers. 

Presently they were all at dinner; soup, but no Jim; fish, but no Jim. Here was Jim at last, pale, freshly shaven, slipping into his place witha muttered apology and averted eyes. With a sense of impending calamityupon her, Julia struggled through her dinner; after a while she foundherself holding cards, under a bright light; after a while again, shereached her stateroom. 

Julia turned up the light. The room was close and empty, littered withthe evidences of Jim's hasty toilet. She opened a window, and the sweetsalt air filtered in, infinitely soothing and refreshing. She began togo about the room, picking up Jim's clothes, and putting the place inorder. Once or twice her face twitched with pain, and once she stoppedand pressed Jim's coat to her heart with both hands, as if to stop awound, but she did not cry, and presently began her usual preparationsfor bed in her usual careful fashion. The cherry-coloured gown had beenput away, and Julia, in an embroidered white kimono almost stiff enoughto stand alone, was putting her rings into their little cases when Jimcame in. She looked at him over her shoulder. 

"Where have you been, Jim?" she asked quietly, noticing his white face, his tumbled hair, and a certain disorder in his appearance. Jim did notanswer, and after a puzzled moment Julia repeated her question. 

"Up on deck, " Jim said, a bitter burst of words breaking through hisugly silence. He dropped into a chair, and put his head in his hands. 

Julia watched him for a few moments in silence, while she went on withher preparations. She wound her little watch and put it under herpillow; she folded the counterpanes neatly back from both beds, and gotout her slippers. Then she sat down to put trees into the little satinslippers she had been wearing, and carried them to the closet. 

Suddenly Jim sat up, dropped his hands, and stared at her haggardly. 

"Julia, " said he hoarsely, "I've been up there thinking--I'm going mad, I guess--"

He stopped, and there was silence. Julia stood still, looking at him. 

"Tell me, " Jim said, "was it Mark?"

The hideous suddenness of it struck Julia like a bodily blow; she stoodas if she had been turned to ice. A great weight seemed to seize herlimbs, a sickening vertigo attacked her. She had a suffocating sensethat time was passing, that ages were going by in that bright, glaringroom, with the sea air coming in a shuttered window, and the two beds, with their smooth white pillows, so neatly turned down--Still, she couldnot speak--not yet. 

"Yes, it was Mark, " she said tonelessly and gently, after a longsilence. "I thought you knew. "

"Oh, my God!" Jim said, choking. He flung his hands madly in the air andgot on his feet. Then, as if ashamed, through all the boiling surge ofhis emotions, at this loss of control, he rammed his hands into thepockets of his light overcoat, and began to pace the room. "You--you--you!" he said, in a sort of wail, and in another moment, muttering some incoherency about air, he had snatched up his cap and wasgone again. 

Julia slowly crossed the room, and sat down on her bed. She felt as aperson who had swallowed a dose of poison might feel: agonies were soonto begin that would drive the life from her body, but she could not feelthem yet. Instead she felt tired, tired beyond all bearing, and thelights hurt her eyes. She slipped her kimono from her, stepped out ofher slippers, and plunged the room into utter darkness. Like a tiredchild she crept into bed, and with a great sigh dropped her head on thepillow. 

The ship plowed on, its great lights cutting a steady course over theblack water, its whole bulk quivering to the heartbeat of the mightyengines; whispered good-nights and laughing good-nights were said in thenarrow, hot hallways. Lights went out in cabin after cabin. The deckswere dark and deserted. Below stairs the world that never slept hummedlike a beehive; squads of men were washing floors, laying tables; thekitchen was as hot and busy as at midday; the engine rooms were filledwith silhouetted forms briskly coming and going. Up on one of the darkdecks, with the soft mist blowing in his face, Jim spent the long night, his folded arms resting on the rail, his sombre eyes following thesilent rush of waters, and in her cabin Julia lay wide awake andbattling with despair. 

She had thought the old dim horror over and done with. Now she knew itnever would be that; now she knew there was no escape. The happy littlecastle she had builded for herself fell about her like a house of cards;she was dishonoured, she was abased, she was powerless. In telling Jimher whole history, on that terrible night at the settlement house, shehad flung down her arms; there was no new extenuating fact to add to thestory; it was all stale and unchangeable; it must stand before theireyes forever, a hideous fact. And it seemed to Julia, tossing restlesslyin the dark, that a thousand sleeping menaces rose now to terrify her. Perhaps Hannah Palmer knew! Julia's breath stopped, her whole body shookwith terror. And if Hannah, why not others? A letter of Mark's to someone--to any one--might be in existence now, waiting its hour to appear, and to disgrace her, and Jim, and all who loved them!

And was it for this, she asked herself bitterly, that she had so risenfrom the past, so studied and struggled and aspired? Had she been madall these years to forget the danger in which she stood, to imagine thatshe had buried her tragedy too deep for discovery? Had she been mad tomarry Jim, her dear, sweet, protecting old Jim, who was always so goodto her?

But at the thought of him, and of her bitter need of him in thisdesolate hour, Julia fell to violent crying, and after her tears shedrifted into a deep sleep, her lashes wet, and her breast occasionallyrising with a sharp sigh as a child's might. 

When she awakened, dawn was breaking, the level waste of the sea waspearl colour and rose under a slowly rising mist. Julia bathed anddressed, and went out to the deck, where, with a great plaid wrappedabout her, she might watch the miracle of the birth of day. And as thewarming rays of the sun enveloped her, and the newly washed decks driedunder its touch, and as signs of life began to be heard all about, slamming doors and gay greetings, laughter and the crisp echoes of feet, hope and self-confidence crept again into her heart. She was young, after all, and pretty, and Jim's very agony of jealousy only proved thathe loved her. She had never deceived him, he could not accuse her of onesecond's weakness there. He had only had a sudden, terrible revelationof the truth he had known so long; it could not affect him permanently. 

"Going down?" said a voice gayly. 

Julia turned to smile upon a group of cheerful acquaintances. 

"Thinking about it, " she smiled. 

"Where's Himself?" somebody asked. 

"Still asleep--the lazy bones!" Julia answered calmly. They all wentdownstairs together, and Julia was perhaps a little ashamed to find theodours of coffee and bacon delightful, and to enjoy her breakfast. 

Afterward she went straight to her room, not at all surprised to findJim there, flung, dressed as he was, across his bed, and breathingheavily. Julia studied him for a moment in silence. Then she set aboutthe somewhat difficult task of rousing him, quite her capable wifelylittle self when there was something she could do for him. 

"Jim! You'll have to get these damp things off, dear! Come, Jim, youcan't sleep this way. Wake up, Jim!"

Drowsily, heavily, he consented to be partially undressed, and coveredwith a warm rug. Julia grew quite breathless over her exertions, tuckedhim in carefully. 

"I'm going to tell the chambermaid not to come in until I ring, Jim. Butshall I send you in a cup of coffee?"

"Ha!" Jim said, already asleep. 

"Do you want some coffee, Jim?"

"No--no coffee!"

Julia tiptoed about the room a moment more, took her little sewingbasket and a new magazine, and giving a departing look at her husband, found his eyes wide open and watching her. Instantly a rush of tearspressed behind her eyelids, and she felt herself grow weak and confused. 

"Thank you for fixing me up so nicely, darling, " Jim said meekly. 

"Oh, you're welcome!" Julia answered, with a desperate effort to appearcalm. 

"Will you kiss me, Julie?" Jim pursued, and a second later she was onher knees beside him, their arms were locked together, and their lipsmet as if they had never kissed each other before. 

"You little angel, " Jim said, "what a beast I am! As if life hadn't beenhard enough for you without my adding to it! Oh, but what a night I'vehad! And you'll forgive me, won't you, sweetheart, for I _love_ you so?"

Julia put her face down and cried stormily, her wet face pressed againsthis, his arms holding her close. After a while, when the sobs lessened, they began to talk together, and then laugh together in the exquisiterelief of being reconciled. Then Jim went to sleep, and Julia sat besidehim, his hand in hers, her eyes idly following the play of broken brightlights that quivered on the wall. 

She leaned back in her big chair, feeling weary and spent, broken, bututterly at peace. From that hour life was changed to her, and she dimlyfelt the change, accepted it as stoically as an Indian might the loss ofa limb, and adjusted herself to all it implied. If Jim was a little lessher god, he was still hers, hers in some new relationship that appealedto what was protective and maternal in her. And if the burden of hersecret had grown inconceivably heavy for her to bear, she knew by someinstinct that this burst of jealous frenzy had somehow lightened itsweight for Jim; she, not he, would henceforth pay the price. 

"And life isn't easy and gay, say what you will, " thought Juliaphilosophically. "There is no use grumbling and groaning, and saying toyourself, 'Oh, if only it wasn't just this or that thing worrying me!'for there is always this or that. Kennedy and Bab think I am the mostfortunate girl in the world, and yet, to be able to go back ten years, and live a few weeks over again, I'd give up everything I have, evenJim. Just to start _square_! Just to feel that wretched thing wasn't therelike a layer of mud under everything I do, making it a farce for me totalk of uplifting girls by settlement work, as people are eternallymaking me talk! Or if only every one _knew_ it, it would be easier, forthen I would feel at least that I stood on my own feet! But now, ofcourse, that's impossible, on Jim's account. What a horrible scandal itwould be, what a horrible thing it _is_, that any girl can cloud her ownlife in this way!

"As for boys, I suppose mighty few of them are pure by the time they'rethrough college, by the time they're through High School, perhaps! It'sall queer, for that involves girls and women, too, thousands of them!And how absurd it would be to bring such a charge as this against a man, ten years after it happened, when he was married and a respectablecitizen!

"Well, society is very queer; civilization hasn't got very far;sometimes I think virtue is a good deal of an accident, and that peopletake themselves pretty seriously!" And so musing, Julia dozed, andwakened, and dozed again. But in her heart had been sowed the seed thatwas never to be uprooted, the little seed of doubt: doubt of the socialstructure, doubt of its grave authorities, its awe-inspiredinterpreters. What were the mummers all so busy about and how littletheir mummery mattered! This shall be permitted, this shall not bepermitted; what is in your heart and brain concerns us not at all; whereyour soul spends its solitudes is not our affair; so that you keep acertain surface smoothness, so that you dress and talk and spend as webid you, you--for such time as we please--shall be one of us!

CHAPTER III

Nevertheless, the young Studdifords, upon their return to San Francisco, entered heartily upon the social joys of the hour. Barbara had been onlywaiting their arrival to demurely announce her engagement, and Julia'sdelight immediately took the form of dinners and theatre parties for thehandsome Miss Toland and her fiance. A new and softened sweetness markedBarbara in these days; she was more gentle and more charming than shehad ever been before. Captain Edward Francis Humphry Gunther Fox was anofficer in the English army, a blond, silent man of forty, with kindeyes and a delightfully modulated voice. He had a comfortable privateincome, a "place" in Oxfordshire, an uncle, young and healthy to besure, but still a lord, and an older sister who had married a lord, sothat his credentials were unexceptionable, and Mrs. Toland was nearly ashappy as her daughter was. 

"It's curious, " said Barbara to Julia, in one of their first hoursalone, "but there _is_ a distinction and an excitement about gettingengaged, and you enjoy it just as much at thirty as at twenty--perhapsmore. People--or persons, as Francis says--who have never paid me anyattention before, are flocking to the front now with presents and goodwishes, and some who never have seen Captain Fox congratulate me--itamounts to congratulation--as if _any_ marriage were better than none!"

"Well, there is a something about marriage, " Julia admitted; "you maynot have any reason for feeling so, but you _do_ feel superior, 'way downin your secret heart! And yet, Babbie, " and a little shadow darkened herbright face, "and yet, once you _are_ married, you see a sort of--well, asort of uncompromising brightness about girlhood, too! When I go out toThe Alexander now, and remember my old busy days there, and walking tochapel with Aunt Sanna, in the fresh, early mornings--I don't know--itmakes me almost a little sad!"

"Don't speak of it, " said Barbara. "When I think of leaving Dad, andhome, and going off to England, and having to make friends of awfulwomen with high cheek bones, and mats of crimps coming down to theireyebrows, it scares me to death!"

And both girls laughed gayly. They were having tea in Julia'sdrawing-room on a cold bright afternoon in May. 

"I'll miss Dad most, " pursued Barbara seriously. "Mother's so much withTed now, anyway. " She frowned at the fire. "Mother's curious, Ju, " sheadded presently. "Every one says she's an ideal mother, and so on, and Isuppose she is, but--"

"You're more like your father, anyway, " Julia suggested in the pause. 

"It's not only that, " said Barbara slowly, "but Mother has never been insympathy with any one of us! Ned deceived her, Sally deceived her, Theodora went deliberately against her advice, and broke her heart, andCon and Jane don't really respect her opinion at all! I'm the oldest, her first born--"

"And she loves you dearly, " Julia said soothingly. 

"Used to Ju, when I was a baby. And loves me theoretically now. But shehas taken my not marrying to heart much more than the curious marriagesNed and the girls have made! Hints about old maids, and stories abouther own popularity as a girl, regardless of the fact that no one wantedme--"

"Oh, Babbie!"

"Well, no one did!" Barbara laughed a little dryly. "Why, not two monthsago, " she went on, "that little sprig of a Paul Smith called on Con, andMother engineered me out of the room, and said something laughingly toRichie and Ted about not wanting to stand in Con's way, 'one old maidwas enough in a family!'"

"Maddening! Yes, I know, " Julia said, laughing and shaking her head. "I've heard her a hundred times!"

"Of course it's all love and kisses, now, " Barbara added, "and Francisis a bold, big thief, and how can she give up her dear big girl--"

"Oh, Barbara, don't be bitter!"

"Well, " Barbara flung her head back as if she tossed the subject aside, "I suppose I am bitter! And why you're not, Ju, I can't understand, foryou never had one tenth the chance I did!"

"No, " Julia assented gravely, "I never did. If my mother had kept mewith her--and she could have done it--if she hadn't left my father--heloved me so--it would all have been different. Mothers are strange, Babby, they have so much power--or seem to! It seems to me that onecould do so much to straighten things out for the poor little babybrains; this is worth while, and this isn't worth while, and so on!Suppose"--Julia poured herself a fresh cup of tea, and leaned backcomfortably in her chair--"suppose you had young daughters, Bab, " saidshe, "what would you do, differently from your mother, I mean?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Barbara said, "only it seems funny that motherscan't help their daughters more. Half my life is lived now, probably, yet Mother goes right on theorizing, she--she doesn't get down to _facts_, somehow! I don't know--"

"It all comes down to this, " Julia said briskly, as Barbara's voicetrailed into silence, "sitting around and waiting for some one to askher to marry him is not a sufficiently absorbing life work for theaverage young woman!"

"She isn't expected to do anything else, " Barbara added, "except--attract. And it isn't as if she could be deciding in her own mind aboutit; the decision is in _his_ mind: if he chooses he can ask her; if hedoesn't, all right! It's a _shame_--it's a shame, I say, not to give her amore dignified existence than that!"

"Yes, but, Bab, your mother couldn't have put you into a shop to sellribbons, or made a telephone girl of you!"

"No; my brothers didn't sell ribbons, or go on a telephone board, either. But I don't see why I shouldn't have studied medicine, like Jimand Richie, or gone into the office at the works in Yolo City, likeNed. "

"Yes, but, Babby, you've no leaning toward medicine!"

"Well, then, something else, just as Jim would have done something else, in that case! Office hours and responsibility, and meeting of men insome other than a social way. You and I have somehow dragged a solutionout of it, Julie: we are happy in spite of all the blundering andstumbling, but I've not got my Mother to thank for it, and neither haveyou!"

"No, neither have I!" Julia said, with a long sigh, and for a fewmoments they both watched the coals in silence. The room was quite darknow; the firelight winked like a drowsy eye; here and there the gold ofa picture frame or the smooth curve of a bit of copper or brasswaretwinkled. The windows showed opaque squares of dull gray; elsewhere wasonly heavy shadow, except where Barbara's white gown made a spot of dullrelief in the gloom, and Julia's slipper buckles caught the light. Agreat jar of lilacs, somewhere in the room, sent out a subtle anddelicious scent. 

"Funny world, isn't it, Julie?"

"Oh, _funny_!" Julia put out her hand, and met Barbara's, and theirfingers pressed. "Nothing better in it, Barbara, than a friend likeyou!" she said affectionately. 

"That's what I was thinking, " said Barbara. 

The Studdifords went to San Mateo after the wedding, and Julia, who hadtaken herself seriously in hand, entered upon the social life of thesummer with a perfectly simulated zest. She rode and drove, played golfand tennis and polo, gossiped and spent hours at bridge, she wenttirelessly from luncheon to tea, from dinner to supper party, and whenJim was detained in town, she went without him; a little piece ofself-reliance that pleased him very much. If society was not extremelypopular with Julia, Julia was very popular with society; her demurebeauty made her conspicuous wherever she went, and in July, prominent insome theatricals at the clubhouse, she earned all honours before her. 

Julia found the theatricals perilously delightful; the grease paint andthe ornate costume seemed like old friends; she was intoxicated andenchanted by the applause. For several days after her most successfulperformance she was thoughtful: what if she had never joined the"Amazon" caste, never gone to Sausalito, followed naturally in thefootsteps of Connie Girard and Rose Ransome? She might have been a greatactress; she would have been a great beauty. 

San Mateo, frankly, bored her, although she could not but admire thebeautiful old place, the lovely homes set in enchanting old gardens, thelawns and drives stretching under an endless vista of superb oaks. There, alone with Jim, in a little cottage--ah, there would have beennothing boring about that!

But the Hardesty cottage never seemed like home to her, they had rentedthe big, shingled brown house for only three months, and Jim was anxiousthat she should not tire herself with altering the arrangement offurniture and curtains for so casual a tenancy. The Hardesty's pictureslooked down from the wall, their chairs were unfriendly, their booksunder lock and key. Not a lamp, not a cup or saucer was familiar toJulia; she felt uncomfortable in giving dinner parties with "H" on thesilver knives and forks; she never liked the look of the Hardesty linen. Life seemed unreal in the "Cottage"; she seemed to be pushed further andfurther away from reassuring contact with the homely realities of loveand companionship; chattering people were always about her, pianoplayerswere rippling out the waltz from "The Merry Widow, " ice was clinking incocktail shakers, the air was scented with cigarettes, with the powderand perfumery of women. She and Jim dined alone not oftener than once aweek, and their dinner was never finished before friendly feet crispedon the gravel curve of the drive, and friendly invaders appeared toinvite them to do something amusing: to play cards, to take long spinsin motor cars, or to spend an idle hour or two at the club. Sometimesthey were separated, and Julia would come in, chilled and tired after along drive, to find Jim ahead of her, already sound asleep. Sometimesshe left him smoking with some casual guest, and fell asleep long beforethe voices downstairs subsided. Even if they went upstairs together, both were tired; there was neither time nor inclination for confidences, for long and leisurely talk. 

"Happy?" Jim said to his wife one day, when Julia, looking the pictureof happiness, had come downstairs to join him for some expedition. 

"Happy enough, " Julia said, with her grave smile. She took the deepwicker chair next his, on the porch, and sat looking down the curve ofthe drive to the roadway beyond a screen of trees. 

"Heavenly afternoon, " she said. "Just what are we doing?"

"Well, as near as I got it from Greg, " Jim informed her a littleuncertainly, "we go first to his place, and then split up into aboutthree cars there; Mrs. Peter and Mrs. Billings will take the eats, Peterwill have a whole hamper of cocktails and things, and we go up to theridge for a sort of English nursery tea, I think. "

"Doing it all ourselves?" Julia suggested, brightening. 

"Well, practically. Although Greg's cook is going ahead with a couple ofmaids in the Peters' car. They're going to broil trout or something;anyway, I know Greg has been having fits about seeing that enough platesgo, and so on. I know Paula Billings is taking something frozen--"

"Oh, Lord, what a fuss and what a mess!" Julia said ungratefully. 

"Well, you know how the Peters always do things. And then, after tea, ifthis glorious weather holds, we'll send the maids and the hampers home, and all go on down to Fernand's. "

"Fernand's! Forty miles, Jim?"

"Oh, why not? If we're having a good time?"

"Well, I hope Peter Vane and Alan Gregory keep sober, that's all!" Juliasaid. "The ride will be lovely, and it's a wonderful day. But Minna Vanealways bores me so!"

"Why, you little cat!" Jim laughed, catching her hand as it hung looseover the arm of her chair. 

"They've no brains, " complained Julia seriously; "they wereborn doing this sort of thing, they think they like it!Buying--buying--buying--eating--dancing--rushing--rushing--rushing! It'sno life at all! I'd rather pack a heavy basket, and lug it over a hothill, and carry water half a mile, when I picnic, instead of rolling afew miles in a motor car, and then sitting on a nice camp-chair, andhaving a maid to pass me salads and ices and toast and broiled trout!"

"Well, if you would, I wouldn't!" Jim said good-naturedly. 

"I wasn't born to this, " Julia added thoughtfully; "my life has alwaysbeen full of real things; perhaps that's the trouble. I think of all thethings that aren't going right in the world, and I _can't_ just turn myback on them, like a child--I get thinking of poor little clerks whosewives have consumption--"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Jim protested frowningly, biting the end fromhis cigar with a clip of firm white teeth. 

"It isn't as if I had never been poor, " Julia pursued uncertainly. "Iknow that there are times when a new gown or a paid bill actually wouldaffect a girl's whole life! I think of those poor little girls at St. Anne's--"

"I would like to suggest, " Jim said incisively, "that the less you letyour mind run on those little girls from St. Anne's, the better for you!If you have no consideration for my feelings in this matter, Julie, foryour own I should think you would consider such topics absolutely--well, absolutely in poor taste!"

Silence. Jim puffed on his cigar. Julia sat without stirring, feelingthat every drop of blood in her body had rushed to her head. The musclesof her temples and throat ached, her eyes saw only a green-and-golddazzle, her wet little hands gripped the arms of her chair. 

"It is all very well to criticise these people, " pursued Jimsententiously, after a long silence, "although they have all beenkindness and graciousness itself to you! They may be shallow, they maybe silly; I don't hold any brief for Minna Vane and Paula Billings. ButI know that Minna is on the Hospital Board, and Paula a mightykind-hearted, good little woman, and they don't sit around pulling longfaces, and wishing they were living south of Market Street!"

Julia sat perfectly still. She could not have battled with the lump inher throat if life had depended upon her speaking. She felt her cheststrain with a terrible rush of sobbing, but she held herself stiffly, and only prayed that her tears might be kept back until she was alone. 

"Hello! Here's Greg, " Jim said cheerfully, after another silence. Andhere, truly, was Alan Gregory, a red-faced, smooth-shaven young man, already slightly hilarious and odorous of drink, and very gallant tobeautiful Mrs. Studdiford. A great silky veil must be tied over Julia'shat; sure she was warm enough? Might be late, might get cold, you know. 

"Shall I get you your white coat, dear?" Jim asked solicitously. 

"Oh, no, thank you, Jim!"

Then they were off, and Julia told herself that men and their wivesoften quarrelled this way; it was a common enough thing to have somewoman announce, with a casual laugh, that she and her husband had had a"terrible scene, " and "weren't speaking. " Only, with Jim it seemed sodifferent! It seemed so direfully, so hopelessly wrong!

She felt a hypocrite when they joined the others, and when she presentlyfound herself laughing and talking with them all, even with Jim. Andthrough the jolly afternoon and noisy evening she found herself watchingher husband, when she could do so unobserved, with gravely analyticaleyes. No barbed sentence of his could long affect her, for Julia hadpondered and prayed too long over this matter to find any fresh distressin a reminder of it. Her natural simple honesty very soon adjusted theoutraged sensibilities. But Jim could hurt himself with his wife, andthis afternoon he had done so. Unconsciously Julia said to herself, overand over, "Oh, he should not have said that! That was not kind!"

Mrs. Vane had a great favour to ask the men of the party to-night. Sheproffered it somewhat doubtfully, like a spoiled child who is almostsure of being denied, yet risks its little charms in one more entreaty. She and Paula, yes, and Mrs. Jerome, and little Julia--wasn't that so, Julia?--wanted to see a roadhouse. No--no--no--not the sort of placewhere nice women went, but a regular roadhouse--oh, please, please, please! They had their veils to tie over their faces, and they wouldkeep very unobtrusively in the background, and there was a man apieceand two men over to protect them. 

"All the girls in town are doing it!" argued Mrs. Vane, "and they sayit's perfectly killing! Dancing, you know, and singing. You have to keepyour veil down, of course! Betty said they'd been three times!"

"Nothing doing, " Jim said good-naturedly, shaking his head. 

"Oh, now, don't say that, Doctor!" Mrs. Vane commanded animatedly; "it'stoo _mean_! Well, if you couldn't take us to the very worst, where _could_you take us--Hunter's?"

"Hunter's!" the three men echoed, laughing and exchanging glances. 

"Well, where then?" the lady pursued. 

"Look here, Min, " said her husband uneasily, "there's nothing to it. Andyou girls might get insulted and mixed into something--"

"Oh, divine!" Mrs. Billings said; "now I _will_ go!"

"White's, huh, Jim?" Greg suggested tentatively. 

"White's?" Jim considered it, shook his head. "Nothing doing there, anyway!" was his verdict. 

"Larry's, where the pretty window boxes are, " suggested Mrs. Vane, hopeful eyes upon the judges. "Come on! _Oh, come on_! You see such flossyladies getting out of motor cars in front of Larry's!"

"There's this about Larry's, " Mr. Billings contributed; "we could getone of those side places, and then, if things got too hot, just step outon to the porch, d'ye see, and get the girls away with no fuss at all. "

"That's so, " Jim conceded; "but I'll be darned if I know why they wantto do it. However--"

"However, you're all angels!" sang Mrs. Vane, and catching Julia aboutthe waist, she began to waltz upon the pleasant meadow grass where theyhad just had their high tea. "Come on, everybody! We won't be atFernand's until nearly night, then dinner, and then Larry's!"

"Mind now, " growled one of the somewhat unwilling escort, "you girlskeep your veils down. Nix on the front-page story to-morrow!"

"Oh, we'll behave!" Mrs. Billings assured him. And slipping anaffectionate arm about Julia's waist, as they walked to the motor cars, she murmured: "My dear, there isn't one decent woman in the place! Isn'tthis fun!"

Julia did not answer. She got into the car and settled herself for therun; so much of the day at least would be pleasant. It was the close ofa lovely summer afternoon, the long shadows of the trees lay ahead ofthem on the road, the sky was palest blue and palest pink, a flock ofwhite baby clouds lay low against the eastern horizon. The warm air borethe clean good scent of wilting grass and hot pine sap. The car rolledalong smoothly, its motion stirring the still air into a breeze. Mr. Billings, sitting next to Julia, began an interested disquisition uponthe difficulties of breeding genuine, bat-eared, French bulldogs. Juliascarcely heard him, but she nodded now and then, and now and then herblue eyes met his; once she gratified him with a dreamy smile. Thisquite satisfied Morgan Billings, to whom it never occurred that Julia'sthoughts might be on the beauties of the rolling landscape, and hersmile for the first star that came prickling through the soft twilight. 

And after a while some aching need of her soul grew less urgent, andsome of the wistfulness left her face. She forgot the ideals that hadcome with her into her married life, and crushed down the convictionthat Jim, like all men, liked his wife to slip into the kitchen andconcoct some little sweet for his supper, even with an artist like FooTing at his command. She realized that when she declined old Mrs. Chickering's luncheon invitation for the mere pleasure of rushing hometo have lunch with Jim, her only reward might be a disapproving: "MyLord! Julia, I hope you didn't offend Mrs. Chickering! She's been sodecent to us!"

It was as if Julia, offering high interest on her marriage bond, had atlast learned that one tenth of what she would pay would satisfy Jim. Feeling as she did that no demonstration on his part, no inclination tomonopolize her, would do more than satisfy her longing to be all in allto him, it was not an easy lesson. For a while she could not believethat he knew his own happiness in the matter, and a dispassionateonlooker might have found infinitely pathetic the experimental temeritywith which she told him that this invitation had been accepted, thissocial obligation incurred, this empty Sunday filled to overflowing withengagements. 

And now Jim approved, and Julia had to hide in the depth of her hurtsoul the fact that she had never dreamed he _could_ approve. Howevertired, he liked to come home to the necessity of immediately assumingevening dress, and going out into the night again. He and Julia held acheerful conversation between their dressing-rooms as they dressed;later they chattered eagerly enough in the limousine, Jim enthusiasticover his wife's gown, and risking a kiss on her bare shoulder when thecar turned down a dark street. Jim, across a brilliant table, in astrange house, did not seem to Julia to belong to her at all; but it wasalmost as if he found his wife more fascinating when the eyes ofoutsiders were upon her, and admired Julia in a ballroom more than hedid when they had the library and the lamplight to themselves, at home. 

They would come home together late and silent. Ellie would come in tohelp her lovely mistress out of the spangled gown, to lift theglittering band from her bright hair. And because of Ellie, and becauseJim usually was dressed and gone before she was up in the morning, Juliahad a room to herself now. She would have much preferred to breakfastwith her lord, but Jim himself forbade it. 

"No, no, no, Ju! It's not necessary, and you're much better off in bed. That's the time for you to get a little extra rest. No human being canstand the whole season without making some rest up somehow! You'll seethe girls begin to drop with nervous prostration in January; Barbaraused to lose twenty pounds every winter. And I won't _have_ you gettingpale. Just take things easy in the morning, and sleep as late as youcan!"

Julia accepted the verdict mildly. With the opening of her second winterin San Francisco's most exclusive set, she had tried to analyze thewhole situation, honestly putting her prejudices on one side, andattempting to get her husband's point of view. It was the harder becauseshe had hoped to be to Jim just what Kennedy Marbury was to Anthony, united by a thousand needs, little and big, by the memory of a thousandlittle comedies and tragedies. Kennedy, who worried about bills and whodreaded the coming of the new baby, could stop making a pie toadminister punishment and a lecture to her oldest son, stop again toanswer the telephone, stop again to kiss her daughter's little bumpednose, and yet find in her tired soul and body enough love and energy toput a pastry "A. M. " on the top of her pie, to amuse the head of thehouse when he should cut into it that night. 

But this mixture of the ridiculous and the sublime was not for Julia. And just as Kennedy had adjusted herself to the life of a poor man'swife, so Julia must adjust herself to her own so different destiny. 

And adjust herself she did. Nobody dreamed of the thoughts that went onbehind the beautiful blue eyes, nobody found little Mrs. Studdifordanything but charming. With that steadfast, serious resolution that hadmarked her all her life, Julia set herself to the study of gowns, ofdinners, of small talk. She kept a slim little brown Social Register onher dressing-table, and pored over it at odd moments; she listenedattentively to the chatter that went on all about her. She drewinfinitely less satisfaction from the physical evidences of hersuccess--her beauty, her wealth, her handsome husband, and herpopularity--than any one of the women who envied her might have done, yet she did draw some satisfaction, loved her pretty gowns, the freedomof bared white neck and shoulders, the atmosphere of perfumeddrawing-rooms and glittering dinner tables. She wrote long letters toBarbara, was a devoted godmother to Theodora Carleton's tiny son, lovedto have Miss Toland with her for an occasional visit, and perhaps once amonth went over to Sausalito, to spoil the old doctor with heraffectionate attentions, hold long conferences with their mother on thesubject of the girls' love affairs, and fall into deep talks withRichie--perhaps the happiest talks in her life, for Richie, whose mindand body had undergone for long years the exquisite discipline of pain, was delightfully unexpected in his views, and his whole lean, ungainlyframe vibrated with the eager joy of expressing them. 

Perhaps once a month, too, Julia went to see her own mother, calls whichalways left her definitely depressed. Emeline was becoming more and morecrippled with rheumatism, the old grandmother was now the more brisk ofthe two. May's two younger girls, Muriel and Geraldine, were livingthere now, as Marguerite and Evelyn had done; awkward, dark, heavy-facedgirls who attended the High School. Julia's astonishing rise in life hadnecessarily affected her relatives, but much less, she realized in uttersickness of spirit, than might have been imagined. She and Jim werepaying for the schooling of two of May's boys, and a substantial check, sent to her mother monthly, supposedly covered the main expenses of theentire household. Besides this, Chess was working, and paying his mothersomething every week for board. 

It had been Julia's first confident plan to move the family from theMission entirely. There were lovely roomy flats in the Western Addition, or there were sunny houses out toward the end of Sutter Street, whereher mother and grandmother would be infinitely more comfortable and moreaccessible. She was stunned when her grandmother flatly refused. Evenher mother's approval of the plan was singularly wavering and halfhearted. Mrs. Cox argued shrilly that they were poor folks, and poorfolks were better off not trapesing all over the city, and Emeline addedthat Ma would feel lost without her backyard and her neighbours, to saynothing of the privilege of bundling up in a flat black bonnet and brownshawl, hot weather or cold, and trotting off to St. Charles's Church atall hours of the day and night. 

"I don't care, Julie, " Mrs. Page made her daughter exquisitelyuncomfortable by saying very formally, "but there's no girl in God'sworld that wouldn't think of asking her mother to stay with her for awhile--till things got settled, anyway. You haven't done it!"

"Well, I'll tell you, Mama--" Julia began, but Emeline interrupted her. 

"You haven't done it, Julie, and let me tell you right now, it looksqueer. I'm not the one that says it; every one says it. I don't want toforce myself where I'm not--"

"But, Mama _dear_, we're only at the hotel now!" Julia protested, feelinga hypocrite. 

"I see, " said Emeline, "and I'm not good enough, of course. I couldn'tmeet your friends, of course!" She laughed heartily. "That's _good_!" shesaid appreciatively. 

Julia used to flush angrily under these withering comments, at first;later, her poor little mother's attitude filled her only with a greatpity. For Emeline was suffering a great deal now, and Julia longed to beable to take her with her to the Pacific Avenue house, if only to provethat its empty splendour held no particular advantages over the life onShotwell Street, for Emeline. She was definitely better off in hermother's warm kitchen, gossiping and idling her days away, than shewould have been limping aimlessly about in Julia's house, and catchingglimpses of Julia only between the many claims of the daughter's day. 

More than this, Jim would not hear of such a visit; it never even cameto a discussion between husband and wife; he would have been frankly asmuch surprised as horrified at the idea. So Julia did what was left toher, for her mother: listened patiently to long complaints, paid bills, and supplemented Jim's generous cheque with many a gold piece pressedinto her mother's hand or slipped into her grandmother's dreadful oldshopping-bag. She carried off her young cousins to equip them withwinter suits and sensible shoes, aware all the while that theirhigh-heeled slippers and flimsy, cheap silk dresses, the bangles thatthey slipped over dirty little hands, and the fancy combs they pushedinto their untidy hair, were infinitely more prized by them. 

