By the Light of the Soul

A Novel

ByMary E. Wilkins Freeman

Author of"The Debtor" "The Portion of Labor""Jerome" "A New England Nun"Etc. Etc. 

Illustrations byHarold M. Brett

New York and LondonHarper & Brothers Publishers1907

Copyright, 1906, by Harper & Brothers. All rights reserved. Published January, 1907. 

To Harriet and Carolyn Alden

Chapter I

Maria Edgham, who was a very young girl, sat in the church vestrybeside a window during the weekly prayer-meeting. 

As was the custom, a young man had charge of the meeting, and hestood, with a sort of embarrassed dignity, on the little platformbehind the desk. He was reading a selection from the Bible. Mariaheard him drone out in a scarcely audible voice: "Whom the Lordloveth, He chasteneth, " and then she heard, in a quick response, asoft sob from the seat behind her. She knew who sobbed: Mrs. JasperCone, who had lost her baby the week before. The odor of crape camein Maria's face, making a species of discordance with the fragranceof the summer night, which came in at the open window. Maria feltirritated by it, and she wondered why Mrs. Cone felt so badly aboutthe loss of her baby. It had always seemed to Maria a mostunattractive child, large-headed, flabby, and mottled, with ever anopen mouth of resistance, and a loud wail of opposition to existencein general. Maria felt sure that she could never have loved such ababy. Even the unfrequent smiles of that baby had not been winning;they had seemed reminiscent of the commonest and coarsest things oflife, rather than of heavenly innocence. Maria gazed at the young manon the platform, who presently bent his head devoutly, and aftersaying, "Let us pray, " gave utterance to an unintelligible flood ofsupplication intermingled with information to the Lord of the stateof things on the earth, and the needs of his people. Maria wonderedwhy, when God knew everything, Leon Barber told him about it, and shealso hoped that God heard better than most of the congregation did. But she looked with a timid wonder of admiration at the young manhimself. He was so much older than she, that her romantic fancies, which even at such an early age had seized upon her, never includedhim. She as yet dreamed only of other dreamers like herself, Wollaston Lee, for instance, who went to the same school, and wasonly a year older. Maria had made sure that he was there, by aglance, directly after she had entered, then she never glanced at himagain, but she wove him into her dreams along with the sweetness ofthe midsummer night, and the morally tuneful atmosphere of the place. She was utterly innocent, her farthest dreams were white, but shedreamed. She gazed out of the window through which came the wind onher little golden-cropped head (she wore her hair short) in coolpuffs, and she saw great, plumy masses of shadow, themselves like thesubstance of which dreams were made. The trees grew thickly down theslope, which the church crowned, and at the bottom of the sloperushed the river, which she heard like a refrain through theintermittent soughing of the trees. A whippoorwill was singingsomewhere out there, and the katydids shrieked so high that theyalmost surmounted dreams. She could smell wild grapes and pine andother mingled odors of unknown herbs, and the earth itself. There hadbeen a hard shower that afternoon, and the earth still seemed to cryout with pleasure because of it. Maria had worn her old shoes tochurch, lest she spoil her best ones; but she wore her pretty pinkgingham gown, and her hat with a wreath of rosebuds, and she felt tothe utmost the attractiveness of her appearance. She, however, feltsomewhat conscience-stricken on account of the pink gingham gown. Itwas a new one, and her mother had been obliged to have it made by adress-maker, and had paid three dollars for that, beside thetrimmings, which were lace and ribbon. Maria wore the gown withouther mother's knowledge. She had in fact stolen down the backstairs onthat account, and gone out the south door in order that her mothershould not see her. Maria's mother was ill lately, and had not beenable to go to church, nor even to perform her usual tasks. She hadalways made Maria's gowns herself until this pink gingham. 

Maria's mother was originally from New England, and her consciencewas abnormally active. Her father was of New Jersey, and hisconscience, while no one would venture to say that it was defective, did not in the least interfere with his enjoyment of life. 

"Oh, well, Abby, " her father would reply, easily, when her motherexpressed her distress that she was unable to work as she had done, "we shall manage somehow. Don't worry, Abby. " Worry in anotherirritated him even more than in himself. 

"Well, Maria can't help much while she is in school. She is adelicate little thing, and sometimes I am worried about her. "

"Oh, Maria can't be expected to do much while she is in school, " herfather said, easily. "We'll manage somehow, only for Heaven's sakedon't worry. "

Then Maria's father had taken his hat and gone down street. He alwayswent down street of an evening. Maria, who had been sitting on theporch, had heard every word of the conversation which had beencarried on in the sitting-room that very evening. It did not alarmher at all because her mother considered her delicate. Instead, shehad a vague sense of distinction on account of it. It was as if sherealized being a flower rather than a vegetable. She thought of itthat night as she sat in meeting. She glanced across at a girl whowent to the same school--a large, heavily built child with acoarseness of grain showing in every feature--and a sense ofsuperiority at once exalted and humiliated her. She said to herselfthat she was much finer and prettier than Lottie Sears, but that sheought to be thankful and not proud because she was. She felt vain, but she was sorry because of her vanity. She knew how charming herpink gingham gown was, but she knew that she ought to have asked hermother if she might wear it. She knew that her mother would scoldher--she had a ready tongue--and she realized that she would deserveit. She had put on the pink gingham on account of Wollaston Lee, whowas usually at prayer-meeting. That, of course, she could not tellher mother. There are some things too sacred for little girls to telltheir mothers. She wondered if Wollaston would ask leave to walk homewith her. She had seen a boy step out of a waiting file at the vestrydoor to a blushing girl, and had seen the girl, with a coy readiness, slip her hand into the waiting crook of his arm, and walk off, andshe had wondered when such bliss would come to her. It never had. Shewondered if the pink gingham might bring it to pass to-night. Thepink gingham was as the mating plumage of a bird. All unconsciouslyshe glanced sideways over the fall of lace-trimmed pink ruffles ather slender shoulders at Wollaston Lee. He was gazing straight atMiss Slome, Miss Ida Slome, who was the school-teacher, and his youngface wore an expression of devotion. Maria's eyes followed his; shedid not dream of being jealous; Miss Slome seemed too incalculablyold to her for that. She was not so very old, in her early thirties, but the early thirties to a young girl are venerable. Miss Ida Slomewas called a beauty. She, as well as Maria, wore a pink dress, atwhich Maria privately wondered. The teacher seemed to her too old towear pink. She thought she ought wear black like her mother. MissSlome's pink dress had knots of black velvet about it whichaccentuated it, even as Miss Slome's face was accentuated by theclear darkness of her eyes and the black puff of her hair above herfinely arched brows. Her cheeks were of the sweetest red--not pinkbut red--which seemed a further tone of the pink of her attire, andshe wore a hat encircled with a wreath of red roses. Maria thoughtthat she should have worn a bonnet. Maria felt an odd sort ofinstinctive antagonism for her. She wondered why Wollaston looked atthe teacher so instead of at herself. She gave her head a charmingcant, and glanced again, but the boy still had his eyes fixed uponthe elder woman, with that rapt expression which is seen only in theeyes of a boy upon an older woman, and which is primeval, involvingthe adoration and awe of womanhood itself. The boy had not reachedthe age when he was capable of falling in love, but he had reachedthe age of adoration, and there was nothing in little Maria Edgham inher pink gingham, with her shy, sidelong glances, to excite it. Shewas only a girl, the other was a goddess. His worship of the teacherinterfered with Wollaston's studies. He was wondering as he sat thereif he could not walk home with her that night, if by chance any _man_would be in waiting for her. How he hated that imaginary man. Heglanced around, and as he did so, the door opened softly, and HarryEdgham, Maria's father, entered. He was very late, but he had waitedin the vestibule, in order not to attract attention, until the peoplebegan singing a hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my Soul, " to the tune of "Whenthe Swallows Homeward Fly. " He was a distinctly handsome man. Helooked much younger than Maria's mother, his wife. People said thatHarry Edgham's wife might, from her looks, have been his mother. Shewas a tall, dark, rather harsh-featured woman. In her youth she hadhad a beauty of color; now that had passed, and she was sallow, andshe disdained to try to make the most of herself, to soften her sternface by a judicious arrangement of her still plentiful hair. Shestrained it back from her hollow temples, and fastened it securely onthe top of her head. She had a scorn of fashions in hair or dressexcept for Maria. "Maria is young, " she said, with an ineffableexpression of love and pride, and a tincture of defiance, as if shewere defying her own age, in the ownership of the youth of her child. She was like a rose-bush which possessed a perfect bud of beauty, andher own long dwelling upon the earth could on account of that beignored. But Maria's father was different. He was quite openly a vainman. He was handsome, and he held fast to his youth, and would notlet it pass by. His hair, curling slightly over temples boyish inoutlines, although marked, was not in the least gray. His mustachewas carefully trimmed. After he had seated himself unobtrusively in arear seat, he looked around for his daughter, who saw him withdismay. "Now, " she thought, her chances of Wollaston Lee walking homewith her were lost. Father would go home with her. Her mother hadoften admonished Harry Edgham that when Maria went to meeting alone, he ought to be in waiting to go home with her, and he obeyed hiswife, generally speaking, unless her wishes conflicted toostrenuously with his own. He did not in the least object to-night, for instance, to dropping late into the prayer-meeting. There werenot many people there, and all the windows were open, and there wassomething poetical and sweet about the atmosphere. Besides, thesinging was unusually good for such a place. Above all the othervoices arose Ida Slome's sweet soprano. She sang like a bird; hervoice, although not powerful, was thrillingly sweet. Harry looked ather as she sang, and thought how pretty she was, but there was nodisloyalty to his wife in the look. He was, in fact, not that sort ofman. While he did not love his Abby with utter passion, all the womenof the world could not have swerved him from her. 

Harry Edgham came of perhaps the best old family in that vicinity, Edgham itself had been named for it, and while he partook of thatdegeneracy which comes to the descendants of the large old families, while it is as inevitable that they should run out, so to speak, asflowers which have flourished too many years in a garden, whose soilthey have exhausted, he had not lost the habit of rectitude of hisancestors. Virtue was a hereditary trait of the Edghams. 

Harry Edgham looked at Ida Slome with as innocent admiration asanother woman might have done. Then he looked again at his daughter'slittle flower-like head, and a feeling of love made his heart warm. Maria could sing herself, but she was afraid. Once in a while shedroned out a sweet, husky note, then her delicate cheeks flushedcrimson as if all the people had heard her, when they had not heardat all, and she turned her head, and gazed out of the open window atthe plumed darkness. She thought again with annoyance how she wouldhave to go with her father, and Wollaston Lee would not dare accosther, even if he were so disposed; then she took a genuine pleasure inthe window space of sweet night and the singing. Her passions wereyet so young that they did not disturb her long if interrupted. Shewas also always conscious of the prettiness of her appearance, andshe loved herself for it with that love which brings previsions ofunknown joys of the future. Her charming little face, in herrealization of it, was as the untried sword of the young warriorwhich is to bring him all the glory of earth for which his soul longs. 

After the meeting was closed, and Harry Edgham, with his littledaughter lagging behind him with covert eyes upon Wollaston Lee, wentout of the vestry, a number inquired for his wife. "Oh, she is verycomfortable, " he replied, with his cheerful optimism which solacedhim in all vicissitudes, except the single one of actually witnessingthe sorrow and distress of those who belonged to him. 

"I heard, " said one man, who was noted in the place for hisoutspokenness, which would have been brutal had it not been for hisnaivete--"I heard she wasn't going to get out again. "

"Nonsense, " replied Harry Edgham. 

"Then she is?"

"Of course she is. She would have come to meeting to-night if it hadnot been so damp. "

"Well, I'm glad to hear it, " said the man, with a curiouscongratulation which gave the impression of disappointment. 

Little Maria Edgham and her father went up the village street; HarryEdgham walked quite swiftly. "I guess we had better hurry along, " heobserved, "your mother is all alone. "

Maria tagged behind him. Her father had to stop at a grocery-store onthe corner of the street where they lived, to get a bag of peacheswhich he had left there. "I got some peaches on my way, " heexplained, "and I didn't want to carry them to church. I thought yourmother might like them. The doctor said she might eat fruit. " Withthat he darted into the store with the agility of a boy. 

Maria stood on the dusty sidewalk in the glare of electric light, andwaited. Her pink gingham dress was quite short, but she held it updaintily, like a young lady, pinching a fold between her little thumband forefinger. Mrs. Jasper Cone, with another woman, came up, and toMaria's astonishment, Mrs. Cone stopped, clasped her in her arms andkissed her. As she did so, she sobbed, and Maria felt her tears ofbereavement on her cheek with an odd mixture of pity and awe anddisgust. "If my Minnie had--lived, she might have grown up to be likeher, " she gasped out to her friend. "I always thought she looked likeher. " The friend made a sympathetic murmur of assent. Mrs. Conekissed Maria again, holding her little form to her crape-trimmedbosom almost convulsively, then the two passed on. Maria heard hersay again that she always had thought the baby looked like her, andshe felt humiliated. She looked after the poor mother's streamingblack veil with resentment. Then Miss Ida Slome passed by, andWollaston Lee was clinging to her arm, pressing as closely to herside as he dared. Miss Slome saw Maria, and spoke in her sweet, crisptone. "Good-evening, Maria, " said she. 

Maria stood gazing after them. Her father emerged from the store withthe bag of peaches dangling from his hand. He looked incongruous. Herfather had too much the air of a gentleman to carry a paper bag. "Ido hope your mother will like these peaches, " he said. 

Maria walked along with her father, and she thought with pain andscorn how singular it was for a boy to want to go home with an oldwoman like Miss Slome, when there were little girls like her. 

Chapter II

Maria and her father entered the house, which was not far. It was aquite new Queen Anne cottage of the better class, situated in a smalllot of land, and with other houses very near on either side. Therewas a great clump of hydrangeas on the small smooth lawn in front, and on the piazza stood a small table, covered with a dainty whitecloth trimmed with lace, on which were laid, in ostentatiousneatness, the evening paper and a couple of magazines. There werechairs, and palms in jardinieres stood on either side of the flightof wooden steps. 

Maria's mother was, however, in the house, seated beside thesitting-room table, on which stood a kerosene lamp with a singularlyugly shade. She was darning stockings. She held the stocking in herleft hand, and drew the thread through regularly. Her mouth wastightly closed, which was indicative both of decision of characterand pain. Her countenance looked sallower than ever. She looked up ather husband and little girl entering. "Well, " she said, "so you'vegot home. "

"I've brought you some peaches, Abby, " said Harry Edgham. He laid thebag on the table, and looked anxiously at his wife. "How do you feelnow?" said he. 

"I feel well enough, " said she. Her reply sounded ill-humored, butshe did not intend it to be so. She was far from being ill-humored. She was thinking of her husband's kindness in bringing the peaches. But she looked at the paper bag on the table sharply. "If there is asoft peach in that bag, " said she, "and there's likely to be, it willstain the table-cover, and I can never get it out. "

Harry hastily removed the paper bag from the table, which was coveredwith a white linen spread trimmed with lace and embroidered. 

"Don't you feel as if you could eat one to-night? You didn't eat muchsupper, and I thought maybe--"

"I don't believe I can to-night, but I shall like them to-morrow, "replied Mrs. Edgham, in a voice soft with apology. Then she lookedfairly for the first time at Maria, who had purposely remained behindher father, and her voice immediately hardened. "Maria, come here, "said she. 

Maria obeyed. She left the shelter of her father's broad back, andstood before her mother, in her pink gingham dress, a miserablelittle penitent, whose penitence was not of a high order. Thesweetness of looking pretty was still in her soul, although WollastonLee had not gone home with her. 

Maria's mother regarded her with a curious expression compounded ofpride and almost fierce disapproval. Harry went precipitately out ofthe room with the paper bag of peaches. "You didn't wear that newpink gingham dress that I had to hire made, trimmed with all thatlace and ribbon, to meeting to-night?" said Maria's mother. 

Maria said nothing. It seemed to her that such an obvious factscarcely needed words of assent. 

"Damp as it is, too, " said her mother. 

Mrs. Edgham extended a lean, sallow hand and felt of the daintyfabric. "It is just as limp as a rag, " said she, "about spoiled. "

"I held it up, " said Maria then, with feeble extenuation. 

"Held it up!" repeated her mother, with scorn. 

"I thought maybe you wouldn't care. "

"Wouldn't care! That was the reason why you went out the other doorthen. I wondered why you did. Putting on that new pink gingham dressthat I had to hire made, trimmed with all that lace and ribbon, andwearing it out in the evening, damp as it is to-night! I don't seewhat you were thinking of, Maria Edgham. "

Maria looked down disconsolately at the lace-trimmed ruffles on herskirt, but even then she thought how pretty it was, and how prettyshe must look herself standing so forlornly before her mother. Shewondered how her mother could scold her when she was her owndaughter, and looked so sweet. She still felt the damp coolness ofthe night on her cheeks, and realized a bloom on them like that of awild rose. 

But Mrs. Edgham continued. She had the high temper of the women ofher race who had brought up great families to toil and fight for theCommonwealth, and she now brought it to bear upon petty things inlieu of great ones. Besides, her illness made her irritable. Shefound a certain relief from her constant pain in scolding this childof her heart, whom secretly she admired as she admired no otherliving thing. Even as she scolded, she regarded her in the pink dresswith triumph. "I should think you would be ashamed of yourself, MariaEdgham, " said she, in a high voice. 

Harry Edgham, who had deposited the peaches in the ice-box, and hadbeen about to enter the room, retreated. He went out the other doorhimself, and round upon the piazza, when presently the smoke of hiscigar stole into the room. Then Mrs. Edgham included him in her wrath. 