The Shotwell Street house was still close and stuffy, the bedrooms asdark and horrible as Julia remembered them, and no financial aid didmore than temporarily soften the family's settled opinion that poorfolks were poor folks, and predestined to money trouble. Julia knew thatwhen the clothes she bought her cousins grew dirty they would not becleaned; she knew that her grandmother had never taken a tub bath in herlife and rather scorned the takers of tub baths; she knew that such athing as the weekly washing of clothes, the transformation of dirtylinen into piles of fragrant whiteness, never took place in the ShotwellStreet house. Mrs. Cox indeed liked to keep a tub full of gray sudsstanding in the kitchen, and occasionally souse in it one of her calicowrappers, or a shirt waist belonging to the girls. These would be driedon a rope stretched across the kitchen, and sooner or later pressed withone of the sad irons that Julia remembered as far back as she rememberedanything; rough-looking old irons, one with a broken handle, all withthe figure seven stamped upon them with a mould. Mrs. Cox had severalironholders drifting about the kitchen, folds of dark cloth that hadbeen so often wet and singed that the covering had split, and the foldednewspaper inside showed its burned edges, but she never could find onewhen she wanted it, and usually improvised a new one from a grocery bagor the folds of her apron, and so burned her veined old knotted hands. 

Julia came soon to see that her actual presence did them small good, anddid herself real harm, and so, somewhat thankfully, began to confine herattentions more and more to mere financial assistance. She presentlyarranged for the best of medical care for her mother, even for ahospital stay, but her attitude grew more and more that of thenoncommittal outsider, who helps without argument and disapproveswithout comment. Evelyn had made a great success of her dressmaking, butsuch aid as she could give must be given her sister, for Marguerite'searly and ill-considered marriage had come to the usual point when, withan unreliable husband, constantly arriving and badly managed babies, andbitter poverty and want, she found herself much in the position of hermother, twenty years before. May was still living in Oakland, widowed. Her two sons were at home and working, and with a small income fromrented rooms as well, the three and her youngest daughter, Regina, somehow managed to maintain the dreary cottage in which most of thechildren were born. 

"They all give me a great big pain!" Evelyn said one day frankly, whenJulia was at Madame Carroll's for a fitting, and the cousins--onestanding in her French hat and exquisite underlinen, and the otherkneeling, her gown severely black, big scissors in hand, and apincushion dangling at her breast--were discussing the family. "Gran'maisn't so bad, because she's old, but Aunt Emeline and Mama have a rightto get next to themselves! Mama had a fit because I wouldn't take a flatover here, and have her and Regina with me; well, I could do itperfectly well; it isn't the money!" Evelyn stood up, took seven pinsseparately and rapidly from her mouth, and inserted them in the flimsylining that dangled about Julia's arm. "You want this tight, but not tootight, don't you, Julie?" said she. "That can come in a little, still. No, " she resumed aggrievedly, "but I board at a nice place on Fultonstreet; the Lancasters, the people that keep it, are just lovely. Mrs. Lancaster is so motherly and the girls are so jolly; my wash costs me adollar a week; I belong to the library; I've got a lovely room; I go tothe theatre when I want to; I buy the clothes I like, and why should Iworry? I know the way Mama keeps house, and I've had enough of it!"

"It's awfully hard, " Julia mused, "Marguerite's just doing the samething over again. It's just discouraging!"

"Well, you got out of it, and I got out of it, " Evelyn said briskly, "and they call it our luck! Luck? There ain't any such thing, " she wenton indignantly. "I'm going to New York for Madame next year--me, to NewYork, if you please, and stay at a good hotel, and put more than twentythousand dollars into materials and imported wraps and scarfs and soon--is there any luck to that? There's ten years' slavery, that's whatthere is! How much do you suppose you'd have married Jim Studdiford ifyou hadn't kept yourself a little above the crowd, and worked away atthe settlement house for years and years?" she demanded. "I can put alittle hook in here, Ju, where the lace comes, to keep that in place foryou!" she added, more quietly. 

"Well, it's true!" Julia said, sighing. She looked with real admirationat the capable, black-clad figure, the clear-skinned, black-eyed face ofMadame Carroll's chief assistant. "Why don't you ever come and havelunch with me, Evelyn?" she demanded affectionately. 

"Oh, Lord, dearie!" Evelyn said, in her most professional way, as shepencilled a list of young Mrs. Studdiford's proportions on a printedcard, "this season Madame has our lunches, and even our dinners, sentin--simply one rush! But some time I'd love to. "

"You like your work, don't you, Evelyn?" Julia said curiously. 

"You go tell Madame I'm ready for Mrs. Addison, " Evelyn said capably toa small black-clad girl who answered her bell, "and then carry this toMinnie and tell her it's rush--don't drop the pins out. I love my work, "she added, when she and Julia were alone again; "I'm crazy about it! Thegirls here are awfully nice, and some of the customers treat me simplyswell--most of them do. This way, Julia. Christmas time we get morepresents than you could shake a stick at!" said Evelyn, opening a door. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Addison, I'm all ready for you. "

"That's a good girl!" the woman who was waiting in Carroll's handsomeparlour said appreciatively; she recognized Julia. "Well, how do you do, Mrs. Studdiford?" she smiled, "so sorry not to see you on Saturday, youbad little thing!"

Julia gave her excuse. "You know Evelyn here is my cousin?" she said, inher quiet but uncompromising way, as she hooked her sables together. 

"About eleven times removed!" Evelyn said cheerfully. "Right in here, please, Mrs. Addison! At the same time to-morrow, Mrs. Studdiford. Thankyou, good-night. "

"Good-night!" Julia said, smiling. For some reason she could not fathom, Evelyn never seemed willing to claim the full relationship; alwaysassumed it to be but a hazy and distant connection. It was as if in hersuccess the modiste wished to recognize no element but her own worth; nowealthy or influential relative could claim to have helped _her_! Juliaalways left her with a certain warmth at her heart. It was good to comein contact now and then with such self-confidence, such capability, suchprosperity. "I could almost envy Evelyn!" thought Julia, spinning homein the twilight. 

CHAPTER IV

The Studdifords, with some four hundred other San Francisco societyfolk, regarded the Browning dances as quite the most important of thewinter's social affairs, and Julia, who thoroughly liked the host andthe brilliant assembly, really enjoyed them more than the smaller andmore select affairs. The Brownings were a beloved and reveredinstitution; very few new faces appeared there from year to year, exceptthe very choice of the annual crop of debutantes. Little Mrs. Studdifordhad made a sensation when she first came, at her handsome husband'sside, a year ago, her dazzling prettiness set off by the simplest ofmilk-white Paris gowns, her wonderful crown of hair wound about withpearls. Now she was a real favourite, and at the January ball, in hersecond winter in society, a score of admirers assured her that her gownwas the prettiest in the room. 

"That pleases you, doesn't it, Jim?" she smiled, as he put her into ared velvet armchair, at the end of the long ballroom, and dropped into achair beside her. 

"Well, it's true, " Jim assured her, "and, what's more, you're the mostbeautiful woman in the room, too!"

"Oh, Jeemy! What a story! But go get your dances, dear, if we're notgoing to stay for supper. Here's Mrs. Thayer to amuse me, " said Julia, as a magnificent old woman came toward her with a smile. 

"Not dancing, dear?" said the dowager, as she sank heavily into the seatJim left. "Whyn't you dancing with the other girls? I"--she panted andfanned, idly scanning the room--"I tell Brownie I don't know how he getsthe men!" she added, "lots of 'em; supper brings 'em, probably! Whyn'tyou dancing, dear?"

"She's implying that her ankle was sprained, " Jim grinned, departing. Julia dimpled. The dowager brought an approving eye to bear upon her. 

"Well--well, you don't say so? Now that's very nice indeed, " she saidcomfortably; "well, I declare! I hadn't heard a word of it--and you'reglad, of course?"

"Oh, very glad!" Julia assured her, colouring. 

"That's nice, too!" Mrs. Thayer rumbled on, her eyes beginning again torove the room. "Fuss, of course, and lots of trouble, but you forget allthat! Yes, I love children myself, used to be the most devoted motheralive, puttin' 'em to bed, and all that, yes, indeed!"

"You had two?" Julia hazarded. The dowager gave her a surprised glance. 

"I, me dear? I had five--Rose there, that's Mrs. St. John, and Kate, youknow her? Mrs. Willis, and my boy that's in Canada now, and the boy Ilost, and Lillian--Lily we called her, she was only three. Diphtheria. "

"Oh!" Julia said, shocked. 

"Yes, indeed, I thought it would break Colonel Thayer's heart, " pursuedMrs. Thayer, fanning regally, and watching the room. "She was thefirst--Lily would be nearly forty now! Look, Julia, who is that withIsabel Wallace? Who? Oh, yes, Mary Chauncey. See if you can see herhusband anywhere. I'd give a good deal to know if she came with him!"

"Mrs. Thayer, " said Julia presently, "how long have you been coming tothe Brownings?"

"I? Oh, since they were started, child. There was a little group of usthat used to dance round at each other's houses, then some of the mengot together and formed a little club--Brownie was one of them. TheSaunders used to come. Ella was about eighteen, and Sally and AnnaToland, and the Harts, and the Kirkwoods. Who's that with young Brice, Julia, me dear? Peter Coleman, is it?"

"Talking to Mr. Carter, yes, that's Mr. Coleman. He's a beautifuldancer, " said Julia. 

"Peter is? Yes, well, then, why don't you--But you're not dancing, ofcourse, " Mrs. Thayer said. "There's Gordon Jones and his wife! WhyBrownie ever let them in I don't--Ah, Ella, how are you, dear?"

"Fine, thank you!" said the newcomer, a magnificent woman of perhapsforty, in a very beautiful gown. "How do you do, Mrs. Studdiford?" sheadded cordially, as she sat down. "Dancing, surely?"

"Now she's got the best reason in the world for not dancing, " said oldMrs. Thayer, with a protective motion of her fan. 

"Oh--so?" Miss Saunders said, after a quick look of interrogation. "Well, that's--dutiful, isn't it?" She raised her eyebrows, made alittle grimace, and laughed. 

"Now, Ella, don't ye say anything wicked!" Mrs. Thayer warned her, andthe fan was used to tap Miss Saunders sharply on her smooth, big arm. 

"Wicked!" Miss Saunders said negligently, watching the dancers, "I thinkit's fine. I always said I'd have ten. Is Jim pleased?"

"He's perfectly delighted--yes, " Julia assented, suddenly feeling thatthis careless talk, in this bright, hot room, was not fair to the littleone she already loved so dearly. 

"Is that Mrs. Brock or Vera?" Mrs. Thayer asked. "I declare they lookalike!"

"That's Alice, " Ella answered, after a glance, "don't you know that bluesilk? They've got the Hazzards with them. "

"Gets worse every year, absolutely, " the old lady declared, "doesn't it, Ella? Emily here?"

"No, she's wretched, poor kid. But Ken's here somewhere. There are theGeralds, " Miss Saunders added, leaning toward the old woman and sinkingher tone to a low murmur. "Have you heard about Mason Gerald and PaulaBillings--oh, _haven't_ you? Not about the car breaking down--_haven't_you? Well, my _dear_--"

Julia lost the story, and sat watching the room, a vague little smilecurving her lips, her blue eyes moving idly to and fro. She saw Mrs. Toland come in with her two lovely daughters. Julia had had tea withthem that afternoon at the hotel, where they would spend the night. Theorchestra was silent just now, and the dancers were drifting about theroom, a great brilliant circle. Some of the men were clapping theirhands, all of them were laughing as they bent their sleek heads towardtheir partners, and all the girls were laughing, too, and talkinganimatedly as they raised wide-open eyes. Julia admired the gowns:shining pink and cloudy pink, blue with lace and blue with spangles, white alone, and white with every colour in the world; a yellow andblack gown that was indescribably dashing, and a yellow and black gownthat somehow looked very flat and dowdy. She noticed the Ripley pearlson Miss Dolly Ripley's scrawny little lean neck, and that charmingIsabel Wallace danced a good deal with her own handsome, shy youngbrothers, and seemed eager that they should enjoy what was evidentlytheir first Browning. She studied the old faces, the hard faces, thefaded faces, the painted cheeks and powdered necks; she read the tragedybehind the drooping head of some debutante, the triumph in the highlaugh of another. There was poor Connie Fox, desperately eager andamiable, dancing with the youngest men and the oldest men, glitteringand jolly in her dingy blue silk; and Connie's mother, who was herchaperon, a little fluttering fool of a woman, nervously eager toingratiate, and nervously afraid to intrude her company upon thesedemi-gods and goddesses; and Theodora Carleton, handsome in too low cuta gown, laughing with Alan Gregory, and aware, as every one in the roomwas aware, that her husband's first wife was also at the dance. The roomgrew warm, the air heavy with delicate perfumes. Men were mopping theirfaces; some of the debutantes looked like wilting roses; the faces ofsome of the older women were shining. It was midnight, the latest comershad arrived, the floor was well filled. 

"I wonder if I will be doing this twenty years from now, " thought Julia. "I wonder if my daughter will come to the Brownings, then?"

". .. Which I call disgraceful, don't you, Mrs. Studdiford?" asked MissSaunders suddenly. 

"I beg your pardon!" Julia said, startled into attention, "I didn't hearyou!"

"I know you didn't, " the other said, laughing, "nevertheless, it was alow trick, " she added to Mrs. Thayer, "and Leila Orvis can wait a longtime before she makes the peace with _me_! Charity's all very well, butwhen it comes to palming off girls like that upon your friends, it'sjust a little too _much_!"

"How's it happen ye didn't ask the girl for any references, me dear?"asked Mrs. Thayer. 

"Because Leila told me she knew all about her!" snapped Miss Saunders. 

"What was she, a waitress?" Julia asked, amused. 

"No, she was nothing!" Miss Saunders said in high scorn; "she'd had notraining whatever--not that I mind _that_. She was simply supposed to helpwith the pantry work and make herself generally useful. Well, one dayCarrie, a maid Mother's had for _years_, told Mother that something thisAda had said she fancied Ada had been in some sort of reformschool--imagine! Of course poor Mother collapsed, and Emily telephonedfor me--the kid always rises to an emergency, I will say that. So Irushed home, and got the whole story out of Ada in five minutes. Atfirst she cried a good deal, and pretended it was an orphans' home;orphans' home--ha! Finally I scared her into admitting that it was aplace just for girls of her sort--"

"Fancy!" said Mrs. Thayer, fanning. Julia had grown a little pale. 

"What did you do, Miss Saunders?" said she. 

"Do? I sent her packing, of course!" said that lady, smiling as shebowed to an acquaintance across the room. "I told her to go straightback to Mrs. Orvis, and say I sent her. However, she didn't, for Itelephoned Leila at once--Lucy Bacon is trying to bow to you, Mrs. Studdiford--over there, with your husband!"

"I wonder where she did go?" pursued Julia. 

"I really have no idea!" Miss Saunders said. 

"You may be sure she knew just where to go, a creature like that!" oldMrs. Thayer said wisely. "How de do, Peter, Auntie here?" she called toa smiling man who went by. 

"Oh, she wouldn't go utterly bad, " Julia protested; "you can't tell, shemay have been decent for years. It may have been years ago--"

"Still, me dear, " old Mrs. Thayer said comfortably, "one doesn't likethe idea--one can't overlook that, ye know. "

"Of course, it's too bad, " Miss Saunders added briskly, "and it's agreat pity, and things ought to be different from what they are, and all_that_; but at the same time you couldn't have a girl like that in thehouse, now could you?"

"Oh, yes, I could!" said Julia, scarlet cheeked, "I was just thinkinghow glad I would be to give her a trial!"

She stopped because Jim, very handsome in evening dress and with hispretty partner beside him, had come up to them. 

"Tired, dear?" Jim said, smiling approval of the little figure in whitelace, and the earnest eyes under loosened bright hair. 

"Just about time you came up, Jim!" Ella Saunders said cheerfully, "here's your wife championing the cause of unfortunate girls--_she_wouldn't care what they'd done, she'd take them right into her home!"

"And very sweet and nice of her, " Mrs. Thayer observed, with aconsolatory pat on Julia's arm, "only it isn't quite practical, me dear, is it, Jim?"

"Julia'd like to take in every cat and dog and beggar and newsboy shesees, " said Jim, with his bright smile. But Julia knew he was notpleased. "Do you want to come speak to Mother and the girls, dear, before I take you home?" he added, offering his arm. Julia stood up andsaid her good-nights, and crossed the room, a slender and mostcaptivating little figure, at his side. It was not until she was bundledinto furs and in the motor car that she could say, with an appealinghand on his arm:

"Don't blame me, Jimmy. I didn't start that topic. Miss Saundershappened to tell of a poor girl who--"

"I don't care to discuss it, " Jim said, removing her hand by thefaintest gesture of withdrawing. 

Julia sighed and was silent. The limousine ran smoothly past one lightedcorner after another; turned into Van Ness Avenue. After a while shesaid, a little indignation burning through her quiet tone:

"I've said I was not responsible for the conversation, Jim. And it seemsto me merely childish in you to let a casual remark affect you in thisway!"

"All right, then, I'm childish!" Jim said grimly, folding his arms as heleaned back in his seat. 

Julia sighed again. Presently Jim burst out:

"I'm affected by a casual remark, yes, I admit it. But my God, doesn'tit mean anything to you that I have my pride, that when I think of mywife I want to feel that she is more perfect in every way--in _every_way--than all the other women in the world?" He stopped, breathing hard, and resumed, a little less violently: "All I ask is, Julia, that you letsuch subjects _alone_. You're not called upon to defend such girls! Surelythat's not too much to ask!"

Julia did not answer; she sat silent and sick. And as Jim did not speakagain, except to mutter "My God!" once or twice, they reached the housein silence, and separated with a brief "Good-night. " Ellie was waitingfor Julia, eager to hear what Miss Jane wore, and Miss Constance wore, and how "Miss Teddy" looked. 

"I am absolutely done, Ellie, " said the mistress, when the filmy lacegown was back in its box, and she was comfortably settled on herpillows, "so don't come in until I ring. "

"And I hope you'll get a long sleep, " Ellie said approvingly, "you'vegot to take care of yourself now!"

Julia's little daughter was born on a June day in the lovely Ross Valleyhouse the Studdifords had taken for the summer. 

They had moved into the house in April, because Julia's hopes made alater move unwise, and, delighted to get into the sweet green country soearly in the year, and to have the best of excuses for leading the quietlife she loved, she bloomed like a rose. She was in splendid health andin continual good spirits; her exultant confidence indeed lasted untilthe very day of the baby's birth. 

The day was late, and the pretty nurse, Miss Wheaton, had been in thehouse for nearly two weeks before Julia herself came to her door, in thefirst pearl dawning to say, still laughingly, that the hour had come. Aswift, well--ordered period of excitement ensued; the maids were silent, awed, efficient; Miss Wheaton authoritative, crisp, ready with technicalterms; and Jim as nervous and upset as if he were absolutely ignorant ofall things physiological, utterly dependent upon the skill and knowledgeof the nurse, humbly obedient to her will. The telephone rang and rang. Julia, the centre of this whole thrilling drama, wandered about in hergreat plum-coloured silk dressing-gown, commenting cheerfully enoughupon the various rapid changes that were being made in her room. Shepicked up the little pink blanket that had been hung upon awhite-enamelled clothes-horse, by the fire, and pressed it to her cheek. But now and then she stopped walking, and put her hand out toward theback of a chair as if she needed support, and then an expression crossedher face that made Jim's soul sicken within him: an expression of fearand wonderment and childish surprise. At nine o'clock Miss Toland camein, a little pale, but very cheerful and reassuring. 

"I'm afraid--my nerve--will give out, Aunt Sanna!" Julia said, beginningher restless march again, after a hot quick kiss. 

"Hear her!" said the nurse, with a laugh of bright scorn. "Don't talkany nonsense like that, Mrs. Studdiford. Why, she's the coolest of usall!"

"Oh, no--I'm not--oh, no--I'm not!" Julia moaned. 

"Your doctor says you're doing splendidly, and that another two hoursought to see everything well over!" Miss Toland said, trying to keep theacute distress she felt out of her tone. 

"I feel so--nauseated!" Julia complained. "So--uncertain!"

"Yes, I know, " the nurse said soothingly, whisking out of the room. MissToland followed her into the hall. 

"She's in great pain, she won't have much of this?" asked the olderwoman anxiously. 

"She's not suffering much, " the nurse said brightly, after a cautiousglance at Julia's closed door. "This isn't much--yet. She's a littlescared, that's all!"

Hating the nurse from the depth of her heart, Miss Toland wentdownstairs to see the doctor. Jim was sitting with a newspaper on theporch, trying to smoke. He jumped up nervously. 

"Where's Doctor Lippincott?" demanded Miss Toland. "He ran in to SanRafael. Back directly. "

"Ran in to San Rafael? And you let him! Why, I don't see how he dared, Jim!"

"Oh, I guess he knows his business, Aunt Sanna!" Jim said miserably. "Doyou suppose I can go up for a while?"

"Yes, go, " said Miss Toland. "I think she wants you, God bless her!"

But Julia wanted nobody and nothing. Jim's presence, his concerned voiceand sympathetic eyes, only vaguely added to her distress. She wasfrightened now, terrified at the recurring paroxysms of pain; sherecoiled from the breezy matter-of-factness of the doctor and the nurse;the elaborate preparations for the crisis offended every delicateinstinct of her nature. She felt that the room was hot, and complainedof the fire; but a few moments later her teeth chattered with a chill, and Miss Wheaton closed the wide windows through which a June breeze waswandering. 

The day dragged on. The doctor came back, talked to Jim and Miss Tolandduring luncheon about mushroom-raising, went upstairs to send MissWheaton down to her lunch, and to watch the patient a little while forhimself. Jim went up, too, but was sent down to reassure Mrs. Toland, who had arrived, and with Miss Sanna was holding a vigil in the prettycretonne-hung drawing-room. He was crossing the hall to go upstairsagain, when a sound from above held him rigid and cold. A long low moanof utter weariness and anguish drifted through the pleasant silence ofthe house, died away, and rose again. 

Slowly the sense of tragedy deepened about them. Mrs. Toland was white;Miss Toland's face was streaked with tears. The moaning was almostincessant now, but Jim in the hall could hear the nurse murmur above it, and now and then the doctor's voice, short and sharp. 

"I wonder if you could come in and give her a little chloroform, Jim?"said Doctor Lippincott, a pleasant, middle-aged man in a white linensuit and cap, appearing suddenly in the door of Julia's room. "I thinkwe can ease her along a little now, and I need Miss Wheaton. "

Jim pushed his hair back with a wet hand; cleared his throat. 

"Sure. D'you want me to scrub up?" he asked huskily. 

"Oh, no--no, my dear boy! Everything's going splendidly. " The doctorbeckoned him in, and shut the door. "Now, Mrs. Studdiford, " said he, "we'll be all right here in no time!"

Julia did not answer; she did not open her eyes even when Jim took hermoist hot hand in one of his, and brushed back the lovely tumbled hairfrom her wet forehead. She was breathing deep and violently, as if shehad been running. Presently she beat upon the bed with one clenchedfist, and began to toss her head from side to side. Then the stifledmoan began to escape from her bitten lips again, her face workedpitifully, and she began to cry. 

"Now, crowd it on, Jim!" Doctor Lippincott said, nodding toward thechloroform. 

"Breathe deep, breathe it in, my darling!" Jim urged, pouring the sweet, choking stuff upon the little mask he held above the tortured face. 

"You aren't--helping me--at all!" Julia muttered, in a deep hoarsevoice. But her shrill thin cry sank to a moan again; she stammeredincoherent words. 

So struggling and sobbing, now quieter under the anaesthetic, now cryingaloud, the next long hour somehow passed for the helpless, sufferinglittle animal that was Julia. A climax came, and the kindly chloroformsmothered the last terrible cry. 

Julia awoke to a realization that something was snapping brightly, likewood on a fire; that the cottony fumes in her head were breaking, drifting away; that commonplace cheerful voices were saying things verynear her. She seemed to have fallen from infinite space to thiswretchedly uncomfortable bed and this wretchedly uncomfortable position. She wanted a pillow; her head was rocking with pain, and her foreheadwas sticky with moisture. Yet under and over all other sensations wasthe heavenly relief from the familiar agonies of the day. She felt sotired that the mere thought of beginning to rest distressed her; shewould not open her eyes; her lids seemed sealed. She felt faintlyworried because she could not seem to intelligently grasp the subject ofHonolulu. 

"Honolulu? Honolulu?" This was the doctor's pleasant drawl. "No. Ihaven't. Mrs. Lippincott's people live in New York, so our junketingsare usually in that direction. "

"Ah, well, you'd like Honolulu, " Miss Wheaton's voice answered. A pause. Then she said, "I put some wood on. It's not so warm to-day as it wasyesterday. "

Julia strove in vain to pierce the meaning of these cryptic words. Presently the doctor said, "Perfectly normal?" more as a statement thana question, and Miss Wheaton answered in a matter-of-fact voice, "Oh, absolutely. "

Julia opened her eyes, looked up into the nurse's face, and withreturning consciousness came self-pity. 

"I couldn't do it, Miss Wheaton, " she whispered pitifully, withtrembling lips. 

"Hello, little girlie, you're beginning to feel better, aren't you?"Miss Wheaton said. "Here she is, Doctor, as fine as silk. "

Julia's languid eyes found the doctor's kindly face. 

"But the baby?" she faltered, with a rush of tears. 

"The baby is a very noisy young woman, " said Doctor Lippincottcheerfully. "I wrapped her in her pink thingamagig, and she's right herein Jim's room, getting her first bath from her granny. "

"Really?" Julia whispered. "You wouldn't--fool me?"

"Listen to her!" Miss Wheaton said. "Now, my dear, don't you be nervous. You've got a perfectly lovely little girl, and you've come through_splendidly_, and everything's fine. If you want to go look at that baby, Doctor, " she added, "ask Doctor Studdiford to send Ellie in here to meand we'll straighten this all out. Then we can let him in here to seethis young lady!"

Presently Jim came in, to kneel beside Julia's bed, and gather herlittle limp hands to his lips, and murmur incoherent praise of his bravegirl, his darling little mother, his little old sweetheart, dearer thana thousand babies. Julia heard him dreamily, raised languid eyes, andafter a little while stroked his hair. She was spent, exhausted, hammered by the agony of a few short hours into this pale ghost ofherself, and he was strong and well, the red blood running confident andaudacious in his veins. Their spirits could not meet to-night. But sheloved his praise, loved to feel his cheek wet against her hand, and shebegan to be glad it was all over, that peace at last had found the bigpleasant room, where firelight and the last soft brightness of the Juneday mingled so pleasantly on rosy wall paper and rosy curtains. 

"She's a little darling, " said Jim. "Mother says she's the prettiesttiny baby she ever saw. Poor Aunt Sanna and Mother had a great old crytogether!"

"Ah!" said Julia hungrily. For Miss Toland had come stepping carefullyin, the precious pink blanket in her arms. 

"I'm to bring her to say 'Good-night' to her mother!" said Miss Toland. "How are you, dear? All forgotten now?"

The pink miracle was laid beside Julia; she shifted her sore body just atrifle to make room, and spread weak fingers to raise the blanket fromthe baby's face. A little crumpled rose leaf of a face, a shock of softblack hair, and two tiny hands that curved warmly against Julia'sinvestigating finger. All the rest was delicate lawn and soft wool. 

The baby wrinkled her little countenance, her tiny mouth opened, andJulia heard for the first time her daughter's rasping, despairing, bitter little cry. A passion of ecstasy flooded her heart; she droppedher soft pale cheek close to the little creased one. 

"Oh, my darling, my _darling_!" she breathed. "Oh, you little perfect, helpless, innocent thing! Oh, Jim, she's crying, the angel! Oh, I dothank God for her!" she ended softly. 

"I thank God you're so well, " said Miss Toland. "Here, you can't keepher!"

"Anna, go with Aunt Sanna, " Julia said weakly. 

"Anna, eh?" Miss Toland said, wrapping up the pink blanket. 

"Anna Toland Studdiford, " Jim answered. "Julia had that all fixed upweeks ago!"

"Well--now--you children!" Miss Toland said, looking from one to theother, with her half-vexed and half-approving laugh. "What do you wantto name her that for?"

"_I_ know what for, " Julia smiled, as she watched the pink blanket outof sight. 

A little later Mrs. Toland crept in, just for a kiss, and a whimpered, "And now you must forget all the pain, dear, and just be happy!"

Then Julia was left to her own thoughts. 

She watched Miss Wheaton come and go in the soft twilight. A shadedlight bloomed suddenly, where it would not distress her eyes. Thecurtains were drawn, and Ellie came softly in with a pitcher of hot milkon a tray. Now and then the baby's piercing little "Oo-wah-wah!" came infrom the next room, and when she heard it, Julia smiled and saidfaintly, "The darling!"

And as a ship that has been blown seaward, to meet the gales and to bebattered upon rocks, might be caught at last by friendlier tides andcarried safely home, so Julia felt herself carried, a helpless littlewreck, too tired to care if the waves flung her far up on shore or drewher out to their mad embraces again. 

"All forgotten?" Miss Toland had asked, from her fifty years ofignorance, and "Now you must forget all the pain, " Mrs. Toland had said, with her motherly smile. 

Queer, drifting thoughts came and went in her active brain during thesequiet days of convalescence. She thought of girls she had known at TheAlexander, girls who had cried, and who had been blamed and ostracised, girls who had gone to the City and County Hospital for their bitterhour, and had afterward put the babies in the Asylum! Julia's thoughtswent by the baby in the next room, and at the picture of that tenderhelplessness, wronged and abandoned, her heart seemed to close like aclosing hand. 

Anna Toland Studdiford would never be abandoned, no fear of that. Neverwas baby more closely surrounded with love and the means of protection. But the other babies, just as dear to other women, what of them? What ofmother hearts that must go through life knowing that there are littlecries they will never hear, tears they may never dry, tired littlebodies that will never know the restfulness of gentle arms? The terriblesum of unnecessary human suffering rose up like a black cloud all abouther; she seemed to see long hospital wards, with silent forms fillingthem day and night, night and day, the long years through; she hadglimpses of the crowded homes of the poor, the sick and helplessmothers, the crying babies. She suddenly knew sickness and helplessnessto be two of the greatest factors in human life. 

"What if Heaven is only this earth, clean and right at last, " musedJulia, "and Hell only the realization of what we might have done, anddidn't do--for each other!" And to Jim she said, smiling, "Thisexperience has not only given me a baby, and given me my own motherhood, but it seems to have given me all the mothers and the babies in theworld as well! I wish you were a baby doctor, Jim--the preservation ofbabies is the most important thing in the world!"

Slowly the kindly tides brought her back to life, and against her ownbelief that it would ever be so, she found herself walking again, essaying the stairs, taking her place at the table. Miss Wheaton wentaway, the capable Caroline took her place, and Julia was well. 

Caroline was a silent, nice-looking, efficient woman of forty. She kneweverything there was to know about babies, and had more than one book toconsult when she forgot anything. She had been married, and had twohandsome sturdy little girls of her own, so that little Anna's rashesand colics, her crying days and the days in which she seemed to Juliaalarmingly good, presented no problems to Caroline. There was nothingJulia could tell her about sterilizing, or talcum powder, or keepinglight out of the baby's eyes, or turning her over in her crib from timeto time so that she shouldn't develop one-sidedly. 

More than this, Anna was a good baby; she seemed to have something ofher mother's silent sweetness. She ran through her limited repertory ofeating, sleeping, bathing, and blinking at her friends with absoluteregularity. 

"I'd just like you to leave the door open so that if she _should_ cry atnight--" Julia said. 

"But she never _does_ cry at night!" Caroline smiled. 

Julia persisted for some time that she wanted to bathe the baby everyday, but before Anna was two months old she had to give up the idea. Itbecame too difficult to do what nobody in the house wanted her to do, and what Caroline was only too anxious to perform in her stead. Jimliked to loiter over his breakfast, and showed a certain impatience whenJulia became restive. 

"What is it, dear? What's Lizzie say? Caroline wants you?"

"It's just that--it's ten o'clock, Jim, and Caroline sent down to knowif I am going to give Anna her bath this morning!"

"Oh, bath--nothing! Let Caroline wait--what's the rush?"

"It's only that baby gets so cross, Jim!" Julia would plead. 

"Well, let her. You know you mustn't spoil her, Julie. If there's onething that's awful it's a house run by a spoiled kid! Do let's have ourbreakfast in peace!"

Julia might here gracefully concede the point, and send a message toCaroline to go on without her. Or she might make the message a promiseto perform the disputed duty herself, "in just a few minutes. "

She would run into the nursery breathlessly, and take the baby in herarms. Everything would be in readiness, the water twinkling in thelittle bathtub, soap and powder, fresh little clothes, and woolly bathapron all in order. 

"But _hush_, Sweetest! How cross she is this morning, Caroline!"

"Yes, Mrs. Studdiford. You see she ought to be having her bottle now, it's nearly eleven! Dear little thing, she was _so_ good and patient. "

"Well, darling, Mudder'll be as quick as she can, " Julia might consolethe baby, and under Caroline's cool eye, and with Anna screaming untilshe was scarlet from her little black crown to the soles of her feet, the bath would somehow proceed. Ellie might put her head in the door. 

"Well--oh, the poor baby, were they 'busing Ellie's baby?" she wouldcroon, coming in. "Don't you care, because Ellie's going to beat 'em allwith sticks!"

Caroline anticipated Julia's every need on these occasions: the littleheap of discarded apparel was whisked away, band and powder werepromptly presented, the bath vanished, the clothes-rack with its tinyhangers was gone, and Julia had a moment in which to hug the weary, sleepy, hungry, fragrant little lump of girlhood in her arms. 

"Bottle ready, Caroline?"

"Yes, Mrs. Studdiford. She goes out on the porch now, for her nap. Cometo Caroline, darling, and get something goody-good. "

And so Julia had no choice but to go, wandering a little disconsolatelyto her own room, and wishing the baby took her nap at another hour andcould be played with now. 

Presently outside interests began to claim her again, dressmakers andmanicures, shopping and the essential letter writing filled themornings, luncheons kept her late into the afternoons, there were callsand card playing and teas. Julia would have only a few minutes in thenursery before it was time to dress for dinner; sometimes Jim came in tofeast his eyes on the beautiful, serene little Anna, in her beautifulmother's arms; more often he was late, and Julia, trailing her eveninggown behind her, would fly for studs, and pull the boot-trees from Jim'sshining pumps. 

In September they went to Burlingame for the polo tournament, and here, on an unseasonably hot day, Jim had an ugly little touch of the sun, andfor two or three days was very ill. They were terrible days to Julia. Richie came to her at once, and they took possession of the house of afriend, where Jim had chanced to be carried, and sent to San Rafael forJulia's servants; but two splendid nurses kept her out of the sickroom, and the baby was in San Rafael, so that Julia wandered about utterly ata loss to occupy heart or hands. 

On the third day the fever dropped, and Julia crept in to laugh and cryover her big boy. Jim got well very quickly, and just a week from theday of the accident he and Julia went home to the enchanting Anna, andbegan to plan for a speedy removal to the Pacific Avenue house, so thatthe little episode was apparently quite forgotten by the time they wereback in the city and the season opened. 

But looking back, months later, Julia knew that she could date adefinite change in their lives from that time. Whether his slightsunstroke had really given Jim's mind a little twist, or whether theshock left him unable to throw off oppressing thoughts with his oldbuoyancy, his wife did not know. But she knew that a certain sullen, unresponsive mood possessed him. He brooded, he looked upon her with aheavy eye, he sighed deeply when she drew his attention to the lovelylittle Anna. 

Julia knew by this time that marriage was not all happiness, allirresponsible joy. She had often wondered why the women she knew did notsettle themselves seriously to a study of its phases, when the cloudlessdays inevitably gave place to something incomprehensible and disturbing. Even lovers like Kennedy and her husband had their times of being whollyout of sympathy with each other, she knew, and she and Jim were notangels; they must only try to be patient and forbearing until the darkhour went by. 

With a sense of unbearable weight at her heart she resigned herself tothe hard task of endurance. Sometimes with a bitter rush would come thememory of how they had loved each other, and then Julia surrenderedherself to long paroxysms of tears; it was so hard, so bewildering, tohave Jim cold and quiet, to live in this painful alternation of hope andfear. But she never let Jim see her tears, and told herself bravely thatlife held some secret agony for every one, and that she must bear hershare of the world's burden. How had it all come about, she wondered. Her thoughts went back to the honeymoon, and she had an aching memory ofCentral Park in its fresh green, of Jim laughing at her when she triedto be very matronly, in her kimono, over their breakfast tray. Oh, theexquisite happy days, the cloudless, wonderful time!

She left the thought of it for the winter that followed. That had beenhappy, too. Not like the New York months, not without its gravemisgivings, not without its hours of bitter pain, yet happy on thewhole. Then Honolulu, all so bright a memory until that hour on theship--that first horrible premonition of so much misery that was tofollow. The San Mateo summer had somehow widened the wordless, mysterious gap between them, and the winter! Julia shuddered as shethought of the winter. Where was her soul while her body danced anddressed and dined and slept through those hot hours? Where was any one'ssoul in that desperate whirl of amusement?

But she had found her soul again, on the June day of Anna's coming. Andwith Anna had come to her what new hopes and fears, what newpotentialities and new sensibilities! She had always been silent, reserved, stoical by nature, accepting what life brought heruncomprehendingly, only instinctively and steadily fighting toward thatideal that had so long ago inspired her girlhood. Now she was awake, quivering with exquisite emotions, trembling with eagerness to adjusther life, and taste its full delicious savour. Now she wanted to laughand to talk, to sit singing to her baby in the firelight, to run to meether husband and fling herself into his arms for pure joy in life, andjoy that she was beautiful and young and mother of the dearest baby inthe world, and wife of the wisest and best of men. The past was blottedout for Julia now; her place in society was undisputed, not only as thewife of the rich young consulting surgeon, but for herself as well, andshe could make as little or as much as she pleased of society's claim. From her sickness she felt as if she had learned that there is sufferingand sorrow enough in the world without the need of deliberatelysustaining the old and long-atoned wrongs. More than that, she had cometo regard her own fine sense of right as a safer guide than any other, and by this she was absolved of the shadowy sin of her girlhood: theyears, the hours she had prayed, the long interval, absolved her. Juliafelt as if she had been born again. 

In this mood Jim did not join her. As the weeks went by his aspect grewdarker and more dark, and life in the Pacific Avenue house became athing of long silences and rare and stilted phrases, and for the brieftime daily that they were alone together, husband and wife werewretchedly unhappy, Jim watching his wife gloomily, Julia feeling thathis look could chill her happiest mood. She had sometimes suspected thatthis state of affairs existed between other husbands and wives, andmarvelled that life went smoothly on; there were dinners and dances, there were laughter and light speech. Jim might merely answer herhalf-timid, half-confident "Good-morning" with only a jerk of his head;he might eat his breakfast in silence, and accord to Julia's briefoutline of dinner or evening engagements only a scowling monosyllable. Yet the day proceeded, there was the baby to visit, a dressmaker'sappointment to keep, luncheon and the afternoon's plans to be gottenthrough, and then there was the evening again, and Jim and herselfdressing in adjoining rooms in utter silence, silently descending towelcome their guests, or silently whirling off in the limousine. 

Sometimes she fancied that when she resolutely assumed a cheerful tone, and determined to fight this unwholesome atmosphere with honest bravery, she merely succeeded in making Jim's mood uglier than ever. Often shetried a shy tenderness, but with no success. 

One day when Miss Toland was lunching with her Julia made some allusionto the subject, in answer to the older woman's comment that she did notlook very well. 

"I'm _not_ very well, Aunt Sanna, " said Julia, pushing her plate away, andresting both slim elbows on the table. "I'm worried. "

"Not about Anna?" Miss Toland asked quickly. 

"No-o! Anna, God bless her, is simply six-months-old perfection!" Juliasaid, with a brief smile. "No--about myself and Jim. "

Miss Toland gave her a shrewd glance. 

"Quarrelled, eh?" she said simply. 

"Oh, no!" Julia felt her eyes watering. "No. I almost wish we had. Because then I could go to him, and say 'I'm sorry!'" she stammered. 

"Sorry for what?" demanded Miss Toland. 

"For whatever I'd done!" elucidated Julia, with her April smile. 

"Yes, but suppose he'd done it, what then?" Miss Toland asked. 

"Ah, well, " Julia hesitated. "Jim doesn't do things!" she said vaguely. 

"Jim's in one of his awful moods, I suppose?" his adopted aunt asked, after a pause. 

"Oh, in a dreadful one!" Julia confessed. 

"How long--days?"

"Weeks, Aunt Sanna!"

"Weeks? For the Lord's sake, that's awful!" Miss Toland frowned andrubbed the bridge of her nose. "What gets into the boy?" she saidimpatiently. "You don't know what it's about, I suppose?"

Julia hesitated. "I think it's that he gets to thinking of my old life, when I was a little nobody, south of Market Street, " she hazarded withas much truth as she could. 

"Oh, _really_!" Miss Toland said, in a tone of cold satire. But her lookfell with infinite tenderness and pity upon the drooping little figureopposite. "Yet there's nothing of the snob about Jim, " she musedunhappily. 

"Oh, _no_!" Julia breathed earnestly. 

"There isn't, eh?" Miss Toland said. "I'm not so sure. I'm not at allsure. He isn't working too hard, is he?"

"He isn't working hard at all, " Julia said. "Jim doesn't have a case, toworry over, twice a year. You see it's either City and County cases, that he just goes ahead and _does_, or else it's rich, rich people whohave one of the older doctors, and just call Jim in to assist orconsult. He was a little nervous over a demonstration before thestudents the other day, but at the very last second, " Julia's quicksmile flitted over her face, "at the very last second the assistingnurse dropped the cold bone--as they call it--that Jim was going totransplant. Doctor Chapman told him he'd bet Jim bribed the girl to doit!"

"H'm!" Miss Toland said absently. "But his father was just another suchmoody fellow, queer as Dick's hatband!" she added, suddenly, after apause. 

"Jim's father? I didn't know you knew him!"

"Knew him? Indeed I did! We all lived in Honolulu in those days. Charming, charming fellow, George Studdiford, but queer. He was verymusical, you know; he'd look daggers at you if you happened to sneeze inthe middle of one of his Beethoven sonatas. Tim's mother was very sweet, beautiful, too, but spoiled, Julia, spoiled!"

"Too much money!" Julia said, shaking her head. 

"Exactly--there you have it!" Miss Toland assented triumphantly. "I'veseen too much of it not to know it. There's a sort of dry rot about it;even a fine fellow like Jim can't escape. But, my dear"--her tone becamereassuring--"don't let it worry you. He'll get over it. Just bide yourtime!"

"Well, that's just what I _am_ doing, " Julia said, with a rueful laugh. "But it's like being in a bad dream. There is sorrow that you have tobear, don't you know, Aunt Sanna, like crippled children, or somebody'sdeath, or being poor; and then there are these other unnatural trials, that you just _rebel_ against! I say to myself that I'll just be patientand sweet, and go on filling my time with Anna and calls and dinnerparties, until Jim comes to his senses and tells me what an angel I am, but it's awfully hard to do it! Sometimes the house seems like a vaultto me, in the mornings, even the sunshine"--Julia's eyes watered, butshe went steadily on--"even the sunshine doesn't seem right, and I feelas if I were eating ashes and cotton! I go about looking at otherhouses, and thinking, 'I wonder what men and women are being wretchedlyunhappy behind _your_ plate-glass windows!' I watch other men and theirwives together, " pursued Julia, smiling through tears, "and when womensay those casual things they are always saying, about not loving yourhusband after the first few months, and being disillusioned, and meaningless and less to each other, I feel as if it would break my heart!"

"Well, " Miss Toland said, somewhat distressed, "of course, I'd ratherwalk into a bull fight than advise--"

"I know you would, " Julia hastened to assure her. "That's why I've beentalking, " she added, "and it's been a real relief! Don't think I'mcomplaining, Aunt Sanna--"

"No, my dear, " Miss Toland said. "I'll never think anything that isn'tgood of you, Julie, " she went on. "If Jim Studdiford is so selfish asto--to make his wife unhappy for those very facts that made him firstlove her and choose her, well, I think the less of Jim, that's all! Nowgive me a kiss, and we'll go and pick out something for Barbara's boy!"

"Well, it may be a pretty safe general rule not to discuss your husbandwith your women friends, " Julia said gayly. "But I feel as if this talkhad taken a load off my heart! In books, of course, " she went on, "thelittle governess can marry the young earl, and step right into noble, not to say royal, circles, with perfect calm. But in real life, she hasan occasional misgiving. I never can quite forget that Jim was aten-year-old princeling, with a pony and a tutor and little velvetsuits, and brushes with his little initials on them, when I was born inan O'Farrell Street flat!"

"Well, if you remember it, " said Miss Toland, in affectionatedisapproval, "you're the only person who does!"

Either the confidential chat with Miss Toland had favourably affectedJulia's point of view, or the state of affairs between Jim and herselfactually brightened from that day. Julia noticed in his manner thatnight a certain awkward hint of reconciliation, and with it a flood oftenderness and generosity rose in her own heart, and she knew that, deeply as he had hurt her, she was ready to forgive him and to befriends again. 

So a not unhappy week passed, and Julia, with more zest than she hadshown in some months, began to plan a real family reunion forThanksgiving, now only some ten days off. She wrote to the Doctor andMrs. Toland, to the Carletons and Aunt Sanna, and to Richie, who hadestablished himself in a little cottage on Mount Tamalpais, and who wassomewhat philanthropically practising his profession there. She verycarefully ordered special favours for the occasion, and selected twoeligible and homeless young men from her list of acquaintances to fillout the table and to amuse Constance and Jane. Jim had to go toSacramento on the Saturday before Thanksgiving for an importantoperation, but would be home again on Tuesday or Wednesday to take thehead of his own table on the holiday. 

Julia offered, when the Friday night before his departure came, to helphim with packing. They had dined very quietly with friends that night, and found themselves at home again not very long after ten o'clock. ButJim, sinking into a chair beside the library fire, with an assortment ofnew magazines at his elbow, politely declined. 

"Oh, no, thank you! Plenty of time for that in the morning. I don't gountil nine. "

"Let Chadwick do it, anyway, Jim. Shall I tell Ellie to send him up ateight?"

"If you will. Thank you! Good-night!"

"Good-night!" And Julia trailed her satins and laces slowly upstairs, unfastening her jewels as she went. A little sense of discouragement wasfighting for possession; she fought it consciously as she had foughtsuch waves of despondency a hundred times before. She propped herselfcomfortably in pillows, turned on a light, and began to read. 

Ellie fussed about the room for a few minutes, and then was gone. Thebig house was very still. Eleven o'clock struck from the little mahoganyclock on her mantel, midnight struck, and still Jim's footstep did notcome up the stairs, and there was no welcome sound of occupancy in theroom adjoining her own. 

Suddenly terror smote Julia; she flung her book aside and sat up erectin bed. Her heart was thundering with fear; the silence of the house waslike that that follows an explosion. 

For a few dreadful seconds she sat motionless; then she thrust her barefeet in the slippers of warm white fox that Ellie had put out, andcaught up a Japanese robe of black crepe, in which her figure was quitelost. Fastening the wide obi with trembling fingers, she slipped outinto the hall, dimly lighted and very still. Then she ran quicklydownstairs. 

What sight of horror she expected to find in the library she did notknow, but the shock of revulsion, when the opened door showed hernothing more terrible than Jim, musing in the firelight, was almost asbad as a fright could have been. 

"Oh, Jim!" she panted, coming in, one hand pressed against her heart, "Ithought something--I got frightened!"

Jim looked up with his old, tender, whimsical smile, the smile for whichshe had hungered so long, and held out a reassuring hand. 

"Why, no, you poor kid!" he said. "I've been sitting right here!"

"I thought--and it was so still--and you didn't come up!" Julia said, beginning to sob. And in a moment she was in his arms, clinging to himin an ecstasy of love and relief. For a long blissful time they remainedso, the soft curve of Julia's cheek against Jim's face, her heartbeating quick above his own, her warm little figure, in its loose, softrobe, gathered closely to him. 

"Feeling better now, old lady?"

"Oh, fine!" But Julia's face quivered with tears again at the tone. 

"Well, then, what's this for?" He showed her a drop on the back of hishand. 

"Be--because I love you so, Jim!"

"Well, you needn't cry over it!" said Jim gently. "I'm the one thatought to do the crying, Judy, " he added, with a significant glance ather lovely flushed face and tear-bright blue eyes. 

Julia leaned against him with a long, happy sigh. 

"Oh, I'm so glad I came down!" she breathed contentedly. 

"'Glad!'" Jim echoed soberly. "God! You don't know what it meant to meto look up and see my little Geisha coming in. I was going crazy, Ithink!"

"Ah, Jimmy, why do you?" she coaxed, one slender arm about his neck. 

"I don't know, " he said thoughtfully. "Made that way, I guess!"

For a while they were silent again, then Julia said softly:

"After all, nothing matters as long as we love each other!"

"No, no! You're right, Julie, " he agreed seriously. "That's the onlything that counts. And you do love me, don't you?"

"Love you!" Julia said, with a shaky laugh. 

"I get crazy notions. I nearly go mad, sometimes, " Jim confessed. "I getto brooding--I know how rotten it is!" He fell silent, staring into thefire. "Happy?" he asked presently, glancing down at her as she restedquietly in his arms. 

"Oh, _happy_!" Julia said, a break in her voice. "I wish I could die here, Jim. I wish I could go to sleep here and never wake up!"

"Like me as much as that baby, eh?" he asked, in a peculiar tone. 

Julia sat up to face him, her cheeks bright under loosening films ofhair, her eyes starry in the firelight. 

"Jimmy, you couldn't be jealous of your own baby?"

"Oh, couldn't I? I can be jealous of anything and everything, sometimes. " He fixed troubled eyes on the fire. "I've been unhappy, Julie, " he confessed. 

"Unhappy? I've just been _sick_ about it, " Julia said. "I can't believethat we're talking about it, and it's all over!" She sighed luxuriously. "There's no use of _my_ doing anything when you're this way, Jim--I can'teven remember that you love me, " she went on after a silence. "Everything seems changed and queer. Sometimes I think you hate me, sometimes you give me such cold looks--oh, you _do_, Jimmy!--they justmake me feel sick and queer all over, if you know what I mean! And oh, "she sank back again with her head on his shoulder, "oh, if _only_ then Icould dare just come down to you here like this, and make you take me inyour arms, and talk to me this way!"

"Don't!" Jim said briefly, kissing the top of her hair. 

"It just seems to _smoulder_ in my heart!" Julia said. "I can't bear it!';

"Don't!" he said again. 

"Ah, but what makes you do it, Jim?" she asked, sitting erect to restboth wrists on his shoulders, and bring her blue eyes very near his own. Jim's glance did not meet hers, he looked sombrely past her at the fire. Suddenly she felt his arms tighten about her with a force that almosthurt her. 

"Oh, it's this!" he said harshly, "I love you--you're mine! You're thething I live for, the thing I'm proudest of! I can't bear to think therewas a time when I didn't know you, my little innocent girl! I can'tbear--my God!--to think that you cared for some one else--!"

And with swift force he got to his feet, and put her in his chair. Juliasat motionless while he took a restless brief turn about the room. Hesnatched a little jade god from the table, examined it closely, and putit down again, to come and stand with his back to the fire, one armflung across the mantel, and his gloomy eyes fixed on her. Julia met therushing, engulfing wave of her own emotion bravely. 

"Jim, " she said bravely, "does it mean nothing to you that there wereother women in _your_ life before you knew me?"

"Dearest, " he answered seriously and quickly, "God knows that I wouldcut my hand off to be able to blot that all out of my boyhood. Thosethings mean nothing to a man, Ju, and they meant less to me than to mostmen. Women can't understand that, but if you knew how men regard it, youwould realize that very few can bring their wives as clean a record asmine!"

He had said this much before, never anything more. Julia, looking at himnow with all the tragic sorrow of her life in her magnificent eyes, feltthe utter impossibility of convincing him that this accusation on herpart, and bravely boyish and honest confession on his, had any logicalor possible connection with the momentous conversation that they werehaving to-night. Her heart recoiled in sick terror from any word thatwould hurt or estrange him now, but she might have found that word, andmight have said it, could she have hoped that it would convey hermeaning to him. But Jim's standard of morals, for himself, was, likethat of most men, still the college standard. It was too bad to haveclouded the bright mirror, but it was inevitable, given youth and redblood. And it was admirable to regret it all now. Any fresh attempt onJulia's part to bring to his realization the parallel in theirsituations, would have elicited from him only fresh, youthfulacknowledgments, until that second when anger and astonishment at herbold effort to reduce the two distinct codes to one would end thistalk--like so many others!--with new coldnesses and silences. Juliaabandoned this line of argument once and for all. 

"I never cared for any one but you in my life, Jim, " she said, with drylips. 

"I know, " he muttered, brushing his hair back with an impatient hand. Asecond later he came to kneel penitently before her. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, " he said pleadingly. "You're a little angel of forgivenessto me--I don't deserve it! I know how I make you suffer!"

"Jim, " she said, feeling old, and tired, and cold to her heart's core, "do you think you do?"

"I know how _I_ suffer!" he answered bitterly. 

"Jim, suppose it was something you had done long ago that _I_ couldn'tforgive?"

"It isn't a question of forgiveness, " he answered quickly. "Forgiveness--when you are the sweetest and best wife a man ever had!No, darling, " he caught both her hands in his own, "you must never thinkthat, it's never that! It's only my mad, crazy jealousy. I tell you I'mashamed of it, and I _am_! Just be patient with me, Julia!"

Julia stared at him a few moments silently, her hands locked about hisneck. 

"Ah, but you _worry_ me so when you're like this, Jim, " she saidpresently, in the gentle, troubled tone a mother might use. "There seemsto be nothing I can do. I can only worry and wait!"

"I know, I know, " he said hastily. "Don't remind me of it! My father waslike that, you know. My father shot at a man once because he was rude tomy mother when he was drunk--shot him right through the shoulder! Itraised the very deuce of a scandal down there in Honolulu! He tookMother to Europe to get away from the fuss, and paid the man the Lordknows what to quiet the thing!"

"Yes, but life isn't like that, Jim, " Julia protested. "Life isn't sosimple! Shooting at somebody, and buying his silence, and rushing off toEurope! Why can't you just say to yourself reasonably--"

"'Reasonably, ' dearest!" he echoed cheerfully, with a kiss. "When was ajealous man ever reasonable!"

"But think how wonderfully happy we are, Jim, " she persisted wistfully. "Suppose there _is_ one part trouble, one part of your life that you don'tlike, why can't you be happy because ninety-nine parts of it areperfect?"

"I don't know; talking with you here, I can't understand it, " he said. "But I get thinking--I get thinking, and my heart begins to hammer, andI lie awake nights, and I'd like to get up and strangle someone--"

His vehemence died into abashed silence before her grave eyes. 

"I ought to be the one to stamp and rave over this, " Julia said. "Iought to remind you that you knew my history when you married me; andyou know life, too--you were ten years older than I, and how much moreexperienced! All I knew was learned at the settlement house, or frombooks. And the reason I _don't_ rave and stamp, Jim, " she went on, "isbecause I am different from you. I realize that that doesn't helpmatters. We must make the best of it now, we must help each other! Yousee I have no pride about it. I know I am better than many--thanmost--of these society women all about us, but I don't force you toadmit that. They break every other commandment of God, yes, and thatone, too, and they commit every one of the deadly sins! It seems to mesometimes as if 'gluttony, envy, and sloth' were the very foundation onwhich the lives of some of these people rest, and as for pride and angerand lust, why, we take them for granted! Yet, whoever thinks seriouslyof saying so?"

"You make me ashamed, Julie, " Jim said, after a pause, during which hiseyes had not moved from her face. "I can only say I'm sorry. I'm verysorry! Sometimes I think you're a good deal bigger man than I am; but Ican't help it. However, I'm going to try. From to-night on I'm going totry. "

"We'll both try, " Julia said, and they kissed each other. 

CHAPTER V

Miss Toland, who had accepted Julia's invitation for Thanksgiving, arrived unexpectedly on the afternoon before the holiday, to spend thenight with the Studdifords. It was a wild, wet day, settling down toheavy rain as the early darkness closed in, and the Pacific Avenue housepresented a gloomy if magnificent aspect to the guest as she came in. But Ellie beamingly directed her to the nursery, and here she foundenough brightness to flood the house. 

Caroline, it appeared, had gone to her own family for the afternoon, andJulia, looking like a child in her short white dress and buckledslippers, was sitting in a low chair with little Anna in her arms. Theroom was bright with firelight and the soft light from the subduednursery lamps, and warm russet curtains shut out the dull and dyingafternoon. Dolls and blocks were scattered on the hearth rug, and Juliasat her daughter down among them, and jumped up with a radiant face togreet the newcomer. 

"Aunt Sanna--you darling! And you're going to spend the night?" Juliacried out joyfully, with her first kisses. "What a dear thing for you todo! But you're wet?"

"No, I dropped everything in my room, " Miss Toland said. "Things werevery quiet at The Alexander--that new woman isn't going to do at all, bythe way, too fussy--so I suddenly thought of coming into town!"

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad you did!" Julia exulted. Miss Toland rested firm handson her shoulders, and looked at her keenly. 

"How goes it?"

"Oh, splendidly!" The younger woman's bright eyes shone. 

"No more blues, eh?"

"Oh, _no_!"

"Ah, well, that's a good thing!" Miss Toland sat down by the fire, andstretched sturdy shoes to the blaze. "Hello, Beautiful!" she said to thebaby. 

Julia dropped to the rug, and smothered the soft whiteness and fragranceof little Anna in a wild hug. 

"She has her good days and her bad days, " said Julia, biting ecstaticlittle kisses from the top of the downy little head, "and to-day she hassimply been an _angel_! Wait--see if she'll do it! See, Bunny, " Juliacaught up a white woolly doll. "Oh, see poor dolly--Mother's going toput her in the fire!"

"Da!" said Anna agitatedly, and Julia tumbled her in another madembrace. 

"Isn't that _darling_, not six months old yet?" demanded the mother. "Here, take her, Aunt Sanna, and see if you ever got hold of anythingnicer than that! Come, baby, give Aunt Sanna a little butterfly kiss!"And Julia swept the soft little face and unresponsive mouth across theolder woman's face before she deposited the baby in her lap. 

"She's like you, Julie, " Miss Toland said, extending a ringed finger forher namesake's amusement. 

"Yes, I think she is; every one says so. You see her hair's coming to bethe same ashy yaller as mine. And see the fat sweet little knees, anddon't miss our new slippers with wosettes on 'em!"

"She's really exquisite, " Miss Toland said, kissing the tawny littlecrown as Julia had done, and watching the deep-lashed blue eyes thatwere so much absorbed by the rings. "Watching her, Ju, we'll see justwhat sort of a little girl you were. "

"Oh, heavens, Aunt Sanna, " Julia protested, with a rather sad littlesmile, "I was an awful little person with stringy hair, and colds in mynose, and no hankies! I never had baths, and never had regular mealhours, or regular diet, for that matter! Anna'll be very different fromwhat I was. "

"Your mother was to blame, Ju, " Miss Toland said, gravely shaking herhead. 

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps _her_ mother was, " Julia suggested. "Yet myGrandmother Cox is a sweet little old woman, " she went on, smiling, "always afraid we're hungry, and anxious to feed us, tremendously loyalto us all. I went out there to-day, to take Mama some special littlethings for Thanksgiving, and see if their turkey had gotten there, andso on, and my heart quite ached for Grandma--Mama's very exacting now, and the girls--my aunt, Mrs. Torney's girls--seemed so apathetic anddull. The house was very dirty, as it always is, and the halls icy, andthe kitchen hot--I just wanted to pitch in and _clean_! Mama was cross atme for not bringing Anna, in this rain, and staying to dinner to-morrow;but Grandmother was so pleased to have the things, and she got totelling me of old times, poor thing, and how she had to work and schemeto get up a Thanksgiving dinner, and how my grandfather would worry herby promising that he'd only have one drink, and then disappearing forhours--"

"Does it ever occur to you that you are an unusual woman, Julia?" MissToland asked, holding her watch to the baby's ear. Julia flushed andlaughed. 

"Well, no, I don't believe it ever did!"

"Not so much in climbing up in the world as you have, " pursued the olderwoman, "but in not despising the people you left behind you! That's veryfine, Julie. I can't tell you how fine it seems to me!"

"There's nothing fine about it, " Julia said simply. "It's just that Ilike that sort of people as well as I do--Jim's sort. I used to thinkthat to work my way into a world where everything was fine and fragrantand costly would mean to be happy, but of course it doesn't, and I'vecome more and more to feel that I like the class where joys are real, and sorrows are real, and the goodness means more, and there's moreexcuse for the badness!"

"Did you ever think of writing, Julia?" Miss Toland asked. "Stories, Imean?"

"Everybody does nowadays, I suppose, " Julia laughed. "Sometimes I thinkwhat good material The Alexander stuff would be, Aunt Sanna. But thetruth is, Jim doesn't like the idea. "

"Doesn't? Bless us all, why not?"

"Oh!" Julia dimpled demurely. "The great Mrs. Studdiford writing, like amere ordinary person?" she asked. 

"Oh, that's it? Where is Jim, by the way?"

"Sacramento. But the operation was on Sunday, so he should have beenhere yesterday, at latest, " Julia said. "However, he'll rush in to-nightor to-morrow; he knows you're all going to be here. Give her to me, AuntSanna, she's getting hungry, bless her little old heart! Ah, here'sEllie with something for Mother's girl!"

"And tea for you in the library, " Ellie said in an aside, receiving thebaby into her arms with a rapturous look. 

"Tea, doesn't tea sound good!" Julia caught Miss Toland by the hand. "Come and have some tea, Aunt Sanna!" said she. "I'm starving!"

They were loitering over their teacups half an hour later when Lizziecame into the library with a special delivery letter. 

"For me?" Julia smiled, reaching for it. "It's Jimmy!" she addedruefully, for Miss Toland's benefit, as she took it. "This means hecan't get here!"

"Drat the lad!" his aunt said mildly. "What has he got to say?"

Julia pulled out a hairpin to open the letter, her face a littlepuzzled. She unfolded three pages of large paper closely written. 

"Why, I don't understand this, " said she. "Jimmy writes such shortletters!"

And immediately fear, like cold iron, entered her heart, and she felt achill of distaste for the letter; she did not want to read it, shewished she might fling it on the ere, and rid her hands of the horriblething. 

"It _is_ Jim, isn't it?" Miss Toland said, with a sharp look. "Is hecoming?"

"I don't know, " Julia said, hardly above a whisper. 

"Anything wrong?" Miss Toland asked, instantly alert. 

"No, I don't suppose so!" Julia said, trying to laugh. "But--but I hatehim to just send a letter when I expected _him_!" she added childishly. 

She picked it up, and began slowly to read it. Miss Toland, watchingher, saw the muscles of her face harden, and her eyes turn to steel. Theblood rushed to her face, and then receded quickly. She read to the lastword, and then looked up to meet the other woman's eyes. 

"What _is_ it?" Miss Toland demanded, aghast at Julia's look. 

"It's Jim, " said Julia. Her face was blazing again, and she seemed to bechoking. "He's going to Europe, " she went on, in a bewildered tone, "he's not coming back. "

"_What_!" said Miss Toland sharply. "D'you mean to tell me he's simplywalked off--"

Julia's colour was ghastly; her eyes looked sick and heavy. 

"No, no, he can't mean that!" she said quickly. She crushed the pages ofthe letter together convulsively. "I can't--" she began, and stopped. Suddenly she rose to her feet, muttered something about coming back, andwas gone. 

She ran up to her room, and alone there, it seemed for a few moments asif she must suffocate. She put the letter on her desk, where its foldedsheets instantly looked hideously familiar. She went into the bathroom, and found herself holding her fingers under the hot-water tap, vaguelywaiting for hot water. Like a hunted creature she went through theluxurious rooms, the mortal wound in her heart widening every instant;finally she came back to her desk, and sat down, and read the letteragain. 

"Dear Julia, " wrote Jim, "I have been thinking and thinking about thisaffair, and I cannot stand it. I am going away. Atkins is going toBerlin for a three months' course under Hofner and Braun, and I am goingwith him. I only made up my mind to-night, but I have thought ofsomething like this a long, long time. I cannot bear it any longer. Ithink and think about things--that another man loved you and you lovedhim--and I nearly go mad. Even when people meet me and ask how you are, I am reminded of it; for weeks now I haven't thought of anything else;it just seems to rise up wherever I go. 

"I think it will be better when I don't see you. 

"I have been sitting here with my head in my hands, wondering if thereis any way in which I can spare you the pain of reading this letter, butit's no use, it's impossible to go back and bluff about it. 

"Collins spoke to me about the change in me; he said he thought it wasthat touch of the sun in September. I wish to God it was!

"I will take the course with Atkins, and then let you know. He wants togo to Benares for some reason or another, and perhaps I will go withhim, or perhaps come home to you. But I don't think I will come backunder a year. 

"You hear of men all your life who do this, but I feel as if it waskilling me, and you, too. I wish there was some other way. 

"I have written Harry at the Crocker; my account there is to betransferred to your name. I don't know exactly what it is, but the moneyfrom the San Mateo lots went in there, and so there is plenty. For God'ssake spend it, don't hesitate about getting anything you want. Whyshouldn't you keep the house, until April anyway; some one would staywith you, and then you could go to San Rafael. 

"I'm not going to try to tell you how I feel about all this, because youknow. It all seems to me a bad dream. Every little while I try to makemyself think that after a while it will all come right, but it seemed tome all dead and buried after that time on the steamer, and of course itwasn't!

"Tell people what you please, I leave all that to you. 

"Chadwick will sell the car, and send you the bill of sale and themoney. He knows what I want sent; he'll do all that. 

"I've written and rewritten this ten times; my head is splitting. Itseems strange to think it is you and me. 

"God bless you always, and our little girl. 

"_Jim_. "

Julia finished it with a little grinding sound, like a groan, heardherself make a dramatic exclamation, an "Ah!" of agonized unbelief. Shesat down, got up again to take a few irresolute steps toward her desk, and finally went to her bedside telephone, and took down the receiver. 

There was a delay; Julia rapped an impatient slipper on the floor, andrattled the hook. 

"Western Union, please, " she said, a moment later; "I want to send atelegram. "

An interval of silence followed. Julia sat staring blankly at the wall. Then she rattled the hook again. 

"No matter about that number, Central; I've changed my mind, " she said. She walked irresolutely into the middle of the room, stood there amoment frowning, and then turned, to go back and fling herself on herbed, staring up into the dark, the letter crackling as it dropped besideher. 

After a while she began to say, "Oh, oh, oh!" quietly and quickly underher breath. The cry grew too much for her, she twisted on her face tostifle it, and after a few moments it stopped. Then she turned on herback again, and said something sharply to herself in a whisper once ortwice, and after that the moaning "Oh, oh, oh!" began again. 

So Miss Toland found her, when she came into the room without knocking, a little later. 

"Julia, " Miss Toland said sharply, sitting down on the edge of the bedand possessing herself of one of Julia's limp, cold hands, "Ellie toldme you--she came to the door and heard you! My child, this won't do! Youmustn't make mountains out of molehills. If Jim Studdiford has had thesenseless cruelty to go off to Europe in this fashion, why, he ought tobe horsewhipped, that's all! But I don't believe he'll get any fartherthan New York, myself; I don't believe he'll get that far!" She paused, but Julia was silent. After a moment the older woman spoke again. "Whatdoes he say in the letter?" she asked. "One would really like to knowjust how this delightful piece of work is explained. "

"Aunt Sanna!" Julia said, in a difficult half whisper. She took MissToland's hand and pressed it against her heart. Her lips were shuttight, and against the white pillow there was a little negative movementof her head. 

"Well, of course you don't want to talk about it, " Miss Toland saidsoothingly. "But was there a quarrel?"

"Oh, no--no!" Julia said quickly, briefly, with another convulsivepressure of Miss Toland's hand, and another jerk of her head. "It wassomething--that distressed Jim--something I couldn't change, " she addedwith difficulty. 

"H'm!" said the other, and the evidence for both sides was in, as far asMiss Toland was concerned, and the case closed. She sat beside Julia inthe dark for a long time, patting her hand without speaking. After awhile Ellie brought a glass of hot milk, and Julia docilely drank it, and submitted to being put to bed, raising a face as sweet as a child'sfor Miss Toland's good-night kiss, and promising to sleep well. 

The pleasant winter sunlight was streaming into the older woman's roomwhen Julia came in the next morning, although all San Francisco echoedto the sombre constant call of the foghorn, and the air was cool enoughto make Miss Toland's fire delightful. Julia had Anna with her, adelightful little armful in her tumbled nightwear, and she smiled at thepicture of Miss Toland, comfortably enjoying her breakfast in bed. Butit was evident that she had not slept: deep shadows lay under her blueeyes, and she was very pale. She put the baby down on the bed with asilver buttonhook and a bracelet, and sat down. 

"Sleep any?" Miss Toland asked. 

"Yes, I think I did!" Julia said, with an effort at brightness. Sheseemed nervous and restless, but showed no tendency to break down. "I'vejust been talking to Caroline, " she went on. "I told her that DoctorStuddiford had been called away, and implied that there would bechanges. Then I spoke to Foo Ting at breakfast--Mrs. Pope is crazy toget him--so that will be all right--"

"Julia--of course I've not read Jim's letter, " Miss Toland saidearnestly, "but aren't you taking this too much to heart--aren't youacting rather quickly?"

Julia looked down at her laced fingers for a few moments withoutspeaking. 

"Jim isn't coming back, " she said soberly. 

"But what makes you _say_ so, dear? How do you know?"

"Well, I just know it, " Julia said, raising heavy-lidded eyes. Theylooked at each other. 

"But you aren't telling me seriously, my child, that you two--the mostdevoted couple I ever _saw_--why, Julia, show a little courage, child! Jimmust be brought to his senses, that's all. We must think what's wisestto do, and do it. But, my dear, there'd be no marriages left in theworld if people flew off the handle--"

"I _have_ been thinking, all night, " Julia said patiently, "and this iswhat I thought. I want"--she glanced restlessly about the room--"I wantto get away from here! That'll take some little while. "

"Go away by all means, dear, if you want to, but don't dismantle yourhouse--don't make it impossible for the whole thing to blow over----"

"He won't come back, " Julia repeated quietly. 