"You and your father are just alike, " said she, bitterly. "You bothof you will do just what you want to, whether or no. He will smoke, though he knows it makes me worse, besides costing more than he canafford, and you will put on your best dress, without asking leave, and wear it out in a damp night, and spoil it. "

Maria continued to stand still, and her mother to regard her withthat odd mixture of worshipful love and chiding. Suddenly Mrs. Edghamclosed her mouth more tightly. 

"Stand round here, " said she, violently. "Let me unbutton your dress. I don't see how you fastened it up yourself, anyway; you wouldn'thave thought you could, if it hadn't been for deceiving your mother. You would have come down to me to do it, the way you always do. Youhave got it buttoned wrong, anyway. You must have been a sight forthe folks who sat behind you. Well, it serves you right. Stand roundhere. "

"I am sorry, " said Maria then. She wondered whether the wrongfastening had showed much through the slats of the settee. 

Her mother unfastened, with fingers that were at once gentle andnervous, the pearl buttons on the back of the dress. "Take your armsout, " said she to Maria. Maria cast a glance at the window. "There'snobody out there but your father, " said Mrs. Edgham, harshly, "takeyour arms out. "

Maria took her arms out of the fluffy mass and stood revealed in herlittle, scantily trimmed underwaist, a small, childish figure, withthe utmost delicacy of articulation as to shoulder-blades and neck. Maria was thin to the extreme, but her bones were so small that shewas charming even in her thinness. Her little, beautifully modelledarms were as charming as a fairy's. 

"Now slip off your skirt, " ordered her mother, and Maria complied andstood in her little white petticoat, with another glance of theexaggerated modesty of little girlhood at the window. 

"Now, " said her mother, "you go and hang this up in the kitchen whereit is warm, on that nail on the outside door, and maybe some of thecreases will come out. I've heard they would. I hope so, for I've gotabout all I want to do without ironing this dress all over. "

Maria gazed at her mother with sudden compunction and anxious love. After all, she loved her mother down to the depths of her childishheart; it was only that long custom had so inured her to the lovingthat she did not always realize the warmth of her heart because ofit. "Do you feel sick to-night mother?" she whispered. 

"No sicker than usual, " replied her mother. Then she drew thedelicate little figure close to her, and kissed her with a sort ofpassion. "May the Lord look out for you, " she said, "if you shouldhappen to outlive me! I don't know what would become of you, Maria, you are so heedless, wearing your best things every day, andeverything. "

Maria's face paled. "Mother, you aren't any worse?" said she, in aterrified whisper. 

"No, I am not a mite worse. Run along, child, and hang up your dress, then go to bed; it's after nine o'clock. "

It did not take much at that time to reassure Maria. She hadinherited something of the optimism of her father. She carried herpink dress into the kitchen, with wary eyes upon the windows, andhung it up as her mother had directed. On her return she paused amoment at the foot of the stairs in the hall, between the dining-roomand sitting-room. Then, obeying an impulse, she ran into thesitting-room and threw her soft little arms around her mother's neck. "I'm real sorry I wore that dress without asking you, mother, " shesaid. "I won't again, honest. "

"Well, I hope you will remember, " replied her mother. "If you wearthe best you have common you will never have anything. " Her tone waschiding, but the look on her face was infinitely caressing. Shethought privately that never was such a darling as Maria. She lookedat the softly flushed little face, with its topknot of gold, thedelicate fairness of the neck, and slender arms, and she had arapture of something more than possession. The beauty of the childirradiated her very soul, the beauty and the goodness, for Marianever disobeyed but she was sorry afterwards, and somehow glorifiedfaults seem lovelier than cold virtues. "Well, run up-stairs to bed, "said she. "Be careful of your lamp. "

When Maria was in her own room she set the lamp on the dresser andgazed upon her face reflected in the mirror. That was her nightlycustom, and might have been regarded as a sort of fetich worship ofself. Nothing, in fact, could have been lovelier than that face ofchildish innocence and beauty, with the soft rays of the lampilluminating it. Her blue eyes seemed to fairly give forth light, thesoft pink on her cheeks deepened until it was like the heart of arose. She opened her exquisitely curved lips, and smiled at herselfin a sort of ecstasy. She turned her head this way and that in orderto get different effects. She pulled the little golden fleece of hairfarther over her forehead. She pushed it back, revealing the bold yetdelicate outlines of her temples. She thought how glad she should bewhen her hair was grown. She had had an illness two years before, andher mother had judged it best to have her hair cut short. It was nowjust long enough to hang over her ears, curving slightly forward likethe old-fashioned earlocks. She had her hair tied back from her facewith a pink ribbon in a bow on top of her head. She loosened thisribbon, and shook her hair quite loose. She peeped out of the goldenradiance of it at herself, then she shook it back. She was charmingeither way. She was undeveloped, but as yet not a speck of the mildewof earth had touched her. She was flawless, irreproachable, exceptfor the knowledge of her beauty, through heredity, in her heart, which was older than she herself. 

Suddenly Maria, after a long gaze of rapture at her face in theglass, gave a great start. She turned and saw her mother standing inthe door looking at her. 

Maria, with an involuntary impulse of concealment, seized her brush, and began brushing her hair. "I was just brushing my hair, " shemurmured. She felt as guilty as if she had committed a crime. 

Her mother continued to look at her sternly. "There isn't any use inyour trying to deceive me, Maria, " said she. "I am ashamed that achild of mine should be so silly. To stand looking at yourself thatway! You needn't think you are so pretty, because you are not. Youdon't begin to be as good-looking as Amy Long. "

Maria felt a cold chill strike her. She had herself had doubts as toher superior beauty when Amy Long was concerned. 

"You don't begin to be as good-looking as your aunt Maria was at yourage, and you know yourself how she looks now. Nobody would dream fora minute of calling her even ordinary-looking, " her mother continuedin a pitiless voice. 

Maria shuddered. She seemed to see, instead of her own fair littleface in the glass, an elderly one as sallow as her mother's, butwithout the traces of beauty which her mother's undoubtedly had. Shesaw the thin, futile frizzes which her aunt Maria affected; she sawthe receding chin, indicative at once of degeneracy and obstinacy;she saw the blunt nose between the lumpy cheeks. 

"Your aunt Maria looked very much as you do when she was your age, "her mother went on, with the calm cruelty of an inquisitor. 

Maria looked at her, her mouth was quivering. "Did I look like Mrs. Jasper Cone's baby that died last week when I was a baby?" said she. 

"Who said you did?" inquired her mother, unguardedly. 

"She did. She came up behind me with Mrs. Elliot when I was waitingfor father to get the peaches, and she said her baby that died lookedjust like me; she had always thought so. "

"That Cone baby look like you!" repeated Maria's mother. "Well, one'sown always looks different to them, I suppose. "

"Then you don't think it did?" said Maria. Tears actually stood inher beautiful blue eyes. 

"No, I don't, " replied her mother, abruptly. "Nobody in their sobersenses could think so. I am sorry poor Mrs. Cone lost her baby. Iknow how I felt when my first baby died, but as for saying it lookedlike you--"

"Then you don't think it did, mother?"

"It was one of the homliest babies I ever laid my eyes on, poorlittle thing, if it did die, " said Maria's mother, emphatically. Shewas completely disarmed by this time. But when she saw Maria glanceagain at the glass she laid hold of her moral weapons, the wieldingof which she believed to be for the best spiritual good of her child. "Your aunt Maria was very much better looking than you at her age, "she repeated, firmly. Then, at the sight of the renewed quiver aroundthe sensitive little mouth her heart melted. "Get out of your clothesand into your night-gown, and get to bed, child, " said she. "You lookwell enough. If you only behave as well as you look, that is all thatis necessary. "

Chapter III

Maria fell asleep that night with the full assurance that she had notbeen mistaken concerning the beauty of the little face which she hadseen in the looking-glass. All that troubled her was theconsideration that her aunt Maria, whose homely face seemed to glareout of the darkness at her, might have looked just as she did whenshe was her age. She hoped, and then she hoped that the hope was notwicked, that she might die young rather than live to look like heraunt Maria. She pictured with a sort of pleasurable horror, what alovely little waxen-image she would look now, laid away in a nest ofwhite flowers. She had only just begun to doze, when she awoke with agreat start. Her father had opened her door, and stood calling her. 

"Maria, " he said, in an agitated voice. 

Maria sat up in bed. "Oh, father, what is it?" said she, and a vaguehorror chilled her. 

"Get up, and slip on something, and go into your mother's room, " saidher father, in a gasping sort of voice. "I've got to go for thedoctor. "

Maria put one slim little foot out of bed. "Oh, father, " she said, "is mother sick?"

"Yes, she is very sick, " replied her father. His voice sounded almostsavage. It was as if he were furious with his wife for being ill, furious with Maria, with life, and death itself. In reality he wastorn almost to madness with anxiety. "Slip on something so you won'tcatch cold, " said he, in his irritated voice. "I don't want anotherone down. "

Maria ran to her closet and pulled out a little pink wrapper. "Oh, father, is mother very sick?" she whispered again. 

"Yes, she is very sick. I am going to have another doctor to-morrow, "replied her father, still in that furious, excited voice, which thesick woman must have heard. 

"What shall I--" began Maria, but her father, running down thestairs, cut her short. 

"Do nothing, " said he. "Just go in there and stay with her. And don'tyou talk. Don't you speak a word to her. Go right in. " With that thefront door slammed. 

Maria went tiptoeing into her mother's room, still shaking from headto foot, and her blue eyes seeming to protrude from her little whiteface. Even before she entered her mother's room she became consciousof a noise, something between a wail and a groan. It wasindescribably terrifying. It was like nothing which she had everheard before. It did not seem possible that her mother, that anythinghuman, in fact, was making such a noise, and yet no animal could havemade it, for it was articulate. Her mother was in fact both prayingand repeating verses of Scripture, in that awful voice which was nolonger capable of normal speech, but was compounded of wail andgroan. Every sentence seemed to begin with a groan, and ended with along-drawn-out wail. Maria went close to her mother's bed and stoodlooking at her. Her poor little face would have torn her mother'sheart with its piteous terror, had she herself not been in such agony. 

Maria did not speak. She remembered what her father had said. As hermother lay there, stretched out stiff and stark, almost as if shewere dead, Maria glanced around the room as if for help. She caughtsight of a bottle of cologne on the dresser, one which she had givenher mother herself the Christmas before; she had bought it out of herlittle savings of pocket-money. Maria went unsteadily over to thedresser and got the cologne. She also opened a drawer and got out aclean handkerchief. She became conscious that her mother's eyes wereupon her, even although she never ceased for a moment her cries ofagony. 

"What--r you do--g?" asked her mother, in her dreadful voice. 

"Just getting some cologne to put on your head, to make you feelbetter, mother, " replied Maria, piteously. She thought she mustanswer her mother's question in spite of her father's prohibition. 

Her mother seemed to take no further notice; she turned her face tothe wall. "Have--mercy upon me, O Lord, according to Thy lovingkindness, according to the multitude of Thy tender mercies, " sheshrieked out. Then the words ended with a long-drawn-out "Oh--oh--"

Had Maria not been familiar with the words, she could not haveunderstood them. Not a consonant was fairly sounded, the vowels wereelided. She went, feeling as if her legs were sticks, close to hermother's bed, and opened the cologne bottle with hands which shooklike an old man's with the palsy. She poured some cologne on thehandkerchief and a pungent odor filled the room. She laid the wethandkerchief on her mother's sallow forehead, then she recoiled, forher mother, at the shock of the coldness, experienced a new andalmost insufferable spasm of pain. "Let--me alone!" she wailed, andit was like the howl of a dog. 

Maria slunk back to the dresser with the handkerchief and the colognebottle, then she returned to her mother's bedside and seated herselfthere in a rocking-chair. A lamp was burning over on the dresser, butit was turned low; her mother's convulsed face seemed to waver inunaccountable shadows. Maria sat, not speaking a word, but quiveringfrom head to foot, and her mother kept up her prayers and her versesfrom Scripture. Maria herself began to pray in her heart. She said itover and over to herself, in unutterable appeal and terror, "O Lord, please make mother well, please make her well. " She prayed on, although the groaning wail never ceased. 

Suddenly her mother turned and looked at her, and spoke quitenaturally. "Is that you?" she said. 

"Yes, mother. I'm so sorry you are sick. Father has gone for thedoctor. "

"You haven't got on enough, " said her mother, still in her naturalvoice. 

"I've got on my wrapper. "

"That isn't enough, getting up right out of bed so. Go and get mywhite crocheted shawl out of the closet and put it over yourshoulders. "

Maria obeyed. While she was doing so her mother resumed her cries. She said the first half of the twenty-third psalm, then she lookedagain at Maria seating herself beside her, and said, in her ownvoice, wrested as it were by love from the very depths of mortalagony. "Have you got your stockings on?" said she. 

"Yes, ma'am, and my slippers. "

Her mother said no more to her. She resumed her attention to her ownmisery with an odd, small gesture of despair. The cries never ceased. Maria still prayed. It seemed to her that her father would neverreturn with the doctor. It seemed to her, in spite of her prayer, that all hope of relief lay in the doctor, and not in the Lord. Itseemed to her that the doctor must help her mother. At last she heardwheels, and, in her joy, she spoke in spite of her father'sinjunction. "There's the doctor now, " said she. "I guess he'sbringing father home with him. "

Again her mother's eyes opened with a look of intelligence, again shespoke in her natural voice. She looked towards the clothes which shehad worn during the day, on a chair. "Put my clothes in the closet, "said she, but her voice strained terribly on the last word. 

Maria flew, and hung up her mother's clothes in the closet justbefore her father and the doctor entered the room. As she did so, thetears came for the first time. She had a ready imagination. Shethought to herself that her mother might never put on those clothesagain. She kissed the folds of her mother's dress passionately, andemerged from the closet, the tears streaming down her face, all themuscles of which were convulsed. The doctor, who was a young man, with a handsome, rather hard face, glanced at her before even lookingat the moaning woman in the bed. He said something in a low tone toher father, who immediately addressed her. 

"Go right into your own room, and stay there until I tell you to comeout, Maria, " said he, still in that angry voice, which seemed to haveno reason in it. It was the dumb anger of the race against Fate, which included and overran individuals in its way, like Juggernaut. 

At her father's voice, Maria gave a hysterical sob and fled. A senseof injury tore her heart, as well as her anxiety. She flung herselfface downward on her bed and wept. After a while she turned over onher back and looked at the room. Not one little thing in the wholeapartment but served to rack her very soul with the consideration ofher mother's love, which she was perhaps about to lose forever. Thedainty curtains at the windows, the scarf on the dresser, the chintzcover on a chair--every one her mother had planned. She could notremember how much her mother had scolded her, only how much she hadloved her. At the moment of death the memory of love reignstriumphant over all else, but she still felt the dazed sense ofinjury that her father should have spoken so to her. She could hearthe low murmur of voices in her mother's room across the hall. Suddenly the cries and moans ceased. A great joy irradiated thechild. She said to herself that her mother was better, that thedoctor had given her something to help her. 

She got off the bed, wrapped her little pink garment around her, andstole across the hall to her mother's room. The whole hall was filledwith a strange, sweet smell which made her faint, but along with thefaintness came such an increase of joy that it was almost ecstasy. She turned the knob of her mother's door, but, before she could openit, it was opened from the other side, and her father's face, haggardand resentful as she had never seen it, appeared. 

"Go back!" he whispered, fiercely. 

"Oh, father, is mother better?"

"Go back!"

Maria went back, and again the tempest of woe and injury swept overher. Why should her father speak to her so? Why could he not tell herif her mother were better? She sat in her little rocking-chair besidethe window, and looked out at the night. She was conscious of aterrible sensation which seemed to have its starting-point at herheart, but which pervaded her whole body, her whole consciousness. She was conscious of such misery, such grief, that it was like aweight and a pain. She knew now that her mother was no better, thatshe might even die. She heard no more of the cries and moans, andsomehow now, the absence of them seemed harder to bear than theythemselves had been. Suddenly she heard her mother's door open. Sheheard her father's voice, and the doctor's in response, but she stillcould not distinguish a word. Presently she heard the front door openand close softly. Then her father hurried down the steps, and gotinto the doctor's buggy and drove away. It was dark, but she couldnot mistake her father. She knew that he had gone for another doctor, probably Dr. Williams, who lived in the next town, and was consideredvery skilful. The other doctor was remaining with her mother. She didnot dare leave her room again. She sat there watching an hour, and apale radiance began to appear in the east, which her room faced. Itwas like dawn in another world, everything had so changed to her. Thethought came to her that she might go down-stairs and make somecoffee, if she only knew how. Her father might like some when hereturned. But she did not know how, and even if she had she dared notleave her room again. 

The pale light in the east increased, suddenly rosy streamers, almostlike northern lights, were flung out across the sky. She coulddistinguish things quite clearly. She heard the rattle of wheels, andthought it was her father returning with Dr. Williams, but instead itwas the milkman in his yellow cart. He carried a bottle of milkaround to the south door. There was something horribly ghastly inthat every-day occurrence to the watching child. She realized theinterminable moving on of things in spite of all individualsufferings, as she would have realized the revolution of a wheel oftorture. She felt that it was simply hideous that the milk should beleft at the door that morning, just as if everything was as it hadbeen. When the milkman jumped into his wagon, whistling, it seemed toher as if he were doing an awful thing. The milk-wagon stopped at theopposite house, then moved on out of sight down the street. Shewished to herself that the milkman's horse might run away while hewas at some door. The rancor which possessed her father, the kickingagainst the pricks, was possessing her. She felt a futile rage, likethat of some little animal trodden underfoot. A boy whom she knew ranpast whooping, with a tin-pail, after the milkman. Evidently hismother wanted some extra milk. The sun was reflected on the sides ofthe swinging pail, and the flash of light seemed to hurt her, and shefelt the same unreasoning wrath against the boy. Why was not WillyRoyce's mother desperately sick, like her mother, instead of simplysending for extra milk? The health and the daily swing of the worldin its arc of space seemed to her like a direct insult. 