"You don't think so?" Miss Toland said uncomfortably. "H'm!"

"No one must know, not even Doctor and Mother, " pursued Julia. "Nonewspapers, _nobody_!"

"Well, in any case, that's wise!" the older woman assented. "And wherewill you go--to Sally?"

"No!" Julia said with a quick shudder. "Not anywhere near here! No, Ishould rather like to give the impression that I will be with Jim, ornear Jim, " she added slowly. 

"Following him abroad with the baby, that's quite natural!" Miss Tolandapproved. "But why not stay a week or two in Sausalito, just to keepthem from guessing?"

"Oh, I couldn't!" Julia said, in a quick breath. 

"And where'll you go--New York?"

"Oh, no!" Julia leaned back and shut her eyes. The muscles of her throatworked. "We were so happy in New York, " she said, with a suddenquivering of her lips. But a moment's struggle brought back hercomposure. "I thought--some little French village, or England, " shehazarded. 

"England, " Miss Toland said promptly. "This is no time of the year totake a child to France; besides, you get better milk in England, and ifAnna was sick, there's London, full of doctors who speak your ownlanguage. "

"So long as it's quiet, " Julia said, "and we see nobody--that's all Icare about. Then if Jim should--But I couldn't wait here, with everybodyasking, and inviting me places, and spying on me!"

"We'll take some sort of little place in Oxfordshire, " Miss Toland said, "and then we can run up to London--"

"'We?'" Julia echoed. She gazed bewilderedly at the other woman for amoment, then put her hands over her face and burst into tears. 

A month like a nightmare followed. Julia had never grown to care for thePacific Avenue house; now it came to have an absolute horror for her. She seemed to see it through a veil of darkness; she seemed to moveunder the burden of an intolerable weight. Sometimes she found herselfpanting as if for air, as she went from silent room to silent room, andsometimes a memory unbearably poignant and dear smote her as withphysical violence, and her face worked for a few moments, and she foughtwith tears. 

There were other times, when life seemed less sad than dull. Julia grewsick of loneliness, sick of silence; she stared at her face in themirror, when she was slowly dressing in the morning; stared at herselfagain at night--as if marvelling at this woman who was a wife, and amother, and deserted in her young bloom. Deserted--her husband had goneaway from her, and she knew no way to bring him back. A weary flatnessof spirit descended upon her; it seemed a part of the howling winterstorms, the dark and heavy weather. 

For the servants other positions were quickly found, the furniture wasstored, the motor car sold. On the last day on which the last was at herdisposal, Julia, with Ellie and the baby, drove about downtown, anddisposed of several odds and ends of business. She left the keys of thePacific Avenue house at the agent's office, not without an agonizedmemory of the day she had first called for them, more than two yearsago. She went to the bank, and was instantly invited into the manager'soffice and given a luxurious chair. 

"Well, Mrs. Studdiford, " said Mr. Perry pleasantly, "what brings you outin this dreadful weather?"

"Good-byes, " Julia said, flinging back her veil, and laying her muffaside. "Miss Toland and I will probably leave for New York on theseventh, and sail as soon as we can after we get there. I want to take aletter of credit, and I want to know just how I stand here. "

Mr. Perry touched a button, the letter of credit was duly made out, aclerk came in with a little slip, which he handed to Mr. Perry. 

"Ah, yes, yes, indeed! And where is Doctor Studdiford now? In Berlin?Lovely city. You'll like Berlin, " said Mr. Perry. He glanced at theslip. "Thirty-seven thousand, two hundred and twenty dollars, Mrs. Studdiford, " said he. "Transferred to your name a month ago. 

"I had no idea it was so much!" Julia said, her heart turning to lead. Why had he given her so much?

Mr. Perry, bowing her out, laughed that that was a fault on the rightside, and Julia left the bank, with its brightly lighted warm atmospheretinged with the odour of ink and polished wood and rubber flooring, andits windows streaming with rain. She got into the motor car again, andtook little Anna on her lap. 

"Now I think we'll drop you at the hotel, Ellie, " said she, "and I'lltake the baby out to say good-bye to my mother. "

"Oh, Mrs. Studdiford, it's raining something terrible!" protested themaid. 

"Yes, I know, " Julia agreed, looking a little vaguely out of the blurredwindow. "But you see to-morrow may be just as bad, and we've got her alldressed and out now. So you go home and pack, and I'll just fly outthere and fly back. Day after to-morrow I've promised to take her toSausalito, and the day after that we start!"

The city streets looked dark and gloomy under the steady onslaught ofthe rain, as the car rolled along. Julia stared sombrely through thedrenched glass, now and then kissing the perfumed top of the little silkcap that covered the drowsy head on her breast. It was a long trip toShotwell Street; for all her family's peculiarities, it was rather a sadtrip to-day. She let her thoughts drift on to the coming changes in herlife. She thought of New York, of the great unknown ocean, ofLondon--London to Julia meant fog, hansom cabs, and crossings that mustbe swept. It was not, she felt, with a certain baffled resentment, whatshe wanted to do. London was full of Miss Toland's friends, and Juliawas too sick in spirit to wish to meet them now. To be alone--to bealone--to be alone--some gasping inner spirit prayed continually. Theywould go to Oxfordshire, of course. But Miss Toland would be miserablein the country, she was always miserable in the country. 

They were passing Eighteenth Street, passing St. Charles's shabby littlechurch. Julia stopped the motor. She got out and carried the baby up thestairs, and went up the echoing aisle to a front pew, where Anna couldsit and stare about her. Julia, panting, dropped on her knees. The bigedifice was empty, and smelled of damp plaster, rain rattled the highwindows. The afternoon was so dark that the sanctuary light sent alittle pool of quivering red to the floor below. 

After a while a very plain young woman came out of the vestry, andwalking up the steps to the main altar, carried away one of the greatcandlesticks. She was presently joined by a little nun; the twowhispered unsmilingly together, came and went fifty times with flowers, with candles, with fresh altar linen. 

Julia could not pray. Her thoughts would not settle themselves; theydrifted back and forth like rippling breezes over grass. She felt thatif she might kneel here an hour she could begin to pray. Now a thousandlittle things distracted her: the odour of the church, the crisping feetof some one entering the church far behind her, the odour of the dampglove upon which she rested her cheek. 

Life troubled her; she was afraid. She had thought it lay plain andstraight before her; now all her guide posts were gone, and all herpathways led into deeper and deeper uncertainty. The utter confusioninto which she had been thrown made even her own identity indefinite toher; she suffered less for this bewilderment. If by the mere raising ofher hand she might have brought Jim back to her, she would not haveraised that hand; not now, not until some rule that would adjust theirrelationship was found. Her marriage seemed a dream, their love asstrange and remote as their separation. 

Only Anna seemed real, and as much a sorrow as a joy just now. To whatheritage would the beautiful, mysterious little personality unfold? Whatof the swiftly coming time when she would ask questions?

Julia turned to the little white-capped, white-coated figure. Anna hadchewed a bonnet string to damp limpness; now she was saying "Da!" in analluring and provocative tone to a lady praying nearby. The ladyregarded her with an unmoved eye, however, and Julia gathered her smalldaughter in her arms and went down to the motor car. 

At her mother's door she dismissed Chadwick for an hour or two of warmthand shelter, and, sighing, went into the unaired dark hallway thatsmelled to-day of wet woollens and of a smoky kerosene wick, andretained as well its old faint odour of carbolic acid. 

CHAPTER VI

Julia found the family as usual in the kitchen, and the kitchen as usualdirty and close. Her old grandmother, a little bent figure in a loosecalico wrapper, was rocking in a chair by the stove. Julia's mother washelpless in a great wheeled chair, with blankets and pillows carelesslydisposed about her, and her eager eyes bright in a face chiselled bypain. Sitting at the table was a heavy, sad-faced woman, with severalfront teeth missing, in whom Julia recognized her aunt, Mrs. Torney. Agirl of thirteen, with her somewhat colourless hair in untidy braids, and a flannel bandage high about her throat, came downstairs at thesound of Julia's entrance. This was Regina Torney. 

"Well, it's Julia!" Mrs. Cox said. "And the darlin' sweetie--yououghtn't to bring her out such weather, Julie! How's them little hands?"

She took the baby, and Julia kissed her mother and aunt, expecting todraw from the former the usual long complaints when she said:

"How are you, dear? How does the chair go?"

But Mrs. Page surprised her by some new quality in her look and tone, something poignantly touching and admirable. She was a thin littleshadow of her former self now, the skin drawn tight and shining over hercheek bones, her almost useless hands resting on a pillow in her lap. She wore a soiled dark wrapper, her dark hair, still without a touch ofgray, was in disorder, and her blankets and pillows were not clean. Shesmiled at her daughter. 

"I declare, Ju, you do seem to bring the good fresh air in with youwhenever you come! Don't her cheeks look pretty, Regina? Why, I'm justabout the same, Ju. To-day's a real bad day, on account of the rain, butI had a good night. "

"She's had an awful week, Julia. She don't seem to get no better, " Mrs. Torney said heavily. "I was just saying that it almost seems like sheisn't going to get well; it just seems like it had got hold of her!"

Julia sat down next to her mother, and laid her own warm young hand overthe hand on the pillow. 

"What does the doctor say?" she asked, looking from one discouragingface to another. 

"Oh, I don't know!" Mrs. Page said, sighing, and old Mrs. Cox cackledout a shrill "Doctors don't know nothing, anyway!"

"Emeline sent for me, " Mrs. Torney said in a sad, droning voice. "Mammajust couldn't manage it, Julia; she's getting on; she can't doeverything. So me and Regina gave up the Oakland house, and we've beenhere three weeks. We didn't want to do it, Julia, but you couldn't blameus if you'd read your Mamma's letter. Regina's going to work as soon asshe can, and help out!"

Julia understood a certain deprecatory and apologetic note in her aunt'svoice to refer to the fact that the Shotwell Street house was largelysupported by Jim's generous monthly cheque, and that in establishingherself and her youngest daughter there she more or less avowedly addedone more burden to Julia's shoulders. 

"I'm glad you did, Auntie, " she answered cheerfully. "How's Muriel? Andwhere's Geraldine?"

"Geraldine's at school, " Mrs. Torney said mournfully. "But Regina's notgoing to start in here. She done awfully well in school, too, Julia, but, as I say, she feels she ought to get to work now. She's got anawful sore throat, too. Muriel's started the nursing course, but I don'tbelieve she can go on with it, it's something fierce. All my childrenhave weak stomachs; she says the smell in the hospital makes her awfullysick. I don't feel real well myself; every time I stand up--my God! Ifeel as if my back was going to split in two, and yet with poor Em thisway I felt as if I had ter come. Not that I can do anything for Emeline, but I was losing money on my boarders. I wish't you'd come out Sunday, Julia, I cooked a real good dinner, didn't I, Ma?"

Mrs. Cox did not hear, and Julia turned to her mother. 

"Made up your mind really to go, Ju?" Mrs. Page asked. 

"Oh, really! We leave on the seventh. "

"I've always wanted to go somewheres on a ship, " Emeline said. "Didn'tcare so much what it was when I got there, but wanted to go!"

"So have I, " contributed Mrs. Torney. "I was real like you at your age, Julia, and I used to think I'd do this and that when the children wasbig. Well, some of us are lucky and some of us aren't--ain't that it, Ma? I was talking to a priest about it once, " she pursued, "and he said, 'Well, Mrs. Torney, if there was no sorrow and suffering in the world, there wouldn't be no saints!' 'Oh, Father, ' I says, 'there isn't much ofthe saint in me! But, ' I says, 'I've been a faithful wife and mother, ifI say it; seven children I've raised and two I've buried; I've worked myhands to the bone, ' I says, 'and the Lord has sent me nothing buttrouble!'"

"Ma, ain't you going to put your clothes on and go to the store?" Reginasaid. 

"I was going to, " Mrs. Torney said, sighing, "but I think maybe now I'llwait, and let Geraldine go--she'll have her things on. "

"I suppose you haven't got any milk?" Mrs. Page said. "I declare I getto feeling awfully gone about this time!"

"We haven't a drop, Em, " Mrs. Torney said, after investigating a smallback porch, from which Julia got a strong whiff of wet ashes anddecaying cabbage leaves. 

"How much milk do you get regularly?" Julia asked, looking worried. 

"Oh, my dear, " Mrs. Torney said, from the sink, where she was attackinga greasy frying pan with cold water and a gray rag worn into holes, "youforget we ain't rich people here. We don't have him leave milk, but ifwe want it we put a bottle out on the back steps. "

"You ought to have plenty of milk, Mama, taking those strong, depressingmedicines!" Julia said. 

"Well, I ain't got much appetite, Julie, " her mother answered, with thatnew and touching smile. "Now, last night the girls had cabbage and cornbeef cooking--I used to be real fond of that dinner, but it almost mademe sick, just smelling it! So Geraldine fried me an egg, yet that didn'ttaste good, either! Gettin' old and fussy, I guess!"

Julia felt the tears press suddenly behind her eyes as she answered thepatient smile. "Mama, I think you are terribly patient!" said she. 

"I guess you can get used to anything!" Emeline said. 

Regina coughed, and huddled herself in her chair. 

"But I thought since we had the air-tight stove put in the other roomyou were going to use it more?" said Julia, as Mrs. Torney shook downthe cooking stove with a violence that filled the air with the acridtaste of ashes. 

"Well, we do sometimes. I meant to clean it to-day and get it startedagain, " her aunt said. "I'm sure I don't know what we're going to do fordinner, Ma, " she added. "Here it is getting round to five, and Geraldinehasn't come in. I don't know what on earth she does withherself--weather like this!"

Mrs. Cox made no response; she was nodding in the twilight over thelittle relaxed figure of the baby; a fat little white-clad leg rolled onher knee as she rocked. A moment later Geraldine, a heavy, highlycoloured girl, much what her sister Marguerite had been ten yearsbefore, burst in, cold, wet, and tired, with a strapful of wet bookswhich she flung on the table. 

"My Lord, what do you keep this place so dark for, Ma!" said Geraldine. "It's something awful! Hello, Julia!" She kissed her cousin, pickedJulia's big muff from a chair, and pressed the soft sables for a momentto her face. "Well, the little old darling, she's asleep, isn't she?"she murmured over the baby. "Say, Mamma, " she went on more briskly, "I've got company coming to-night--"

"_You_!" said Julia, smiling, and laying an affectionate hand on her youngcousin's shoulder, as she stood beside her. "Why, how old are you, child?"

"I'm sixteen--nearly, " Geraldine said stoutly. "Didn't you have beauswhen you were sixteen?"

"I suppose I did!" Julia admitted, smiling. "But you seem awfullyyoung!"

"I thought--maybe you'd go to the store for me, " said Mrs. Torney. Geraldine glared at her. 

"Oh, my God! haven't the things come?" she demanded, in shrill disgust. "I can't, Mamma, I'm sopping wet, and I've got to clean the parlour. It's all over ashes, and mud, and the Lord knows what!"

"Well, I couldn't get out to-day, that's all there is to that, " Mrs. Torney defended herself sharply. "My back's been like it was on fire. I've jest been resting all day. And when you go upstairs you won't finda thing straightened, so don't get mad about that--I haven't been ableto do one thing! Regina's been real sick, too; she may have made thebeds--she was upstairs a while--"

"She didn't!" supplied Regina herself, speaking over her shoulder as shelighted the gas. They all blinked in the harsh sudden light. 

"Oh, Lord!" Geraldine was beginning, when Julia interrupted soothingly:

"See here, I have the car here; Chadwick was to come back at five. Letme send him for the things! What do we want?"

"Well, we don't want to keep you, lovey, " her mother began. But Juliawas already writing a list. 

"Indeed I'm going to stay and have some with you, Mrs. Page, " she saidcheerfully. "Chops for the family--aren't those quickest? And a quart ofoysters for Mama, and cake and cheese and jam and eggs--tell meanything you think of, Aunt May, because he might as well do itthoroughly!

"Mama and Regina are going to have oyster soup and toast because theyare the invalids!" she announced cheerfully, coming back from the door alittle later, "You like oysters, don't you, Mama?"

"Oh, Julia, I like 'em _so_ much!" Mrs. Page said, with grateful fervour. 

"You can have other things, too, you know, Madam, " Julia assured herplayfully. "And why don't you let me push you, so--" She wheeled thechair across the kitchen as she spoke. "Over here, you see, you're outof the crowd, " she said. She presently put a coaxing arm about Regina. "Do go up and brush your hair and change, dear, you'll feel so muchbetter, " she urged. 

"I feel rotten, " Regina said, dragging herself stairward nevertheless. 

Poor Mrs. Page cried when the moment for parting came. It was stillearly in the evening when Julia bundled up the sleeping Anna, and senther to the motor car by Chester, a gentle gray-haired man, who had beenextremely appreciative of a good dinner, and who had been sitting withhis wet socks in the oven, and his stupid kindly eyes contentedly fixedupon Julia and her mother. 

"I may not see you again, Julie, " Mrs. Page said with trembling lips. "Mama ain't strong like she once was, dear. And I declare I don't knowwhat I _shall_ do, when day after day goes by and you don't comein--always so sweet!" The tears began to flow, and she twisted her head, and slowly and painfully raised her handkerchief in a crippled hand todry her eyes. Julia knelt down to kiss her, her young face very sober. 

"Listen, Mama--don't cry! Please don't cry!" said she. "Listen! I'll_promise_ you to see you again before I go!"

Her mother brightened visibly at this, and Julia kissed her again, andran out in the dripping rain to her car. She took the baby into herarms, and settled back in the darkness for the long trip to her hotel. And for the first time in many months her thoughts were not of her owntroubles. 

She thought of the Shotwell Street house, and wondered what hadattracted her grandfather and grandmother to it, forty years ago. Shetried to see her mother there, a slender, dark-haired child; tried toimagine her aunt as young and fresh and hopeful. Had the rooms been darkand dirty even then? Julia feared so; in none of her mother'sreminiscences was there ever any tenderness or affection for earlymemories of Shotwell Street. Four young people had gone out from thathouse, nearly thirty years ago, how badly equipped to meet life!

Julia's own earliest recollections centred in it. She remembered herselfas an elaborately dressed little child, shaking out her little flouncesfor her grandmother's admiration, and having large hats tied over herflushed sticky face and tumbled curls. She remembered that, instead ofthe row of cheap two-story flats that now faced it, there had been avacant lot across the street then, where horses sometimes galloped. Sheremembered the Chester of those days, a pimply, constantly smokingyouth, who gave her little pictures of actresses from his cigaretteboxes, and other little pictures that, being held to a strong light, developed additional figures and lettering. He called her "MissO'Farrell of Page Street" sometimes, and liked to poke her plump littleperson until she giggled herself almost into hysterics. 

Still dreaming of the old times, she reached her hotel, and while Elliesettled the baby into her waiting crib, Julia sat down before a fire, her slippered feet to the comfortable coals, her loose mandarin robedeliciously warm and restful after the tiring day. 

"You want the lights, Mrs. Studdiford?" asked Ellie, tiptoeing in fromthe next room. 

"Oh, no, thank you!" Julia said. "I'll just sit here for a while, andthen go to bed. "

Ellie went softly out; the clock struck nine--ten--eleven. Against theclosely curtained windows the rain still fell with a softened hiss, thecoals broke, flamed up, died down to a rosy glow. Still Julia sat, sunkin her deep chair, musing. 

She saw the Shotwell Street house changed, and made, for the first timein its years of tenancy, into a home. There must be paint outside, cleanpaint, there must be a garden, with a brick path and rose bushes, wherea little girl might take her first stumbling steps, and where springwould make a brave showing in green and white for the eyes of tiredhomegoers. 

Indoors there should be a cool little orderly dining-room, with bluechina on its shelves, and a blue rug under the round table, and thereshould be a drawing-room papered in clean tans and curtained in creamcolour, with an upright piano and comfortable chairs. The ugly oldstoreroom off the kitchen must be her mother's; it must have new windowscut, and nothing but what was new and pretty must go in there. And thekitchen should have blue-and-white linoleum, with curtains and shiningtinware; there must be the gleam of scrubbed white woodwork, the shineof polished metal. It was a big kitchen, the invalid might still like tohave her chair there. 

The basement's big, unused front room must be finished in durableburlaps and grass matting for Uncle Chester; there must be a bathupstairs; two rooms for Aunt May and the girls, one for Grandma, one forJulia and little Anna. 

So much for externals. But what of changing the tenants to suit thehouse? Would time and patience ever transform Mrs. Torney into a busy, useful woman? Would Geraldine and Regina develop into hopelessincompetents like Marguerite, or pay Julia for all her trouble bybecoming happy and helpful and contented?

Time must show. Only the days and the years would answer the questionthat Julia asked of the fire. There must be patience, there must beendless effort, there would be times of bitterest discouragement anddepression. And in the end?

In the end there would only be, at best, one family, out of millions ofother families, saved from unnecessary suffering. There would be onlyone household lifted from the weight of incompetence and wretchednessthat burdened the world. There would be no miracle, no appreciation, nogratitude. 

"But--who knows?" mused Julia. "It may save Geraldine and Regina fromlives like Rita's, and bitterness like Muriel's and Evelyn's. It maysave them from clouding their lives as I did mine. Rita's children, too, who knows what a clean and sweet ideal--held before them, may do forthem? And poor Chess, who has been wronged all his life, and my poorlittle grandmother, and Mama--"

It was the thought of her mother that turned the scale. Julia thought ofthe dirty blankets and the soggy pillow that furnished the invalid'schair, of the treat that a simple bowl of oyster soup seemed to thefailing appetite. 

"And I can do it!" she said to herself. "It will be hard for months andmonths, and it will be hard now to make Aunt Sanna see that I am right;but I can do it!" She looked about the luxurious room, and smiled alittle sadly. "No more of this!" she thought. And then longing for herhusband came with a sick rush. "Oh, Jimmy!" she whispered, with fillingeyes. "If it was only you and me, my darling! If we were going _anywhere_together, to the poorest neighbourhood and the meanest cabin in theworld--how blessed I would be! How we could work and laugh and plantogether, for Anna and the others!" But presently the tears dried on hercheeks. "Never mind, it will keep me from thinking too hard, " shethought. "I shall be needed, I shall be busy, and nothing else mattersmuch!"

She got up, and went to one of the great windows that looked down acrossthe city. The rain was over, dark masses of cloud were breaking andstirring overhead; through their rifts she caught the silver glimmer ofthe troubled moon. Across the shadowy band that was the bay a ferryboat, pricked with hundreds of tiny lights, was moving toward the glitteringchain of Oakland. There was a light on Alcatraz, and other nearer lightsscattered through the dark masts and dim hulks of the vessels in theharbour below her. 

"It will be bright to-morrow!" Julia thought, resting her foreheadagainst the glass. She was weary and spent; a measureless exhaustionseemed to enfold her. Yet under it all there glowed some new spark ofwarm reassurance and certainty. "Thank God, I see my way clear at last!"she said softly. 

CHAPTER VII

The kitchen in the old Cox house formed a sort of one-story annex behindthe building, and had windows on three sides, so that on a certainexquisite morning in March, four years later, sunlight flooded the twoeastern windows and fell in clear squares of brightness on the checkeredblue-and-white linoleum on the floor. There were thin muslin sashcurtains at these windows, and white shades had been drawn down to meetthem. Some trailing English ivy made a delicate tracery in dark greenbeside one window, and two or three potted begonias on the sill liftedtransparent trembling blooms to the sun. The rest of the large room wasin keeping with this cheerful bit of detail. There was a shining gasstove beside the shining coal range, and a picturesque bit of colour inthe blue kettles and copper casseroles that stood in a row on theshelves above the range. A pine cupboard had been painted white, andheld orderly rows of blue plates and cups; there were severalwhite-painted chairs, and two tables. One of these was pushed againstthe west wall, and was of pine wood white from scrubbing; the otherstood on a blue rag rug by the eastern windows, and was covered by afringed tablecloth in white and blue. Near the outer door, with a windowabove it, was a white-enamelled sink in a bright frame of hanging smallutensils. 

The sunlight twinkled here and there on a polished surface, and flung atrembling bright reflection on the ceiling from the brass faucets of thesink. A clock on the wall struck seven. 

As the last stroke sounded, Julia Studdiford quietly opened the halldoor and stepped into the kitchen. She softly closed the door behindher, and went to another door, at which she paused for a few secondswith her head bent as if listening. Evidently satisfied that no onestirred in the bedroom beyond the door, she set briskly if noiselesslyabout her preparations for breakfast. 

These involved the tying on of a crisp checked apron, and variousnegotiations with a large enamelled coffee pot, an egg, and the darkgrounds that sent a heartening odour of coffee through the room. Breadwas sliced and trimmed for toast with delightful evenness and swiftness, a double boiler of oatmeal was lifted from the fireless cooker, and theice box made to furnish more eggs and a jar of damp, firm butter. 

It was while making a little journey to the back porch for milk andcream that the housekeeper first wavered in her swift routine. Below theback steps lay a little city garden, so lovely in the strengtheningMarch sunlight that she must set her bottles down on the step, and rundown for a whiff of the fragrance of climbing roses, just beginning tobloom, of bridal-wreath and white lilac. Cobwebs, caught from bush towet bush, sparkled with jewels; a band of brown sparrows flew away froma dripping faucet, and a black cat, crouching on the crosspieces of thelow fence, rose, yawned, and vanished silently. The wall was almostentirely hidden by vines, principally rose vines, which flung long armsin the air. Presently a woman in the next yard parted these vines, tolook over and say pleasantly:

"Good-mornin', Mis' Studdiford! I's just looking over an' _dee_-spairin'of ever gettin' my backyard to look like yours! It does smell like onebig bo'quet mornin's like this!"

"Oh, well, there are so many of us to fuss with it, " said the youngwoman addressed, cheerfully. "My aunt and my cousins are nearly as crazyabout flowers as I am, and the other day--that warm day, you know, whenwe had my mother out here--she was just as absorbed as the rest of us!"She put a friendly head over the wall. "But I don't see what you've gotto complain of, Mrs. Calhoun, " said she, "especially as you're justbeginning! I see your geraniums all took hold!"

"Every one but the white Lady Washington, " the woman said. "How is yourmother?" she added. 

"Pretty comfortable, thank you!" said the other. "I imagine she may havehad a restless night, for both she and my aunt seem to be asleep, so I'mgetting breakfast for my cousins and uncle myself! And I'm not supposedto be out here at all!" she added, with a farewell laugh and nod, as sheturned back to the steps. "But I just couldn't resist the garden!"

She picked up the milk bottles and reentered the kitchen just as atrimly dressed young woman came into it from the hall. The newcomer wastall, and if not quite pretty was at least a fresh-looking, pleasant-faced girl. She wore a tailor-made skirt and white shirt waist, and a round hat covered with flowers, and laid her jacket over the backof a chair. 

"Julie, where's Ma?" said she, in surprise. "Have you been doingeverything?"

"Not everything!" Julia smiled. "But Aunt May must have oversleptherself; there hasn't been a sound from their room this morning. Yoursuit looks lovely, " she added admiringly. 

"Oh, do you think so?" asked the younger woman eagerly. She interruptedher task of putting plates and cups on the table, to come close and turntoward Julia the back of her head for inspection. "Like it?" asked she. 

Julia seriously inspected the rhinestone comb that glittered there. 

"Why, I don't utterly dislike it, " she said, in her pleasant voice. 

"But you don't think it's in good taste, Julie?"

"Well no, not exactly. Not for the office, anyway. "

"All right, then--that settles it!" the young woman assured her. "I'llrun upstairs after breakfast and change. We had a glorious time lastnight!" she went on, putting her head on one side to give the table acritical glance. "I'll tell you about it. This has boiled up, hasn'tit--it can be settled?"

"Yes, settle it. " said Julia, buttering toast, "and tell me!"

But at this moment the hall door opened again, and a little girl of fourand a half appeared in the doorway. She was so lovely a vision, with hertrailing wrapper and white nightgown bunched up to be out of her way, curls tumbled about her face, and eyes big with reproach, that bothwomen laughed with pleasure at the sight of her. 

"Mother, " said she, with that lingering on the last consonant that marksthe hurt pride of a child, "why diddunt you wake me?"

"Because you were sleeping so nicely, Pussy!" Julia laughed, on herknees by this time, with both arms about the little figure. "Give me athousand kisses and say 'I love my mother!'"

"I love my mother!" said Anna, her eyes roving the room over hermother's shoulder. "I guess you don't know how hard you're squeezing me, Mother!" she added. "Can I come out here in my wrapper, and havebreakfast with Regina?"

"Yes, let her, Julia!" Regina urged. "Come on, darling! Bring your bowlup here to my end. Do sit down and eat something yourself, Julia. "

"This is the way to enjoy breakfast; not twenty feet from the stove!"Julia said, pouring the cream into her coffee. "Was Geraldine stirringwhen you got up, Regina?"

"Not a stir!" Regina said cheerfully. "She and Morgan were talking lastnight until two--I looked at the clock when she came upstairs! What theyhave to talk about gets me!"

"Oh, my dear, engaged people could talk forever, " Julia said leniently. "They were househunting yesterday, there's always so much to talkabout!"

"It seems to me that the people who don't marry have the most fun, "Regina said. "Look at Muriel and Evvy, the money they make! Evvy goingEast for the firm every year, and Muriel getting her little twenty-fivea week. And then look at Rita, with four children to slave for--"

"Ah, well, Rita's husband doesn't work steadily, and she hateshousework--she admits it!" Julia protested swiftly. "Rita could do agood deal, if she would. "

"Rita gives me a great big pain, " said her younger sister absently. 

"A boy named Willis had a sword, and he hit a little boy with it, andMrs. Calhoun said it was a wonder he wasn't killed!" contributed Annasuddenly, her eyes luminous from some thrilling recollection. 

"Fancy!" Julia said. "Eat your oatmeal, Baby, and run upstairs and getsome clothes on!" she added briskly. "You'll catch cold!"

But there was no severity in the glance she turned upon her daughter. Indeed, it would have been a stern heart that little Anna Studdiford'sfirst friendly glance did not melt. She had been exquisite from herbabyhood, she was so lovely now, as she emerged from irresponsibleinfancy to thoughtful little girlhood, that Julia sometimes wondered howshe could preserve so much charm and beauty unspoiled. Anna had hermother's ash-gold hair, but where Julia's rose firm and winglike fromher forehead, and was held in place by its own smooth, thick braids, thelittle girl's fell in rich, shining waves, sprayed in fine mist acrossher eyes, glittered, a golden mop in the sunlight, and even in the shadethrew out an occasional gleam of gold. Anna's eyes were blue, withcurled thick lashes like her mother's, but in the firm little mouth andthe poise of her head, in the quick smile and quicker frown, Julia sawher father a hundred times a day. Her skin had the transparent porcelainbeauty of babyhood, there was a suggestion of violet shadow about hereyes, and on her cheeks there glowed the warm colour of a ripe apricot. Even the gingham aprons and sturdy little shoes which she customarilywore did not disguise Anna's beauty. Julia trusted more to the child'swise little head than to the faint hope that her own precautions couldward off flattery and adulation. The two had been constant companionsfor more than four years: Anna's little bed close to her mother's atnight, Anna's bright head never out of Julia's sight by day. If Annashowed any interest in what her mother was reading, Julia gave her agrave review of the story; if Julia went to market, Anna trotted besideher, deeply concerned as to cuts of meat and choices among vegetables;and when baking was afoot, Anna had a tiny moulding board on a chair, and cut cookies or scalloped tarts with the deep enjoyment of the borncook. 

Once or twice the child had asked for her father, accepting quietlyenough the explanation that he was in Germany, and very busy. 

"Aren't we going to see him some time, Mother?"

"Not while Grandma needs Mother so much, dear!" Julia would answereasily. 

Easily, because the busy months with their pain and joy, their problemsand their successes, had seemed to seal away in a deep crypt hermemories of her husband. Julia had been afraid to think of him at first;she could not make herself think of him now; his image drifted vaguelyaway from her, as unreal as a dream. He was as much a name as if she hadnever seen him, never loved him, never suffered those exquisite agoniesof grief and shame with which the first year of their separation wasfull. Jim's child had taken his place; the purity and sweetness of thechild's love filled Julia's heart; she wanted only Anna, and Anna washer interpreter for all the relationships of life. Anna first made herdraw close to her own mother; Anna was at once her spur and her rewardduring the first hard years at Shotwell Street. 

Anna had gone upstairs, and Regina was finishing her breakfast whenChester came downstairs, followed by the still sleepy yet shining-eyedGeraldine. Geraldine was to be married in a few weeks now, and had givenup her position in an office, to devote all her time to house-furnishingand sewing. 

"I'm awfully sorry to be so late, " smiled Geraldine, "but we talkeduntil I don't know when last night!" She poured herself a cup of coffee;the meal went cheerfully on. Presently the bedroom door opened, and astout, handsome, middle-aged woman came into the kitchen. 

Julia was used, by now, to the transformation that had come to house andgarden, that had affected every member of her mother's family in thepast four years. But to the change in her aunt, Mrs. Torney, she neverbecame quite accustomed. It had been slow in coming; it had come all atonce. There had been weeks when Julia felt that nothing would eversilence the whining voice, or make useful the idle hands. There had beena wretched time when the young woman had warned the older that matterscould not continue as they were. There had been agitated decisions onMrs. Torney's part to go away, with Regina, to starve and struggleagain; there had been a scene when Regina coolly refused to leave thenew comforts of Julia's rule. 

And then, suddenly, there was a new woman in the family, in Aunt May'splace. Julia always dated the change from a certain Thanksgiving Day, when Mrs. Torney, who was an excellent cook, had prepared a really finedinner. Julia and the girls put the dining-room in order, a wood fireroared in the air-tight stove, another in the sitting-room grate. Juliadressed prettily; she put a late rose in her mother's hair, draped theinvalid's prettiest shawl about the thin shoulders, arrayed the toddlingbaby in her daintiest finery. She coaxed her aunt to go upstairs to makeherself fresh and neat just before dinner, and during the whole eveningMrs. Torney's sons and daughters, Julia and Evelyn, Chester and Mrs. Page and little old Mrs. Cox united to praise the dinner and the cook. 

It was as if poor Aunt May had come into her own, had been given at lastthe role to which she had always been suited. Handsome in her freshshirt waist and black skirt, with her gray hair coiled above a shiningface, she beamed over turkey dressing and cranberry sauce; she laugheduntil she cried, when Elmer, who had come from Oakland for the feast, solemnly prefaced a request for more mince pie with a reckless: "Comeon, Lloyd, let's die together; it's worth it!"

From that day hers was the happy part of the bustling housewife. No NewEngland matron ever took more pride in cup cakes or apple pies, nokitchen in the world gave forth more savoury odours of roast meats andnew-baked bread. Mrs. Torney's heavy tread on the kitchen floor wasusually the first thing Julia heard in the morning, and late at nightthe infatuated housekeeper would slip out to the warm, clean, fragrantplace for a last peep at rising dough or simmering soup. Aunt May readthe magazines now only to seek out new combinations of meats andvegetables. Julia would smile, to glance across the dining-room to heraunt's chair beneath the lamp, and see the big, kindly face pucker oversome startling discovery. 

"Em!" Mrs. Torney would remove her glasses, she would address her sisterin shocked tones. "Here they've got a sour-cream salad dressing. Did youever hear of such a thing!"

"For heaven's sake!" Mrs. Page would look up from her absorbed watchingof Chester's solitaire, drop her emaciated little head back against thewaiting pillow. 

"Try it some time, Aunt May, you could make anything taste good!" Juliamight suggest. But Mrs. Torney would shake a doubtful head and, with amuttered "Sour cream!" resume her glasses and her magazine. 

Now she was tying a crisp apron over her blue cotton dress, and readywith a smiling explanation for Julia. 

"I declare, Ju, I don't know what's got into my alarm. I never woke upat all until quarter to eight o'clock! Don't start those dishes, lovey, there's no hurry!"

"I was afraid that Mama'd had a bad night, " Julia said, smiling agood-morning from the sink. "Sit. Down, Aunt May, I'll bring you yourcoffee!"

"No, Emeline had a real good night. She was reading a while, aboutthree, but she's sound asleep now. "

"I lighted a fire in the dining-room, " said Chester, "just to take thechill off, if Em wants to go in there!"

"Then I'll bring my sewing down, after the beds are made, " Geraldinesaid. "You go to market if you want to, Julie; I'll do your room. "

"Well, " Julia agreed, "perhaps I can get back before Mama wakes. I'll goup and see what Anna is doing. "

Regina and Chester presently went off to their work, Mrs. Torney andGeraldine fell upon the breakfast dishes, and Julia went upstairs. Shefound the little Anna dreaming by a sunny window, one stocking on, oneleg still bare, and her little petticoat hanging unbuttoned. 

"Come, Infant, this won't do!" Julia's practised hands made quick workof the small girl's dressing. A stiff blue gingham garment went on overAnna's head, the tumbled curls were subjugated by a blue ribbon. When itwas left to Anna merely to lace her shoes, Julia began to go about theroom, humming as she busied herself with bureau and bed. She presentlypaused at the mirror to pin on a wide hat, and her eye fell upon theoval-framed picture of Jim that she had carried away with her from thePacific Avenue house. It had been taken by some clever amateur; hadalways been a favourite with her. She studied it dispassionately for amoment. 

Jim had been taken in tennis clothes; his racket was still in his hand, his thin shirt opened to show the splendid line of throat and chin. Histhick hair was rumpled, the sunlight struck across his smiling face. Julia's memory could supply the twinkle in his eye; she could hear himcall to Alan Gregory: "For the Lord's sake, cut this short, Greg! It'sroasting out here!"

Beside this picture hung another, smaller, and also a snapshot. This wasof a man, too, a tall, thin, ungainly man, sitting on a roadside rock, with a battered old hat in his hand. Behind him rose a sharp spur ofrough mountainside, and so sharply did the ground fall away at his feetthat far below him was a glimpse of the level surface of the Pacific. Julia smiled at this picture, and the picture smiled back. 

"Come, Mouse!" said she, rousing herself from a reverie a moment later. "Get on your hat! You and I have to go to market!"

The morning wore on; it was like a thousand other happy mornings. Juliaand Anna loitered in the cool odorous fish stalls at the market, welcomed asparagus back to its place in the pleasant cycle of the year'sevents, inspected glowing oranges and damp crisp heads of lettuce;stopped at the hardware store for Aunt May's new meat chopper, stoppedat the stationer's for Anna's St. Nicholas, stopped at the florist's tobreathe deep breaths of the damp fragrant air, and to get somebuttercups for Grandma. 

Julia's mother was in the kitchen when she and Anna got home, her darkhair still damp from brushing, her thin wrists no whiter than her snowyruffles. Presently they all moved into the dining-room, whereGeraldine's sewing machine was temporarily established, and where Anna'sblocks had a corner to themselves. The invalid, between intervals ofknitting, watched them all with her luminous and sympathetic smile. 

"A letter for you, Julie, and four for me, " said the bride-elect, comingback from the door after the postman's ring. 

"_Four_ for you--Gerry! You lucky thing!"

"Well--two are from Morgan, " admitted Geraldine, smiling, and there wasa laugh as Julia opened her own letter. 

"It's from Dr. Richard Toland, " she announced a moment later. "He saysMill Valley is too beautiful for words just now. How'd you like to goover and see Uncle Richie to-morrow, Anna?"

"I'd love it, " said Anna unhesitatingly. 

"We've not been for weeks, " Julia said, "I'd love it, too, if my Marmerdoesn't mind?" She turned her bright smile to her mother. "Regina saysshe has an engagement with the O'Briens for Sunday, " said she, "and ifGerry goes off with Morgan, will that leave things too quiet?"

"Indeed it won't!" said Mrs. Torney, looking up from the tissue-paperpattern over which she had hung in profound bewilderment for almost halfan hour. "Rita may bring some of the children in, or Lloyd and Elmer maycome over. Go along with you!"

Richie, much stronger in these days, and without his crutch, thoughstill limping a little, met Julia and the dancing Anna on the followingafternoon, and the three crossed the ferry together. It was a daybursting with summer's promise, the air was pure and warm, and the skycloudless. Getting out of the train at Mill Valley, Julia drew anecstatic breath. 

"Oh, Richie, what heavenly freshness! Doesn't it just smooth yourforehead down like a cool hand!"

There was a poignant sweetness to the mountain air, washed clear by thelate rains, and warmed and invigorated by the sunshine of thelengthening March day. The country roads were dark and muddy and churnedby wheel tracks, but fringed with emerald grass. Even at four o'clockthe little valley was plunged in early shadow, but sunshine lay stillupon the hills that framed it, and long lines of light threw the grimheights of Tamalpais into bold relief. The watching tiers of theredwoods looked refreshed, their spreading dark fans were tipped withthe jade-green sprays of the year's new growth. The first pale smoke ofwild lilac bloom lay over the hills. 

"It makes you think of delicious words, " said Julia, as Richie's rustywhite mare plodded up and up the mountain road. "Ozone--andaromatic--and exhilarating! In town it was a little oppressiveto-day--Anna and I were quite wilted!"

"You don't look wilted!" Richie smiled at his goddaughter, who was inher mother's arms. "Look, Ju--there's columbine! Loads of it up near myplace!" "And the wild currant, with that delicious pungent smell!"sighed Julia blissfully. "What's new with you, Richie?" she askedpresently. 

"Oh, nothing much! Cable from Bab yesterday, but you must have had one, too?"

"Yes, I did. A third boy!" Julia laughed. "Poor Bab--when she wanted agirl so badly!"

"I suppose she did, " grinned Richard. 

"Oh, of course she did! Who wouldn't?" Julia hugged her own girl. "Andisn't it glorious about Keith?" she added, with sudden enthusiasm. 

"Is it? I suppose it is, " Richie said. "But then those old guys inGermany called him a genius long before New York did, and you girlsdidn't make so much fuss!"

"Oh, but Richie, there's so much money in this American tour; threeconcerts in New York alone, think of it!" Julia protested eagerly. "AndSally's letter sounded so gay; they were having a perfectly glorioustime. I hope they come to San Francisco!"

"Well, she deserves it, " Richie observed, flicking the rusty mare with awhip she superbly ignored. "Sally's had a pretty rotten time of it forseven or eight years--paying his lesson bills when she didn't haveenough to eat or shoes to wear--and losing the baby----"

"I don't believe all that meant as much to Sally as you think, " Juliasaid sagely. "Her entire heart was set upon Keith's success, and thathas come along pretty steadily. Her letter to me about the baby wasn'tthe sort I should have written; indeed, I couldn't have written at all!And then that was four years ago, Richie, and four years is a longtime!"

"It is!" Richie agreed. "Keith's about all the baby she'll ever want;those fellows take an awful lot of spoiling. But I get more pleasurefrom Mother's and Dad's pleasure than for Sally herself, " he added. "Mother saves up newspaper accounts, and has this translated from theGerman and that from the French--it's sort of pathetic to see! Dad andJaney are in New York now; something was said last night about theirgoing over to see Bab. "

"Ted and your mother are alone, then? How's Ted?"

"Oh, driving Mother crazy, as usual. She'd flirt with the Portuguesemilkman if she had a chance. She can't seem to understand that becauseshe wants to be free she _isn't_ free! Talks about 'if I marry again, ' andso on. Of course Carleton's marrying again has made her wild. "

"But, good heavens, Richie, Ted ought to have some _sense_!"

"Well, she hasn't. She stretched a point to marry him, d'you see?Carleton had been baptized as a child, and his first wife hadn't, andthey were married by a Justice of the Peace, or something of that sort. So Ted claimed that in the eyes of the Church he hadn't been married atall, and she married him. Then----"

"But if she loved him, Richie--and Ted was so young!"

"All true, of course, only if you're going to push things to the pointof taking advantage of a quibble like that, your chance of happiness ismore or less slim! So three years ago Carleton proved that he hadn'tcared a whoop about the legal or religious aspects of the case, and leftTed. And now Ted can't see herself, at twenty-seven, tied to anotherwoman's husband!"

"She has her boy, " Julia said severely. 

"Yep, but that doesn't seem to count. "

"Well, it's funny, Richie, take us all in all, what a mess we've made ofmarrying!" Julia mused. "Ned gives me the impression, every time I seehim, of being a sulky martyr in his own home; Sally's managed to draghappiness out of a most hopeless situation; Ted, of course, will neverbe happy again, like Jim and me; and Connie, although she made anexemplary marriage, either has to leave her husband or bring her baby upin Manila, which she says positively isn't safe! Bab is the only shiningsuccess among us all!"

"Oh, I don't know, " Richie said, stopping the horse, and flinging thereins to the Portuguese who came out of a small barn to meet them. "Herewe are, Ju--take your time! I've always considered you rathersuccessful, " he resumed. 

"Oh, me!" Julia laughed as she jumped down like a girl. She followedAnna across a little hollow filled with buttercups and long grasses, andthey mounted the little rise to Richie's tiny cabin. The little househad Mount Tamalpais for a background, and its wide unroofed porch facedacross the valley, and commanded a view of the wooded ridges, and themarshes, and the distant bay, and of San Francisco twelve miles away. Scrub oaks and bay trees grew in a tangle all about it, even a few youngredwoods and an occasional bronze and white madrona tree. Wild roses andfield flowers crowded against its very walls, and under the trees therewere iris and brown lilies, and a dense undergrowth of manzanita andhazelnut bushes, wild currant and wild lilac trees. 

The big room that Julia entered first was dim with pleasant twilight, and full of the sweet odours of a dying wood fire. It had nothing ofdistinction in it: a few shabby chairs, an old square piano, anunpainted floor crossed here and there by rugs, books in cases and outof them, candlesticks along the brick mantel, a green-shaded student'slamp on a long table, and several wide windows, dim and opaque now inthe fast-gathering darkness, but usually framing each a picture ofmatchless mountain scenery. 

A door at one side of the fireplace led into a tiny kitchen whosewindows looked out into oak branches; and another door, on the otherside, gave access to a little cement-floored bathroom with a shower, andtwo small bedrooms, each with two beds built in tiers like bunks. Thiswas Richie's whole domain, and whether it was really saturated with thecare-free atmosphere of childhood, and fragrant with the good breath ofthe countryside all about it, or whether Julia only imagined it to beso, she found it perfect, and was never so happy in these days as whenshe and Anna were there. She was always busy, and satisfied in her work, but there were needs of heart and mind that her own people could notmeet, and when these rose strong within her she found no company asbracing and as welcome as Richard's. 

"No Aunt Sanna?" said she cheerfully, when she had taken off her hat andthe small girl's, and was in her favourite chair by the fire. 

"No, darn it!" said Richie, struggling with a refractory lamp wick. 

"Oh, don't be so blue, Rich! She'll be here on the seven. "

"No, she won't--she said the four--I expected to find her here, " Richiesaid, settling the glass chimney into place, as the light crept roundthe wick. A little odour of hot kerosene floated on the air, and waslost in other odours from the kitchen, where a Chinese boy was paddingabout in the poor light of one lamp. He began to come and go, settingthe table, the ecstatic Anna at his heels. Whenever the outer door wasopened, a cool rush of sweet country air came in. Richie began to stampback and forth with great logs for the fireplace. 

"Wonderful what millions of miles away from every one we seem, Rich!"Julia said contentedly. "Was there ever anything like the quiet of thismountain?"

"I'm terribly sorry about Aunt Sanna, " Richie said. "I feel like anass--getting you way up here!"

"Why, my dear boy, it's not _your_ fault!" Julia said, round eyed. 

"She said she would positively be here, " Richie pursued. "I supposethere's no earthly reason--" he added uncomfortably. 

"Why you and I shouldn't stay here alone? I should hope not!" Juliareassured him roundly. "And she may come on the seven, anyway!"

"These are the times I wish I had a telephone, " said Richie. 

"Aw leddy, " contributed the Chinese boy. They took their places at thetable, and dinner was eaten by the light of the lamp. But after dinner, when Julia had tucked Anna into bed, she came back and put out the lamp. She lighted two candles on the mantelpiece that sent a brave flickerover the dull walls and up to the ceiling. 

"There!" said she, with an energetic stirring of the fire, as she tookher chair again, "that's the way I like this room to look!"

Richard disposed of his awkward length in an opposite chair, his bigbony hands interlocked. In the fire and candlelight Julia looked veryyoung, her loosened hair glimmering against the back of her chair, herthin white skirts spreading in a soft circle above her slipper buckles. The man noticed the serene rise and fall of her breast under her thinblouse, the content in her half-shut blue eyes. He let his thoughtsplay for a moment with the perilous dream that she belonged here at hishearth, that her sweetness, her demure happiness, her earnest interestin everything that concerned him, were all his by right. 

"I don't quite know what to do about this!" he said gruffly. 

"What--our being here?" Julia looked surprised. "Why, Richie, what canwe do? Do you think it matters, one night? After all, we're brother andsister-in-law!"

"Almost, " said Richie, with a laugh. 

"Why, Rich, I would never give it one moment's thought; not if I stayedhere a month!" Julia assured him. "And neither would any one else. Don'tbe so silly!"

"It's not me; but it isn't fair to you!" Richard said. 

Julia had grown a little red. Now she stared into the fire. 

"This sort of fuss isn't like you, Rich, " she said presently, with anuncomfortable laugh. "You--you don't usually talk about such things!"

"No, I know I don't, " Richard admitted, untouched by her reproach. "Icould go up to Porter's and try to get Aunt Sanna by telephone!" hemuttered. 

Julia was displeased, and made no answer, and presently he got up andwent out. She sat there listening to the rattle of dishes in thekitchen, until a splash announced the dishpan emptied under the oaktrees, and the Chinese through with his work for the night. After awhile she went to the doorway, and stared out at the starry sky and thedark on darkness that marked masses of trees and long spurs of themountain. The air was sweet and chilly, frogs were peeping, fromsomewhere near came the steady rush of a swollen creek. 

While Julia stood on the porch a livery hack from the village creakedup, and stopped ten feet away. The horses were blowing on the steepgrade, and a strong odour from the animals and their sweated harnesssmote the pure night air. The carriage lanterns sent a waveringbrightness across the muddy road, the grass looked artificial in theyellow light. Miss Toland, vociferating apology and explanation, emergedfrom the carriage. 

When Richard came back from his fruitless errand he found both womenenjoying the fire, Miss Toland's skirt folded over her knees, her veilpushed up on her forehead. In his enormous relief, Richie felt that hecould have danced and sung. He busied himself brewing a hot drink forthe older woman. 

"Richie, " said Julia, with a pleasant childish note of triumphantreproach in her voice, "was worried to _death_ because I was here alonewith Anna! Don't you think he's crazy, Aunt Sanna?"

"Why, you two have been here alone?" Miss Toland asked, stirring herchocolate. 

"No, we haven't!" Julia answered cheerfully. "I never thought of itbefore; but this dear old maid either has you here, or Janey, or DoctorBrice's Mary from the village--isn't he queer?"

"It isn't as if you weren't practically brother and sister, Richie, "Miss Toland said moderately. "Not too much butter, dear!" sheinterpolated, in reference to the toast her nephew was making, adding amoment later, "Still, I don't know--a pretty woman in your positioncan't be too careful, Julia!"

"Oh, Lord, you're an appreciative pair!" Richard said disgustedly, goingout to the kitchen for more bread. 

Presently Miss Toland complained of fatigue, and left them to the fire. And sitting there, almost silent, Julia thought that she had never foundher host so charming before. His rambling discourse amused her, touchedher; she loved his occasional shy introduction of a line of poetry, hiseager snatching of a book now and then to illuminate some point withhalf a page of prose. 

"Pleasant, isn't this, Rich?" she asked lazily, in a quiet interval. 

"Oh, _pleasant_!" He cleared his throat. "Yes--it's very pleasant!"

"And why couldn't you and I have done this just as well without AuntSanna?" Julia asked triumphantly. 

Richard gave her a look full of all-dignified endurance, a look thatwondered a little that she could like to give him pain. 

"No reason at all, " said he. And a sudden suspicion flamed in Julia'sheart with all the surety of an inspiration. 

The revelation came in absolute completeness; she had never evensuspected Richie's little tragedy before. For a few moments Julia satstunned, then she said seriously:

"I always feel myself so much Jim's wife, Rich; I suppose it's a sort ofprotection to me. It never occurs to me that any one could think me lessbound than I think myself. "

"Sure you do!" Richard said, struggling with the back log. "But otherpeople might not! And it would be rotten to have him come back and hearanything. "

"I suppose he'll come back, " Julia said, dreamily, almost in a whisper. "I don't think of it much, now! I used to think of it a good deal atfirst; I used to cry all night long sometimes, and write him longletters that I never sent. It seemed as if the longing for him wasburning me up, like a fire!"

"Damn him!" Richard muttered. 

"Oh, no, Richie, don't say that!" Julia protested. Richard, still on oneknee, with the poker in his hand, turned to her almost roughly. 

"For God's sake, Julie, don't defend him! I'll hold my tongue about him, I suppose, as I always have done, but don't pretend he has any excusefor treating you this way! You--the best and sweetest and bravest womanthat ever lived, bringing happiness and decency wherever you go--"

"Richie, Richie, stop!" Julia protested, between laughter and tears. "Don't talk so! I _will_ defend Jim, " she added gravely, "and he _did_ havean excuse. It seems unfair to me that he should have all the blame. " Sheheld her hand out, fingers spread to the reviving flame, rosy andtransparent in the glow. 

"Rich, no one knows this but Jim and me; not Aunt Sanna, not my ownmother, " she presently resumed. "But it makes what he did a littleclearer, and I'm going to tell you. "

"Don't tell me anything, " said Richard gruffly, eyes on the fire. 

"Yes, I want to, " Julia answered. But she was silent for a while, a lookof infinite sadness on her musing face. "I made a serious mistake when Iwas a girl, Rich, " she went on, after an interval. "I had no reason forit--not great love, or great need. I had no excuse. Or, yes, I did havethis excuse: I had been spoiled; I had been told that I was unusual, independent, responsible to nobody. I knew that this thing existed allabout me, and if I thought of it at all, I suppose I thought that therecould be nothing so very dreadful about what men did as a matter ofcourse! Perhaps that's the best explanation; my mind was like a youngboy's. I didn't particularly seek out this thing, or want this thing;but I was curious, and it came my way--

"Don't misunderstand me, Richie. I wasn't 'betrayed. ' I'd had, Isuppose, as little good instruction, as little example, and watching andguarding as any girl in the world. But I knew better! Just as every boyknows better, and is taken, sooner or later, unawares. Of course, if I'dbeen a boy--all this would be only a memory now, hardly shameful orregrettable even, dim and far away! Especially as it lasted only a fewweeks, before I was sixteen!

"And, of course, people would say that I haven't paid the full penalty, being a girl instead of a boy! Look at poor Tess, and Trilby, and Hettyin 'Adam Bede!' I never let any one know it; even your aunt never wouldhave overlooked _that_, whatever she might say now. No; even Jim protectedme--and yet, " Julia put her head back, shut her eyes, "and yet I've paida thousand times!" said she. 

There was a long silence, and then Richard said:

"I've thought sometimes this might be it, Ju. Being alone so much, andreading and thinking--I've worked it out in my own mind. Aunt Sanna sawJim in Berlin two years ago, you know, and gave him a horrible rakingover the coals, and just from what she quoted, it seemed as if there wassome secret about it, and that it lay with you. Then, of course, " Richieeased his lame leg by stretching it at full length before him, sinkingdown in his chair, finger tips meeting, "of course I knew Jim, " heresumed. "Jim's pride is his weak point. He's like a boy in that: hewants everything or nothing. He's like all my mother's children, " saidRichie, comfortably analytical, "undisciplined. Chill penury neverrepressed our noble rages; we never knew the sweet uses of adversity. Idid, of course, but here I am, a childless getting on in years, not aptto leave a deep impression on the coming generation. It's a funny world, Julie! It's a strange sort of civilization to pose under the name ofChrist. Christ had no double standard of morals; Christ forgave. Law isall very well, society has its uses, I have no doubt, but there arehigher standards than either!" "Well, that has come to me forciblyduring the past few years, " Julia said thoughtfully. "I wasn't a prayingsmall girl; how could I be? But after I went to The Alexander, beingphysically clean and respectable made me long to be clean all over, Isuppose, and I began to go to church, and after a while I went toconfession, Rich, and I felt made over, as if all the stain of it hadslipped away! And then Jim came, and I told him all about it--"

"Before you were married?"

"Oh, Richie, of course!"

"Well, then, what--if he knew--"

"Oh, Richie, that's the terrible part. For I thought it was all dead andgone, and it _was_ all dead and gone as far as I was concerned! But wecouldn't forget it--it suddenly seemed a live issue all over again; itjust rose and stood between us, and I felt so helpless, and poor Jim, Ithink he was helpless, too!"

Richard made no comment, and there was a silence. 

"You know Jim wasn't a--wasn't exactly a saint, Ju, " Richard saidawkwardly after a while. 

"I know, " she answered with a quick nod. 

"I believe he was an exceptionally decent fellow, as fellows go, "pursued Richie. "But, of course, it is the accepted thing. On Jim'sfirst vacation, after he entered college, he told me he didn't care muchfor that sort of thing--we had a long talk about it. But a year or twolater there was a young woman--he used to call her 'the little girl'--Idon't know exactly--Anyway, Dad went East, there was some sort of afuss, and I know Jim treated her awfully well--there never was anyquestion of that--she never felt anything but gratitude to him, whatevergrievances she had about any one else--"

His voice dropped. 

"But it's not the same thing, " Julia said with a sigh. 

"No, I suppose not, " Richard agreed. 

"Life has been too violent and too swift with me, " Julia resumed, aftera while. "If I had the past fifteen years to live over again, I wouldlive them very differently. I made an idol of Jim; he could do no wrong. He wanted more bracing treatment than that; he should have been boldlyfaced down. If I had been wiser, I would have treated all my marriagedifferently. If I had been very wise, I should not have married at all, should have kept my own secret. Perhaps, marrying, I should not havetold him the truth; I don't know. Anyway, I have mixed things uphopelessly, given other people and myself an enormous amount of pain, and wrecked my life and Jim's. And now, when I am thirty, I feel as if Icould begin to see light, begin to live--as if now, when nothing onearth seems really important, I knew how to meet life!"

"Well, that's been my attitude for some years, " Richie said, shiftinghis lame leg again. "Of course I started in handicapped, which is agreat advantage--"

"Advantage? Oh, Richie!" Julia protested. 

"Yes, it is, from one point of view, " he insisted whimsically. "'Wholoses his life, ' you know. Most boys and girls start off into life likekites in a high wind without tails. There's a glorious dipping andplunging and sailing for a little while, and then down they come in atangle of string and paper and broken wood. I had a tail to start with, some humiliating deficiency to keep me balanced. No football and tennisfor me, no flirting and dancing and private theatricals. When Bab andNed were in one whirl of good times, I was working out chess problems tomake myself forget my hip, and reading Carlyle and Thoreau and Emerson. Nobody is born content, Ju, and nobody has it thrust upon him; just afew achieve it. I worked over the secret of happiness as if it was themultiplication table. Happiness is the best thing in the world. It'sonly a habit, and I've got it. "

"_Is_ happiness the best thing in the world, Rich?" Julia asked wistfully. 

"I think it is; real happiness, which doesn't necessarily mean a box atthe Metropolitan and a touring car, " Richie said, smiling. "It seems tome, to have a little house up here on the mountain, and to have peoplehere like me, and let me take care of them--"

"For nothing?" interposed Julia. 

"Don't you believe it! I didn't write a cheque last month! Anyway, itsuits me. I have books, and letters, and a fire, and now and then afriend or two--and now and then Julia and Anna to amuse me!"

"I'm happy, too, " Julia said thoughtfully. "I realized it some timeago--oh, a year ago! I feel just as you might feel, Rich, if you hadleft some critical operation unfinished, or done in a wrong way, andthen gone back to do it over. I feel as if, in going back to firstprinciples, and doing what I could for my own people, I had 'trued' apart of my life, if you can understand that! I had gone climbing andblundering on, and reached a point where I couldn't help myself, butthey were just where they started, and I _could_ help them!"

"It was probably the best thing you could have done for yourself, at thesame time, " Richard interpolated, with a swift glance. 

"Oh, absolutely!" Julia laughed a little sadly. "I was like an animalthat goes out and eats a weed: I had a wild instinct that if I rushedinto my grandmother's house, and bullied everybody there, and simplyshrieked and stamped on the dirt and laziness and complaining, on thewhole wretched system that I grew up under, in short, that it would be aheavenly relief! My dear Richie, " and Julia laughed again, and morenaturally, "I wonder they didn't tar and feather me, and throw me out ofthe house! I scoured and burned and scolded and bossed them all like amadwoman. I told them that we had enough money to keep the housedecently, and always had had, but, my dear! I never dreamed the wholecrowd would fall in line so soon!"

"But, my Lord, Julie, what else could they do? You were paying all theexpenses, I suppose?"

"No, indeed I wasn't! Chester has a pretty fair salary now, and myaunt's boys are awfully good about helping out. And then Muriel has aposition, and Evelyn is in a fair way to be a rich woman. Besides, themere question of where money is coming from never worried my people!They managed as well with almost nothing at all, as with a reallyadequate amount--which is to say that they don't know in the least whatthe word manage means! Jim left me an immense sum, Rich, but I've nevertouched anything but the interest. When we shingled or carpeted orgardened out there, we paid for it by degrees, and it cost, I mustadmit, only about one third of what it would have been on the other sideof town. I look back now at those first months, more than four yearsago, " went on Julia, smiling as she leaned forward in her low chair, herhands locked about her knees, her thoughtful eyes on the flickeringlogs, "and I wonder we didn't all rise up in the night and kill eachother. I was like a person with a death wound, struggling madly throughthe little time left me, absolutely indifferent to what any one thought. I simply wanted to die fighting, to register one furious protest againstall the things I'd hated, and suffered, too! I remember reporterscoming, at first, wild with curiosity to know what took DoctorStuddiford abroad, and why Mrs. Studdiford was living in a labourer'shouse in the Mission. What impression they got I haven't the faintestidea. Once or twice women called, just curious of course, Mrs. Hunterand Miss Saunders--but that soon stopped. I was better hidden onShotwell Street than I would have been in the heart of India! MissSaunders came in, and met Mama and Grandma; we were having the kitchencalcimined, the place was pretty well upset, I remember. Dear me, howlittle what they thought or did or said seemed to count, when my wholelife was one blazing, agonizing cry for Jim!"

"That got better?" Richard asked huskily, after a pause. 

"Rich, I think the past two, well, three years, have been the happiestin my life, " Julia said soberly. "My feet have been on solid ground. Inot only seem to understand my life better as it is, but all the pastseems clearer, too. I thought Jim was like myself, Richie, but hewasn't; his whole viewpoint was different; perhaps that's why we lovedeach other so!"

"And suppose he comes back?" Richard asked. 

Julia frowned thoughtfully. 

"Oh, Richie, how do I know! It's all so mixed up. Everybody, even AuntSanna, thinks that he will! Everybody thinks I am a patient, much-enduring wife, waiting for the end of an inexplicable situation. Aunt Sanna thinks it's temporary aberration. Your father thinks there'sanother woman in it. Your mother confided to Aunt Sanna that it is heropinion that Bab refused Jim, and Jim married from pique. "

"That sounds like Mother!" Richie said with a dry laugh. 

"Doesn't it?" Julia smiled. "But the truth is, " she added, "Jim has nopreconcerted plan. He's made a very close man friend or two in Germany, belongs to a doctors' club. I know him so well! He lets the days, andthe weeks, and the years go by, forgetting me and everything thatconcerns me as much as he can, and getting into a slow, dull ragewhenever he remembers that fate hit him, of all men in the world, such ablow!"

"And the baby?" said Richie. "Don't you suppose she counts? Oh, Lord, tohave a kid of one's own, " he added slowly, with the half-smiling sighJulia knew so well. 

"I imagine she would count if he had seen her lately, " Julia suggested. "But she was such a tiny scrap! And Jim, as men go, isn't a lover ofchildren. "

"You wouldn't divorce him, Julie?" Richard asked, after a silence. 

"Oh, never!" she answered quickly. "No, I won't do that. " She smiled. "Yet, Rich, " she added presently, "it's a strange thing to me thatreally my one dread is that he will come back. I _think_ he means nothingto me, yet, if I saw him--I don't know! Sometimes I worry for fear thathe might want Anna, and of course I wouldn't give her up if it meant adozen divorces. "

Richard sat staring into the fire for a few moments; then he rousedhimself to ask smilingly:

"How'd we get started on this little heart to heart, anyway?"

"Well, I don't know, " Julia said, smiling, too. "I couldn't talk of itfor a long while. I can't now, to any one but you. But it all means lessto me than it did. Jim never could hurt me now as he did then. " Shestraightened up in her chair. "It's been a wonderful talk!" she said, with shining eyes. "And you're a friend in a million, Richie, dear! Andnow, " very practically, "where are you going to sleep, my dear? AuntSanna has your room. "

"This couch out here is made up!" Richard said, with a backward jerk ofhis head toward the room behind him. 

"Ah, then you're all right!" Julia rose, and stopped behind his chairfor a moment, to lay a light kiss on his hair. "Good-night, LittleBrother!" she said affectionately. 

Instantly one of the bony hands shot out, and Julia felt her wristcaught as in a vise. Richard swiftly twisted about and got on his ownfeet, and for a minute their eyes glittered not many inches apart. Juliatried to laugh, but she was breathing fast. 

"_Richard_!" she said in a sharp whisper. "What is it?"

"Julia!" he choked, breathing hard. 

For a long moment they remained motionless, staring at each other. ThenRichard's grip on her wrists relaxed, and he sank into his deep chair, dropped his elbows on his knees, and put his hands over his face. Juliastood watching him for a second. 

"Good-night, Richie!" she said then, almost inaudibly. 

"Good-night!" he whispered through his shut fingers. Julia slippedsoftly away, closing the door of her bedroom noiselessly behind her. 

Anna was asleep in the upper bed, lying flat on her back, with herlovely hair falling loosely about her flushed little face. The littlecabin bedroom was as sweet as the surrounding woodland, wide-openwindows admitted the fragrant coolness of the spring night. There was nomoon, but the sky that arched high above the little valley was thicklyspattered with stars. Richie's cat, a shadow among paler shadows, leapedswiftly over the new grass. Julia got the milky odour of buttercups, thebreath of the little Persian lilac that flanked one end of the porch. 

Her heart was beating thickly and excitedly, she did not want to thinkwhy. Through her brain swept a confusion of thoughts, thoughtsdisconnected and chaotic. She tried to remember just what words on herpart--on Richard's--had led to that strange mad moment of revelation, but the memory of the moment itself overleaped all those preceding it. Julia knelt, her elbows on the window sill, and felt merely that shenever wanted to move again. She wanted just to kneel here, hugging toher heart the thrilling emotion of the moment, realizing afresh thatlife was not dead in her; youth and love were not dead in her; she couldstill tremble and laugh and cry in the exquisite joy of being beloved. 

And it was Richie, so weak in body, so powerful in spirit; so humble inlittle things, so bold and sure in the things that are great; not richin money, but rich in wisdom and goodness; Richie, who knew all herpitiful history now, and had long suspected it, who loved her! Juliaknew even now that it was an ill-fated love; she knew that deep underthis first strangely thrilling current of pride and joy ran the coldwaters of renunciation. But cool reason had little to do with this mood;she was as mad as any girl whose senses are suddenly, blindly, set freeby a lover's first kiss. 

After a while she began mechanically to undress, brushed her hair, movedabout softly in the uncertain candlelight. And as she did so she becamemore and more unable to resist the temptation to say "Good-night" toRichie again. Neither brain nor heart was deeply involved in thisdesire, but some influence, stronger than either, urged her irresistiblytoward its fulfilment. 

She would not do it, of course! Not that there was harm in it; whatpossible harm could there be in her putting her head into thesitting-room and simply saying "Good-night?" Still, she would not do it. 

A glance at herself in the dimly lighted mirror set her pulses toleaping again. Surely candlelight had never fallen on a more exquisiteface, framed in so shining and soft an aureole of bright hair. The longloose braid fell over her shoulder, a fine ruffle of thin linen lay atthe round firm base of her throat. She was still young--stillbeautiful--

Anna stirred, sighed in her sleep. And instantly Julia had extinguishedthe candle, and was bending tenderly over the child. 

"It's only Mother, Sweet! Are you warm enough, dear? You _feel_beautifully warm! Let Mother turn you over--so!"

"Is it morning, Mother?" murmured Anna. 

"No, my heart! Mother's just going to bed. " And ten minutes later Juliawas asleep, her face as serene as the child's own. 

The morning brought her only a shamed memory of the night before and itsmoods, and as Richie was quite his natural self, Julia determined todismiss the matter as a passing moment of misinterpreted sentiment onboth their parts. To-day was a Sunday, so perfect that they hadbreakfast on the porch, and in the afternoon took a long climb on themountainside, across patches of blossoming manzanita, and throughmeadows sweet with the liquid note of rising larks. They came back inthe twilight: Anna limp and drowsy on Richard's shoulders, Miss Tolandadmitting to fatigue, but all three ready to agree with Julia's estimatethat it had been a wonderful Sunday. 

But night brought to two of them that new and strange self-consciousnessthat each had been secretly dreading all day. Julia fought it as shemight have fought the oncoming of a physical ill, yet inexorably itarrived. Supper was an ordeal, she found speech difficult, she couldhardly raise her eyes. 

"Julie, you're as rosy as a little gipsy, " said Miss Toland approvingly. "Doesn't colour become her, Rich?"

"She looks fine, " Richard muttered, almost inarticulately. Julia lookedup only long enough to give Miss Toland a pained and fluttering smile. She was glad of an excuse to disappear with Anna, when the little girl'sbedtime arrived, and lingered so long in the bedroom that Miss Tolandcame and rapped on the door. 