At last it occurred to her that she ought to dress herself. She leftthe window, brushed her hair, braided it, and tied it with a blueribbon, and put on her little blue gingham gown which she commonlywore mornings. Then she sat by the window again. It was not very longafter that that she saw the doctor coming, driving fast. Her fatherwas with him, and between them sat a woman. She recognized the womanat once. She was a trained nurse who lived in Edgham. "They have gotMiss Bell, " she thought; "mother must be awful sick. " She knew thatMiss Bell's wages were twenty-five dollars a week, and that herfather would not have called her in except in an extreme case. Shewatched her father help out the woman, who was stout and middle-aged, and much larger than he. Miss Bell had a dress-suit case, which herfather tugged painfully into the house; Miss Bell followed him. Sheheard his key turn in the lock while the doctor fastened his horse. 

She saw the doctor, who was slightly lame, limp around to the buggyafter his horse was tied, and take out two cases. She hated him whilehe did it. She felt intuitively that something terrible was to cometo her mother because of those cases. She watched the doctor limp upthe steps with positive malevolence. "If he is such a smart doctor, why doesn't he cure himself?" she asked. 

She heard steps on the stairs, then the murmur of voices, and thesound of the door opening into her mother's room. A frightful senseof isolation came over her. She realized that it was infinitely worseto be left by herself outside, suffering, than outside happiness. Shetried again to pray, then she stopped. "It is no good praying, " shereflected, "God did not stop mother's pain. It was only stopped bythat stuff I smelled out in the entry. " She could not reason back ofthat; her terror and misery brought her up against a dead wall. Itseemed to her presently that she heard a faint cry from her mother'sroom, then she was quite sure that she smelled that strange, sweetsmell even through her closed door. Then her father opened her doorabruptly, and a great whiff of it entered with him, like some ghostof pain and death. 

"The doctors have neither of them had any breakfast, and they can'tleave her, " he said, with a jerk of his elbow, and speaking stillwith that angry tone towards the unoffending child. "Can you makecoffee?"

"I don't know how. "

"Good for nothing!" said her father, and shut the door with a subduedbang. 

Maria heard him going down-stairs, and presently she heard a rattlein the kitchen, a part of which was under her room. She went outherself and stole softly down the stairs. Her father, with an air ofangry helplessness, was emptying the coffee-pot into her mother'snice sink. Maria stood trembling at his elbow. "I don't believethat's where mother empties it, " she ventured. 

"It has got to be emptied somewhere, " said her father, and his tonesounded as if he swore. Maria shrank back. "They've got to have somecoffee, anyhow. "

Maria's father carried the coffee-pot over to the stove, in which afreshly kindled fire was burning, and set it on it, in the hottestplace. Maria stealthily moved it back while he was searching for thecoffee in the pantry. She did not know much, but she did know that anempty coffee-pot on such a hot place would come to ruin. 

Her father emerged from the pantry with a tin-canister in his hand. "I've sent a telegram to our aunt Maria for her to come right on, "said he, "but she can't get here before afternoon. I don't supposeyou know how much coffee your mother puts in. I don't suppose youknow about anything. "

Maria realized dimly that she was a scape-goat, but there was suchterrible suffering in her father's face that she had no impulse torebel. She smelled of the canister which her father held out towardsher with a nervously trembling hand. "Why, father, this is tea; itisn't coffee, " said she. 

"Well, if you don't know anything that a big girl like you ought toknow, I should think you might know enough not to try to make coffeewith tea, " said her father. 

Maria looked at her father in a bewildered sort of way. "I guess thecoffee is in the other canister, " said she, meekly. 

"Why didn't you say so then?" demanded her father. 

Maria was silent. It seemed to her that her father had gone mad. Harry Edgham made a ferocious stride across the kitchen to thepantry. Maria followed him. "I guess that is the coffee canister, "said she, pointing. 

"Why didn't you say so, then?" asked her father, viciously, and againMaria made no reply. Her father seized the coffee canister andapproached the stove. "I don't suppose you know how much she puts in. I don't suppose you know anything, " said he. 

"I guess she puts in about a cupful, " said Maria, trembling. 

"A cupful! with coffee at the price it is now? I guess she doesn't, "said her father. He poured the coffee-pot full of boiling water fromthe tea-kettle, then he tipped the coffee canister into his hand, andput one small pinch into the pot. 

"Oh, father, " ventured Maria. "I don't believe--"

"You don't believe what?"

"I don't believe that is enough. "

"Of course it's enough. Don't you suppose your father knows how tomake coffee?"

Her father set the coffee-pot on the stove, where it immediatelybegan to boil. Then he carried back the canister into the pantry, andreturned with a panful of eggs. "You can set the table, I suppose, anyhow?" said he. "You know enough to do as much as that?"

"Yes, I can do that, " replied Maria, with alacrity, and indeed shecould. Her mother had exacted some small household tasks from her, and setting the table was one of them. She hurried into thedining-room and began setting the table with the pretty blue-floweredware that her mother had been so proud of. She seemed to feel tearsin her heart when she laid the plates, but none sprang to her eyes. Somehow, handling these familiar inanimate things was the acutesttorture. Presently she smelled eggs burning. She realized that herfather was burning up the eggs, in his utter ignorance of cookery. She thought privately that she didn't believe but she could cook theeggs, but she dared not go out in the kitchen. Her father, in hisanxiety, had actually reached ferocity. He had always petted her, inhis easy-going fashion, now he terrified her. She dared not go outthere. 

All at once, as she was getting the clean napkins from the sideboard, she heard the front door open, and one of the neighbors, Mrs. JonasWhite, entered without knocking. She was a large woman and carelesslydressed, but her great face was beaming with kindness and pity. 

"I just heard how bad your ma was, " she said, in a loud whisper, "an'I run right over. I thought mebbe--How is she?"

"She is very sick, " replied Maria. She felt at first an impulse toburst into tears before this broadside of sympathy, then she feltstiff. 

"You are as white as a sheet, " said Mrs. White. "Who is burnin' eggsout there?" She pointed to the kitchen. 

"Father. "

"Lord! Who's up-stairs?"

"Miss Bell and the doctors. They've sent for Aunt Maria, but shecan't come before afternoon. "

Mrs. White fastened a button on her waist. "Well, I'll stay tillthen, " said she. "Lillian can get along all right. " Lillian was Mrs. White's eighteen-year-old daughter. 

Mrs. White opened the kitchen door. "How is she?" she said in ahushed voice to Harry Edgham, frantically stirring the burned eggs, which sent up a monstrous smoke and smell. As she spoke, she wentover to him, took the frying-pan out of his hands, and carried itover to the sink. 

"She is a very sick woman, " replied Harry Edgham, looking at Mrs. White with a measure of gratitude. 

"You've got Dr. Williams and Miss Bell, Maria says?"

"Yes. "

"Maria says her aunt is coming?"

"Yes, I sent a telegram. "

"Well, I'll stay till she gets here, " said Mrs. White, and again thatexpression of almost childish gratitude came over the man's face. Mrs. White began scraping the burned eggs off the pan. 

"They haven't had any breakfast, " said Harry, looking upward. 

"And they don't dare leave her?"

"No. "

"Well, you just go and do anything you want to, Maria and I will getthe breakfast. " Mrs. White spoke with a kindly, almost humorousinflection. Maria felt that she could go down on her knees to her. 

"You are very kind, " said Harry Edgham, and he went out of thekitchen as one who beats a retreat before superior forces. 

"Maria, you just bring me the eggs, and a clean cup, " said Mrs. White. "Poor man, trying to cook eggs!" said she of Maria's father, after he had gone. She was one of the women who always treat men witha sort of loving pity, as if they were children. "Here is some nicebacon, " said she, rummaging in the pantry. "The eggs will be realnice with bacon. Now, Maria, you look in the ice-chest and see ifthere are any cold potatoes that can be warmed up. There's plenty ofbread in the jar, and we'll toast that. We'll have breakfast in ajiffy. Doctors do have a hard life, and Miss Bell, she ought to haveher nourishment too, if she's goin' to take care of your mother. "

When Maria returned from the ice-box, which stood out in thewoodshed, with a plate of cold potatoes, Mrs. White was sniffing atthe coffee-pot. 

"For goodness sake, who made this?" said she. 

"Father. "

"How much did he put in?"

"He put in a little pinch. "

"It looks like water bewitched, " said Mrs. White. "Bring me thecoffee canister. You know where that is, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

Maria watched Mrs. White pour out the coffee which her father hadmade, and start afresh in the proper manner. 

"Men are awful helpless, poor things, " said Mrs. White. "This sink isin an awful condition. Did your father empty all this truck in it?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Well, I must clean it out, as soon as I get the other things goin', or the dreen will be stopped up. " Mrs. White's English was notirreproachable, but she was masterful. 

Maria continued to stand numbly in the middle of the kitchen, watching Mrs. White, who looked at her uneasily. 

"You must be a good girl, and trust in the Lord, " said she, and shetried to make her voice sharp. "Now, don't stand there lookin' on;just fly round and do somethin'. I don't believe but the dinin'-roomneeds dustin'. You find somethin' and dust the dinin'-room real nice, while I get the breakfast. "

Maria obeyed, but she did that numbly, without any realization of thetask. 

The morning wore on. The doctors, one at a time came down, and thenurse came down, and they ate a hearty breakfast. Maria watched them, and hated them because they could eat while her mother was so ill. Miss Bell also ate heartily, and she felt that she hated her. She wasglad that her father refused anything except a cup of coffee. As forherself, Mrs. White made her drink an egg beaten up with milk. "Ifyou won't eat your breakfast, you've got to take this, " said she. 

Mrs. White took her own breakfast in stray bites, while she wasclearing away the table. She stayed, and put the house in order, until Maria's aunt Maria arrived. One of the physicians went away. For a short time Maria's mother's groans and wailings recommenced, then the smell of chloroform was strong throughout the house. 

"I wonder why they don't give her morphine instead of chloroform?"said Mrs. White, while Maria was wiping the dishes. "It is dreadfuldangerous to give that, especially if the heart is weak. Well, don'tyou be scart. I've seen folks enough worse than your mother git well. "

In the last few hours Maria's face had gotten a hard look. She nolonger seemed like a little girl. After a while the doctors went away. 

"I don't suppose there is much they can do for a while, perhaps, "remarked Mrs. White; "and Miss Bell, she is as good as any doctor. "

Both physicians returned a little after noon, and previously Mrs. Edgham had made her voice of lamentation heard again. Then it ceasedabruptly, but there was no odor of chloroform. 

"They are giving her morphine now, I bet a cooky, " Mrs. White said. She, with Maria, was clearing away the dinner-table then. "What timedo you think your aunt Maria will get here?" she asked. 

"About half-past two, father said, " replied Maria. 

"Well, I'm real glad you've got some one like her you can call on, "said Mrs. White. "Somebody that 'ain't ever had no family, and 'ain'ttied. Now I'd be willin' to stay right along myself, but I couldn'tleave Lillian any length of time. She 'ain't never had anything hardput on her, and she 'ain't any too tough. But your aunt can stayright along till your mother gits well, can't she?"

"I guess so, " replied Maria. 

There was something about Maria's manner which made Mrs. Whiteuneasy. She forced conversation in order to make her speak, and doaway with that stunned look on her face. All the time now Maria wassaying to herself that her mother was going to die, that God couldmake her well, but He would not. She was conscious of blasphemy, andshe took a certain pleasure in it. 

Her aunt Maria arrived on the train expected, and she entered thehouse, preceded by the cabman bearing her little trunk, which she hadhad ever since she was a little girl. It was the only trunk she hadever owned. Both physicians and the nurse were with Mrs. Edgham whenher sister arrived. Harry Edgham had been walking restlessly up anddown the parlor, which was a long room. He had not thought of goingto the station to meet Aunt Maria, but when the cab stopped beforethe house he hurried out at once. Aunt Maria was dressed wholly inblack--a black mohair, a little black silk cape, and a black bonnet, from which nodded a jetted tuft. "How is she?" Maria heard her say, in a hushed voice, to her father. Maria stood in the door. Mariaheard her father say something in a hushed tone about an operation. Aunt Maria came up the steps with her travelling-bag. Harry forgot totake it. She greeted Mrs. White, whom she had met on former visits, and kissed Maria. Maria had been named for her, and been given asilver cup with her name inscribed thereon, which stood on thesideboard, but she had never been conscious of any distinct affectionfor her. There was a queer, musty odor, almost a fragrance, aboutAunt Maria's black clothes. 

"Take the trunk up the stairs, to the room at the left, " said HarryEdgham, "and go as still as you can. " The man obeyed, shouldering thelittle trunk with an awed look. 

Aunt Maria drew Mrs. White and Maria's father aside, and Maria wasconscious that they did not want her to hear; but she didoverhear--"... One chance in ten, a fighting chance, " and "Keep itfrom Maria, her mother had said so. " Maria knew perfectly well thatthat horrible and mysterious thing, an operation, which means a duelwith death himself, was even at that moment going on in her mother'sroom. She slipped away, and went up-stairs to her own chamber, andsoftly closed the door. Then she forgot her lack of faith and herrebellion, and she realized that her only hope of life was from thatwhich is outside life. She knelt down beside her bed, and began topray over and over, "O God, don't let my mother die, and I willalways be a good girl! O God, don't let my mother die, and I willalways be a good girl!"

Then, without any warning, the door opened and her father stoodthere, and behind him was her aunt Maria, weeping bitterly, and Mrs. White, also weeping. 

"Maria, " gasped out Harry Edgham. Then, as Maria rose and went tohim, he seized upon her as if she were his one straw of salvation, and began to sob himself, and Maria knew that her mother had died. 

Chapter IV

Without any doubt, Maria's self-consciousness, which was at itsheight at this time, helped her to endure the loss of her mother, andall the sad appurtenances of mourning. She had a covert pleasure atthe sight of her fair little face, in her black hat, above her blackfrock. She realized a certain importance because of her grief. 

However, there were times when the grief itself came uppermost; therewere nights when she lay awake crying for her mother, when she wasnothing but a bereft child in a vacuum of love. Her father'stenderness could not make up to her for the loss of her mother's. Very soon after her mother's death, his mercurial temperament jarredupon her. She could not understand how he could laugh and talk as ifnothing had happened. She herself was more like her mother intemperament--that is, like the New-Englander who goes through lifewith the grief of a loss grown to his heart. Nothing could exceedHarry Edgham's tenderness to his motherless little girl. He wasalways contriving something for her pleasure and comfort; but Maria, when her father laughed, regarded him with covert wonder and reproach. 

Her aunt Maria continued to live with them, and kept the house. AuntMaria was very capable. It is doubtful if there are many people onearth who are not crowned, either to their own consciousness or thatof others, with at least some small semblance of glories. Aunt Mariahad the notable distinction of living on one hundred dollars a year. She had her rent free, but upon that she did not enlarge. Her marriedbrother owned a small house, of the story-and-a-half type prevalentin New England villages, and Maria had the north side. She lived, aside from that, upon one hundred dollars a year. She was openlyproud of it; her poverty became, in a sense, her riches. "Well, all Ihave is just one hundred a year, " she was fond of saying, "and Idon't complain. I don't envy anybody. I have all I want. " Her littleplans for thrift were fairly Machiavellian; they showed subtly. Shetold everybody what she had for her meals. She boasted that she livedbetter than her brother, who was earning good wages in ashoe-factory. She dressed very well, really much better than hersister-in-law. "Poor Eunice never had much management, " Maria waswont to say, smoothing down, as she spoke, the folds of her own gown. She never wore out anything; she moved carefully and sat carefully;she did a good deal of fancy-work, but she was always veryparticular, even when engaged in the daintiest toil, to cover hergown with an apron, and she always held her thin-veined hands high. She charged this upon her niece Maria when she had her new blackclothes. "Now, Maria, " said she, "there is one thing I want you toremember, here is nothin'--" (Aunt Maria elided her final "g" likemost New-Englanders, although she was not deficient in education, andeven prided herself upon her reading. ) "Black is the worst thing inthe world to grow shiny. Folks can talk all they want to about blackbein' durable. It isn't. It grows shiny. And if you will alwaysremember one thing when you are at home, to wear an apron when youare doin' anything, and when you are away, to hold your hands high, you will gain by it. There is no need of anybody gettin' the frontbreadths of their dresses all shiny by rubbin' their hands on them. When you are at school you must remember and hold your school-booksso they won't touch your dress. Then there is another thing you mustremember, not to move your arms any more than you can help, thatmakes the waist wear out under the arms. There isn't any need of yourmovin' your arms much if any when you are in school, that I can see, and when you come home you can change your dress. You might just aswell wear out your colored dresses when you are home. Nobody is goin'to see you. If anybody comes in that I think is goin' to mind, youcan just slip up-stairs, and put on your black dress. It isn't as ifyou had a little sister to take your things--they ought to be wornout. "

It therefore happened that Maria was dressed the greater part of thetime, in her own home, where she missed her mother most, inbright-colored array, and in funeral attire outside. She told herfather about it, but he had not a large income, and it had beenseverely taxed by his wife's almost tragic illness and death. Besides, if the truth were known, he disliked to see Maria inmourning, and the humor of the thing also appealed to him. 

"You had better wear what your aunt says, dear. You feel just thesame in your heart, don't you?" asked Harry Edgham, with that lightlaugh of his, which always so shocked his serious little daughter. 

"Yes, sir, " she replied, with a sob. 

"Well, then, do just as your aunt says, and be a good little girl, "said Harry, and he went hastily out on the porch with his cigar. 