"Julia! What _are_ you doing?" called the older woman impatiently. Juliacame to the door. 

"Why, I'm so tired, Aunt Sanna, " she began smilingly. 

"Tired, nonsense!" Miss Toland said roundly. "Come sit on the porch withRichie and me. It's like summer out of doors, and there'll be a moon!"

So Julia went to take her place on the porch steps, with a great curvedbranch of the white rose arching over her head, and the fragrant stretchof the grassy hilltop sloping away, at her feet, to the valley farbelow. Miss Toland dozed, and the younger people talked a little, andwere silent for long spaces between the little casual sentences thatto-night seemed so full of meaning. 

The next day Julia went home, to Miss Toland's disgust and to littleAnna's sorrow. Richie drove Julia and the little girl to the train;there was no explanation needed between them; at parting they lookedstraight into each other's eyes. 

"Ask us to come again some day, " Julia said. "Not too soon, but as soonas you can. And don't let us ever feel that we've done anything thatwill hurt or distress you, Richie. "

"You and Anna are both angels, " Richard answered. "Only tell me that youforgive me, Julie; that things after this will be just as they werebefore?"

Julia smiled, and bit a thoughtful under lip. 

"This is March, " she said. "We'll come and see you, let me see--in July, and everything shall be just as it was before! Perhaps I am reallygetting old, " she said to herself, half laughing and half sad, when shewas in her own kitchen an hour or two later. "But, while home is notexciting, somehow I'd rather be here than philandering on the mountainin the moonlight with Richie!"

"What you smiling about, Julie?" her mother asked, from the peacefuleast side of the kitchen where her chair frequently stood while Juliaand Mrs. Torney were busy in that cheerful apartment. 

"Just thinking it was nice to be home again, Mama!"

"I don't hold much with visiting, myself, " said Mrs. Torney, who wasbecoming something of a philosopher as she went into old age. "But youcan't get that through a young one's skull!" she added, trimming thedangling pastry from a pie with masterly strokes of her knife. "Eitheryou have such a good time that your own home is spoiled for you, fordear knows how long, or else you set around wondering why on earth youever come. And then you've got to have the folks back to visit you, andwear yourself all out talking like all possessed while you cook for 'emand make their beds. I don't never feel clean when I've washed my faceaway from home anyway, and I like my own bed under me. You couldn't getme to visit anywheres now, if it was the Queen of Spain ast me!"

Julia laughed out merrily, and agreed with her aunt, glad to have leftthe episode with Richie behind her. But it haunted her for many days, nevertheless, rising like a disturbing mist between her and her calmself-confidence, and shaking her contented conviction that therenunciations necessary to her peace of mind had all been made. Shefound fresh reason to gird herself in circumspection and silence, andbrooded, a little in discouragement, upon the incessantly recurringproblems of her life. 

She went to visit the cabin on Tamalpais earlier even than she hadpromised, however, for in June Barbara came home for a visit, bringingtwo splendid little boys, with whom Anna fell instantly in love, and atiny baby in the care of a nurse. Julia spent a good deal of her time inSausalito during the visit, and more than once she and Barbara took thefour children to Mill Valley, and spent a few days with Richie, quite ashappy as the boys and Anna were in the free country life. 

Five years of marriage had somewhat changed Barbara; she was thinner, and freckled rather than rosy, and she wore her thick dark hair in afashion Julia did not very much admire. Also she seemed to care less fordress than she once had done, even though what she wore was always thehandsomest of its kind. But she was an eagerly admiring and most devotedwife, calmly assuming that the bronzed and silent "Francis" could do nowrong, and Julia thought she had never seen a more charming andconscientious mother. Barbara, whose husband's uncle was a lord, who hadbeen presented at the English court, and whose mail was peppered withcoats-of-arms, nursed her infant proudly and publicly, and was heard tomention to old friends--not always women either--social events that hadoccurred "just before Geordie came" or "when I was expecting Arthur. "Her rather thin face would brighten to its old beauty when Geordie andArthur, stamping in, bare kneed and glowing, recounted to her the joysof Sausalito, and in evening dress she was quite magnificent, andsomehow seemed more at ease than American women ever do. Her efficiencyleft even the capable Julia gasping and outdistanced. Barbara was equalto every claim husband, children, family, and friends could make. Shecame down to an eight o'clock breakfast, a chattering little son on eachside of her, announcing briskly that the tiny Malcolm had already hadhis bath. She started the little people on the day's orderly round ofwork and play while opening letters and chatting with her father; earnedthe housemaid's eternal affection by personally dusting the bigdrawing-room and replacing the flowers; answered the telephone in herpleasantly modulated voice; faced her husband during his ten o'clockbreakfast, and discussed the foreign news with him in a manner Juliathought extraordinarily clever; and at eleven came with the baby intoher mother's sunny morning-room for a little feminine gossip overMalcolm's second breakfast. Barbara never left a note unanswered, no oldfriend was neglected; tea hour always found the shady side porch full ofcallers, children strayed from the candy on the centre table to thecakes near the teapot, the doctor's collie lay panting in the doorway. Barbara's rich soft laugh, the new tones that her voice had gained inthe past years, somehow dominated everything. Julia felt a vague newrestlessness and discontent assail her at this contact with Barbara'sfull and happy life. Perhaps Barbara suspected it, for her generousinclusion of Julia, when plans of any sort were afoot, knew no limit. She won Anna's little heart with a thousand affectionate advances; lovedto have the glowing beauty of the little girl as a foil for her owndark-haired boys. 

"You're so busy--and necessary--and unself-conscious, Barbara, " Juliasaid, "you make other women seem such fools!"

It was a heavenly July afternoon, and the two were following Richie andthe children down one of the mountain roads above Mill Valley. Barbara, who had acquired an Englishwoman's love of nursery picnics, had luredher husband to join them to-day, and Julia had been pleasantly surprisedto see how fatherly the Captain was with his small boys, how willing togo for water and tie dragging little shoe laces. But presently thesoldier grew restless, stared about him for a few moments, and finallydecided to leave the ladies and children to Richie's escort, and walk tothe summit of the mountain and back, as a means of working off someexcess of energy and gaining an appetite for dinner. He apparently didnot hear Barbara's warning not to be late, and her entreaty to becareful, merely giving her a stolid glance in answer to these eagersuggestions, and remarking to the boys, who begged to accompany him alittle way: "Naow, naow, I tell you you carn't, so don't make littlearsses of yourselves blabbering abaout it!"

This, however, was taken in good part by his family; there was muchwaving of hands and many shouted good wishes as he walked rapidly out ofhearing. 

"Poor Francis, I hope he's going to enjoy his walk, " Barbara said, asthey started homeward. "He gets so bored out here in California!"

"I wonder why?" Julia said, hiding a Californian's resentment. 

"Oh, well, it _is_ different, Ju--you can't deny it! One wants to beloyal, and all that, " Barbara said, "but in England there's a_purpose_--there's a recognized order to life! They're not eternallyexperimenting; they don't want to be idle and ignorant like ourwomen--they've got better things to do. There's a finish and apleasantness about life in London; men have more leisure to take aninterest in women's work; why, you've no idea how many interesting, clever, charming men I know in London! How many does one know here? Andas for the _women_--"

It was then Julia said:

"Ah, well, you're different from other women. You're so busy--andnecessary--and unself-conscious, Barbara. You make other women seem suchfools!"

"Not necessarily, " said Barbara, smiling. "And don't think I'm horriblyconceited, Julia, talking this way. It's only to you!" They walked alittle way without speaking, and then Barbara sat down on a low bank, some quarter of a mile above Richie's cabin, and added: "Do sit down, Ju. You and I are never alone, and I want to talk to you. Julie, don'tbe angry--it's about Jim. "

Julia's eyes immediately widened, her lips met firmly, she grew a littlepale. 

"Go ahead, " she said steadily. "Have you seen him?"

Barbara answered the question with another. 

"You knew he was in London?"

"No, " said Julia, "I didn't know it. "

She had remained standing, and now Barbara urged her again to sit down. But Julia would not, pleading that she would rather walk, and in the endBarbara got up, and they began slowly to walk down the road together. 

"Tell me, " Julia commanded then. 

"Now, dearest girl, " Barbara pleaded, "_Please_ don't get excited overnothing. Jim's been in London nearly a year; in fact, he's settledthere. He's associated with one of the biggest consulting surgeons wehave, old Sir Peveril McCann. They met in Berlin. I didn't know it untilthis spring--March it was. We'd just come up from the country to meetFrancis, home on a year's leave; it was just before Malcolm arrived. Somebody spoke of this Doctor Studdiford, and I said at once that itmust be my foster brother. I explained as well as I could that sinceFrancis and I had been travelling so much, Jim and I had fallen out oftouch, and so on. "

"Who told you about him?" Julia asked. 

"A Mrs. Chancellor. She's quite a character, " Barbara said. "Some peoplelike her; some don't. I don't--much. She's rich, and a widow; shestudies art, and she loves to get hold of interesting people. "

Julia winced at the vision of a plump, forty-year-old siren sendingcoquettish side glances at an admiring Jim. Anger stirred dully withinher. 

"Pretty?" she asked, in as nonchalant a voice as she could command. 

"Ivy Chancellor? No--she's really plain, " Barbara said, "a sandy, excitable little chatterbox, that's what _she_ is! She's Lady VioletDray's daughter; Lady Violet's quite lovely. How much Jim admires Ivy Ican't say; she took him about with her everywhere; he was always at thehouse. "

This was too much. Julia felt the friendly earth sway under her, a drysalty taste was in her mouth, a very hurricane of resentment shook herheart. 

"Oh, Barbara, do you see how he _can_?" she asked, in a stricken voice. 

"No, I don't!" Barbara answered, with a concerned glance at Julia'swhite face. "Well, as I know him, I can't believe it's the same Jim!"

"I wish you had seen him, " Julia said, after an interval of thought. Barbara said nothing for a few moments, then she confessed suddenly:

"I _did_ see him, Julie. "

"You did? Oh, Bab, and you never told me all this time!"

"Well, Mother and Aunt Sanna begged me not to, Ju, and Francis was mostemphatic about it, " Barbara pleaded. 

"Aunt Sanna--and Francis! But--" Julia's keen eyes read Barbara's facelike an open page. "Then there was more to it!" she declared. "For theycouldn't have minded my knowing just this!"

"I wish I had never mentioned Jim, " Barbara said heartily. "It's none ofmy business, anyway, only--only--it makes me so unhappy I just can'tbear it! I simply can't bear it!" And to Julia's astonishment, Barbara, who rarely showed emotion, fumbled for her handkerchief and began tocry. "I love Jim, " pursued Barbara, with that refreshed vehemence thatfollows a brief interval of tears. "And you're just as dear to me as myown sisters--dearer! And I can't _bear_ to have you and that _darling_ babyhere alone, and Jim off in trailing around after a little _fool_ like IvyChancellor! I can't bear it, " said Barbara, drying her eyes, whichthreatened to overflow again. "It's monstrous! You're--you're wonderful, of course, Julie, but you can't make me think you're happy! And Jim is_wretched_. I've known him since I was a baby, and he can't fool _me_! Hecan bluff about his work and his club and all that as long as hepleases! But he can't fool _me_; I know he's utterly miserable. "

"And you saw him?" Julia asked. 

They were in a little strip of woods just above Richard's cabin now, andJulia seated herself on the low-hanging branch of an oak. Her face, asshe turned to Barbara, was full of resolute command. 

"Sit down, Bab, " she said, indicating a thick fallen log a few feetaway. "Tell me all about it. "

"Francis would strangle me, " Barbara murmured, seating herselfnevertheless. "And there isn't very much to it, anyway, " she added, witha bright air of candour. "I wrote Jim a line, and he came to our housein Ludbroke Road, and we had a little talk. He's fatter. He was awfullyinterested in some knee-cap operation--"

"Babbie!" Julia reproached her. 

"And we talked about everything, " Barbara hastened to say. 

"Me?" Julia asked flatly. 

"A little, " Barbara admitted. "I had nurse bring the boys in--"

"Oh, Barbara, for God's sake tell me!" Julia said, in an agonized burst. 

"Oh, Julie--if only I'm doing the right thing!" Barbara answered indistress. 

"This _is_ the right thing, " Julia assured her. "This is my affair. "

"Francis and Mother--" Barbara began again, hesitatingly. Butimmediately she dismissed the doubts with a shake of her head, andsuddenly assuming a confident air, she began: "I'll tell you exactlywhat happened, Ju. Jim came one afternoon; I was all alone, and we hadtea. He's very much changed, Ju. He's harder, in some way, and--well, changed. Jim never used to be able to conceal his feelings, you know, but now--why, one feels that he's dissembling all the time! He was sofriendly, and cheerful, and interested--and yet--There was somethingall wrong. He didn't exactly _evade_ the subject of you and Anna, but hejust said 'Yes?' or 'No?' when I talked of you--"

"I know exactly how, " Julia said, wincing at some memory. 

"I touched him on the quick finally, " Barbara pursued; "something I saidabout you made him colour up, that brick-red colour of his--"

"I know!" Julia said quickly again. 

"But, Julia, " Barbara added earnestly, "you've no _idea_ how hard it was!I told him how grieved and troubled we all were by this silence betweenyou, and I went and got that snapshot Rich took of Anna, you know, theone with the collies. Well, way in the back of that picture you weresnapped, too, the tiniest little figure, for you were way down by theroad, and Anna close to the porch. But, my dear, he hardly glanced atAnna; he said in a quick, hushed sort of voice, 'What's she in blackfor?' Then I saw your picture for the first time, and said, 'Why, thatmust be Julia!' 'Certainly, it's Julia, ' he said. I told him yourgrandmother had died, and he said, 'But she's still needed there, isshe?' That was the first sign of _anything_ like naturalness. And, oh, Ju, if only it had happened that Francis didn't come in then! But he did, starving for his tea, and wondering who on earth the man that I wassitting in the dark with was--it was so unfortunate! You know Francisthinks we've all spoiled Jim, always, and he looked right over him. Isaid, 'Francis, you remember my brother?' and Francis said, with areally insulting accent, 'Perfectly!' Jim said something about likingLondon and hoping to settle there, and Francis said, 'Studdiford, I'mglad you've come to see my wife, and I hope the affection you two havefelt for years won't be hurt by what I say. But I admire your own wifevery deeply, and you've put her in a most equivocal and humiliatingposition. I can't pretend that I hope you'll settle here; you've causedthe people who love you sufficient distress as it is. I don't see thatyour staying here is going to make anything any easier, while things areas they are in California!' My dear, " said Barbara with a sigh, "Francisgets that way sometimes; English people do--there seems to be a sort ofmoral obligation upon them to say what's true, no matter howoutrageously rude it sounds!"

"I had no idea Captain Fox felt that way, " Julia said, touched. 

"Oh, my dear! He's one of your warmest admirers. Well, " Barbara went on, "of course Jim ruffled up like a turkey cock. I didn't dare sayanything, and Francis, having done his worst, was really pretty fair. Luckily, some other people came in, and later I went with Jim to thenursery. Then he said to me, 'Do you think Julia's position isequivocal, Bab?' And I said, 'Jim, I never knew any one to care solittle for public opinion as Julia. But all the rumour and gossip, theunexplained mystery of it, are very, very hard for her. ' I said, 'Jim, aren't you going back?' and he said, 'Never. ' Then he said, 'I thinkFrancis is right. This way is neither one thing nor the other. It oughtto be settled. Not, ' he said, 'that I want to marry again!' I said, 'Jim, you _couldn't_ marry again, don't talk that way!' He said somethingabout my clinging to old ideas, and I said, 'Jim, don't tell me you havegiven up your faith?' He said, very airily, 'I'm not telling youanything, my dear girl, but if the law will set me free, perhaps that'sthe best way of silencing Francis's remarks about Julia's equivocalposition!'"

Julia was silent for a while, staring beyond Barbara, her eyes likethose of a sick person, her face ashen. Barbara began to feelfrightened. 

"So that's it, " Julia said finally, in a tired, cold voice. 

"Ju--it's too dreadful to hurt you this way!" Barbara said. "But that'snot all. The only reason I told you all this was because Jim may becoming home; he may come on in October, and want to see you. Francisthinks--But it seems too cruel to let him come on and take you bysurprise!"

"Oh, my God!" said Julia, in a low, tense tone, "what utter wreck I havemade of my life! Why is it, " she said, springing up and beginning towalk again, "why is it that I am so helpless, why must I sit still andlet the soul be torn out of my body! My child must grow upfatherless--under a cloud--"

"Julie! Julie!" Barbara begged, wild with anxiety, as she kept pacebeside Julia on the dry brown grass. "Dearest, don't, or you'll make mefeel terribly for having told you!"

"Oh, no--no, " Julia said, suddenly calm and weary. "You had to tell me!"The two walked slowly on for a moment, in silence, then Julia addedpassionately: "Oh, what a wretched, miserable business! Oh, Bab, why doI simply have to go from one agony to another? I'm so tired of beingunhappy; I'm so wretched!" Her voice fell, the fire went out of hertone. "I'm tired, " she said, in a voice that seemed to Barbara curiouslyin keeping with the flat, toneless summer twilight, the dull brownhills, the darkening sky, the dry slippery grass over which a cool swiftbreeze was beginning to wander. "If Anna and I could only run away fromit all!" said Julia sombrely. 

"Julie, just one thing. " Barbara hesitated. "Shall you see Jim?"

Julia paused, and their eyes met in the gloom. Barbara thought she hadnever seen anything more marked than the tragic intensity of the otherwoman's face. Julia might have been a young priestess, the problems ofthe world on her shoulders. 

"That I can't say, Bab, " she answered thoughtfully. And a moment laterthey reached the cabin, and were welcomed by Richie and the children. 

CHAPTER VIII

It was in late September that the mail brought her a note from Jim. Julia's heart felt a second of paralyzing cramp as she put her hand onthe letter; she read its dozen lines in a haze of dancing light; theletters seemed to swim together. 

Jim wrote that he was at home for a few days, and was most anxious tosee her, and to have a talk that would be of advantage to them both. Forobvious reasons, her home was not suitable; would she suggest a time andplace? He was always hers faithfully, James Studdiford. 

Anna, glowing and delicious, was leaning against Julia's shoulder asJulia read and reread the little document. The mother looked downobliquely at the little rose-leaf face, the blue, blue eyes, the fresh, firm, baby mouth. 

"When I am a grown-up girl, " Anna said, with her sweet, mysterioussmile, "I shall have letters, and I will write answers, and write theenvelopes, too! And I'll write you letters, Mother, when you go 'way andleave me with Grandma!"

"Will you?" asked Julia, rubbing the child's soft cheek with her own. 

"Every day!" Anna said. "Who's writing you with that cunning little owlon the paper, Mother?"

"That's the Bohemian Club owl, " Julia evaded, giving Anna only one fairlook at him before she closed the letter. She went to her desk, andswiftly, unhesitatingly, wrote her reply. Jim must excuse her, she couldnot see the advantage of their meeting, she would much prefer not to seehim. Briskly rubbing her blotter over the flap of the sealed envelope, she had a vision of him, interrupting his evening of talk with oldfriends to scratch off the note to her, and felt that she detested him. 

An unhappy week followed, in which Julia had time to feel that almostany consequences would have been easier to bear than the unassailablewall of silence and misgiving and doubt that hemmed her in. Constantnervous terrors weakened her spiritually and bodily, and she could notbear to have Anna for one moment out of her sight. Mrs. Page and Mrs. Torney saw notice in the papers of Jim's return, and suspected the causeof this new agitation in Julia, but neither dared attempt to force herconfidence. 

"Men are the limit!" said Mrs. Torney to her sister, one day when theywere sitting together in the kitchen. "As I've said before, it's a greatpity there ain't nothing else to do but marry, and nothing to marry butmen! It's awful to think of the hundreds of women who spend theirhappiest hours going about doing the housework, and planning just whatthey'd do if their husbands was to be taken off suddenly! Some girls canset around until they're blue moulded, and never a feller to ask 'em, and others the boys'll fret and pleg until they're fit to be tied, withnerves! Evvy you couldn't marry off if she was Cleopatra on the Nile, and poor Julia could hang smallpox flags all over her, and every man inthe place'd want her jest the same! He wants her back, you see if hedoesn't!"

"I don't know that he does, " said Emeline, knitting needles flashingslowly in her crippled fingers. "Maybe that's the trouble. "

"What'd he come on for, then?" demanded Mrs. Torney. "Jest showing off, is he? Or is it another woman? The only difference between men reelyseems to be that some wear baggy pants and own up to being sultans, andothers don't!" She spread her fingers inside the stocking she wasdarning, and eyed it severely. "The idea of a man with a five-year-oldgirl sashaying round the country this way is ridiculous, to begin with, "said she indignantly. 

"Has Ju seen him?" asked Mrs. Page. 

"No, I'm pretty sure she hasn't, " Mrs. Torney answered. "She acks morelike she was afraid to, than like she ackshally had. She'd be realrelieved to start fighting, but just now she's like a hen that gets itschickens under its wings, and looks up and round and about, and don'tknow whether it's a hawk or a fox or a man with a knife that's afterher!"

"I don't believe Julie hates him, " said her mother. "I think she'd goback to him, if only for Anna's sake--if it seemed best for Anna. "

"For that matter, she'd go keep house for the gorilla at the Chutes ifit seemed best for Anna!" Mrs. Torney concluded sagely. 

It was only a day or two later that the telephone rang, and Julia, answering it, as she always did now, with chill foreboding in her heart, heard Barbara's voice. 

"Julie, dear, is it you? Darling, we want you right away. It's Dad, Julie--he's terribly ill!" Barbara's voice broke. "He's terribly ill!"

"What is it?" Julia asked, tense and pale. 

"Oh, we don't know!" Barbara gasped. "Julie--we--and Mother's quitewonderful! Con's coming right away, Janey's here, and we've wired Ted. "

"Barbara, is it as bad as that?"

"I'm afraid so!" And again tears choked Barbara. "Of course we don'tknow. He fell, right here in the garden. Think if he'd been on the road, Julie, or in the street. That was the first thing Mother said. Mother'stoo wonderful! Richie was here, they carried him in. And he wrote Con'sand Ted's and your name on a piece of paper. We saw he was trying to saysomething, and gave him the paper, and that's what he wrote! And AuntSanna in New York!"

Stricken, and beginning to realize for the first time what an emptyplace would be left in the Sausalito group when the kindly old doctorwas gone, Julia hastily dressed herself for the hurried trip. She mustsee Jim now; there was a sort of dramatic satisfaction in the thoughtthat he must know the accident of their meeting at last to be none ofher contriving. And she would see Richie, too; her heart fluttered atthe thought. She sat on the boat, dreamily watching the gray water rushby, dreamily ready for whatever might come. The day was dull and soft;boat whistles droned all about them on the bay; from Alcatraz, shouldering through an enveloping fog, came the steady ringing of abrass gong. 

Long drifts of fog had crept under the trees in the Toland garden, therose bushes were beaded with fine mist, the eaves dripped steadily. Julia began to be shaken with nervous anticipation of the moment whenshe must meet Jim. Would he meet her at the door, or would theydeliberately arrange--these loyal brothers and sisters--that the dreadedmoment should not come until they were all about her? She gave a quicknervous glance about the big hallway when a tearful maid admitted her. But it was only Barbara who came forward, and Barbara's first word wasthat Jim and Richie were not there; Dad had sent both on errands. "Hismind is absolutely clear, " said Barbara shakenly. She herself waswaiting for an important telephone call, and occasionally pressing afolded handkerchief to her eyes. The two women kissed, with sudden tearson both sides, before Julia went noiselessly upstairs. Constance andTheodora were in their mother's room, Mrs. Toland with them. The motherhad been crying, and was now only trying to muster sufficientself-control to reenter the sickroom without giving the beloved patientalarm. Julia's entrance was the signal for fresh tears; but they allpresently brightened a little, too, and Julia persuaded Mrs. Toland todrink a cup of hot soup, "the very first thing she's touched all day!"said all the girls fondly. 

Only Janey was with the invalid when Julia went into the sickroom, asilent, white-faced Janey, who stared at Julia with sombre eyes. Thedoctor lay high in pillows, looking oddly boyish in his white nightgownin spite of his gray hair. A fire flickered in the old-fashionedpolished iron grate; outside the window twilight and the fog weremingling. The room had some unfamiliar quality of ordered emptinessalready, as if life's highway must be cleared for the coming of thegreat Destroyer. 

Julia knelt down by the bed and laid her hand over the old man's hand. To her surprise he opened his eyes. They moved from her face to theclock on the mantel, as if he had lost count of time, and had notexpected her so soon. 

"How are you, Dad?" she said, with infinite tenderness. 

"He's better, " Janey answered. "Aren't you, darling? You _look_ better!"

The doctor's look, with its old benevolent twinkle, went from one girl'sface to the other. 

"Know--too--much!" he said, with difficulty, in his eyes the innocenttriumph of the child who will not be deceived. Quite unexpectedly, Juliafelt her lip tremble, tears brimmed her eyes. The invalid saw them, feltone drop hot on his hand. 

"No--no--no!" he said, with pitying gentleness. And, with great effort, he added, "Seen--Jimmy?"

"Not yet, " stammered Julia, shaken to her very soul. 

The doctor shut his eyes, his fingers still clinging to Julia's. Afterperhaps two full minutes of silence, he whispered:

"Be good to Jimmy, Julia! Be good to him. "

Julia could not answer. Barbara found her, in her own room, half an hourlater, crying bitterly. It was then quite dark. The two had a long talk, ended only when Constance came flying in. Dad seemed better, muchbrighter, was asking for Richie, wanted to know if Ned had come. 

Constance and Barbara went back to the sickroom, and Julia wentdownstairs to find them. She entered the almost dark library, whereRichie and Ned were sitting before the fire. There was some one withthem; Julia knew in an instant who it was. Her heart began to hammer, her breath failed her. A murmur of friendly low voices ended with herentrance; the three dim forms rose in the gloom. 

"Con?" asked Richie. Julia touched a wall switch, and the great lamp onthe centre table bloomed into sudden light. 

"No, it's Julia--they want you, Rich, " she said, "and you, too, Ned. Consays he's much brighter. He asked for you both. "

"Hello, dear, I didn't know you were here, " Richie said affectionately, kindly eyes on her face. "But you mustn't cry, Ju!" he added gently. 

"I--I saw him, " Julia said, mingled emotions making speech almostimpossible. "Isn't there _any_ hope, Richie?"

"None at all, " Jim said, leaving the fireplace to quietly join Julia andRichie at the centre table. 

The unforgotten voice! Every fibre in Julia's body thrilled to mortalshock. She rallied her courage and endurance sternly; she must notbetray herself. Anger helped her, for she knew him well enough to knowthat the situation for him was not devoid of a certain artisticenjoyment. 

"Yes, it may come to-night, it may come to-morrow, " Richie assentedsorrowfully. "But it's the end, I'm afraid!"

Julia clung to his arm; never had Richie seemed so dear and good to her. 

"Your mother will die of it, Rich, " she said, to say something. The roomseemed to her shouting with Jim's presence; she kept her eyes onRichie's face. Ned, never more than an overgrown boy, put his face inhis hands and began to sob. 

"Sh--h!" Jim warned them. Mrs. Toland came in. 

"He's better--he wants to see you boys!" she said, tremulously happy. Her eyes went from face to face. "Why, what's the matter?" she demanded. "You don't think it's--do you, Richie? Do you, Jim?"

Richie merely flung up his head and set his lips. Jim put one arm aroundher. 

"He's pretty ill, dear, " he said gently, and Julia found his smoothtenderness infinitely less bearable than Richie's bluntness. 

"Why, but what are you talking about--what do you mean--I don't knowwhat you mean!" Mrs. Toland said bewilderedly. "Doctor Barr has gonehome, Richie; he said he wouldn't come back unless we sent for him!" Noone answered her, and as her pitiful look went from Julia's grave faceto Richard's sorrowful one, from Ned's despairing figure by the fire toJim's troubled look, terror seemed to seize her. Her pretty middle-agedface wrinkled; she began to cry bitterly. 

Julia put her in a deep chair, knelt before her, trying rather to calmthan to comfort her, and after a while so far succeeded that she couldtake the poor shaken old lady upstairs. She did not glance again at Jim, although he opened the door for them, and tried his best to catch hereye. 

Between five and six o'clock he was summoned to the sickroom. They wereall there: the girls on their knees, Richard kneeling by his father, hisfingers on the failing pulse. Mrs. Toland was seated, Julia kneelingbeside her, holding both her cold hands. A sound of subdued sobbingfilled the air; no sound came from the dying man except when afluttering breath raised his chest. His eyes were shut; he appeared tobe sleeping. 

The clock on the mantel struck six, and as if roused, Doctor Tolandstirred a little, and whispered, "Janey!" Poor Janey's head went downagainst the white counterpane; she never dreamed that the little-girlaunt, dead fifty years ago, with apple cheeks under a slattedsun-bonnet, and more apples in her lunch bag, had come in a vision ofold orchard and sun-bathed river, to put her warm little hand in herbrother's again, and lead him home. And before the clock struck again, Robert Toland, with not even a twitch of his kind old face, went smilingaway from earth in a dream of childhood, and Richie, with a finger onthe silent pulse, and Jim, with a hand on the silent heart, had saidtogether: "Gone!"

An hour later Jim, standing thoughtful at an upper window, looked downto see Richie bring the runabout to the front door. Down the steps cameBarbara, bare headed, and Julia, in her wide black hat and flying veil. The three talked for a few moments together, the light from the openhall door falling on their faces; then Julia got into the car. Sheleaned out to say some last word to Barbara, her face composed andsweetly grave, then turned to Richie, and they were gone. 

Jim would have found it difficult to analyze his own emotion. Somethingin that look toward Barbara, so brave and quiet, so bright with someinward serenity, stirred his heart. He went downstairs to meet Barbarain the hall. 

"Where's Rich?" asked Jim, in the hushed voice that had supplanted allthe usual noise and gayety of the house. 

"He'll be right back, " Barbara said apathetically. "He's driving Julieto the boat. "

For some reason Jim's heart sank. He had supposed them as performingonly some village errand, at the florist's, the drug store, or the postoffice. A certain blank fell upon his spirits; Julia had her grievance, of course, but she seemed singularly indifferent to the--well, theappearances of things!

But Julia, alone on the boat, could have laughed in the joy of escape, in the new sense of freedom on which she seemed to float. Above all hersympathy for the family she so deeply loved, and above the sorrow of herown very real personal loss, rose the intoxicating conviction that Jim'ssway over heart and soul was gone; he was no longer godlike; no longermysteriously powerful to hurt or to enchant her; he was just a handsomeman nearing forty, not particularly interesting, not noticeablymagnetic, not remarkable in any way. 

She caught the welcoming Anna to her heart when she reached the ShotwellStreet house, telling her sad news to the others over the child's littleshoulder. But the kisses she gave her daughter were inspired by joyinstead of sorrow, and Julia lay down to sleep that night with a newcontent, and slept as she had not slept for months. With a confidenceamounting almost to indifference she faced Jim on the day of the olddoctor's funeral, her beauty absolutely startling in its setting ofdemure black veil and trailing sombre garments. 

Jim watched her, some curious emotion that was compounded of resentmentand jealousy and astonishment darkening his face. So dignified, sopoised, so strangely, hauntingly lovely she seemed, so much in demandand so quietly equal to all demands. Jim flattered his vanity for awhile with the assurance that she was trying to impress as well as evadehim, but could not long preserve the illusion; there was no actingthere. 

"Julia, " he said, when they were all at home again after the funeral, "Iwant to see you alone for a few moments, if I may?"

Julia was in the dining-room, busy with a great sheaf of letters. Shegave a quick glance at the chair which Barbara had filled only a momentago, as if realizing for the first time that she had been left alone. 

"What is it?" she asked, dryly and unencouragingly. 

Jim sat down, leaned back, folded his arms, and looked at her steadily, in a manner that might have been confusing. But Julia went on serenelyopening, reading, and listing her letters. 

"I want to ask how you are getting on, Julie, " said Jim at last, in ahurt tone. "I want to know if there is anything in the world I can dofor you?"

"Nothing, thank you!" Julia said pleasantly. "Financially, I am verycomfortable. You left me I don't know how many thousands in the Crocker. I've never had one second's worry on that score, even though I've nevertouched the capital--as you can easily find out. "

"My dear girl, do you think for one second I doubt you!" Jim saiduncomfortably. "You've been perfectly wonderful to do it, only you musthave scrimped yourself! But it wasn't about that. Surely, Julia, you andI have things more important to say to each other, " he addedreproachfully. 

"I don't know what's more important than money, " she assured himwhimsically. "Of course I didn't want to use it at all; I should havepreferred to be self-supporting at any cost, " she went on. "But therewas Anna and Mama to consider. And more than that, there was your name, Jim; I didn't want to start every one talking of the straits to whichyour wife had been reduced. "

"Oh, for God's sake!" Jim growled. "Don't let's talk of money. " "Thatwas all I meant to say, " Julia said politely. "Is Mother lying down?"she added naturally. Jim jerked his whole body impatiently. 

"I think she is!" he snapped. Julia opened a letter. 

"Isn't that a pretty hand?" she asked. "English--it's Mrs. Lawrence, theConsul's wife. What pretty hands English people write!"

"You've changed very much, " Jim observed, after a sulphurous silence. 

"I have?" Julia asked naively. "In what way?"

"Why didn't you want to see me?"

"Oh--" Julia laid the letter down, and for the first time gave him herfull attention. "I've changed my mind about that, Jim, " she saidfrankly. "I thought at first that it was an unwise thing, but I feeldifferently now. Of course you know, " continued Julia, with prettychildish gravity, "that for me there can be no consideration of divorce;I shall never be any other man's wife, and never be free. But if, as Babsays, you have come to feel that you want something different, and ifyou have drifted so far from your religion as to feel that a legaldocument can undo what was solemnly done in the name of God, why then Ishan't oppose it. You can call it desertion or incompatibility, I don'tcare. "

"Who said I wanted a divorce?" Jim demanded, in his ugliest tone. Hisface was a dull, heavy red, and veins swelled on his forehead. 

"My life is full and happy, " Julia pursued contentedly, paying noattention to his question. "I'm not very exacting, as you know. Mamaneeds me, and I have everything I want. "

"You talk very easily of divorce, " Jim said, in an injured tone, after apause. "But is it fair to have it all arranged before I say a word?"

Julia's answer was only a look--a full, clear, level look that scorchedhim like a flame; her cheeks above the black of her gown burned scarlet;she was growing angry. 

Jim played with an empty envelope for a few minutes, fitting a ringertip to each corner and lifting it stiffly. Presently he dropped it, folded his arms, and rested them on the table. 

"This is a serious matter, " he said gravely. "And we must think aboutit. But you must forgive me for saying that it is a great shock to comehome and find you talking that way, Julie. I--God knows I'm bad enough, but I _don't_ think I deserve quite this!" added Jim gently. 

A long interval of silence, for Julia a busy interval, followed. 

"When am I going to see Anna?" Jim asked, ending it. 