Nothing irritated him so much as to see Maria weep for her mother. Hewas one of those who wrestle and fight against grief, and to see itthrust in his face by the impetus of another heart exasperated him, although he could say nothing. It may be that, with his temperament, it was even dangerous for him to cherish grief, and, for that veryreason, he tried to put his dead wife out of his mind, as she hadbeen taken out of his life. 

"Well, men are different from women, " Aunt Maria said to her nieceMaria one night, when Harry had gone out on the piazza, after he hadtalked and laughed a good deal at the supper-table. 

Harry Edgham heard the remark, and his face took on a set expressionwhich it could assume at times. He did not like his sister-in-law, although he disguised the fact. She was very useful. His meals werealways on time, the house was as neatly kept as before, and Maria wasbeing trained as she had never been in household duties. 

Maria was obedient, under silent protest, to her aunt. Often, aftershe had been bidden to perform some household task, and obeyed, shehad gone to her own room and wept, and told herself that her motherwould never have put such things on her. She had no one in whom toconfide. She was not a girl to have unlimited intimates among othergirls at school. She was too self-centred, and, if the truth weretold, too emulative. 

"Maria Edgham thinks she's awful smart, " one girl would say toanother. They all admitted, even the most carping, that Maria waspretty. "Maria Edgham is pretty enough, and she knows it, " said they. She was in the high school, even at her age, and she stood high inher classes. There was always a sort of moral strike going on againstMaria, as there is against all superiority, especially when thesuperiority is known to be recognized by the possessor thereof. 

In spite of her prettiness, she was not a favorite even among theboys. They were, as a rule, innocent as well as young, but they wouldrather have snatched a kiss from such a pretty, dainty littlecreature than have had her go above them in the algebra class. It didnot seem fitting. Without knowing it, they were envious. They wouldnot even acknowledge her cleverness, not even Wollaston Lee, for whomMaria entertained a rudimentary affection. He was even rude to her. 

"Maria Edgham is awful stuck up, " he told his mother. He was of thatage when a boy tells his mother a good deal, and he was an only child. 

"She's a real pretty little girl, and her aunt says she is a goodgirl, " replied his mother, who regarded the whole as the antics ofinfancy. 

The Lees lived near the Edghams, on the same street, and Mrs. Lee andAunt Maria had exchanged several calls. They were, in fact, almostintimate. The Lees were at the supper-table when Wollaston made hisdeprecatory remark concerning Maria, and he had been led to do so bythe law of sequence. Mrs. Lee had made a remark about Aunt Maria toher husband. "I believe she thinks Harry Edgham will marry her, " shesaid. 

"That's just like you women, always trumping up something of thatkind, " replied her husband. His words were rather brusque, but heregarded, while speaking them, his wife with adoration. She was avery pretty woman, and looked much younger than her age. 

"You needn't tell me, " said Mrs. Lee. "She's just left off bonnetsand got a new hat trimmed with black daisies; rather light mourning, I call it, when her sister has not been dead a year. "

"You spiteful little thing!" said her husband, still with his adoringeyes on his wife. 

"Well, it's so, anyway. "

"Well, she would make Harry a good wife, I guess, " said her husband, easily; "and she would think more of the girl. "

It was then that Wollaston got in his remark about poor Maria, whohad herself noticed with wonder that her aunt had bought a new hatthat spring instead of a bonnet. 

"Why, Aunt Maria, I thought you always wore a bonnet!" said she, innocently, when the hat came home from the milliner's. 

"Nobody except old women are wearing bonnets now, " replied her aunt, shortly. "I saw Mrs. Rufus Jones, who is a good deal older than I, atchurch Sunday with a hat trimmed with roses. The milliner told menobody of my age wore a bonnet. "

"Did she know how old you really are, Aunt Maria?" inquired Mariawith the utmost innocence. 

Harry Edgham gave a little chuckle, then came to his sister-in-law'srescue. He had a thankful heart for even small benefits, and AuntMaria had done a good deal for him and his, and it had never occurredto him that the doing might not be entirely disinterested. Besides, Aunt Maria had always seemed to him, as well as to his daughter, veryold indeed. It might have been that the bonnets had had something todo with it. Aunt Maria had never affected fashions beyond a certainepoch, partly from economy, partly from a certain sense of injury. She had said to herself that she was old, she had been passed by; shewould dress as one who had. Now her sentiments underwent a curiouschange. The possibility occurred to her that Harry might ask her totake her departed sister's place. She was older than that sister, much older than he, but she looked in her glass and suddenly herpassed youth seemed to look forth upon her. The revival of hopessometimes serves as a tonic. Aunt Maria actually did look youngerthan she had done, even with her scanty frizzes. She regarded otherwomen, not older than herself, with pompadours, and aspiration seizedher. 

One day she went to New York shopping. She secretly regarded that asan expedition. She was terrified at the crossings. Stout, elderlywoman as she was, when she found herself in the whirl of the greatcity, she became as a small, scared kitten. She gathered up herskirts, and fled incontinently across the streets, with policemenlooking after her with haughty disapprobation. But when she was toldto step lively on the trolley-cars, her true self asserted itsendurance. "I am not going to step in front of a team for you or anyother person, " she told one conductor, and she spoke with suchemphasis that even he was intimidated, and held the car meekly untilthe team had passed. When Aunt Maria came home from New York thatparticular afternoon, she had an expression at once of defiance andembarrassment, which both Maria and her father noticed. 

"Well, what did you see in New York, Maria?" asked Harry, pleasantly. 

"I saw the greatest lot of folks without manners, that I ever saw inmy whole life, " replied Aunt Maria, sharply. 

Harry Edgham laughed. "You'll get used to it, " he said, easily. "Everybody who comes from New England has to take time to like NewYork. It is an acquired taste. "

"When I do acquire it, I'll be equal to any of them, " replied AuntMaria. "When I lose my temper, they had better look out. "

Harry Edgham laughed again. 

It was the next morning when Aunt Maria appeared at the earlybreakfast with a pompadour. Her thin frizzes were carefully puffedover a mystery which she had purchased the afternoon before. 

Maria, when she first saw her aunt, stared open-mouthed; then she ateher breakfast as if she had seen nothing. 

Harry Edgham gave one sharp stare at his sister-in-law, then he said:"Got your hair done up a new way, haven't you, Maria?"

"Yes, my hat didn't set well on my head with my hair the way I waswearing it, " replied Aunt Maria with dignity; still she blushed. Sheknew that her own hair did not entirely conceal the under structure, and she knew, too, why she wore the pompadour. 

Harry Edgham recognized the first fact with simple pity that hissister-in-law's hair was so thin. He remembered hearing a hair-tonicrecommended by another man in the office, and he wondered privatelyif Maria would feel hurt if he brought some for her. Of the otherfact he had not the least suspicion. He said: "Well, it's realbecoming to you, Maria. I guess I like it better than the other way. I notice all the girls seem to wear their hair so nowadays. "

Aunt Maria smiled at him gratefully. When her sister had married him, she had wondered what on earth she saw in Harry Edgham; now he seemedto her a very likeable man. 

When Maria sat in school that morning, her aunt's pompadour divertedher mind from her book; then she caught Gladys Mann's wondering eyesupon her, and she studied again. 

While Maria could scarcely be said to have an intimate friend atschool, a little girl is a monstrosity who has neither a friend nor adisciple; she had her disciple, whose name was Gladys Mann. Gladyswas herself a little outside the pale. Most of her father's earningswent for drink, and Gladys's mother was openly known to take inwashing to make both ends meet, and keep the girl at school at all;moreover, she herself came of one of the poor white families whichflourish in New Jersey as well as at the South, although in lessnumbers. Gladys's mother was rather a marvel, inasmuch as she waswilling to take in washing, and do it well too, but Gladys had nohigher rank for that. She was herself rather a pathetic little soul, dingily pretty, using the patois of her kind, and always at the fagend of her classes. Her education, so far, seemed to meet with nopractical results in the child herself. Her brain merely filteredlearning like a sieve; but she thought Maria Edgham was a wonder, andit was really through her, and her alone, that she obtained anyeducation. 

"What makes you always say 'have went'?" Maria would inquire, with ahalf-kindly, half-supercilious glance at her satellite. 

"What had I ought to say, " Gladys would inquire, meekly--"have came?"

"Have gone, " replied Maria, with supreme scorn. 

"Then when my mother has came home shall I say she has gone?"inquired Gladys, with positive abjectness. 

"Gladys, you are such a ninny, " said Maria. "Why don't you rememberwhat you learn at school, instead of what you hear at home?"

"I guess I hear more at home than I learn at school, " Gladys replied, with an adoring glance at Maria. 

Maria half despised Gladys, and yet she had a sort of protectiveaffection for her, as one might have for a little clinging animal, and she confided more in her than in any one else, sure, at least, ofan outburst of sympathy. Maria had never forgotten how Gladys hadcried the first morning she went to school after her mother died. Every time Gladys glanced at poor little Maria, in her black dress, her head went down on a ring of her little, soiled, cotton-clad armson her desk, and Maria knew that she was sorrier for her than anyother girl in school. 

Gladys had a sort of innocent and ignorant impertinence; she askedanything which occurred to her, with no reflection as to its effectupon the other party. 

"Say, is it true?" she asked that very morning at recess. 

"Is what true?"

"Is your father goin' to marry her?"

"Marry who?" Maria turned quite pale, and forgot her own grammar. 

"Why, your aunt Maria. "

"My aunt Maria? I guess he isn't!" Maria left Gladys with an offendedstrut. However, she reflected on Aunt Maria's pompadour. A greatindignation seized her. After this she treated Aunt Maria stiffly, and she watched both her and her father. 

There was surely nothing in Harry Edgham's behaviour to warrant abelief that he contemplated marrying his deceased wife's sister. Sometimes he even, although in a kindly fashion, poked fun at her, inMaria's presence. But Aunt Maria never knew it; she was, in fact, impervious to that sort of thing. But Maria came to be quite surethat Aunt Maria had designs on her father. She observed that shedressed much better than she had ever done; she observed the fairlyostentatious attention which she bestowed upon her brother-in-law, and also upon herself, when he was present. She even used to caressMaria, in her wooden sort of way, when Harry was by to see. OnceMaria repulsed her roughly. "I don't like to be kissed and fussedover, " said she. 

"You mustn't speak so to your aunt, " said Harry, when Aunt Maria hadgone out of the room. "I don't know what we should have done withouther. "

"You pay her, don't you, father?" asked Maria. 

"Yes, I pay her, " said Harry, "but that does not alter the fact thatshe has done a great deal which money could not buy. "

Maria gazed at her father with suspicion, which he did not recognize. 

It had never occurred to Harry Edgham to marry Aunt Maria. It hadnever occurred to him that she might think of the possibility of sucha thing. It was now nearly a year since his wife's death. He himselfbegan to take more pains with his attire. Maria noticed it. She sawher father go out one evening clad in a new, light-gray suit, whichhe had never worn before. She looked at him wonderingly when hekissed her good-bye. Harry never left the house without kissing hislittle daughter. 

"Why, you've got a new suit, father, " she said. 

Harry blushed. "Do you like it, dear?" he asked. 

"No, father, I don't like it half as well as a dark one, " repliedMaria, in a sweet, curt little voice. Her father colored still more, and laughed, then he went away. 

Aunt Maria, to Maria's mind, was very much dressed-up that evening. She had on a muslin dress with sprigs of purple running through it, and a purple ribbon around her waist. She made up her mind that shewould stay up until her father came home, in that new gray suit, nomatter what Aunt Maria should say. 

However, contrary to her usual custom, Aunt Maria did not mention, athalf-past eight, that it was time for her to go to bed. It washalf-past nine, and her father had not come home, and Aunt Maria hadsaid nothing about it. She appeared to be working very interestedlyon a sofa-cushion which she was embroidering, but her face looked, toMaria's mind, rather woe-begone, although there was a shade of wrathin the woe. When the little clock on the sitting-room shelf struckone for half-past nine, Maria looked at her aunt, wondering. 

"Why, I wonder where father has gone so late?" she said. 

Aunt Maria turned, and her voice, in reply, was both pained andpitiless. "Well, you may as well know first as last, " said she, "andyou'd better hear it from me than outside: your father has gonecourtin'. "

Chapter V

Maria looked at her aunt with an expression of almost idiocy. For theminute, the term Aunt Maria used, especially as applied to herfather, had no more meaning for her than a term in a foreign tongue. She was very pale. "Courtin', " she stammered out vaguely, imitatingher aunt exactly, even to the dropping of the final "g. "

Aunt Maria was, for the moment, too occupied with her own personalgrievances and disappointments to pay much attention to her littleniece. "Yes, courtin', " she said, harshly. "I've been suspectin' forsome time, an' now I know. A man, when he's left a widower, don'tsmarten up the way he's done for nothin'; I know it. " Aunt Marianodded her head aggressively, with a gesture almost of butting. 

Maria continued to gaze at her, with that pale, almost idioticexpression. It was a fact that she had thought of her father as beingas much married as ever, even although her mother was dead. Nothingelse had occurred to her. 

"Your father's thinkin' of gettin' married again, " said Aunt Maria, "and you may as well make up your mind to it, poor child. " The wordswere pitying, the tone not. 

"Who?" gasped Maria. 

"I don't know any more than you do, " replied Aunt Maria, "but I knowit's somebody. " Suddenly Aunt Maria arose. It seemed to her that shemust do something vindictive. Here she had to return to her solitarylife in her New England village, and her hundred dollars a year, which somehow did not seem as great a glory to her as it had formerlydone. She went to the parlor windows and closed them with jerks, thenshe blew out the lamp. "Come, " said she, "it's time to go to bed. I'mtired, for my part. I've worked like a dog all day. Your father hasgot his key, an' he can let himself in when he gets through hiscourtin'. "

Maria crept miserably--she was still in a sort of daze--up-stairsafter Aunt Maria. 

"Well, good-night, " said Aunt Maria. "You might as well make up yourmind to it. I suppose it had to come, and maybe it's all for thebest. " Aunt Maria's voice sounded as if she were trying to reconcilethe love of God with the existence of hell and eternal torment. Sheclosed her door with a slam. There are, in some New England women, impulses of fierce childishness. 

Maria, when she was in her room, had never felt so lonely in herlife. A kind of rage of loneliness possessed her. She slipped out ofher clothes and went to bed, and then she lay awake. She heard herfather when he returned. The clock on a church which was near bystruck twelve soon after. Maria tried to imagine another woman in thehouse in her mother's place; she thought of every eligible woman inEdgham whom her father might select to fill that place, but herlittle-girl ideas of eligibility were at fault. She thought only ofwomen of her mother's age and staidness, who wore bonnets. She couldthink of only two, one a widow, one a spinster. She shuddered at theidea of either. She felt that she would much rather have had herfather marry Aunt Maria than either of those women. She did notaltogether love Aunt Maria, but at least she was used to her. Suddenly it occurred to her that Aunt Maria was disappointed, thatshe felt badly. The absurdity of it struck her strongly, but she felta pity for her; she felt a common cause with her. After her fatherhad gone into his room, and the house had long been silent, she gotup quietly, opened her door softly, and crept across the hall to thespare room, which Aunt Maria had occupied ever since she had beenthere. She listened, and heard a soft sob. Then she turned the knobof the door softly. 

"Who is it?" Aunt Maria called out, sharply. 

Maria was afraid that her father would hear. 

"It's only me, Aunt Maria, " she replied. Then she also gave a littlesob. 

"What's the matter?"

Maria groped her way across the room to her aunt's bed. "Oh, AuntMaria, who is it?" she sobbed, softly. 

Aunt Maria did what she had never done before: she reached out herarms and gathered the bewildered little girl close, in an embrace ofgenuine affection and pity. She, too, felt that here was a commoncause, and not only that, but she pitied the child with unselfishpity. "You poor child, you are as cold as ice. Come in here with me, "she whispered. 

Maria crept into bed beside her aunt, but she would rather haveremained where she was. She was a child of spiritual rather thanphysical affinities, and the contact of Aunt Maria's thin body, eventhough it thrilled with almost maternal affection for her, repelledher. 

Aunt Maria began to weep unrestrainedly, with a curious passion andabandonment for a woman of her years. 

"Has he come home?" she whispered. Aunt Maria's hearing was slightlydefective, especially when she was nervously overwrought. 

"Yes. Aunt Maria, who is it?"

"Hush, I don't know. He hasn't paid any open court to anybody, that Iknow of, but--I've seen him lookin'. "

"At whom?"

"At Ida Slome. "

"But she is younger than my mother was. "

"What difference do you s'pose that makes to a man. He'll like herall the better for that. You can thank your stars he didn't pitch ona school-girl, instead of the teacher. "

Maria lay stretched out stiff and motionless. She was trying to bringher mind to bear upon the situation. She was trying to imagine MissIda Slome, with her pink cheeks and her gay attire, in the houseinstead of her mother. Her head began to reel. She no longer wept. She became dimly conscious, after a while, of her aunt Maria'sshaking her violently and calling her by name, but she did notrespond, although she heard her plainly. Then she felt a great jounceof the bed as her aunt sprang out. She continued to lie still andrigid. She somehow knew, however, that her aunt was lighting thelamp, then she felt, rather than saw, the flash of it across herface. Her aunt Maria pulled on a wrapper over her night-gown, andhurried to the door. "Harry, Harry Edgham!" she heard her call, andstill Maria could not move. Then she also felt, rather than saw, herfather enter the room with his bath-robe slipped over his pajamas, and approach the bed. 

"What on earth is the matter?" he said. He also laid hands on Maria, and, at his touch, she became able to move. 

"What on earth is the matter?" he asked again. 

"She didn't seem able to speak or move, and I was scared, " repliedAunt Maria, with a reproachful accent on the "I"; but Harry Edghamwas too genuinely concerned at his little daughter's white face andpiteous look to heed that at all. 

He leaned over and began stroking her soft little cheeks, and kissingher. "Father's darling, " he whispered. Then he said over his shoulderto Aunt Maria, "I wish you would go into my room and get that flaskof brandy I keep in my closet. "

Aunt Maria obeyed. She returned with the flask and a teaspoon, andMaria's father made her swallow a few drops, which immediately warmedher and made the strange rigidity disappear. 

"I guess she had better stay in here with you the rest of the night, "said Harry to his sister-in-law; but little Maria sat updeterminately. 

"No, I'm going back to my own room, " she said. 

"Hadn't you better stay with your aunt, darling?"

Harry Edgham looked shamefaced and guilty. He saw that hissister-in-law and Maria had been weeping, and he knew why, in thedepths of his soul. He saw no good reason why he should feel soshamed and apologetic, but he did. He fairly cowered before thenervous little girl and her aunt. 

"Well, let father carry you in there, then, " he said; and he liftedup the slight little thing, carried her across the hall to her room, and placed her in bed. 

It was a very warm night, but Maria was shivering as if with cold. Heplaced the coverings over her with clumsy solicitude. Then he bentdown and kissed her. "Try and keep quiet, and go to sleep, darling, "he said. Then he went out. 

Aunt Maria was waiting for him in the hall. Her face, from grief andconsternation, had changed to sad and dignified resignation. 

"Harry, " said she. 

Harry Edgham stopped. 

"Well, sister, " he said, with pleasant interrogation, although hestill looked shamefaced. 

Aunt Maria held a lamp, a small one, which she was tippingdangerously. 

"Look out for your lamp, Maria, " he said. 

She straightened the lamp, and the light shone full upon her swollenface, at once piteous and wrathful. "I only wanted to know when youwanted me to go?" she said. 

"Oh, Lord, Maria, you are going too fast!" replied Harry, and hefairly ran into his own room. 

The next morning when Maria, in her little black frock--it was madeof a thin lawn for the hot days, and the pale slenderness of her armsand neck were revealed by the thinness of the fabric--went to school, she knew, the very moment that Miss Ida Slome greeted her, that AuntMaria had been right in her surmise. For the first time since she hadbeen to school, Miss Slome, who was radiant in a flowered muslin, came up to her and embraced her. Maria submitted coldly to theembrace. 

"You sweet little thing, " said Miss Slome. 

There was a man principal of the school, but Miss Slome was firstassistant, and Maria was in most of her classes. She took her place, with her pretty smile as set as if she had been a picture instead ofa living and breathing woman, on the platform. 

"You are awful sweet all of a sudden, ain't you?" said Gladys Mann inMaria's ear. 

Maria nodded, and went to her own seat. 

All that day she noted, with her sharp little consciousness, thechange in Miss Slome's manner towards her. It was noticeable even inclass. "It is true, " she said to herself. "Father is going to marryher. "

Aunt Maria was a little pacified by Harry's rejoinder the nightbefore. She begun to wonder if she had been, by any chance, mistaken. 

"Maybe I was wrong, " she said, privately, to Maria. But Maria shookher head. 

"She called me a sweet little thing, and kissed me, " said she. 

"Didn't she ever before?"

"No, ma'am. "

"Well, she may have taken a notion to. Maybe I was mistaken. The wayyour father spoke last night sort of made me think so. "

Aunt Maria made up her mind that if Harry was out late the nextSunday, and the next Wednesday, that would be a test of thesituation. The first time had been Wednesday, and Wednesday andSunday, in all provincial localities, are the acknowledged courtingnights. Of course it sometimes happens that an ardent lover goesevery night; but Harry Edgham, being an older man and a widower, would probably not go to that extent. 

He soon did, however. Very soon Maria and her aunt went to bed everynight before Harry came home, and Miss Ida Slome became more lovingtowards Maria. 

Wollaston Lee, boy as he was, child as he was, really suffered. Helost flesh, and his mother told Aunt Maria that she was reallyworried about him. "He doesn't eat enough to keep a bird alive, " saidshe. 

It never entered into her heart to imagine that Wollaston was in lovewith the teacher, a woman almost if not quite old enough to be hismother, and was suffering because of her love for Harry Edgham. 

One afternoon, when Harry's courtship of Ida Slome had been going onfor about six weeks, and all Edgham was well informed concerning it, Maria, instead of going straight home from school, took a cross-roadthrough some woods. She dreaded to reach home that night. It wasWednesday, and her father would be sure to go to see Miss Slome. Maria felt an indefinable depression, as if she, little, helplessgirl, were being carried so far into the wheels of life that it wastoo much for her. Her father, of late, had been kinder than ever toher; Maria had begun to wonder if she ought not to be glad if he werehappy, and if she ought not to try to love Miss Slome. But thisafternoon depression overcame her. She walked slowly between thefields, which were white and gold with queen's-lace and golden-rod. Her slender shoulders were bent a little. She walked almost like anold woman. She heard a quick step behind her, and Wollaston Lee cameup beside her. She looked at him with some sentiment, even in themidst of her depression. The thought flashed across her mind, what isshe should marry Wollaston at the same time her father married MissSlome? That would be a happy and romantic solution of the affair. Shecolored sweetly, and smiled, but the boy scowled at her. 

"Say?" he said. 

Maria trembled a little. She was surprised. 

"What?" she asked. 

"Your father is the meanest man in this town, he is the meanest inNew Jersey, he is the meanest man in the whole United States, he isthe meanest man in the whole world. "

Again the boy scowled at Maria, who did not understand; but she wouldnot have her father reviled. 

"He isn't, so there!" she said. 

"He's going to marry teacher. "

"I don't see as he is mean if he is, " said Maria, forced into justiceby injustice. 

"I was going to marry her myself, if she'd only waited, and he hadn'tbutted in, " said Wollaston. 

The boy gave one last scowl at the little girl, and it was as if hescowled at all womanhood in her. Then he gave a fling away, and ranlike a wild thing across the field of golden-rod and queen's-lace. Maria, watching, saw him throw himself down prone in the midst of thewild-flowers, and she understood that he was crying because theteacher was going to marry her father. She went on, walking like alittle old woman, and she had a feeling as if she had found a road inthe world that led outside all love. 

Chapter VI

Maria felt that she no longer cared about Wollaston Lee, that shefairly scorned him. Then, suddenly, something occurred to her. Sheturned, and ran back as fast as she could, her short fleece of goldenhair flying. She wrapped her short skirts about her, and wormedthrough the barbed-wire fence which skirted the field--the boy hadleaped it, but she was not equal to that--and she hastened, leaving afurrow through the white-and-gold herbage, to the boy lying on hisface weeping. She stood over him. 

"Say?" said she. 

The boy gave a convulsive wriggle of his back and shoulders, anduttered an inarticulate "Let me alone"; but the girl persisted. 

"Say?" said she again. 

Then the boy turned, and disclosed a flushed, scowling face among theflowers. 

"Well, what do you want, anyway?" said he. 

"If you want to marry Miss Slome, why don't you, instead of myfather?" inquired Maria, bluntly, going straight to the point. 

"I haven't got any money, " replied Wollaston, crossly; "all a womanthinks of is money. How'd I buy her dresses?"

"I don't believe but your father would be willing for you to live athome with her, and buy her dresses, till you got so you could earnyourself. "

"She wouldn't have me, " said the boy, and he fairly dug his flushedface into the mass of wild-flowers. 

"You are a good deal younger than father, " said Maria. 

"Your father he can give her a diamond ring, and I haven't got more'nforty cents, and I don't believe that would buy much of anything, "said Wollaston, in muffled tones of grief and rage. 

Maria felt a shock at the idea of a diamond ring. Her mother hadnever owned one. 

"Oh, I don't believe father will ever give her a diamond ring in theworld, " said she. 

"She's wearing one, anyhow--I saw it, " said Wollaston. "Where did sheget it if he didn't give it to her, I'd like to know?"

Maria felt cold. 

"I don't believe it, " she said again. "Teacher is all alone in theschool-house, correcting exercises. Why don't you get right up, andgo back and ask her? I'll go with you, if you want me to. "

Wollaston raised himself indeterminately upon one elbow. 

"Come along, " urged Maria. 

Wollaston got up slowly. His face was a burning red. 

"You are a good deal younger and better looking than father, " urgedMaria, traitorously. 

The boy was only a year older than Maria. He was much larger andtaller, but although she looked a child, at that moment he lookedyounger. Both of his brown hands hung at his sides, clinched like ababy's. He had a sulky expression. 

"Come along, " urged the girl. 

He stood kicking the ground hesitatingly for a moment, then hefollowed the girl across the field. They went down the road untilthey came to the school-house. Miss Slome was still there; hergraceful profile could be seen at a window. 

Both children marched in upon Miss Slome, who was in arecitation-room, bending over a desk. She looked up, and her facelightened at sight of Maria. 

"Oh, it's you, dear?" said she. 

Maria then saw, for the first time, the white sparkle of a diamond onthe third finger of her left hand. She felt that she hated her. 

"He wants to speak to you, " she said, indicating Wollaston with aturn of her hand. 

Miss Slome looked inquiringly at Wollaston, who stood before her likea culprit, blushing and shuffling, and yet with a sort of doggedness. 

"Well, what is it, Wollaston?" she asked, patronizingly. 

"I came back to ask you if--you would have me?" said Wollaston, andhis voice was hardly audible. 

Miss Ida Slome looked at him in amazement; she was utterly dazed. 

"Have you?" she repeated. "I think I do not quite understand you. What do you mean by 'have you, ' Wollaston?"

"Marry me, " burst forth the boy. 

There was a silence. Maria looked at Miss Slome, and, to her utterindignation, the teacher's lips were twitching, and it took a gooddeal to make Miss Slome laugh, too; she had not much sense of humor. 

In a second Wollaston stole a furtive glance at Miss Slome, which wasan absurd parody on a glance of a man under similar circumstances, and Miss Slome, who had had experience in such matters, laughedoutright. 

The boy turned white. The woman did not realize it, but it was reallya cruel thing which she was doing. She laughed heartily. 

"Why, my dear boy, " she said. "You are too young and I am too old. You had better wait and marry Maria, when you are both grown up. "

Wollaston turned his back upon her, and marched out of the room. Maria lingered, in the vain hope that she might bring the teacher toa reconsideration of the matter. 

"He's a good deal younger than father, and he's better looking, " saidshe. 

Miss Slome blushed then. 

"Oh, you sweet little thing, then you know--" she began. 

Maria interrupted her. She became still more traitorous to her father. 

"Father has a real bad temper, when things go wrong, " said she. "Mother always said so. "

Miss Slome only laughed harder. 

"You funny little darling, " she said. 

"And Wollaston has a real good disposition, his mother told my auntMaria so, " she persisted. 

The room fairly rang with Miss Slome's laughter, although she triedto subdue it. Maria persisted. 

"And father isn't a mite handy about the house, " said she. "And Mrs. Lee told Aunt Maria that Wollaston could wipe dishes and sweep aswell as a girl. "

Miss Slome laughed. 

"And I've got a bad temper, too, when I'm crossed; mother always saidso, " said Maria. Her lip quivered. 

Miss Slome left her desk, came over to Maria, and, in spite of hershrinking away, caught her in her arms. 

"You are a little darling, " said she, "and I am not a bit afraid ofyour temper. " She hesitated a moment, looking at the child's avertedface, and coloring. "My dear, has your father told you?" shewhispered; then, "I didn't know he had. "

"No, ma'am, he hasn't, " said Maria. She fairly pulled herself loosefrom Miss Slome and ran out of the room. Her eyes were almost blindedwith tears; she could scarcely see Wollaston Lee on the road, aheadof her, also running. He seemed to waver as he ran. Maria called outfaintly. He evidently heard, for he slackened his pace a little; thenhe ran faster than ever. Maria called again. This time the boystopped until the girl came up. He picked a piece of grass, as hewaited, and began chewing it. 

"How do you know that isn't poison?" said Maria, breathlessly. 

"Don't care if it is; hope it is, " said the boy. 

"It's wicked to talk so. "

"Let it be wicked then. "

"I don't see how I am to blame for any of it, " Maria said, in abewildered sort of way. It was the cry of the woman, the primitivecry of the primitive scape-goat of Creation. Already Maria began tofeel the necessity of fitting her little shoulders to the blame oflife, which she had inherited from her Mother Eve, but she was as yetbewildered by the necessity. 

"Ain't it your father that's going to marry her?" inquired Wollaston, fiercely. 

"I don't want him to marry her any more than you do, " said Maria. "Idon't want her for a mother. "

"I told you how it would come out, if I asked her, " cried the boy, still heaping the blame upon the girl. 

"I would enough sight rather marry you than my father, if I were theteacher, " said Maria, and her blue eyes looked into Wollaston's withthe boldness of absolute guilelessness. 

"Hush!" responded Wollaston, with a gesture of disdain. "Who'd wantyou? You're nothing but a girl, anyway. "

With that scant courtesy Wollaston Lee resumed his race homeward, andMaria went her own way. 

It was that very night, after Harry Edgham had returned from his callupon Ida Slome, that he told Maria. Maria, as usual, had gone to bed, but she was not asleep. Maria heard his hand on her door-knob, andhis voice calling out, softly: "Are you asleep, dear?"

"No, " responded Maria. 

Then her father entered and approached the child staring at him fromher white nest. The room was full of moonlight, and Maria's facelooked like a nucleus of innocence upon which it centred. Harryleaned over his little daughter and kissed her. 

"Father has got something to tell you, precious, " he said. 

Maria hitched away a little from him, and made no reply. 

"Ida, Miss Slome, tells me that she thinks you know, and so I made upmy mind I had better tell you, and not wait any longer, although Ishall not take any decisive step before--before November. What wouldyou say if father should bring home a new mother for his little girl, dear?"

"I should say I would rather have Aunt Maria, " replied Maria, decisively. She choked back a sob. 

"I've got nothing to say against Aunt Maria, " said Harry. "She's beenvery kind to come here, and she's done all she could, but--well, Ithink in some ways, some one else--Father thinks you will be muchhappier with another mother, dear. "

"No, I sha'n't. "

Harry hesitated. The child's voice sounded so like her dead mother'sthat he felt a sudden guilt, and almost terror. 

"But if father were happier--you want father to be happy, don't you, dear?" he asked, after a little. 

Then Maria began to sob in good earnest. She threw her arms aroundher father's neck. "Yes, father, I do want you to be happy, " shewhispered, brokenly. 

"If father's little girl were large enough to keep his house for him, and were through school, father would never think of taking such astep, " said Harry Edgham, and he honestly believed what he said. Forthe moment his old love of life seemed to clutch him fast, and IdaSlome's radiant visage seemed to pale. 

"Oh, father, " pleaded Maria. "Aunt Maria would marry you, and I woulda great deal rather have her. "

"Nonsense, " said Harry Edgham, laughing, with a glance towards thedoor. 

"Yes, she would, father; that was the reason she got her pompadour. "

Harry laughed again, but softly, for he was afraid of Aunt Mariaoverhearing. "Nonsense, dear, " he said again. Then he kissed Maria ina final sort of way. "It will be all for the best, " he said, "and weshall all be happier. Father doesn't think any the less of you, andnever will, and he is never going to forget your own dear mother; butit is all for the best, the way he has decided. Now, good-night, darling, try to go to sleep, and don't worry about anything. "

It was not long before Maria did fall asleep. Her thoughts were insuch a whirl that it was almost like intoxication. She could not seemto fix her mind on anything long enough to hold herself awake. It wasnot merely the fact of her father's going to marry again, it waseverything which that involved. She felt as if she were looking intoa kaleidoscope shaken by fate into endless changes. The changesseemed fairly to tire her eyes into sleep. 

The very next afternoon Aunt Maria went home. Harry announced hismatrimonial intentions to her before he went to New York, and shesaid immediately that she would take the afternoon train. 

"But, " said Harry, "I thought maybe you would stay and be atthe--wedding, Maria. I don't mean to get married until the Novembervacation, and it is only the first of September now. I don't see whyyou are in such a hurry. "

"Yes, " replied Aunt Maria, "I suppose you thought I would stay andget the house cleaned, and slave here like a dog, getting ready foryou to be married. Well, I sha'n't; I'm tired out. I'm going to takethe train this afternoon. "

Harry looked helplessly at her. 

"I don't see what Maria and I are going to do then, " said he. 

"If it wasn't for taking Maria away from school, I would ask her tocome and make me a visit, poor child, " said Aunt Maria, "until youbrought her new ma home. I have only a hundred dollars a year to liveon, but I'd risk it but I could make her comfortable; but she can'tleave her school. "

"No, I don't see how she can, " said Harry, still helplessly. "Ithought you'd stay, Maria. There is the house to be cleaned, and somepainting and papering. I thought--"

"Yes, I'll warrant you thought, " said Aunt Maria, with undisguisedviciousness. "But you were mistaken; I am not going to stay. "

"But I don't see exactly--"

"Oh, Lord, you and Maria can take your meals at Mrs. Jonas White's, she'll be glad enough to have you; and you can hire the cleaningdone, " said Aunt Maria, with a certain pity in the midst of herdisappointment and contempt. 

It seemed to Maria, when her aunt went away that afternoon, as if shecould not bear it. There is a law of gravitation for the soul as wellas for the body, and Maria felt as one who had fallen from a knownquantity into strangeness, with a horrible shock. 

"Now, if she don't treat you well, you send word, and I'll have youcome and stay with me, " whispered Aunt Maria at the last. 

Maria loved Aunt Maria when she went away. She went to school latefor the sake of seeing her off; and she was late in the geographyclass, but Miss Slome only greeted her with a smile of radiantreassurance. 