"Whenever you want to, " Julia said pleasantly. "I've familiarized herwith your picture; she'll be friendly at once; she always is. Some day, when you are going to be here, I'll send her over for the day. She lovesSausalito, and I really believe she'd do poor Mother good. "

"And when shall I come and see you--to talk about things?" Jim askedhumbly. 

"My dear Jim, " Julia answered briskly, "I cannot see the need of ourmeeting again; I think it is most unwise--just a nervous strain on bothsides. What have we to discuss? I tell you that I am perfectly willingto let you have your way. It's too bad, it's a thing I detest--divorce;but the whole situation is unfortunate, and we must make the best ofit!"

Jim's stunned amazement showed in a return of his sullen colour and thefixed glassy look in his eyes. 

"What will people think of this, Ju? Every one will have to know it--itwill make a deuce of a lot of talk!" he said, trying to scare her. 

Julia shook her head, with just a suggestion of a smile. 

"Much less than you think, Jim, " she answered sensibly. "Society longago suspected that something was wrong; the announcement of a divorcewill only confirm it. "

"We'll have the whole crowd of them buzzing about our heads, " Jim said, determined to touch her serenity by one phase or another. 

"Oh, no, we won't!" Julia returned placidly. "The only circumstancesunder which there would have been buzzing would have been if I had triedto keep my place in society. I dropped out, and they let me go without amurmur. No buzzing from San Francisco society ever reaches ShotwellStreet, and as for you, you'll be in London. "

"How do you know I'll be in London?" Jim growled, utterly nonplussed. 

Julia gave him a bright look over a letter, but did not answer, and theman fell to worrying an envelope again. Moments passed, the autumntwilight fell, Julia began to stack her letters in neat piles. 

Presently she quietly rose, and quietly left the room, without a word, without a backward glance. Jim sat on in the dusk, staring moodily aheadof him, his eyes half shut, the fingers of one big hand drumming gentlyon the table. 

A few days later he went out to Shotwell Street to see her. Julia methim very quietly, and presented the little Anna with the solicitousinterest in the child's manner that she would have shown had Jim beenany casual friend. Anna, who was lovely in a pale pink cotton garment alittle too small for her, looked seriously at her father, submitted tohis kisses, her wondering eyes never moving from his face, and wriggledout of his arms as soon as she could. 

"My God! She's beautiful, isn't she?" said Jim, under his breath. 

"She looks very nice when she's clean and good, " Julia agreedpractically, kissing Anna herself. 

"'My God's' a bad word, " Anna said gravely to her father, "isn't it, Mother?"

"I wouldn't like to hear you say it, " Julia answered. "Now trot out toAunt Regina, dear, and ask her to give you your lunch. Mother'll bethere immediately. 

"She's exquisite, " Jim said, when the child was gone. "You all overagain, Ju!"

"She's smarter than I was. " Julia smiled dispassionately. "I've taughther to read--simple things, of course; she writes a little, and doeswonders with her numerical chart. She's very cunning, she has an unusuallittle mind, and occasionally says something that proves she thinks!"

A silence followed. Sunshine was streaming into the sitting-room;nasturtiums bloomed in Julia's window boxes; the net curtains fannedsoftly to and fro in the soft autumn air. In the city, a hundredwhistles shrilled for noon. 

"I hardly knew the place, " Jim said, searching for something to say. "You've made it over--the whole block looks better!"

"Gardens have come into fashion, " Julia explained; "the Mission is awonderful place for gardens. And the change in my mother is moremarked, " she went on, with perfunctory pleasantness; "you would hardlyknow her. She is much thinner, of course, but so bright and contented, and so brave!"

"I am going to meet her, I hope?" Jim suggested. Julia looked troubled. 

"I hardly see how, " she said regretfully. "As things are I can't exactlyask you to lunch, Jim. It would be most unnatural, and they--they lookto me for a certain principle, " she went on. "They know what these fouryears have meant for me; I couldn't begin now to treat the whole thingcasually and cheerfully. "

"I don't expect you to, " Jim said quickly. "I'm not taking this lightly. I only want to think the thing well over before any step is taken thatwe might regret. "

Again Julia answered him with only a tolerant, bright look. She stood upand busied herself with the potted fern that stood on the centre table, breaking off dead leaves and gathering them into the palm of her hand. Jim, feeling clumsy and helpless, stood up, too. And as he watched her, a sudden agony of admiration broke out in his heart. Her head was bent alittle to one side, as if the weight of the glorious braids bowed it;her thick lashes hid her eyes; her sweet, firm mouth moved a little asshe broke and straightened the fern. Where the wide collar of herchecked gown was turned back at her throat, a triangle of her soft skinshowed, as white and pure as the white of daisy petals; her firm youngbreast moved regularly under the fresh crisp gingham; the folds of herskirt were short enough to show her slender ankles and square-toedsensible low shoes tied with wide bows. 

"You used not to be so cold, Julie, " Jim said, baffled anduncomfortable. 

"I am not cold, " she answered mildly. "I never was a verydemonstrative--never a very emotional person, I think. Three yearsago--two years ago, even--I would have gone on my knees to you, Jim, begged you to come back, for Anna's sake as well as my own. But thattime has gone by. This life, I've come to see, is far better for Annathan any child in our old set leads, and for me--well, I'm happy. Inever was so happy, or busy, or necessary, in my life, as I am now. "

"Do you mean that there's _no_ chance of a reconciliation?" Jim askedhuskily. Julia gave him a glance of honest surprise. 

"Jim, " she asked crisply, "do you mean that you came on with the hope ofa reconciliation? I thought you told Barbara something very differentfrom that!"

"I don't know what I came on for. I wish Barbara would mind her ownbusiness, " said Jim, feeling himself at a disadvantage. 

"My dear Jim, " Julia said with motherly kindness, "I know you so well!You came on here determined to get a divorce, you want to be free, youmay already have in mind some other woman! But I've hurt your feelingsby making it all easy for you--by coming over to your side. You wanted afuss, tears, protests, a convulsion among your old friends. And youfind, instead, that all San Francisco takes the situation for granted, and that I do, too. I've made my own life, I have Anna, and more thanenough money to live on; you have your freedom; every one's satisfied. "

"That's nonsense and you know it!" Jim exclaimed angrily. "There's notone word of truth in it!" He began to pull on his gloves, a handsomefigure in his irreproachable trim black sack suit with low oxfordsshowing a glimpse of gray hose, and an opal winking in his gray silkscarf. "There's absolutely no reason in the world why you shouldconsider yourself as more or less than my wife, " he said. "There's noobject in this sort of reckless talk. We've been separated for a fewyears; it's no one's business but our own to know why!"

"Oh, Jim--Jim!" Julia said, shaking her head. 

"Don't talk that way to me!" he said fiercely. "I tell you I'm serious!It's all nonsense--this talk of divorce! Why, " he came so near, andspoke in so menacing a tone, that Julia perforce lifted her eyes to his, "this situation isn't all of my making, " he said. "I've not beenungenerous to you! Can't you be generous in your turn, and talk thewhole thing over reasonably?"

"I can't see the advantage of _talking_!" Julia answered in faintimpatience. 

"No, because you want it your own way, " said Jim. "You expect me to giveup my child completely, you refuse me even a hearing, you won't discussit!"

"But what do you want to discuss?" protested Julia. "The whole situationis perfectly clear--we shall only quarrel!"

How well she knew the look he gave her, the hurt look of one whosesentiment is dashed by cool reason! He suddenly caught her by theshoulders. 

"Look here, Julia!"

"Ah, Jim, please don't!" She twisted in a vain attempt to escape hisgrip. 

"Please don't what?"

"Don't--touch me!"

Jim dropped his hands at once, stepped back, with a look of one mortallyhurt. 

"Certainly not--I beg your pardon!" he said punctiliously. He took uphis hat. "When do I see you again, Julia? Will you dine with meto-morrow? Then we can talk. "

"No, I don't think so, " Julia said, after reflection. 

"Have you another engagement?"

"Certainly not!" There was almost a flash of amusement in her face; herglance toward the kitchen spoke volumes for the nature of herengagements. 

"Why do you say no, then?" asked Jim. 

"Because I prefer not to do so, " Julia answered, with sudden spirit. "Welook at this thing very differently, Jim, " she added roundly. "To me itis a tragedy--the saddest thing that ever happened in my life; that youand I should have loved each other, and should be less than nothing toeach other now! It's like a sorrow, something shameful, to hide and toforget. For years I was haunted by the horror of a divorce, Jim; I neverwrote to you, I never begged you to come back, just because I was afraidof it! I used to say to myself in the first awful weeks in this house:'Never mind--it isn't as if we were divorced; we may be separated, wemay be estranged, but we are still man and wife!'" Tears came to Julia'seyes, she shook her head as if to shake them away. "I've hungered foryou, Jim, until it seemed as if I must go mad!" she went on, looking farbeyond him now, and speaking in a low, rapt voice as if to herself. "I've felt, " she said, "as if I'd die for just one more kiss from you, die just to have you take my big coat off once more, and catch me inyour arms, as you used to do when we came back from dinner or thetheatre! But one can't go on suffering that way, " said Julia, giving hima swift, uncertain smile, "and gradually the pain goes, and the feverdies away, and nothing is left but the cold, white scar!"

Jim had been staring at her like a man in a trance. Now he took a steptoward her, lightly caught her in one big arm. 

"Ah, but Julia, wouldn't the love come back?" he asked tenderly, hisface close to her own. "Couldn't it all be forgotten and forgiven?You've suffered, dear, but I've suffered, too. Can't we comfort eachother?"

"Please don't do that, " Julia said coldly, wrenching herself free. "Thisis no whim with me; I'm not following a certain line of conduct becauseit's most effective. I've changed. I don't want to analyze and dissectand discuss it; as I say, it seems to me too sacred, too sad, to enjoytalking about!"

"You've not changed!" Jim asserted. "Women don't change that way. "

"Then I'm not like other women, " Julia said hotly. "Do believe me, Jim. It's all just gone out of my life. You don't seem like the man I loved, who was so sweet and generous to me. I've not forgotten that oldwonderful time; I just don't connect you with it. You could kiss me athousand times now, and it would only seem like--well, like any oneelse! I look at you as one might look on some old school friend, andwonder if I ever really loved you!"

She stopped, looking at him almost in appeal. Jim stood quite still, staring fixedly at her; they remained so for a long minute. 

"I see, " he said then, very quietly. "I'm sorry. "

And without another word he turned to the hall door and was gone. Juliastood still in the hall for a few minutes, curiously numb. All this wasvery terrible, very far reaching in its results, very important, but shecould not feel it now. She did feel very tired, exhausted in every fibreof her body, confused and weary in mind. She put her head in the kitchendoor only long enough to say that she was not hungry, and went upstairsto fling herself on her bed, grateful for silence and solitude at last. 

To Jim the world was turned upside down. He could hardly credit hissenses. His was not a quick brain; processes of thought with him wereslow and ruminative; he liked to be alone while he was thinking. When heleft Julia he went down to his club, found a chair by a library window, and brooded over this unexpected and unwelcome turn of events, viewingfrom all angles this new blow to his pride. He did not believe herprotestations of a change of heart, nothing in his life tended to makesuch a belief easy. But her coldness and stubbornness hurt him and upsetthe plans he had been allowing to form of late in his mind. 

All his life he had been following, with sunny adaptability, the line ofthe least resistance. Thrown out of his groove by the jealousy andresentment of the dark time in his married life, Jim had realizedhimself as fairly cornered by Fate, and had run away from the wholesituation rather than own himself beaten. Rather than admit that he mustpatiently accept what was so galling to his pride, he had seized uponany alternative, paid any price. 

And Germany had not been at all unpleasant. There was novelty in everyphase of his home and public life; there was his work; and, for at leastthe first year, there was the balm for his conscience that he would soonbe going home to Julia. He had allowed himself the luxury of moods, wasangry with her, was scornful, was forgiving. He showed new friends herbeautiful pictures--told them that she was prettier than that, nopicture could do justice to her colour. 

Among the new friends there had been two sweet plain Englishwomen: thewidowed Lady Eileen Hungerford, and her sister, the Honourable Phyllis. These had found the rich young American doctor charming, and without adefinite word or look had managed to convey to him the assurance oftheir warmest sympathy. They could only guess at his domestic troubles, but a hundred little half allusions and significant looks lent spice tothe friendship, and Jim became a great favourite in the delightfulcircle the Englishwomen had drawn about them. 

The midsummer vacation was spent, with another doctor, in Norway, and inSeptember Jim went for a week or two to London, where Eileen andPhyllis, delicately considerate of the possible claims of the unknownwife, nevertheless persuaded him that he would be mad to decline theoffer of the big German hospital. So back to Berlin he went, and in thissecond winter met old Professor Sturmer, and Senta, his wife. 

Senta was a Russian, the tiniest of women, wild, beautiful, nineteen. She was a most dramatic and appealing little figure, and she knew itwell. She smoked and drank just as the young men of her set did, shedanced like a madwoman, she sang and rode and skated with the fury of awitch. She was like a child, over-dressed, overjewelled, her black hairfantastically arranged; always talking, always unhappy, a perfect typeof the young female egotist. She liked to use reckless expressions, tocurl herself up on a couch, in a room dimly lighted, and scented withburning pastilles, and discuss her marriage, her age, her appearance, her effect upon other women. Senta's was an almost pathetic and veryobvious desire to be considered daring, pantherine, seductive, dangerous. 

Jim, fancying he understood her perfectly, played into her hand. Hewould not flirt with her, but he took her at her own valuation, and theysaw a good deal of each other. Senta confessed to him, read him loveletters, wrote him dashing, penitent little notes, and Jim scolded herin a brotherly way, laughed at her, and sometimes delighted her byforbidding her to do this or that, or by masterfully flinging somecherished note or photograph of hers into the fire. He loved to hear herscold her maid in Russian; it seemed to him very cunning when thisstately gipsy of a child took her seat in her box at the opera, or flungherself into the carriage, later, all the more a madcap because of threehours of playing the lady. He exchanged smiling looks over her littledark head with her husband, when he dined at the Sturmers'; the goodprofessor was far more observing than was usually supposed; he knew moreof Jim's character, it is probable, than Jim did himself; he knew thatSenta was quite safe with the young American, and he liked him. ButSenta, who was quite unscrupulous, was slow to realize it. She foundthis brotherly petting and scolding very well for a time, but monthswent by, a whole year went by, and there was no change in theirrelationship. Senta was only precocious, she was neither clever nor welleducated; she based her campaign on the trashy novels she read, anddeliberately set herself to shake Jim from his calm pleasure in hersociety. 

Then, suddenly, Jim was bored. Charm dropped from her like a rich, enveloping cloak, and left only the pitiful little nude personality, abundle of childish egotisms and shallow pretences. Once he had beenproud to escort her everywhere, now her complacent assumption that heshould do so annoyed him; once he had laughed out heartily at herconstant interruption of the old professor, her naive contention thatshe was never to be for one second ignored; now she only worried him, and made him impatient. Her invitations poured upon him, her affectedlydeep voice, reproachful or alluring, haunted his telephone. Shechallenged him daringly, wickedly, across dinner tables, or from thecentre of a tea-table group, to say "why he didn't like her any more?"

Jim went to Italy, and Senta, chaperoned by her sister-in-law, a gauntwoman of sixty, went, too, turning up at his hotels with the naughtygrace of a spoiled child, sure to be welcome. She eyed him obliquely, while telling him that "people were beginning to talk. " She laughed, with a delight that Jim found maddening, when they chanced to meet somefriends from Berlin in a quiet side street in Rome. Jim cut his vacationshort, and went back to work. 

This angered Senta for the first time, and perhaps began to enlightenher. She came sulkily back to Berlin, and began to spread abroadelaborate accounts of a quarrel between Jim and herself. Jim so dreadedmeeting her that he quite gave up everything but men's society, but hecould not quite escape from the knowledge that the affair was discussedand criticised. 

And at this most untimely moment old Professor Stunner died, leaving asomewhat smaller fortune to his little widow than she had expected, andnaming his esteemed young friend, Herr Doctor Studdiford, as herguardian and his executor. This again gave Senta the prominence andpicturesqueness she loved; to Jim it was a most deplorable mischance; itwas with difficulty that he acquitted himself of his bare duty in thematter, his distaste for his young ward growing stronger every moment. For weeks there was no hour in which he was not made exquisitelyuncomfortable by her attitude of chastened devotion; eventually the hourcame in which he had to stab her pride, and stab deep. It was an ugly, humiliating, exasperating business, and when at last it was over, Jimfound himself sick of Berlin, and yet sullenly unready to go home toCalifornia, as if he had failed, as if he were under even so faint acloud. 

Just then came a letter from Eileen, another from Phyllis. Wasn't heever coming to London any more? London was waiting to welcome him. Theyhad opened their little house in Prince's Gate, the season wasbeginning, it was really extraordinarily jolly. Did he know anything ofthe surgeon, Sir Peveril McCann? He had said such charming things ofDoctor Studdiford. He had said--but no, one wasn't going to tell himanything that might, untold, make him curious enough to come!

Jim went to London, revelling in clear English speech after years ofTeutonic gutturals, and rejoicing in the clean, clear-cut personalitieswith which he came in contact. He loved the wonderful Londondrawing-rooms, the well-ordered lives, the atmosphere of the smart clubsand hotels, the plays and pictures and books that were discussed andanalyzed so inexhaustibly. 

He found Eileen and Phyllis more charming than ever; and he very muchadmired their aunt, stately Lady Violet Dray, and their bright, clever, friendly cousin Ivy, who was as fresh and breezy as the winds that blewover her native heather. Ivy was slender and vivacious; her face wasthin and a little freckled, and covered with a fine blond down, whichmerged on her forehead into the straight rise of her carrot-colouredhair. Her eyes were sharply blue, set in thick, short, tawny lashes. Shewas an enthusiastic sportswoman, well informed on all topics of the day, assured of her position and sure of herself, equally at home in herriding tweeds and mud-splashed derby, and the trailing satin eveninggowns that left her bony little shoulders bare, and were embellished bymatchless diamonds or pearls. There was no sentiment in her, her bestfriends were of both sexes and all ages, but she attached Jim to hertrain, patronized and bullied him, and they became good friends. 

Mrs. Chancellor talked well, and talked a great deal, and she stimulatedJim to talk, too. Never in his life had so constant a demand been madeupon his conversational powers; and every hour with her increased hisadmiration for Ivy and lessened his valuation of his own wisdom. She wasa thorough Englishwoman, considering everything in life desirable onlyinasmuch as it was British. Toward America her attitude was one ofgenerous laughter touched with impatience. She never for one momentconsidered seriously anything American. Mrs. Chancellor thought all ofit really too funny-"rarely too fenny, " as she pronounced it. Only onething made her more angry than the defence of anything American, andthat was dispraise of anything British. The history of England wassacred to her: London was the crown and flower of the world'scivilization; English children, English servants, English law, were allalike perfect, and she also had her country's reverence for Englishslang, quoting and repeating it with fondest appreciation and laughter. Nothing pleased her more than to find Jim unfamiliar with some bit ofslang that had been used in England for twenty years; her laughter wasfresh and genuine as she explained it, and for days afterward she wouldtell her friends of his unfamiliarity with what was an accepted part oftheir language. 

She took him to picture galleries, bewildering him with her swiftdecisions. Jim might come to a stand before a portrait by Sargent. 

"Isn't this wonderful, Ivy Green?" It was his own name for her, and sheliked it. 

"That?" A sweeping glance would appraise it. "Yes, of course, it's quitetoo extraordinary, " she would concede briskly. "An impossible creature, of course; one feels that he was laughing at her all the time--it's nothis best work, rarely!" And she would drag Jim past forty interestingcanvases to pounce upon some obscure, small painting in a dark corner. "There!" she would say triumphantly, "isn't that astonishing! Sokyawiously frank, if you know what I mean? It's most amazing--his senseof depth, if you know what I mean? Rarely, to splash things on in thatway, and to grasp it. " A clawed little hand would illustrate grasping. "It's astonishing!"

Jim, staring at a picture of some sky, some beach, and a face of rock, would murmur a somewhat bewildered appreciation, looking out of thecorner of his eye, at the same time, at the attractive gondolier singingto his pretty lady passengers, on the right, or the nice young peasantnursing her baby in a sunny window while her mother peeled apples, onthe left. 

"Of course, it's the only thing here, this year, absolutely the onlyone, " Mrs. Chancellor would conclude. "The rest is just one huge joke. Iknow Artie Holloway--Sir Arthur, he is--quite well, and I told him so!He's a director. "

"But I don't see how you know so much about it!" Jim would sayadmiringly. 

"One must know about such things, my dear boy, " she always answeredserenely. "One isn't an oyster, after all!"

It was this dashing lady and not Barbara who first brought Jim's mind toa sense of his own injustice to Julia, or rather to a realization thatthe situation, as it stood, was fair to neither Julia nor himself. Notthat he ever mentioned Julia to Ivy; but she knew, of course, of Julia'sexistence, and being a shrewd and experienced woman she drew her ownconclusions. One day she expressed herself very frankly on the subject. 

"You've taken the rooms above Sir Peveril's, eh?" she asked him. 

"Well, yes, " Jim answered, after a second's pause. "They're bullyrooms!"

"Oh, rather--they're quite the nicest in town, " she stated. "But, I say, my dear boy, wasn't the rent rather steep?"

"Not terrible. " He mentioned it. "And I've taken 'em for five years, " headded. 

"For--eh?" She brought her sandy lashes together and studied him throughthem. "You're rarely going to stay then, you nice child?"

"Yes, Grandmother dear. Sir Peveril wants me. I've taken his hospitalwork; people are really extraordinarily kind to me!" Jim summarized. 

"Oh, you've been vetted, there's no question of that, " she agreedthoughtfully. They were at tea in her own drawing-room, which wascrowded with articles handsome and hideous, Victorian lace tidiesholding their own with really fine old furniture, and exquisite bits ofoil or water colour sharing the walls with old steel engravings incumbersome frames. Now Ivy leaned back in her chair, and stirred hertea, not speaking for a few minutes. 

"There's just one thing, " she said presently. "Before you come here tostay, put your house in order. Don't leave everything at haome in anarsty mess that'll have to be straightened aout later, if you know whatI mean? Get that all straight, and have it understood, d'ye see?"

The colour came into Jim's face at so unexpected an attack, yet speechwas a relief, too. 

"I don't know whether I _can_ straighten it out, " he confessed, with anervous laugh. 

"It's not a divorce, eh?"

"No--not exactly. "

"The gell's gone home to her people?"

"Yes. " Jim cleared his throat. "Yes, she has. "

"And there's a kiddie?"

"Anna--yes. "

"Well, now. " Mrs. Chancellor straightened in her chair, set her cup downon a nearby table. "I take it the gell was the injured one, eh?" saidshe. 

Jim was a little surprised to find himself enjoying thiscross-examination immensely. 

"Well--no. She had no definite cause to feel injured, " he said. "Wequarrelled, and I came away in a hurry--"

"What, after a first quarrel?"

"No--o. It had been going on a long time. "

"Is the cause of it still existing?" Mrs. Chancellor asked in abusinesslike way, after a pause. 

"Well--yes. "

"Can't be removed, eh? It's not religion?"

"It's an old love affair of hers, " Jim admitted. The lady's eyestwinkled. 

"And you're jealous?" she smiled. But immediately her face grew sober. "I see--she still cares for him, or imagines she does, " she said. 

Jim felt it safest to let this guess stand. 

"Of course, if she won't she won't, " pursued Mrs. Chancellorcomfortably. "But the best thing you could do would be to bring her onhere!"

Jim shook his head sullenly and set his jaw. 

"She won't, eh?" asked the lady, watching him thoughtfully. 

"I don't want to do that, " Jim persisted stubbornly. 

"_You_ don't want to?" She meditated this. "Yet she's young, andbeautiful, and presentable?" she asked, nodding her own head slowly ashe nodded affirmatives. "Yes, of course. Well, it's too bad. One wouldhave liked to meet her, take her about a bit. And it would help you morethan any one thing, my dear boy. Oh, don't shake your head! Indeed itwould. However, you must be definite, one way or the other. You musteither admit outright that you're divorced, or you must tell anacceptable story. As it is--one doesn't know what to say--whether she'simpossible in some way--just what the matter is, if you know what Imean?"

"I see, " Jim said heavily. 

"Go have a talk with her, " commanded Mrs. Chancellor brightly. "Finishit up, one way or another. You're doing her an injustice, as it is, andyou're not just to yourself. One can't shut a marriage up in a box, youknow, and forget it. There's always leakage somewhere--much better makea clean breast of the whole thing! You're not the first person who'smade an unfortunate early marriage, you know!"

"I loved my wife, " said Jim, in vague, resentful self-defence. "I'mnaturally a domestic man. I loved my little girl--"

"Certainly you did, " Mrs. Chancellor interrupted crisply. "And perhapsshe did, too! The details are all the same, you know. Some people make asuccess of the thing, some people fail. I've been married. I'm a littleolder than you are in years, and ages older in experience--I know allabout it. In every marriage there are the elements of success, and inevery one the makings of a perfectly justifiable divorce. Some womencouldn't live with a saint who was a king and a Rothschild into thebargain; others marry scamps and are perfectly happy whether they'rebeing totally ignored or being pulled around by the hair! But if you'vemade a failure, admit it. Don't sulk. You'll find that doing somethingdefinite about it is like cleaning the poison out of a wound; you'llfeel better! There, now, you've had your scolding, and you've taken itvery nicely. Ring for some hot water, and we'll talk of something else!"

On just this casual, kindly advice Jim really did go home, prepared tobe very dignified with Julia; and to make the separation definite andfinal, if not legal, or to bring her back, however formally, as hiswife, exactly as he saw fit. 

And then came the meeting in the Toland library, when in one stunningflash he saw her as she was: beautiful, dignified, and charming, a womanto whom all eyes turned naturally and admiringly, grave, sweet, and wisein a world full of pretence and ignorance, selfishness and shallowness. 

She spoke, and her voice went through him like a sword, a mist rosebefore his eyes. He tried to remember that bitter resentment upon whichhis pride had fed for more than four long years; he battled with a maddesire to catch her in his arms, and to cry to her and to all the world, "After all, you are still mine!"

He watched her, her beauty as fresh to him as if he had never seen itbefore. Had those serious eyes, turned to Richie with such sisterlyconcern, and so exquisitely blue in the soft lamplight, ever met hiswith love and laughter brightening them? Had the kindly arms that wentso quickly about his mother, in her trouble, ever answered the pressureof his own? She could look at him dispassionately, entirely forgetful ofherself in the presence of death, but in the very sickroom his eyescould not leave her little kneeling figure; whenever she spoke, he felthis heart contract with a spasm of pain. It seemed to him that if hecould kneel before her, and feel the light pressure of her linked handsabout his neck, and have her lay that soft, sweet cheek of hers againsthis, in heavenly token of forgiveness, he would be ready to die of joy. 

How far Julia was from this mood he was soon to learn, and no phase oftheir courtship eight years ago had roused in him such agonies ofjealousy and longing as beset him now, when Julia, quiet of pulse andlevel eyed, convinced him that she could very contentedly exist withouthim. 

All these things went confusedly through Jim's mind, as he sat at hisclub window, staring blankly down at the dreary summer twilight in thestreet. The club was a temporary wooden building, roomy and comfortableenough, but facing on all four sides the devastation of the greatearthquake. Here and there a small brick building stood in the ashywaste, and on the top of Nob Hill the outline of the big Fairmont Hotelrose boldly against the gloom. But, for the most part, the rising hillsshowed only one ruined brick foundation after another, broken flights ofstone steps leading down to broken sidewalks, twisted, discolouredrailings smothered in rank, dry grass. Through this wreckage cable carsmoved, brightly lighted, and loaded with passengers, and to-night, inthe dusk, a steady wind was blowing, raising clouds of fine, blindingdust. 

Jim stared at it all heavily, his mind strangely attuned to the drearyprospect. He felt puzzled and confused; he wanted to see Julia again, tohave her forgive and comfort him. When he thought of the old times, ofthe devotion and tenderness he had taken so much for granted, a sort ofsickness seized him; he could have groaned aloud. Only one thought wasintolerable: that she would not forgive him, and let him make up to herfor the lost years, and show her how deeply he loved her still!

He mused upon the exactions she might make, the advantages that wouldappeal to her. Not jewels--she must have more jewels now than she wouldever wear, safely stored away somewhere. He remembered giving her acertain chain of pearls, with a blinding vision of the white youngthroat they encircled, and the kiss he had set there with the gift. No, jewels were for such as Senta, not for grave, stately Julia. 

Nor would position tempt her. She was too wise to long for it; the gloryof a London season meant nothing to her; position was only a word. Shewas happier in the Shotwell Street house, clipping roses on a foggymorning; she was happier far when she scrambled over the rough trails ofthe mountain with Richie than ever London could make her. Position andwealth might have their value for Ivy, but Julia cared as little as abird for either. 

And now it came to him that she was infinitely more fine, morebeautiful, and more clever than Senta, and that her pure and fragrantfreshness, her simple directness, her candid likes and dislikes, wouldmake Ivy seem no more than a jaded sophist, a quoter of mere words, aworshipper of empty form. 

To have Julia in London! To take her about, her bright face dimpling inthe shadow of a flowered hat, or framed in furs, or to see her at thetea table, a shining slipper showing under the flowing lines of hergown, the lovely child beside her, at once enhancing and rivalling themother's beauty--Jim's heart ached with the pain and rapture of thedream. 

He was roused by Richie, who came limping into the club library, andover whose tired face came a bright smile at the sight of Jim. 

"Hello!" said Richie, taking an opposite chair. His expression grewsolicitous at the sight of Jim's haggard face. "Headache, old boy?" heasked sympathetically. 

Jim shook his head. The big room was almost dark now, and they had itquite to themselves. 

"Thinking what a rotten mess I've made of everything, Rich, " Jim saiddesperately. 

Richie took out a handkerchief and wiped the palms of his hands, but didnot answer. 

"She'll never forgive me, I know that, " Jim presently said. And asRichie was again silent, he added: "Do you think she ever will?"

"I don't know, " poor Richie said hesitatingly. "She's awfullykind--Julia. "

"She's an angel!" Jim agreed fervently. He sat with his head in hishands for a few moments. Then he cleared his throat and said huskily:"Look here, you know, Rich, I'm not such an utter damn fool as I seem inthis whole business. I can't explain, and, looking back now, it allseems different; but I had a grievance, or thought I had--God knows itwasn't awfully pleasant for me to go away. But I _had_ a reason. "

"It wasn't anything you didn't know about before you were married, Isuppose?" asked Richie, with what Jim thought unearthly prescience. 

"No, " Jim answered, with a startled look. 

"Nor anything you'd particularly care to have the world know orsuspect?" pursued Richie. "Not anything Julia could change?"

"No, " Jim said again. Richard leaned back in his chair. 

"Some scrap with her people, or some old friends she wanted to hang onto, " he mused. Jim did not speak. "Well, " said Richie, "there would beplenty of people glad to be near Julia on any terms. "

"Oh, I know that, " Jim said. And after a moment he burst out again:"Richie, am I all wrong? Is it _all_ on my side?"

"Lord, don't ask me, " Richie said hastily. "The older I grow the less Ithink I know about anything. "

There was a silence. Richard clamped the arms of his chair with big bonyfingers and frowned thoughtfully at the floor. 

"I wish to God I did know what to advise you, Jim, " he said presently. "I'd die for her--she knows that. But she's rare, Julia; it's liketrying to deal with some delicate frail little lady out of Cranford, like trying to guess what Emily Bronte might like, or Eugenie de Guerin!Julia's got life sized up, she likes it--I don't know whether thisconveys anything to you or not!--but she likes it as much as if it waspart of a play. You don't matter to her any more; I don't; she seesthings too big. She's quite extraordinary; the most extraordinary personI ever knew, I think. There's a completeness, a _finish_ about her. She'snot waiting for any self-defence from you, Jim. It won't do you any goodto tell her why you did this or that. You thought this was justified, you thought that was--certainly, she isn't disputing it. You did whatyou did; now she's going to abide by it. You never dreamed thus andso--very well, the worse for you! You want to hark back to somethingthat's long dead and gone; all right, only abide by your decision. Andafterward, when you realize that she's a thousand times finer than thewomen you compare her to, and try to make her like, then don't comecrying to _her_!"

A long silence, then Jim stood up. 

"Well, I've made an utter mess of it, as I began by saying!" he said, with a grim laugh. "Going to dine here, Rich? Let's eat together. Here"--one big clever hand gave Richard just the help he needed--"let mehelp you, old boy!"

"I thought I'd go home to Mill Valley, " Richard said. "I can't catchanything before the six-forty, but the horse is in the village, and myboy will scare me up some soup and a salad. I'd rather go. I like towake in my own place. "

"I wish you'd let me go with you, Rich, " Jim said, with a gentleness newto him. "I'm so sick of everything. I can't think of anything I'd likeso well. "

"Sure, come along, " Richard said, touched. "Everything's pretty simple, you know, but I'll telephone Bruce and have him--"

"Cut out the telephoning, " Jim interrupted. "Bread and coffee'll do. Anda fire, huh?"

"Sure, " Richard said again, "there's always a fire. "

"Great!" Jim approved. "We can smoke, and talk about--"

"About Ju, " Richie supplied, with a gruff little laugh, as he paused. 

"About Ju, " Jim repeated, with a long sigh. 

Two days later he went to see her, to beg her to be his wife again. Heasked her to forget and forgive the past, to trust him once more, togive him another chance to make her happy. He spoke of the Harley Streethouse, of the new friends she would find, of Barbara's nearness with theboys that Julia loved so well. He spoke of Anna; for Anna's sake theymust be together; their little girl must not be sacrificed. Anna shouldhave the prettiest nursery in London, and in summer they would go downto Barbara, and the cousins should play together. 

Julia listened attentively, her head a little on one side, her eyesfollowing the movements of Anna herself, who was digging about under therose bushes in the backyard. Julia and Jim sat on the steps that randown from the kitchen porch. It was a soft, hazy afternoon, with filmystreaks of white crossing the pale blue sky, and sunshine, thin andgolden, lying like a spell over Julia's garden. 

"I was a fool, " said Jim. "There--I can't say more than that, Ju. AndI've paid for my folly. And, dearest, I'm so bitterly sorry! I can'texplain it. I don't understand it myself--I only know that I'd give tenyears off the end of my life to have the past five to live over again. Forgive me, Ju. It's all gone out of my heart now, all that old misery, and I never could hurt you again on that score. It _doesn't exist_, anymore, for me. Say that you'll forgive me, and let me be the happiest andproudest man in the world--how happy and proud--taking my wife and babyto England!"

The hint of a frown wrinkled Julia's forehead, her eyes were sombre withher own thoughts. 

"Think what it would mean to Mother, and to Bab, and to all of us, " Jimpursued, as she did not speak. "They've been so worried about it--theycare so much!"

"Yes, I know!" Julia said quickly, and fell silent again. 

"Is it your own mother's need of you?" the man asked after a pause. 