At recess, Gladys Mann snuggled up to her. 

"Say, is it true?" she whispered. 

"Is what true?"

"Is your father goin' to get married to teacher?"

"Yes, " said Maria. Then she gave Gladys a little push. "I wish you'dlet me alone, " she said. 

Chapter VII

Extreme youth is always susceptible to diversion which affords adegree of alleviation for grief. Many older people have the samefacility of turning before the impetus of circumstances to anotherview of life, which serves to take their minds off too closeconcentration upon sorrow, but it is not so universal. Maria, although she was sadly lonely, in a measure, enjoyed taking her mealsat Mrs. Jonas White's. She had never done anything like it before. The utter novelty of sitting down to Mrs. White's table, and eatingin company with her and Mr. Jonas White, and Lillian White, and a sonby the name of Henry, amused her. Then, too, they were all very kindto her. They even made a sort of heroine of her, especially at noon, when her father was in New York and she, consequently, was alone. They pitied her, in a covert sort of fashion, because her father wasgoing to get married again, especially Mrs. White and Lillian. Lillian was a very pretty girl, with a pert carriage of blond head, and a slangy readiness of speech. 

"Well, she's a dandy, as far as looks and dress go, and maybe she'llmake you a real good mother-in-law, " she said to Maria. Maria knewthat Lillian should have said step-mother, but she did not venture tocorrect her. 

"Looks ain't everything, " said Mrs. White, with a glance at herdaughter. She had thought of the possibility of Harry Edgham taking afancy to her Lillian. 

Mr. Jonas White, who with his son Henry kept a market, therebyinsuring such choice cuts of meat, spoke then. He did not, as a rule, say much at table, especially when Maria and her father, who in hisestimation occupied a superior place in society, were present. 

"Guess Mr. Edgham knows what he's about, " said he. "He's going tomarry a good-looking woman, and one that's capable of supportin'herself, if he's laid up or anything happens to him. Guess she's allright. "

"I guess so, too, " said Henry White. Both nodded reassuringly atMaria, who felt mournfully comforted. 

"Shouldn't wonder if she'd saved something, too, " said Mr. White. 

When he and his son were on their way back to the market, driving inthe white-covered wagon with "J. White & Son" on the sides thereof, they agreed that women were queer. 

"There's your mother and Lillian, they mean all right, " said JonasWhite, "but they were getting that poor young one all stirred up. "

Maria never settled with herself whether the Whites thought she had apleasant prospect before her or the reverse, but they did notcertainly influence her to love Miss Ida Slome any more. 

Miss Slome was so kind to Maria, in those days, that it really seemedto her that she ought to love her. She and her father were invited totake tea at Miss Slome's boarding-house, and after tea they sat inthe little parlor which the teacher had for her own, and Miss Slomesang and played to them. She had a piano. Maria heard her and herfather talking about the place in the Edgham parlor where it was tostand. Harry stood over Miss Slome as she was singing, and Mariaobserved how his arm pressed against her shoulder. 

After the song was done, Harry and Miss Slome sat down on the sofa, and Harry drew Maria down on the other side. Harry put his arm aroundhis little daughter, but not as if he realized it, and she peekedaround and saw how closely he was embracing Miss Slome, whose cheekswere a beautiful color, but whose set smile never relaxed. It seemedto Maria that Miss Slome smiled exactly like a doll, as if the smilewere made on her face by something outside, not by anything within. Maria thought her father was very silly. She felt scorn, shame, andindignation at the same time. Maria was glad when it was time to gohome. When her father kissed Miss Slome, she blushed, and turned awayher head. 

Going home, Harry almost danced along the street. He was aslight-hearted as a boy, and as thoughtlessly in love. 

"Well, dear, what do you think of your new mother?" he asked, gayly, as they passed under the maples, which were turning, and whosefoliage sprayed overhead with a radiance of gold in the electriclight. 

Then Maria made that inevitable rejoinder which is made always, whichis at once trite and pathetic. "I can't call her mother, " she said. 

But Harry only laughed. He was too delighted and triumphant torealize the pain of the child, although he loved her. "Oh, well, dear, you needn't until you feel like it, " he said. 

"What am I going to call her, father?" asked Maria, seriously. 

"Oh, anything. Call her Ida. "

"She is too old for me to call her that, " replied Maria. 

"Old? Why, dear, Ida is only a girl. "

"She is a good deal over thirty, " said Maria. "I call that very old. "

"You won't, when you get there yourself, " replied Harry, with anotherlaugh. "Well, dear, suit yourself. Call her anything you like. "

It ended by Maria never calling her anything except "you, " andreferring to her as "she" and "her. " The woman, in fact, became apronoun for the child, who in her honesty and loyalty could never putanother word in the place which had belonged to the noun, and feelsatisfied. 

Maria was very docile, outwardly, in those days, but inside she wasin a tumult of rebellion. She went home with Miss Slome when she wasasked, but she was never gracious in response to the doll-like smile, and the caressing words, which were to her as automatic as the smile. Sometimes it seemed to Maria that if she could only have her ownmother scold her, instead of Miss Slome's talking so sweetly to her, she would give the whole world. 

For some unexplained cause, the sorrow which Maria had passed throughhad seemed to stop her own emotional development. She looked atWollaston Lee sometimes and wondered how she had ever had dreamsabout him; how she had thought she would like him to go with her, and, perhaps, act as silly as her father did with Miss Slome. Sheremembered how his voice sounded when he said she was nothing but agirl, and a rage of shame seized her. "He needn't worry, " shethought. "I wouldn't have him, not if he was to go down on his kneesin the dust. " She told Gladys Mann that she thought Wollaston Lee wasa very homely boy, and not so very smart, and Gladys told anothergirl whose brother knew Wollaston Lee, and he told him. After alittle, Wollaston and Maria never spoke when they met. The girl didnot seem to see the boy; she was more delicate in her manner ofshowing aversion, but the boy gazed straight at her with an insolentstare, as at one who had dared him. He told the same boy who had toldhim what Maria had said, that he thought Amy Long was the prettiestgirl in school, and Maria was homely enough to crack a looking-glass, and that came back to Maria. Everything said in the school alwayscame back, by some mysterious law of gravitation. 

There was one quite serious difficulty involved in Aunt Maria'sdeserting her post, and that was, Maria was too young to be leftalone in the house every night while her father was visiting hisfiancee. She could not stay at Mrs. White's, because it was obviouslyunfair to ask them to remain up until nearly midnight to act as herguardian every, or nearly every, night in the week. However, Harrysubmitted the problem to Miss Slome, who solved it at once. She had, in some respects, a masterly brain, and her executive abilities weresomewhat thrown away in her comparatively humble sphere. 

"You must have the house cleaned, " said she. "Let the woman you getto clean stay over until you come home. She won't be afraid to gohome alone afterwards. Those kind of people never are. I suppose youwill get Mrs. Addix?"

"They tell me she is about the best woman for house-cleaning, " saidHarry, rather helplessly. He was so unaccustomed to even giving athought to household details, that he had a vague sense of self-pitybecause he was now obliged to do so. His lost Abby occasionally, hebelieved, had employed this Mrs. Addix, but she had never troubledhim about it. 

It thus happened that every evening little Maria Edgham sat guarded, as it were, by Mrs. Addix. Mrs. Addix was of the poor-white race, like the Manns--in fact, she was distantly related to them. They werenearly all distantly related, which may have accounted for theirpartial degeneracy. Mrs. Addix, however, was a sort of anomaly. Coming, as she did, of a shiftless, indolent family, she was yet asplendid worker. She seemed tireless. She looked positively radiantwhile scrubbing, and also more intelligent. The moment she stoppedwork, she looked like an automatic doll which had run down: allconsciousness of self, or that which is outside self, seemed to leaveher face; it was as if her brain were in her toiling arms and hands. Moreover, she always went to sleep immediately after Harry had goneand Maria was left alone with her. She sat in her chair and breathedheavily, with her head tipped idiotically over one shoulder. 

It was not very lively for Maria during those evenings. She feltafraid to go to bed and leave the house alone except for the heavilysleeping woman, whom her father had hard work to rouse when hereturned, and who staggered out of the door, when she started home, as if she were drunk. She herself never felt sleepy; it was even hardfor her to sleep when at last her father had returned and she went tobed. Often after she had fallen asleep her heart seemed to sting herawake. 

Maria grew thinner than ever. Somebody called Harry Edgham'sattention to the fact, and he got some medicine for her to take. Butit was not medicine which she needed--that is, not medicine for thebody, but for the soul. What probably stung her most keenly was thefact that certain improvements, for which her mother had alwayslonged but always thought she could not have, were being made in thehouse. A bay-window was being built in the parlor, and one over it, in the room which had been her father's and mother's, and which Mariadimly realized was, in the future, to be Miss Ida Slome's. Maria'smother had always talked a good deal about some day having thatbay-window. Maria reflected that her father could have afforded itjust as well in her mother's day, if her mother had insisted upon it, like Miss Slome. Maria's mother had been of the thrifty New Englandkind, and had tried to have her husband save a little. Maria knewwell enough that these savings were going into the improvements, theprecious dollars which her poor mother had enabled her father to saveby her own deprivations and toil. Maria heard her father and MissSlome talk about the maid they were to have; Miss Slome would neverdream of doing her own work, as her predecessor had done. All thesethings the child dwelt upon in a morbid, aged fashion, and, consequently, while her evenings with Mrs. Addix were not enjoyable, they were not exactly dull. Nearly every room in the house was beingnewly papered and painted. Maria and Mrs. Addix sat first in oneroom, then in another, as one after another was torn up in theprocess of improvement. Generally the room which they occupied waschaotic with extra furniture, and had a distracted appearance whichgrated terribly upon the child's nerves. Only her own room was nottouched. "You shall have your room all fixed up next year, " herfather told her. "I would have it done now, but father is going toconsiderable expense as it is. " Maria assured him, with a sort ofwild eagerness, that she did not want her room touched. It seemed toher that if the familiar paper which her mother had selected werechanged for something else, and the room altered, that the lastvestige of home would disappear, that she could not bear it. 

"Well, " said Harry, easily, "your paper will do very well, I guess, for a while longer; but father will have your room fixed up anotheryear. You needn't think you are going to be slighted. "

That night, Maria and Mrs. Addix sat in Maria's room. The parlor wasin confusion, and so was the dining-room and the guest-chamber;indeed, the house was at that time in the height of its repairs. Thatvery day Maria's mother's room had been papered with a beautifulpaper with a sheenlike satin, over which were strewn garlands of pinkroses. Pink was Miss Slome's favorite color. They had a new hard-woodfloor laid in that room, and there was to be a pink rug, and whitefurniture painted with pink roses; Maria knew that her father andMiss Slome had picked it out. That evening, after her father hadgone, and she sat there with the sleeping Mrs. Addix, a sort offrenzy seized her, or, rather, she worked herself up to it. Shethought of what her mother would have said to that beautiful newpaper, and furniture, and bay-window. Her mother also had liked pink. She thought of how much her mother would have liked it, and how shehad gone without, and not made any complaint about her shabby oldfurnishings, which had that very day been sold to Mrs. Addix for anoffset to her wages, and which Maria had seen carried away. Shethought about it all, and a red flush deepened on her cheeks, and herblue eyes blazed. For the time she was abnormal. She passed the limitwhich separates perfect sanity from mania. She had some fancy-work inher hands. Mrs. White had suggested that she work in cross-stitch acover for the dresser in her new mother's room, and she was engagedupon that, performing, as she thought, a duty, but her very soulrebelled against it. She made some mistakes, and whenever she did sherealized with a sort of wicked glee that the thing would not beperfect, and she never tried to rectify them. 

Finally, Maria laid her work softly on the table, beside which shewas sitting. She glanced at Mrs. Addix, whose heavy, measuredbreathing filled the room, then she arose. She took the lamp from thetable, and tiptoed out. Maria stole across the hall. The room whichhad been her father's and mother's was entirely empty, and the roseson the satiny wall-paper gleamed out as if they were real. There wasa white-and-silver picture-moulding. Maria set her lamp on the floor. She looked at the great bay-window, she looked at the roses on thewalls. Then she did a mad thing. The paper was freshly put on; it washardly dry. Maria deliberately approached the wall near thebay-window, where the paper looked somewhat damp; she inserted herslender little fingers, with a scratching of her nails under theedge, and she tore off a great, ragged strip. Then she took up herlamp and returned to her room. 

Mrs. Addix was still asleep. She had begun to snore, in an odd sortof fashion, with deep, regular puffs of breath; it was like thebeating of a drum to peace and rest, after a day of weary andunskilled labor unprofitable to the soul. Maria sat down again. Shetook up her work. She felt very wicked, but she felt better. 

Chapter VIII

When Maria's father returned that night, he came, as usual, straightto the room wherein she and Mrs. Addix were sitting. Maria regardedher father with a sort of contemptuous wonder, tinctured withunwilling admiration. Her father, on his return from his eveningsspent with Miss Ida Slome, looked always years younger than Maria hadever seen him. There was the humidity of youth in his eyes, the flushof youth on his cheeks, the triumph of youth in his expression. HarryEdgham, in spite of lines on his face, in spite, even, of a shimmerof gray and thinness of hair on the temples, looked as young as youthitself, in this rejuvenation of his affection, for he was very muchin love with the woman whom he was to marry. He had been faithful tohis wife while she lived, even the imagination of love for anotherwoman had not entered his heart. His wife's faded face had not for asecond disturbed his loyalty; but now the beauty of this other womanaroused within him long dormant characteristics, like some wonderfulstimulant, not only for the body, but for the soul. When he looked inIda Slome's beautiful face he seemed to drink in an elixir of life. And yet, down at the roots of the man's heart slept the memory of hiswife; for Abby Edgham, with her sallow, faded face, had possessedsomething which Ida Slome lacked, and which the man needed, to holdhim. And always in his mind, at this time, was the intention to bemore than kind to his motherless little daughter, not to let herrealize any difference in his feeling for her. 

When he came to-night, he looked at the sleeping Mrs. Addix, and atMaria, taking painful stitches in her dresser cover, at first with aradiant smile, then with the deepest pity. 

"Poor little soul, " he said. "You have had a long evening toyourself, haven't you?"

"I don't mind, " replied Maria. She was thinking of the tornwall-paper, and she did not look her father fully in the eyes. 

"Has she been asleep ever since I went?" inquired Harry, in a whisper. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Poor little girl. Well, it will be livelier by-and-by for you. We'llhave company, and more going on. " Harry then went close to Mrs. Addix, sitting with her head resting on her shoulder, still snoringwith those puffs of heavy breath. "Mrs. Addix, " he said. 

Mrs. Addix did not stir; she continued to snore. 

"Mrs. Addix!" repeated Harry, in a louder tone, but still thesleeping woman did not stir. 

"Good Lord, what a sleeper!" said Harry, still aloud. Then he shookher violently by the shoulder. "Come, Mrs. Addix, " said he, in ashout; "I've got home, and I guess you'll want to be going yourself. "

Mrs. Addix moved languidly, and glanced up with a narrow slit of eye, as dull as if she had been drugged. Harry shook her again, andrepeated his announcement that he was home and that she must want togo. At last he roused her, and she stood up with a dazed expression. Maria got her bonnet and shawl, and she gazed at them vaguely, as ifshe were so far removed from the flesh that the garments thereofperplexed her. Maria put on her bonnet, standing on tiptoe, and Harrythrew the shawl over her shoulders. Then she staggered out of theroom with a mumbled good-night. 

"Take care of the stairs, and do not fall, " Harry said. 

He himself held the light for her, until she was safely down, and theouter door had closed after her. 

"The fresh air will wake her up, " he said, laughing. "Not very livelycompany, is she, dear?"

"No, sir, " replied Maria, simply. 

Harry looked lovingly at her, then his eyes fell on the door of theroom which had been papered that day. It occurred to him to go in andsee how the new paper looked. 

"Come in with father, and let's see the improvements, " he said, in agay voice, to Maria. 

Maria followed him into the room. It would have been difficult to saywhether triumphant malice and daring, or fear, prevailed in her heart. 

Harry, carrying the lamp, entered the room, with Maria slinking athis heels. The first thing he saw was the torn paper. 

"Hullo!" said he. He approached the bay-window with his lamp. "Confound those paperers!" he said. 

For a minute Maria did not say a word. She was not exactly strugglingwith temptation; she had inherited too much from her mother's Puritanancestry to make the question of a struggle possible when the duty oftruth stared her, as now, in the face. She simply did not speak atonce because the thing appeared to her stupendous, and nobody, leastof all a child, but has a threshold of preparation before stupendousthings. 

"They haven't half put the paper on, " said her father. "Didn't halfpaste it, I suppose. You can't trust anybody unless you are right attheir heels. Confound 'em! There, I've got to go round and blow 'emup to-morrow, before I go to the city. "

Then Maria spoke. "I tore that paper off, father, " said she. 

Harry turned and stared at her. His face went white. For a second hethought the child was out of her senses. 

"What?" he said. 

"I tore that paper off, " repeated Maria. 

"You? Why?"

The double question seemed to hit the child like a pistol-shot, butshe did not flinch. 

"Mother never had paper as pretty as this, " she said, "nor newfurniture. " Her eyes met her father's with indescribable reproach. 

Harry looked at her with almost horror. For the moment the child'seyes looked like her dead mother's, her voice sounded like her's. Hecontinued gazing at her. 

"I couldn't bear it, " said Maria. "She" [she meant Mrs. Addix] "wasasleep. I was all alone. I got to thinking. I came in here and toreit off. "

Harry heaved a deep sigh. He did not look nor was he in the leastangry. 

"I know your poor mother didn't have much, " said he. He sighed again. Then he put his arm around Maria and kissed her. "You can have yourroom newly papered now, if you want it, " said he, in a choking voice. "Father will send you over to Ellisville to-morrow with Mrs. White, and you can pick out some paper your own self, and father will haveit put right on. "

"I don't care about any, " said Maria, and she began to sob. 

"Father's baby, " said Harry. 

She felt his chest heave, and realized that her father was weeping aswell as she. 

"Oh, father, I don't want new paper, " she sobbed out, convulsively. "Mother picked out that on my room, and--and--I am sorry I tore thisoff. "

"Never mind, darling, " said Harry. He almost carried the child backto her own room. "Now get to bed as soon as you can, dear, " he said. 

After Maria, trembling and tearful, had undressed and was in bed, herfather came back into the room. He held a small lamp in one hand, anda tumbler with some wine in the other. 

"Here is some of the wine your mother had, " said Harry. "Now I wantyou to sit right up and drink this. "

"I--don't want it, father, " gasped Maria. 

"Sit right up and drink it. "

Maria sat up. The tumbler was a third full, and the wine was an oldport. Maria drank it. Immediately her head began to swim; she felt ina sort of daze when her father kissed her, and bade her lie still andgo right to sleep, and went out of the room. She heard him, withsharpened hearing, enter her mother's room. She remembered about thepaper, and the new furniture, and how she was to have a new mother, and how she had torn the paper, and how her own mother had never hadsuch things, but she remembered through a delicious haze. She felt acharming warmth pervade all her veins. She was no longer unhappy. Nothing seemed to matter. She soon fell asleep. 

As for Harry Edgham, he entered the empty room which he had occupiedwith his dead wife. He set the lamp on the floor and approached thepaper, which poor little Maria, in her fit of futile rebellion, hadtorn. He carefully tore off still more, making a clean strip of thepaper where Maria had made a ragged one. When he had finished, itlooked as if the paper had in reality dropped off because ofcarelessness in putting on. He gathered up the pieces of paper andstood looking about the room. 

There is something about an empty room, empty except of memories, butcontaining nothing besides, no materialities, no certainties as tothe future, which is intimidating to one who stops and thinks. HarryEdgham was not, generally speaking, of the sort who stop to think;but now he did. The look of youth faded from his face. Instead of thejoy and triumph which had filled his heart and made it young again, came remembrance of the other woman, and something else, whichresembled terror and dread. For the first time he deliberated whetherhe was about to do a wise thing: for the first time, the image of IdaSlome's smiling beauty, which was ever evident to his fancy, producedin him something like doubt and consternation. He looked about theroom, and remembered the old pieces of furniture which had that daybeen carried away. He looked at the places where they had stood. Thenhe remembered his dead wife, as he had never remembered her before, with an anguish of loss. He said to himself that if he only had herback, even with her faded face and her ready tongue, that old, settled estate would be better for him than this joy, which at oncedazzled and racked him. Suddenly the man, as he stood there, put hishands before his face; he was weeping like a child. That which Mariahad done, instead of awakening wrath, had aroused a pity for himselfand for her, which seemed too great to be borne. For the instant, thedead triumphed over the living. 

Then Harry took up the lamp and went to his own room. He set the lampon the dresser, and looked at his face, with the rays thrown upwardupon it, very much as Maria had done the night of her mother's death. When he viewed himself in the looking-glass, he smiled involuntarily;the appearance of youth returned. He curled his mustache and movedhis head this way and that. He thought about some new clothes whichhe was to have. He owned to himself, with perfect ingenuousness, thathe was, in his way, as a man, as good-looking as Ida herself. Suddenly he remembered how Abby had looked when she was a young girland he had married her; he had not compared himself so favorably withher. The image of his dead wife, as a young girl, was much fairer inhis mind than that of Ida Slome. 

"There's no use talking, Abby was handsomer than Ida when she wasyoung, " he said to himself, as he began to undress. He went to sleepthinking of Abby as a young girl, but when once asleep he dreamed ofIda Slome. 

Chapter IX

Harry and Ida Slome were to be married the Monday beforeThanksgiving. The school would close on the Friday before. 

Ida Slome possessed, along with an entire self-satisfaction, a veinof pitiless sense, which enabled her to see herself as others mightsee her, and which saved her from the follies often incident to theself-satisfied. She considered herself a beauty; she thought, andwith reason, that she would be well worth looking at in herwedding-clothes, but she also told herself that it was quite possiblethat some remarks might be made to her disparagement if she had thewedding to which her inclination prompted her. She longed for a whitegown, veil, bridesmaids, and the rest, but she knew better. She knewthat more could be made of her beauty and her triumph if shecurtailed her wish. She realized that Harry's wife had been dead onlya little more than a year, and that, although still a beauty, she wasnot a young girl, and she steered clear of criticism and ridicule. 

The ceremony was performed in the Presbyterian church Mondayafternoon. Ida wore a prune-colored costume, and a hat trimmed withpansies. She was quite right in thinking that she was adorable in it, and there was also in the color, with its shade of purple, a delicateintimation of the remembrance of mourning in the midst of joy. Thechurch was filled with people, but there were no bridesmaids. Some ofIda's scholars acted as ushers. Wollaston Lee was among them. ToMaria's utter astonishment, he did not seem to realize his tryingposition as a rejected suitor. He was attired in a new suit, and worea white rosebud in his coat, and Maria glanced at him with mingledadmiration and disdain. 

Maria sat directly in front of the pulpit, with Mrs. Jonas White andLillian. Mrs. White had a new gown of some thin black stuff, profusely ornamented with jet, and Lillian had a new pink silk gown, and wore a great bunch of roses. The situation, with regard to Maria, in connection with the wedding ceremony and the bridal trip, had beena very perplexing one. Harry had some western cousins, far removed, both by blood and distance. Aunt Maria and her brother were the onlyrelatives on his former wife's side. Aunt Maria had received aninvitation, both from Harry and the prospective bride, to be presentat the wedding and remain in the house with Maria until the return ofthe bridal couple from their short trip. She had declined in a fewstilted words, although Harry had sent a check to cover the expensesof her trip, which was returned in her letter. 

"The fact is, I don't know what to do with Maria, " Harry said to IdaSlome, a week before the wedding. "Maria won't come, and neither willher brother's wife, and she can't be left alone, even with the newmaid. We don't know the girl very well, and it won't do. "

Ida Slome solved the problem with her usual precision and promptness. 

"Then, " said she, "she will have to board at Mrs. White's until wereturn. There is nothing else to do. "

It was therefore decided that Maria was to board at Mrs. White's, although it involved some things which were not altogethersatisfactory to Ida. Maria could not sit all alone in a pew, andwatch her father being married to his second wife, that was obvious;and, since Mrs. Jonas White was going to take charge of her, therewas nothing else to do but to place herself and daughter in aposition of honored intimacy. Mrs. Jonas White said quite openly thatshe was not in any need of taking boarders, that she had only takenMr. Edgham and Maria to oblige, and that she now was to take poorlittle Maria out of pity. She, in reality, did pity Maria, for a goodmany reasons. She was a shrewd woman, and she gauged Miss Ida Slomepitilessly. However, she had to admit that she had shown someconsideration in one respect. In the midst of her teaching, andpreparations for her wedding, she had planned a lovely dress forMaria. It was unquestionable but the realization of her ownloveliness, and her new attire had an alleviating influence uponMaria. There was a faint buzz of admiration for her when she enteredthe church. She looked as if enveloped in a soft gray cloud. Ida hadplanned a dress of some gray stuff, and a soft gray hat, tied underher chin with wide ribbons, and a long gray plume floating over hergolden-fleece of hair. Maria had never owned such a gown, and, inaddition, she had her first pair of kid-gloves of gray, to match thedress, and long, gray coat, trimmed with angora fur. She was charmingin it, and, moreover, the gray, as her step-mother's purple, suggested delicately, if one so chose to understand a dim yetpleasing melancholy, a shade, as it were, of remembrance. 

Maria had been dressed at home, under Mrs. White's supervision. Mariahad viewed herself in the new long mirror in her mother's room, whichwas now resplendent with its new furnishings, and she admitted toherself that she was lovelier than she had ever been, and that shehad Miss Ida Slome to thank for it. 

"I will say one thing, " said Mrs. White, "she has looked out for youabout your dress, and she has shown real good taste, too. "

Maria turned herself about before the glass, which reflected herwhole beautiful little person, and she loved herself so much that forthe first time it seemed to her that she almost loved Ida. She wasblushing and smiling with pleasure. 

Mrs. White sighed. "Well, maybe it is for the best, " said she. "Onenever knows about such things, how they will work out. "

Maria listened, with a degree of indignation and awe, to the service. She felt her heart swelling with grief at the sight of this otherwoman being made her father's wife and put in the place of her ownmother, and yet, as a musical refrain is the haunting andever-recurrent part of a composition, so was her own charmingappearance. She felt so sure that people were observing her, that sheblushed and dared not look around. She was, in reality, muchobserved, and both admired and pitied. 

People, both privately and outspokenly, did not believe that thestep-mother would be, in a way, good to the child by the formermarriage. Ida Slome was not exactly a favorite in Edgham. Peopleacquiesced in her beauty and brilliancy, but they did not entirelybelieve in her or love her. She stood before the pulpit with her sameperfect, set smile, displaying to the utmost the sweet curves of herlips. Her cheeks retained their lovely brilliancy of color. Harrytrembled, and his face looked pale and self-conscious, but Idadisplayed no such weakness. She replied with the utmost self-poise tothe congratulations which she received after the ceremony. There wasan informal reception in the church vestry. Cake and ice-cream andcoffee were served, and Ida and Harry and Maria stood together. Idahad her arm around Maria most of the time, but Maria felt as if itwere an arm of wood which encircled her. She heard Ida Slomeaddressed as Mrs. Edgham, and she wanted to jerk herself away andrun. She lost the consciousness of herself in her new attire. 

Once Harry looked around at her, and received a shock. Maria's facelooked to him exactly like her mother's, although the coloring was sodifferent. Maria was a blonde, and her mother had been dark. Therewas something about the excitement hardly restrained in her littleface, which made the man realize that the dead wife yet lived andreigned triumphant in her child. He himself was conscious that heconducted himself rather awkwardly and foolishly. A red spot burnedon either cheek. He spoke jerkily, and it seemed to him thateverything he said was silly, and that people might repeat it andlaugh. He was relieved when it was all over and he and Ida were inthe cab, driving to the station. When they were rolling rapidlythrough a lonely part of the road, he put his arm around his newwife, and kissed her. She received his kiss, and looked at him withher set smile and the set sparkle in her beautiful eyes. Again thefeeling of almost terror which he had experienced the night whenMaria had torn the paper off in her mother's room, came over him. However, he made an effort and threw it off. 

"Poor little Maria looked charming, thanks to you, dearest, " he said, tenderly. 

"Yes, I thought she did. That gray suit was just the thing for her, wasn't it? I never saw her look so pretty before, " returned Ida, andher tone was full of self-praise for her goodness to Maria. 

"Well, she will be a great deal happier, " said Harry. "It was alonesome life for a child to lead. "

Harry Edgham had not an atom of tact. Any woman might have judgedfrom his remarks that she had been married on account of Maria; butIda only responded with her never-changing smile. 

"Yes, " said she, "I think myself that she will be much happier, dear. " Privately she rather did resent her husband's speech, but shenever lost sight of the fact that a smile is more becoming than afrown. 

Maria remained boarding at Mrs. Jonas White's until her father andhis new wife returned. She did not have a very happy time. In thefirst place, the rather effusive pity with which she was treated bythe female portion of the White family, irritated her. She began toconsider that, now her father had married, his wife was a member ofher family, and not to be decried. Maria had a great deal of pridewhen those belonging to her were concerned. One day she retortedpertly when some covert remark, not altogether to her new mother'slaudation, had been made by Lillian. 

"I think she is perfectly lovely, " said she, with a toss of her head. 

Lillian and her mother looked at each other. Then Lillian, who wasnot her match for pertness, spoke. 

"Have you made up your mind what to call her?" she asked. "Mummer, ormother?"

"I shall call her whatever I please, " replied Maria; "it is nobody'sbusiness. " Then she arose and went out of the room, with an absurdlittle strut. 

"Lord a-massy!" observed Mrs. Jonas White, after she had gone. 

"I guess Ida Slome will have her hands full with that young one, "observed Lillian. 

"I guess she will, too, " assented her mother. "She was real sassy. Well, her mother had a temper of her own; guess she's got some of it. "

Mr. Jonas White and Henry were a great alleviation of Maria'sdesolate estate during her father's absence. Somehow, the men seemedto understand better than the women just how she felt: that she wouldrather be let alone, now it was all over, than condoled with andpitied. Mr. Henry White took one of the market horses, hitched himinto a light buggy, and took Maria out riding two evenings, when themarket was closed. It was a warm November, and the moon was full. Maria quite enjoyed her drive with Mr. Henry White, and he never saidone word about her father's marriage, and her new mother--her pronounof a mother--all the way. Mr. Henry White had too long a neck, andtoo large a mouth, which was, moreover, too firmly set, otherwiseMaria felt that, with slight encouragement, she might fall in lovewith him, since he showed so much delicacy. She counted up theprobable difference in their ages, and estimated it as no more thanwas between her father and Her. However, Mr. Henry White gave her solittle encouragement, and his neck was so much too long above hiscollar, that she decided to put it out of her mind. 

"Poor little thing, " Mr. Henry White said to his father, next day, "she's about wild, with mother and Lill harping on it all the time. "

"They mean well, " said Mr. White. 

"Of course they do; but who's going to stand this eternal harping? Ifwomen folks would only stop being so durned kind, and let folks alonesometimes, they'd be a durned sight kinder. "

"That's so, " said Mr. Jonas White. 

Maria's father and his bride reached home about seven on the Mondaynight after Thanksgiving. Maria re-entered her old home in theafternoon. Miss Zella Holmes, who was another teacher of hers, wentwith her. Ida had requested her to open the house. Ida's formerboarding-house mistress had cooked a large turkey, and made somecakes and pies and bread. Miss Zella Holmes drove around for Maria ina livery carriage, and all these supplies were stowed in beside them. On the way they stopped at the station for the new maid, whose trainwas due then. She was a Hungarian girl, with a saturnine, almostsavage visage. Maria felt an awe of her, both because she was to betheir maid, and they had never kept one, and because of herpersonality. 

When they reached home, Miss Zella Holmes, who was very lively andquick in her ways, though not at all pretty, gave orders to the maidin a way which astonished Maria. She was conscious of an astonishmentat everything, which had not before possessed her. She looked at thekitchen, the dining-room, the sitting-room, the parlor, all the oldapartments, and it was exactly as if she saw old friends with newheads. The sideboard in the dining-room glittered with the weddingsilver and cut-glass. New pictures hung on the sitting-room andparlor walls, beside the new paper. Wedding gifts lay on the tables. There had been many wedding gifts. Miss Zella Holmes flew about thehouse, with the saturnine Hungarian in attendance. Maria, at MissHolmes's bidding, began to lay the table. She got out some newtable-linen, napkins, and table-cloth, which had been a weddingpresent. She set the table with some new china. She looked, with anumb feeling, at her mother's poor old blue-and-white dishes, whichwere put away on the top shelves. 

"I think it would be a very good idea to pack away those dishesaltogether, and put them in a box up in the garret, " said MissHolmes. Then she noticed Maria's face. "They will come in handy foryour wedding outfit, little girl, " she added, kindly and jocosely, but Maria did not laugh. 

Every now and then Maria looked at the clock on the parlor shelf, that was also new. The old sitting-room clock had disappeared; Mariadid not know where, but she missed the face of it as if it had beenthe face of a friend. Miss Holmes also glanced frequently at the newclock. There arose a fragrant odor of warming potatoes and gravy fromthe kitchen. 

"It is almost time for them, " said Miss Holmes. 

She was very much dressed-up, Maria thought. She wore a red silk gownwith a good many frills about the shoulders. She was very slight, andaffected frills to conceal it. Out of this mass of red frills aroseher little, alert head and face, homely, but full of vivacity. Mariathought her very nice. She would have liked her better for a motherthan Ida. When Miss Zella Holmes smiled it seemed to come from within. 

At last a carriage came rapidly up to their door, and Miss Holmessprang to open it. Maria remained in the dining-room. Suddenly anuncanny fancy had seized her and terrified her. Suppose her fathershould look different, like everything else? Suppose it should be toher as if he had a new head? She therefore remained in thedining-room, trembling. She heard her father's voice, loud and merry. "Where is Maria?" Still, Maria did not stir. Then her father camehurrying into the room, and behind him she who had been Ida Slome, radiant and triumphant, in her plum-colored array, with the samesmile with which she had departed on her beautiful face. Harry caughtMaria in his arms, rubbed his cold face against her soft little one, and kissed her. 

"How is father's little girl?" he asked, with a break in his voice. 

"Pretty well, thank you, " replied Maria. She gave a helpless littlecling to her father, then she stood away. 

"Speak to your new mother, darling, " said Harry. 

"How do _You do_?" said Maria, obediently, and Ida said, "Youdarling, " and then kissed her exactly as if she had been anuncommonly well-constructed doll, with a clock-work system whichfitted her to take such a part with perfect accuracy. 

Harry watched his wife and daughter rather anxiously. He seized thefirst opportunity to ask Maria, aside, if she had been well, and ifshe had been happy and comfortable at Mrs. White's. Then he wound upwith the rather wistful inquiry:

"You are going to love your new mother, aren't you, darling? Don'tyou think she is lovely?"

Ida had gone up-stairs with Miss Holmes, to remove her wraps. 

"Yes, sir, I think She is lovely, " replied Maria. 