"No. " Julia gave a cautious glance at the kitchen door behind her. "No--Aunt May is wonderful with her. Muriel's at home a good deal, andGeraldine very near, " she said. "And more than that, this separationbetween you and me worries Mother terribly; she doesn't understand it. She's very different in these days, Jim, so gentle and good and brave--Inever saw such a change! No, she'd love to have me go if it was the bestthing to do--it's not that--"

Her voice dropped on a note of fatigue. Her eyes continued to dwell onthe child in the garden. 

"I've done all I can do, " Jim said. "Don't punish me any more!"

Julia laughed in a worried fashion, not meeting his eyes. 

"There you are, " she said, faintly impatient, "assuming that I amaggrieved about it, assuming that I am sitting back, sulking, andwaiting for you to humiliate yourself! My dear Jim, I'm not doinganything of the kind. I don't hold you as wholly responsible for allthis--how could I? I know too well that I myself am--or was--to blame. All these years, when people have been blaming you and pitying me, I'velonged to burst out with the truth, to tell them what you were toochivalrous to tell! For your sake and Anna's I couldn't do it, ofcourse, but you may imagine that it's made me a silent champion ofyours, just the same! But our marriage was a mistake, Jim, " she went onslowly and thoughtfully. "It was all very well for me to try to makemyself over; I couldn't make you! I never should have tried. Theoretically, I had made a clean breast of it, and was forgiven; butactually, the law was too strong. It's hard and strange that it shouldbe so, isn't it? I don't understand it; I never shall. For still itseems as if the punishment followed, not so much the fact, as the fact'sbeing made known. If I had robbed some one fifteen years ago, or takenthe name of the Lord in vain, I wonder if it would have been the same?As for keeping holy the seventh day, and honouring your father andmother, and not coveting your neighbour's goods, how little they seem tocount! Even the most virtuous and rigid people would forgive and forgetfast enough in _those_ cases. It's all a puzzle. " Julia's voice and look, which had grown dreamy, now brightened suddenly. "And so the best thingto do about it, " she went on, "seems to me to make your own conscienceyour moral law, and feel that what you have repented truly, is trulyforgiven. So much for me. " She met his eyes. "But, my dear Jim, I nevercould take it for granted again that _you_ felt so about it!"

"Then you do me an injustice, " said Jim, "for I swear--"

"Oh, don't swear!" she interrupted. "I know you believe that now, as youdid once before. But I know you better than you do yourself, Jim. Yourattitude to me is always generous, but it's always conventional, too. You never would remind me of all this, I know that very well, butalways, in your own heart, the reservation would be there, the regretand the pity! I know that I am a better woman and a stronger woman forall this thinking and suffering; you never will believe that. Let ussuppose that we began again. Don't you know that the day would come whenmy opinion would clash with that of some other woman in society, andyou, knowing what you know of me, would feel that I was not qualified tojudge in these things as other women are? Let us suppose that I wantedto befriend a maid who had got herself into trouble, or to take somewayward girl into my house for a trial; how patient would you be withme, under the circumstances?"

"Of course, you can always think up perfectly hypotheticalcircumstances!" Jim said impatiently. 

"Marriage is difficult enough, " Julia pursued. "But marriage with ahandicap is impossible! To feel that there is something you can'tchange, that never will change, and that stands eternally between you!No, marriage isn't for us, Jim, and we can only make the best of it, having made the original mistake!"

"Don't ever say that again--it's not true!" Jim said, with a sort ofmasterful anger. "Now, listen a moment. That isn't true, and you don'tbelieve it. I've told you what I think of myself. I was blind, I was afool. But that's past. Give me another chance. I'll make you thehappiest woman in the world, Julia. I love you. I'll be so proud of you!You can have a dozen girls under your wing all the time; you can answerthe Queen back, and I'll never have even a _thought_ but what you're thefinest and sweetest woman in the world!"

The preposterous picture brought a shaky smile to Julia's lips and ahint of tears to her eyes. She suddenly rose from her seat and went downto the garden. 

"Our talking it over does no good, Jim, " she said, as he followed her, and stood looking at her and at Anna. "It's all too fresh--it's beentoo terrible for me--getting adjusted! I stand firm here, I feel theground under my feet. I don't want to go back to feeling all wrong, allout of key, helpless to straighten matters!"

"But we were happy!" he said, a passionate regret in his voice. "Thinkof our day in Chicago, Ju, and the day we took a hansom cab throughCentral Park--and were afraid the driver wasn't sober! And do youremember the blue hat that _would_ catch on the electric light, and theday the elevator stuck?"

"I think of it all so often, Jim, " Julia answered, with a smile as sadas tears could have been, and in the tender voice she might have used inspeaking of the dead. "Sometimes I fit whole days together, justthinking of those old times. 'Then what did we do after that lunch?' Ithink, or 'Where were we going that night that we were in such a hurry?'and then by degrees it all comes back. " Julia drew a rose toward her ona tall bush, studied its leaves critically. "That was the happiest time, wasn't it, Jim?" she asked, with her April smile. 

Jim felt as if a weight of inevitable sorrow were weighing him to theground. Julia's quiet assurance, her regretful firmness, seemed to bebreaking his heart. She was in white to-day, and in the thin Septembersunlight, among the blossoming roses, she somehow suggested the calmplacidity of a nun who looks back at her days in the world with atender, smiling pity. The child had left her play, and stood close toher mother's side, one of Julia's hands caught in both her own. 

"Anna, " Jim said desperately, "won't you ask Mother to come to Londonwith Dad?"

Anna regarded him gravely. She did not understand the situation, but sheanswered, with a child's curious instinct for the obvious excuse:

"But Grandmother needs her!"

"I never asked you to give her up, Julie, " Jim said, as if trying toremind her that he had not been so merciless as she. Julia's eyeswidened with a quick alarm, her breast rose, but she answeredcomposedly:

"That I would have fought. "

"And you have always had as much money--" Jim began again, trying torally the arguments with which he had felt sure to overwhelm her. 

"I spent that as much for your sake as for mine, " Julia said soberly. "She is a Studdiford. I wanted to be fair to Anna. But I could dowithout it now, Jim; there are a thousand things--"

"Yes, I know!" he said in quick shame. 

A silence fell, there seemed nothing else to be said. A great spacewidened between them. Jim felt at the mercy of lonely and desolatewinds; he felt as if all colour had faded out of the world, leaving itgray and cold. With the sickness of utter defeat he dropped on one kneeand kissed the wondering child, and then turned to go. 

"You won't--change your mind, Ju?" he asked huskily. 

Julia was conscious of a strange weakening and loosening of bondsthroughout her entire system. Vague chills shook her, she felt thattears were near, she had a hideous misgiving as to her power to keepfrom fainting. 

"I will let you know, Jim, " she heard her own voice answer, very low. 

A moment later she and Anna were alone in the garden. 

"What _is_ it, Mother?" Anna asked curiously, a dozen times. Julia stoodstaring at the child blindly. One hand was about Anna's neck, the loosecurls falling soft and warm upon it, the other Julia had pressed tightabove her heart. She stood still as if listening. 

"What _is_ it, Mother?" asked the little girl again. 

"Nothing!" Julia said then, in a sort of shallow whisper, with a caughtbreath. 

A second later she kissed the child hastily, and went quietly out of thegreen gate which had so lately closed upon Jim. She went asunquestioningly as an automaton moved by some irresistible power; notonly was all doubt gone from her mind, but all responsibility seemedalso shed. 

The street was almost deserted, but Julia saw Jim instantly, a fullblock away, and walking resolutely, if slowly. She drifted silentlyafter him, not knowing why she followed, nor what she would say whenthey met, but conscious that she must follow and that they would meet. 

Jim walked to Eighteenth Street, turned north, and Julia, reaching thecorner, was in time to see him entering the shabby old church where theyhad been married eight years ago. And instantly a blinding vertigo, asuffocating rush of blood to her heart, made her feel weak and cold withthe sudden revelation that the hour of change had come. 

She climbed the dreary, well-remembered stairs slowly, and slipped intoone of the last pews, in the shadow of a gallery pillar. 

Jim was kneeling, far up toward the altar, his head in his hands. In allthe big church, which was bleak and bare in the cold afternoon light, there was no one else. The red altar light flickered in its hangingglass cup; a dozen lighted candles, in a great frame that held socketsfor five times as many, guttered and flared at the rail. 

Minutes slipped by, and still the man knelt there motionless, and stillthe woman sat watching him, her eyes brilliant and tender, her heartflooded with a poignant happiness that carried before it all thebitterness of the years. Julia felt born again. Like a person long deaf, upon whose unsealed ears the roar of life bursts suddenly again, sheshrank away from the rush of emotion that shook her. It wasoverpowering--dizzying--exhausting. 

When Jim presently passed her she shrank into the shadow of her pillar, but his face was sadder and more grave than Julia had ever seen it, andhe did not raise his eyes. She listened until his echoing footsteps diedaway on the stairs; then the smile on her face faded, and she sank onher knees and burst into tears. 

But they were not tears of sorrow; instead, they seemed to Juliainfinitely soothing and refreshing. They seemed to carry her along withthe restful sweep of a river. She cried, hardly knowing that she cried, and with no effort to stop the steady current of tears. 

And when she presently sat back and dried her eyes, a delicious ease andrelaxation permeated her whole body. Like a convalescent, weak andtrembling, she drew great breaths of air, rejoicing that the devastatingfever and the burning illusions were gone, and only the quiet weeks ofgetting well lay before her. 

She sat in the church a long time, staring dreamily before her. Oddthoughts and memories drifted through her mind now: she was again alittle girl of eight, slipping into the delicatessen store in O'FarrellStreet for pickles and pork sausage; now she was a bride, with Jim inNew York, moving through the dappled spring sunlight of Fifth Avenue, onthe top of a rocking omnibus. She thought of the settlement house:winter rain streaming down its windows, and she and Miss Toland diningon chops and apple pie, each deep in a book as she ate; and sheremembered Mark, poor Mark, who had crossed her life only to bringhimself bitter unhappiness, and to leave her the sorrow of anineffaceable stain!

Only thirty, yet what a long, long road already lay behind her, how muchsorrow, how much joy! What mistakes and cross purposes had been tangledinto her life and Jim's, Mark's and Richie's, Barbara's and Sally's andTed's--into all their lives!

"Perhaps that _is_ life, " mused Julia, kneeling down to say one morelittle prayer before she went away. "Perhaps my ideal of a clean-swept, austere little cottage, and a few books, and a few friends, and sunrisesand sunsets--isn't life! It's all a tangle and a struggle, ingratitudeand poverty and dispute all mixed in with love and joy and growth, andevery one of us has to take his share! I have one sort of trouble tobear, and Mother another, and Jim, I suppose, a third; we can't choosethem for ourselves any more than we could choose the colour of our eyes!But loving each other--loving each other, as I love Anna, makeseverything easy; it's the cure for it all--it makes everything easier tobear!" And in a whisper, with a new appreciation of their meaning, sherepeated the familiar words, "Love fulfils the law!"

The next evening, just as the autumn twilight was giving way to dusk, Julia opened the lower green gate of the Tolands' garden in Sausalito, and went quietly up the steep path. Roses made dim spots of colour hereand there; under the trees it was almost dark, though a soft light stilllingered on the surface of the bay just below. From the drawing-roomwindows pale lamplight fell in clear bars across the gravel, but thehall was unlighted, the door wide open. 

Julia stepped softly inside, her heart beating fast. She had got nofarther than this minute, in her hastily made plans; now she did notquite know what to do. She knew that Barbara and the boys had gone backto Richie in Mill Valley. Captain Fox was duck shooting in Novato, andConstance had returned to her own home. But Ted and her little sonshould be here, Janey, Jim, and the widowed mother. 

Presently she found Mrs. Toland in the study, seated alone before adying fire. Julia kissed the shrivelled soft old cheek, catching as shedid so the faint odour of perfumed powder and fresh crepe. 

"Where are the girls, darling, that you're here all alone?" she askedaffectionately. 

"Oh, Julie dear! Isn't it nice to see you, " Mrs. Toland said, "and sofresh and rosy, like a breath of fresh air! Where are the girls? Bab'swith Richie, you know, and she took her boys and Ted's Georgie with her, and Connie had to go home again. I think Ted and Janey went out for alittle walk before dinner. "

"And haven't you been out, dear?"

Ready tears came to poor Mrs. Toland's eyes at the tender tone. Shebegan to beat lightly on Julia's hand with her own. 

"I don't seem to want to, dearie, " she said with difficulty; "the girlskeep telling me to, but--I don't know! I don't seem to want to. Papa andI used to like to walk up and down in the garden--"

Speech became too difficult, and she stopped abruptly. 

"I know, " Julia said sorrowfully. 

"It would have been thirty-five years this November, " Mrs. Tolandpresently said. "We were engaged in August and married in November. Marriage is a wonderful thing, Julia--it's a wonderful thing! Papa wasvery much smarter than I am--I always knew that! But after a whilepeople come to love each other partly for just that--the differencesbetween them! And you look back so differently on the mistakes you havemade. I've always been too easy on the girls, and Ned, too, and Papaknew it, but he never reproached me!" She wiped her eyes quietly. "Youmust have had a sensible mother, Julie, " she added, after a moment;"you're such a wise little thing!"

"I don't believe she was very wise, " Julia said, smiling, "any more thanI am! I may not make the mistakes with Anna that Mama made with me, butI'll make others! It's a sort of miracle to see her now, so brave andgood and contented, after all the storms I remember. "

Mrs. Toland did not speak for a few moments, then she said:

"Julie, Jim's like a son of my own to me. You'll forgive a fussy oldwoman, who loves her children, if she talks frankly to you? Don't throwaway all the future, dear. Not to-day--not to-morrow, perhaps, but sometime, when you can, forgive him! He's changed; he's not what he used tobe--"

Tears were in Julia's eyes now; she slipped to her knees beside Mrs. Toland's chair, and they cried a little together. 

"I came to see him, " whispered Julia. "Where is he?"

"He came in about fifteen minutes ago. He's packing. You know hisroom--"

Julia mounted the stairs slowly, noiselessly. It was quite dark nowthroughout the airy, fragrant big halls, but a crack of light came fromunder Jim's door. 

She stood outside for a few long minutes, thrilling like a bride withthe realization that she had the right to enter here; where Jim was, washer sanctuary against the world and its storms. 

She knocked, and Jim shouted "Come in!" Julia opened the door and facedhim across a room full of the disorder of packing. Jim was in his shirtsleeves, his hair rumpled and wild. She slipped inside the door, andshut it behind her, a most appealing figure in her black gown, with heruncovered bright hair loosened and softly framing her April face. 

"Jim, " she said, her heart choking her, "will you take Anna and me withyou? I love you--"

There was time for no more. They were in each other's arms, laughing, crying, murmuring now and then an incoherent word. Julia clung to herhusband like a storm-driven bird; it seemed to her that her heart wouldburst in its ecstasy of content; if the big arms about her had crushedbreath from her body she would have died uncaring. 

Jim kissed her wet cheeks, her tumbled hair, her red lips that sowillingly met his own. And when at last the tears were dry, and theycould speak and could look at each other, there was no need for words. Jim sat on the couch, and Julia sat on his knee, with one arm laidloosely about his neck in a fashion they had loved years ago, and whatthey said depended chiefly upon their eyes and the tones of their voice. 

"Oh, Jim--Jim!" Julia rested her cheek against his, "I have needed youso!"

Jim tightened an arm about her. 

"I adore you, " he said simply, unashamed of his wet eyes. "Do you loveme?" To this Julia made no answer but a long sigh of utter content. 

"Do you?" repeated Jim, after an interval. 

"Does this _look_ as if I did?" Julia murmured, not moving. 

Silence again, and then Jim said, with a great sigh:

"Oh, Petty, what a long, long time!"

"Thank God it's over!" said Julia softly. 

"What made you do it, dear?" Jim asked presently, in the course of along rambling talk. At that Julia did straighten up, so that her eyesmight meet his. 

"Just seeing you--pray about it, Jim, " she said, her eyes filling again, although her lips were smiling. "I thought that, this time, we wouldboth pray, and that--even if there are troubles, Jim--we'd rememberthat hour in St. Charles's, and think how we longed for each other!"

And resting her cheek against his, Julia began to cry with joy, and Jimclung to her, his own eyes brimming, and they were very happy. 

CHAPTER IX

September daylight, watery and uncertain, and very different from thegolden purity of California's September sunshine, fell in pale oblongsupon the polished floor of a certain London drawing-room, and battledwith the dancing radiance of a coal fire that sent cheering gleams andflashes of gold into the duskiest corners of the room. 

It was a beautiful room, and a part of a beautiful house, for theAmerican doctor and his wife, deciding to make the English capital theirhome, had searched and waited patiently until in Camden Hill Road theyhad discovered a house possessed of just the irresistible combination ofbigness and coziness, beauty and simplicity, for which they had hoped. In the soft tones of the rugs, the plain and comfortable chairs, thewarm glow of a lamp shade, or the gleam of a leather-bound book, therewas at once a suggestion of discrimination and of informal ease. Andinformal yet strangely exhilarating the friends of Doctor and Mrs. Studdiford found it. Very famous folk liked to sit in these deep chairs, and talk on and on beside this friendly fire, while London slept, andthe big clock in the hall turned night into morning. No hosts in Londonwere more popular than the big, genial doctor, and his clever, silent, and most beautiful wife. Mrs. Studdiford was an essentially genuineperson; the flowers in her drawing-room, like the fruit on her table, were sure to be sensibly in season; her clothes and her children'sclothes were extraordinarily simple, and her new English friends, simpleand domestic as they were, whatever their rank, found her to be one ofthemselves in these things, and took her to their hearts. 

Julia herself was sitting before the fire now, one slippered foot to theblaze. Four years in London life had left her as lovely as ever; perhapsthere was even an increase of beauty in the lines of her closed lips, acertain accentuation of the old spiritual sweetness in her look. Herbright hair was still wound about her head in loose braids, and herseverely simple gown of Quaker gray was relieved at the wrists andthroat by transparent frills of white. In her arms lay a baby less thana year old, a splendid boy, whose eyes, through half-closed lids, werelazily studying the fire. His little smocked white frock showed sturdybare knees, and the fine web of his yellow hair blew like a gold mistagainst his mother's breast. 

The room's only other occupant, a tall, handsome woman, in a tan clothsuit, with rich furs, presently turned from the deep curtained arch of awindow. This was Barbara Fox, Lady Curriel now, still thin, and stillwith a hint of sharpness and fatigue in her browned face, yet with rarecontent and satisfaction written there, too. Barbara's life was full, and every hour brought its demand on her time, but she was a very happywoman, devoted to her husband and her three small sons, and idolizingher baby daughter. Her winters were devoted to the social and politicalinterests that played so large a part in her husband's life and her own, but Julia knew that she was far more happy in the summers, when herbrood ran wild over the old manor house at High Darmley, and everycottager stopped to salute the donkey cart and the shouting heirs of"the big family. "

"Not a sign of them!" said Barbara now, coming from the window to thefire, and loosening her furs as she sat down opposite Julia. "Is heasleep?" she added in a cautious undertone. 

"Not he!" answered Julia, with a kiss for her son. "He's just lying hereand finking 'bout fings! I don't know where the others can be, " she wenton, in evident reference to Barbara's vigil at the window. "Jim saidlunch, and it's nearly one o'clock now! Take your things off, Babbie, and lunch with us?"

"Positively I mustn't, dear. I must be at home. I've to see the paperersat two o'clock, and to-morrow morning early, you know, we go back to thekiddies at the seaside. "

"And they're all well?"

"Oh, splendid. Even Mary's out of doors all day, and digging in thesand! We think Jim's right about Geordie's throat, by the way; it oughtto be done, I suppose, but it doesn't seem to trouble him at all, and itcan wait! Julie dear, why _don't_ you and the boy and Anna come down, ifonly for four or five days? Bring nurse, and some old cottons, and aparasol, and we'll have a lovely, comfy time!"

"But we're just home!" Julia protested laughingly. "I've hardly gotstraightened out yet! However, I'll speak to Jim, " she went on. "Thisgentleman thinks he would like it, and Anna is frantic to see the boys. "

"And we must talk!" Barbara added coaxingly. "Is California lovely?"

"Oh--" Julia raised her brows, with her grave smile. "Home is home, Bab. "

"And Mother looks well?"

"Your mother looks _very_ well. But when she and Janey come on in Januaryyou'll see for yourself. Janey's so pretty; I wish she'd marry, but shenever sees any one but Rich! Rich is simply adorable; he had Con and herhusband and little girl with him this summer. Con's getting veryfat--she's great fun! And Ted's very much improved, Bab, very much moregentle and sweet. She told me about Bob Carleton's death, poor fellow!She went to see him and took George, and do you know, I don't think Tedwill marry again, although she's handsomer than ever!"

"And Sally's the perfect celebrity's wife?" Barbara asked, with a smile. 

"Sally? But I wrote you that, " Julia laughed. "Yes, Keith was giving aconcert in Philadelphia when we went through at Easter. So Jim and Imade a special trip down to hear it, and, my dear! The hall was packed, the women went simply crazy over him, and he's really quite poeticallooking, long hair and all that. And Sally---I saw her at the hotel thenext morning, and such a manner! Protecting the privacy of the genius, don't you know, and seeing reporters, and answering requests forautographs, and declining invitations, here, there, and everywhere! Ithink she has more fun than Keith does! He's quite helpless without her;won't see a manager or answer a note, or even order a luncheon! 'Sally, 'he says, handing her a card, 'what do I like? Tell them not to ask me!'He worships her, and, of course, she worships him; she even said to methat it was lucky there were no children--Keith hated children!"

"Funny life!" Barbara mused, half laughing. "And your people are well, Ju?" "Splendidly, " Julia smiled. "Mama looks just the same; she wassimply wild about our Georgie--saw him nearly every day, for if Icouldn't go I sent nurse with him. My cousin Marguerite is dead, youknow, and her husband is really a very clever fellow, a tailor, makinglots of money. He and the three children have come to live with AuntMay; Regina manages the whole crowd; it's really the happiest sort of ahome! Anna had beautiful times there; she remembered it all, and AuntMay and Mama nearly spoiled her!"

"You couldn't spoil her, " Barbara said affectionately. "She is reallythe dearest and most precious! Are you going to let La Franz paint her?"

"No. " Julia's motherly pride showed only in a sudden brightness in herblue eyes. "And I hope no one will tell her that he asked! Even at ten, Bab, they are quite sufficiently aware of admiration. She had on a sortof greeny-yallery velvet gown the day we met him, and really she wasquite toothsome, if you ask an unprejudiced observer. But Jim and I werewondering if it's wise to make her _quite_ so picturesque!"

"You can't help it, " Barbara said. "She's just as lovely in a Hollandpinny, or a nightie, or a bathing suit! I declare she was too lovely onthe sands last year, with her straw-coloured hair, and a straw-colouredhat, and her pink cheeks matching a pink apron! She's going to beprettier than you are, Ju!"

"Well, at that she won't set the Thames afire!" Julia smiled. 

"I don't know! You ought to be an absolutely happy woman, Julie. "

Julia settled the baby's head more comfortably against her arm, andraised earnest eyes. 

"Is any one, Bab? Are you?"

"Well, yes, I think I am!" Lady Curriel said thoughtfully. "Of coursethose months before Francis's uncle died were awfully hard on us all, and then before Mary came I was wretched; but now--there's reallynothing, except that we do _not_ live within our income when we're in thetown house, and that frets Francis a good deal. Of course I try toeconomize in summer, and we catch up, but it's an ever-present worry!And then our Geordie's throat, you know, and being so far from Motherand Rich and the girls, of course! But those things really don't count, Ju. And in the main I'm absolutely happy and satisfied. I'm pleased withthe way my life has gone!"

"Pleased is mild, " Julia agreed. "I'd be an utter ingrate to be anythingbut pleased, looking back. Jim is exceptional, of course, and Anna andthis young person seem to me pretty nice in their little ways! And whenwe went home this year it was really pleasant and touching, I thought;all San Francisco was gracious; we could have had five times as long avisit and not worn our welcome out!"

"So much for having been presented, " laughed Barbara. 

"Well, I suppose so. Mama was wild with interest about it; she has myphotograph, in the gown I wore to the drawing-room, framed on the wall. But Aunt May was dubious, isn't at all sure that she admires the Britishroyal family. She's a most delightful person!" Julia laughed out gayly. "If ever I happen to speak of the Duchess of This or Lady That, Mama'seyes fairly dance, but Aunt May isn't going to be hoodwinked by anytitle. 'Ha!' she says. 'Do you think they're one bit better in the sightof God than I am?' And I like nothing better than to regale her on theirsilliness, tell her how one has forty wigs, and another is so afraid oflosing her diamonds she has a man sit and watch them every night. Longafterward I hear her exclaiming to herself, 'Wigs, indeed!' or'Diamonds! Well, did you ever!'"

"When you come to think of it, Ju, _isn't_ it odd to think of your ownpeople doing their own work, 'way out there on the very edge of thewestern world, and you here, in a fair way to become a Londonf'yvourite!"

"Doing their own work, indeed!" laughed Julia. "My good lady, you forgetCarrie. Carrie comes in every night to do the dishes, and because she'scoloured, my Aunt May has always felt that she stole sugar and tea. However, we all laughed at Aunt May this year, when it came tosuspecting Carrie of stealing Regina's face powder! No, but you're quiteright, Bab, " she went on more seriously. "It's all very strange anddramatic. Saturday, when the Duchess came in to welcome us, and flowerscame from all sides, and the Penniscots came to carry us off to dinner, I really felt, 'Lawk a mussy on me, this can't be I!'"

"Well, then, where _is_ the pill in the jelly?" asked Barbarasolicitously. 

Julia had flung back her head and was listening intently. Footsteps andvoices were unmistakably coming up the hall stairs. 

"No pills--all jelly!" she had time to say smilingly, before the dooropened and three persons came into the room: Doctor Studdiford, handsomer and more boyishly radiant than ever; Miss Toland, quite gray, but erect and vigorous still; and little Anna, a splendid, glowingten-year-old, in the blue serge sailor suit and round straw hat madepopular by the little English princess. 

Babel followed. Every one must kiss Barbara; little George must come infor his full share of attention. Presently the beaming Ellie wassummoned, and the children went away with her; Barbara carried off heraunt for a makeshift luncheon in the dismantled Curriel mansion, and theStuddifords were left alone. 

"We picked Aunt Sanna up at the corner, " said Jim, one arm about hiswife as they stood in the window looking down at the departing visitors, "and of course Anna must drag her along with us to see the baby lion! Istopped at Lord Essels's, by the way, and it's a perfect knit--can'ttell where one bone stops and the other begins!"

"Oh, Jimmy, you old miracle worker! Aren't you pleased?"

"Well, rath-_er_! And young Lady Essels wants to call on you, Ju; says youwere the loveliest thing at the New Year's ball last year! Remember whenwe rushed home to feed Georgie, and rushed back again?"

"Oh, perfectly. I hope she will come; she looked sweet. And every one'scoming to our Tuesday dinner, Jim, except Ivy; notes from them all. Ivysays Lady Violet is so ill that she can't promise, but Phyllis is comingwith the new husband. She wrote such a cunning note! And--I'll see Ivythis afternoon, and I think I'll tell her that I'm going to leave herplace open; if she can't come, why we'll just have to have a man over, that's all! It won't be awfully formal anyway, Jimmy, at this time ofthe year!"

"Whatever you say, old lady!" Jim was thinking of something else. "Howdo you feel about leaving the kids and going off for a little run withthe Parkes to-morrow night?" he asked. "He's found some new place inwhich he wants us to dine and sleep. Home the next morning. "

"Well, I could do that, " Julia said thoughtfully. 

"You're terribly decent about leaving 'em, " said Jim, who knew how Juliahated to be away from Anna and George at night, "but, really, I thinkthis'll be fun--cards, you know, and a good dinner. "

"That's to-morrow?"

"To-morrow. " Jim hesitated. "I know you're not crazy about them, " hesaid. 

"I don't _dislike_ them, " Julia said brightly. "She's really lots of fun, but of course he's the Honourable and he's a little spoiled. But I'mreally glad to go. Was Anna nice this morning?"

"Oh, she was lovely--held her little head up and trotted along, asking_intelligent_ questions, don't you know--not like a chattering kid. Shepitched right into me on the governess question; she's all for MissPercival's school, won't hear of a governess for a minute!"

"And the stern parent compromised on Miss Percival?" smiled Julia. 

"Well, I only promised for a year, " Jim said, shamefaced. "And you wereagainst the governess proposition, too, " he added accusingly. 

"Absolutely, " she assured him soothingly. "I love to have Anna with mein the afternoons, and when Bab's in town we can send her overthere--she's no trouble!" Julia turned her face up for a kiss. "Run andwash your hands, Doctor dear!" said she. 

"Yes--and what are you going to do?" Jim asked jealously. 

"I'm going to wait for you right here, and we'll go down together, " shesaid pacifically. Jim took another kiss. 

"Happy?" he asked. 

Just as he had asked her a thousand times in the past four years. Andalways she had answered him, as she did now:

"Happiest woman in the world, Jim!"

The happiest woman in the world! Julia, left alone, still stood dreamingin the curtained window, her eyes idly following the quiet life of thesunny street below. A hansom clattered by, an open carriage in which anold, old couple were taking an airing. Half a square away she could seethe Park, with gray-clad nurses chatting over their racing charges orthe tops of perambulators. 

But Julia's thoughts were not with these. A little frown shaded hereyes, and her mouth was curved by a smile more sad than sweet. Thehappiest woman in the world! Yet, as she stood there, she felt an utterdisenchantment with life seize upon her; she felt an overwhelmingweariness in the battle that was not yet over. For Julia knew now thatlife to her must be a battle; whatever the years to come might hold forher, they could not hold more than an occasional heavenly interval ofpeace. Peace for Jim, peace for her mother, peace for her children andfor all those whom she loved; but for herself there must be times of anincreasing burden, an increasing weariness, and the gnawing of anundying fight with utter discouragement. Her secret must never beanything but a secret; and yet, to Julia, it sometimes seemed that heronly happiness in life would be to shout it to the whole world. 

Not always, for there were, of course, serene long stretches ofhappiness, confident times in which she was really what she seemed tobe, only beautiful, young, exceptionally fortunate and beloved. But itwas into these very placid intervals that the word or look would enter, to bring her house of cards crashing about her head once more. 

Sometimes, not often, it was a mere casual acquaintance whose chanceremark set the old, old wound to throbbing; or sometimes it wasBarbara's or Miss Toland's praise: "You're so sweet and fine, Ju--ifonly we'd all done with our opportunities as you have!" Oftener it wasJim's voice that consciously or unconsciously on his part stabbed Juliato the very soul. For him, the sting was gone, because, at the firstprick, Julia was there to take it and bear it. No need to conceal fromher now the bitterness of his moods; she would meet him halfway. He wasworrying about that old affair? Ah, he mustn't do that--here wereJulia's arms about him, her lovely face close to his, her sweet andearnest sympathy ready to probe bravely into his darkest thought, andfind him some balm. Still gowned from a ball, perhaps, jewelled, perfumed, dragging her satin train after her, she would come straightinto his arms, with: "Something's worrying you, dearest, tell me what itis? I _love_ you so--"

No resentment on Jim's part could live for a moment in this atmosphere. He only wanted to tell her about it, to be soothed like a small boy, tocatch his beautiful wife in his arms, and win from her lips again andagain the assurance that she loved him and him alone. What these scenescost Julia's own fine sense of delicacy and dignity, only Julia knew. They left her with a vague feeling of shame, a consciousness ofcompromise. For a day or two after such an episode a new hesitancy wouldmark her manner, a certain lack of confidence lend pathos to thesweetness of her voice. 

But no outside influence ever could bring home to her the realization ofthe shadow on her life as forcibly as did her own inner musings, thetestimony of her own soul. If she had but been innocent, how easy tobear Jim's scorn, or the scorn of the whole world! It was the bitterknowledge that she had taken her life in her own hands nearly twentyyears ago, and wrecked it more surely than if she had torn out her owneyes, that made her heart sick within her now. She, who loved dignity, who loved purity, who loved strength, must carry to her grave theknowledge of her own detestable weakness! She must instruct herdaughter, guarding the blue eyes and the active mind from even theknowledge of life's ugly side, she must hold the highest standard ofpurity before her son, knowing, as she knew, that far back at her life'sbeginning, were those few hideous weeks that, in the eyes of the world, could utterly undo the work of twenty strong and steadfast years! Shemust be silent when she longed to cry aloud, she must train herself tocry aloud at the thing that she had been. And she must silently endurethe terrible fact that her husband knew, and that he would never forget. Over and over again her spirit shrank at some new evidence of the factthat, with all his love for her, his admiration, his loyalty, there wasa reservation in her husband's heart, a conviction--of which he wasperhaps not conscious himself--that Julia was not quite as other women. Her criticism of others must be more gentle, her opinion lessconfidently offered. Others might find in her exceptional charms, rarestrength, and rare wisdom--not Jim. For him she was always the exquisitepenitent, who had so royally earned a perpetually renewed forgiveness, the little crippled playfellow whom it was his delight to carry in hisarms. His judgment for what concerned his children was the wiser, andfor her, too, when she longed to throw herself into this work of reformor that--to expose herself, in other words, to the very element fromwhich a kind Providence had seen fit to remove her. Obviously, oncertain subjects there must not be two opinions, in any house, and, whatever the usual custom, obviously he was the person to decide in hisown. 

"Rich says you were not a saint yourself when you were in college, Jim!"she had burst out once, long years ago, before their separation. Butonly once. After all, the laws were not of Jim's making; whatever he haddone, he was a respecter of convention, a keeper of the law of man. Julia had broken God's law, had repented, and had been forgiven. But shehad also broken the law of man, for which no woman ever is forgiven. Andthough this exquisite and finished woman, with her well-stored brain andripened mind, her position and her charm, was not the little Julia Pageof the old O'Farrell Street days, she must pay the price of that otherJulia's childish pride and ignorance still. 

She must go on, listening, with her wise, wistful smile, to the chatterof other women, wincing at a thousand little pricks that even herhusband could not see, winning him from his ugly moods with that mixtureof the child and the woman that his love never could resist. 

His love! After all he did love her and his children, and she loved thethree with every fibre of heart and soul. Julia ended her reverie, asshe always ended her reveries, with a new glow of hope in her heart anda half smile on her lips. Their love would save them all--love fulfilledthe law. 

"Julia!" said Jim, at the door, "where are you?"

She turned in her window recess. 

"Not escaped, O Sultan!"

"Well"--he had his arm about her, his air was that of a humouredchild--"I didn't suppose you had! But I hate you to go down without me!"

"Well, the poor abused boy!" Julia laughed. "Come, we'll go downtogether!"

"What were you thinking of, standing there all that time?" he asked. 

"You principally, Doctor Studdiford!" Julia gave him a quick sidewiseglance. 

"Glad I came out to the Mission to fix the Daley kid's arm?" Jim asked. 

"Glad!" said Julia softly, with a great sigh that belied her smile. Theytook each other's hands, like children, and went down the broad stairwaytogether. 

THE END