Chapter X

Ida Edgham was, in some respects, a peculiar personality. She wasas much stronger, in another way, than her husband, as herpredecessor had been. She was that anomaly: a creature of supremeself-satisfaction, who is yet aware of its own limits. She was sounemotional as to be almost abnormal, but she had head enough torealize the fact that absolute unemotionlessness in a woman detractsfrom her charm. She therefore simulated emotion. She had a spiritualmake-up, a panoply of paint and powder for the soul, as truly as anyactress has her array of cosmetics for her face. She made no effortto really feel, she knew that was entirely useless, but she observedall the outward signs and semblance of feeling more or lesssuccessfully. She knew that to take up her position in Harry Edgham'shouse like a marble bust of Diana, which had been one of herwedding-presents, would not be to her credit. She therefore putherself to the pace which she would naturally be expected to assumein her position. She showed everybody who called her new possessions, with a semblance of delight which was quite perfect. She was, inreality, less deceptive in that respect than in others. She had adegree of the joy of possession, or she would not have been a womanat all, and, in fact, would not have married. She had wanted a homeand a husband; not as some women want them, for the legitimate desirefor love and protection, but because she felt a degree ofmortification on account of her single estate. She had had manyadmirers, but, although no one ever knew it, not one offer ofmarriage, the acceptance of which would not have been an absurdity, before poor Harry Edgham. She was not quite contented to accept him. She had hoped for something better; but he was good-looking, andpopular, and his social standing, in her small world, was good. Hewas an electrical engineer, with an office in the city, and had atolerably good income, although his first wife's New England thrifthad compelled him to live parsimoniously. 

Ida made up her mind from the first that thrift, after the plan ofthe first woman, should not be observed in her household. Withouthinting to that effect, or without Harry's recognizing it, she somanaged that within a few weeks after her marriage he put aninsurance on his life, which would insure her comfort in case sheoutlived him. He owned his house, and she had herself her littlesavings, well invested. She then considered that they could live upto Harry's income without much risk, and she proceeded to do so. Itwas not long before the saturnine Hungarian, who could have provideda regiment of her own countrymen with the coarse food of her race, but seemed absolutely incapable of carrying out American ideas ofgood cookery, was dismissed, and a good cook, at a price which atfirst staggered Harry, installed in her place. Then a young girl wasfound to take care of the bedrooms, and wait on table, attired inwhite gowns and aprons and caps. 

Ida had a reception two weeks after her return from her bridal trip, and an elaborate menu was provided by a caterer from New York. Maria, in a new white gown, with a white bow on her hair, sat at one end ofthe dining-table, shining with cut-glass and softly lighted withwax-candles under rose-colored shades in silver candlesticks, andpoured chocolate, while another young girl opposite dipped lemonadefrom a great cut-glass punch-bowl, which had been one of thewedding-presents. The table was strewn with pink-and-whitecarnations. Maria caught a glimpse now and then of her new mother, ina rose-colored gown, with a bunch of pink roses on her breast, standing with her father receiving their guests, and she couldscarcely believe that she was awake and it was really happening. Shebegan to take a certain pleasure in the excitement. She heard onewoman say to another how pretty she was, "poor little thing, " and herheart throbbed with satisfaction. She felt at once beautiful andappealing to other people, because of her misfortunes. She turned thechocolate carefully, and put some whipped-cream on top of each daintycup; and, for the first time since her father's marriage, she was notconsciously unhappy. She glanced across the table at the other littlegirl, Amy Long, who was dark, and wore a pink bow on her hair, andshe was sure that she herself was much prettier. Then, too, Amy hadnot the sad distinction of having lost her mother, and having astep-mother thrust upon her in a year's time. It is true that oncewhen Amy's mother, large and portly in a blue satin which gave outpale white lights on the curves of her great arms and back, and whoseroseate face looked forth from a fichu of real lace pinned with agreat pearl brooch, came up behind her little daughter andstraightened the pink bow on her hair, Maria felt a cruel littlepang. There was something about the look of loving admiration whichMrs. Long gave her daughter that stung Maria's heart with a sense ofloss. She felt that if her new mother should straighten out her whitebow and regard her with admiration, it would be because of her ownself, and the credit which she, Maria, reflected upon her. Still, shereflected how charming she looked. Self-love is much better thannothing for a lonely soul. 

That night Maria realized that she was in the second place, so far asher father was concerned. Ida, in her rose-colored robes, dispensinghospitality in his home, took up his whole attention. She was reallyradiant. She sang and played twice for the company, and her perfectlytrue high soprano filled the whole house. To Maria it sounded asmeaningless as the trill of a canary-bird. In fact, when it came tomusic, Ida, although she had a good voice, had the mortification ofrealizing that her simulation of emotion failed her. Harry did notlike his wife's singing. He felt like a traitor, but he could nothelp realizing that he did not like it. But the moment Ida stoppedsinging, he looked at her, and fairly wondered that he had marriedsuch a beautiful creature. He felt humble before her. Humility wasnot a salutary condition of mind for him, but this woman inspired itnow, and would still more in the future. In spite of his first wife'sscolding, her quick temper, he had always felt himself as good as shewas. The mere fact of the temper itself had served to give him asense of equality and, perhaps, superiority, but this woman nevershowed temper. She never failed to respond with her stereotyped smileto everything that was said. She seemed to have no faults at all, torealize none in herself, and not to admit the possibility of any oneelse doing so. 

Harry felt himself distinctly in the wrong beside such unquestionableright. He even did not think himself so good-looking as he hadformerly done. It seemed to him that he looked much older than Ida. When they went out together he felt like a lackey in attendance on anempress. In his own home, it came to pass that he seldom made aremark when guests were present without a covert glance at his wifeto see what she thought of it. He could always tell what she thought, even if her face did not change and she made no comment neither thennor afterwards, and she always made him know, in some subtle fashion, when he had said anything wrong. 

Maria felt very much in the same way at first, but she foughtinvoluntarily against it. She had a good deal of her mother in her. Finally, she never looked at Ida when she said anything. She was fullof rebellion although she was quiet and obedient, and veryunobtrusive, in the new state of things. 

Ida entertained every Tuesday evening. There was not a caterer as atthe first reception, but Ida herself cooked dainty messes in a silverchafing-dish, and Maria and the white-capped little maid passedthings. It was not especially expensive, but people in Edgham beganto talk. They said Harry was living beyond his means; but Ida keptwithin his income. She had too good a head for reckless extravagance, although she loved admiration and show. When there were no guests inthe house, Maria used to go to her own room early of an evening, andread until it was time to go to bed. She realized that her father andIda found her somewhat superfluous, although Ida never made anyespecial effort to entertain her father that Maria could see. She wasfond of fancy-work, and was embroidering a silk gown for herself. Sheembroidered while Harry read the paper. She did not talk much. Mariaused to wonder that her father did not find it dull when he and Shewere alone together of an evening. She looked at him reading hispaper, with frequent glances of admiration over it at his beautifulwife, and thought that in his place, she should much prefer a womanlike her mother, who had kept things lively, even without company, and even in a somewhat questionable fashion. However, Harry and Idathemselves went out a good deal. People in Edgham aped city society, they even talked about the "four hundred. " The newly wedded pair werefrequent guests of honor at dinners and receptions, and Ida herselfwas a member of the Edgham's Woman's Club, and that took her out agood deal. Maria was rather lonely. Finally the added state andluxury of her life, which had at first pleased her, failed to do so. She felt that she hated all the new order of things, and her heartyearned for the old. She began to grow thin; she did not sleep muchnor sleep well. She felt tired all the time. One day her fathernoticed her changed looks. 

"Why, Maria is getting thin!" said he. 

"I think it is because she is growing tall, " said Ida. "Everybodyseems thin when they are growing tall. I did myself. I was muchthinner than Maria at her age. " She looked at Maria with herinvariable smile as she spoke. 

"She looks very thin to me, " Harry said, anxiously. 

He himself looked thin and older. An anxious wrinkle had deepenedbetween his eyes. It was June, and the days were getting warm. He wasanxious about Ida's health also. Ida was not at all anxious. She wasperfectly placid. It did not seem to her that an overrulingProvidence could possibly treat her unkindly. She was rather annoyedat times, but still never anxious, and utterly satisfied with herselfto that extent that it precluded any doubt as to the final outcome ofeverything. 

Maria continued to lose flesh. A sentimental interest in herself andher delicacy possessed her. She used to look at her face, whichseemed to her more charming than ever, although so thin, in theglass, and reflect, with a pleasant acquiescence, on an early death. She even spent some time in composing her own epitaph, and kept itcarefully hidden away in a drawer of her dresser, under some linen. 

Maria felt a gloomy pride when the doctor, who came frequently to seeIda, was asked to look at her; she felt still more triumphant when heexpressed it as his opinion that she ought to have a change of airthe moment school closed. The doctor said Maria was running down, which seemed to her a very interesting state of things, and one whichought to impress people. She told Gladys Mann the next day at school. 

"The doctor says I'm running down, " said she. 

"You do look awful bad, " replied Gladys. 

After recess Maria saw Gladys with her face down on her desk, weeping. She knew that she was weeping because she looked so badlyand was running down. She glanced across at Wollaston Lee, andwondered if he had noticed how badly she looked, and yet howcharming. All at once the boy shot a glance at her in return; then heblushed and scowled and took up his book. It all comforted Maria inthe midst of her langour and her illness, which was negative andunattended by any pain. If she felt any appetite she restrained it, she became so vain of having lost it. 

It was decided that Maria should go and visit her aunt Maria, in NewEngland, and remain there all summer. Her father would pay her boardin order that she should not be any restraint on her aunt, with herscant income. Just before Maria went, and just before her schoolclosed, the broad gossip of the school came to her ears. Sheascertained something which filled her at once with awe, and shame, and jealousy, and indignation. If one of the girls began to speak toher about it, she turned angrily away. She fairly pushed Gladys Mannone day. Gladys turned and looked at her with loving reproach, like achidden dog. "What did you expect?" said she. Maria ran away, herface burning. 

After she reached her aunt Maria's nothing was said to her about it. Aunt Maria was too prudish and too indignant. Uncle Henry's wife, Aunt Eunice, was away all summer, taking care of a sister who was illwith consumption in New Hampshire; so Aunt Maria kept the wholehouse, and she and Maria and Uncle Henry had their meals together. Maria loved her uncle Henry. He was a patient man, with a patiencewhich at times turns to fierceness, of a man with a brain above hissphere, who has had to stand and toil in a shoe-factory for his breadand butter all his life. He was non-complainant because of a sort ofstern pride, and a sense of a just cause against Providence, but hewas very kind to Maria; he petted her as if she had been his ownchild. Every pleasant night Uncle Henry took Maria for atrolley-ride, or a walk, and he treated her to ice-cream soda andcandy. Aunt Maria also took good care of the child. She showed a sortof vicious curiosity with regard to Maria's step-mother and all thenew household arrangements, which Maria did not gratify. She had toomuch loyalty, although she longed to say all that she thought to heraunt, being sure of a violent sympathizer. 

"Well, I'll say one thing, she has fixed your clothes nice, " saidAunt Maria. 

"She didn't do it, it was Miss Barnes, " replied Maria. She could nothelp saying that much. She did not want Aunt Maria to think herstep-mother took better care of her wardrobe than her own mother haddone. 

"Good land! She didn't hire all these things made?" said Aunt Maria. 

"Yes'm. "

"Good land! I don't see how your father is going to stand it. I'dlike to know what your poor mother would have said?" said Aunt Maria. 

Then Maria's loyalty came to the front. After all, she was herfather's wife, and to be defended. 

"I guess maybe father is making more money now, " said she. 

"Well, I hope to the land he is, " said Aunt Maria. "I guess if She(Aunt Maria also treated Ida like a pronoun) had just one hundreddollars and no more to get along with, she'd have to do different. "

Maria regained her strength rapidly. When she went home, a few daysbefore her school begun, in September, she was quite rosy andblooming. She had also fallen in love with a boy who lived next toAunt Maria, and who asked her, over the garden fence, to correspondwith him, the week before she left. 

It was that very night that Aunt Maria had the telegram. She paid theboy, then she opened it with trembling fingers. Her brother Henry andMaria were with her on the porch. It was a warm night, and Aunt Mariawore an ancient muslin. The south wind fluttered the ruffles on thatand the yellow telegram as she read. She was silent a moment, withmouth compressed. 

"Well, " said her brother Henry, inquiringly. 

Aunt Maria's face flushed and paled. She turned to Maria. 

"Well, " she said, "you've got a little sister. "

"Good!" said Uncle Henry. "Ever so much more company for you than alittle brother would have been, Maria. "

Maria was silent. She trembled and felt cold, although the night wasso warm. 

"Weighs seven pounds, " said Aunt Maria, in a hard voice. 

Maria returned home a week from that day. She travelled alone fromBoston, and her father met her in New York. He looked strange to her. He was jubilant, and yet the marks of anxiety were deep. He seemedvery glad to see Maria, and talked to her about her little sister inan odd, hesitating way. 

"Her name is Evelyn, " said Harry. 

Maria said nothing. She and her father were crossing the city to theferry in a cab. 

"Don't you think that is a pretty name, dear?" asked Harry, with aqueer, apologetic wistfulness. 

"No, father, I think it is a very silly name, " replied Maria. 

"Why, your mother and I thought it a very pretty name, dear. "

"I always thought it was the silliest name in the world, " said Maria, firmly. However, she sat close to her father, and realized that itwas something to have him to herself without Her, while crossing thecity. "I don't know as I think Evelyn is such a very silly name, father, " she said, presently, just before they reached the ferry. 

Harry bent down and kissed her. "Father's own little girl, " he said. 

Maria felt that she had been magnanimous, for she had in realitynever liked Evelyn, and would not have named a doll that. 

"You will be a great deal happier with a little sister. It will turnout for the best, " said Harry, as the cab stopped. Harry always put acolon of optimism to all his happenings of life. 

The next morning, when Ida was arrayed in a silk negligee, and thebaby was washed and dressed, Maria was bidden to enter the room whichhad been her mother's. The first thing which she noticed was a faintperfume of violet-scented toilet-powder. Then she saw Ida leaningback gracefully in a reclining-chair, with her hair carefullydressed. The nurse held the baby: a squirming little bundle of soft, embroidered flannel. The nurse was French, and she awed Maria, forshe spoke no English, and nobody except Ida could understand her. Shewas elderly, small, and of a damaged blond type. Maria approached Idaand kissed her. Ida looked at her, smiling. Then she asked if she hadhad a pleasant summer. She told the nurse, in French, to show thebaby to her. Maria approached the nurse timidly. The flannel wascarefully laid aside, and the small, piteously inquiring and puzzledface, the inquiry and the bewilderment expressed by a thousandwrinkles, was exposed. Maria looked at it with a sort of shiver. Thenurse laid the flannel apart and disclosed the tiny feet seemingalready to kick feebly at existence. The nurse said something inFrench which Maria could not understand. Ida answered also in French. Then the baby seemed to experience a convulsion; its whole faceseemed to open into one gape of expostulation at fate. Then itsfeeble, futile wail filled the whole room. 

"Isn't she a little darling?" asked Ida, of Maria. 

"Yes'm, " replied Maria. 

There was a curious air of aloofness about Ida with regard to herbaby, and something which gave the impression of wistfulness. It ispossible that she was capable of wishing that she had not thataloofness. It did not in the least seem to Maria as if it were Ida'sbaby. She had a vague impression, derived she could not tell in whatmanner, of a rosebud laid on a gatepost. Ida did not seem consciousof her baby with the woodeny consciousness of an apple-tree of ablossom. When she gazed at it, it was with the same set smile withwhich she had always viewed all creation. That smile which came fromwithout, not within, but now it was fairly tragic. 

"Her name is Evelyn. Don't you think it is a pretty name?" asked Ida. 

"Yes'm, " replied Maria. She edged towards the door. The nurse, tossing the wailing baby, rose and got a bottle of milk. Maria wentout. 

Maria went to school the next Monday, and all the girls asked her ifthe baby was pretty. 

"It looks like all the babies I ever saw, " replied Maria guardedly. She did not wish to descry the baby which was, after all, her sister, but she privately thought it was a terrible sight. 

Gladys Mann supported her. "Babies do all look alike, " said she. "We've had nine to our house, and I had ought to know. "

At first Maria used to dread to go home from school, on account ofthe baby. She had a feeling of repulsion because of it, but graduallythat feeling disappeared and an odd sort of fascination possessed herinstead. She thought a great deal about the baby. When she heard itcry in the night, she thought that her father and Ida might havesense enough to stop it. She thought that she could stop its cryingherself, by carrying it very gently around the room. Still she didnot love the baby. It only appealed, in a general way, to herinstincts. But one day, when the baby was some six weeks old, and Idahad gone to New York, she came home from school, and she went up toher own room, and she heard the baby crying in the room opposite. Itcried and cried, with the insistent cry of a neglected child. Mariasaid to herself that she did not believe but the French nurse hadtaken advantage of Her absence, and had slipped out on some errandand left the baby alone. 

The baby continued to wail, and a note of despair crept into thewail. Maria could endure it no longer. She ran across the hall andflung open the door. The baby lay crying in a little pink-linedbasket. Maria bent over it, and the baby at once stopped crying. Sheopened her mouth in a toothless smile, and she held up little, wavingpink hands to Maria. Maria lifted the baby out of her basket andpressed her softly, with infinite care, as one does something veryprecious, to her childish bosom, and at once something strange seemedto happen to her. She became, as it were, illuminated by love. 

Chapter XI

Maria had fallen in love with the baby, and her first impulse, as inthe case of all true love, was secrecy. Why she should have beenashamed of her affection, her passion, for it was, in fact, passion, her first, she could not have told. It was the sublimated infatuationhalf compounded of dreams, half of instinct, which a little girlusually has for her doll. But Maria had never had any particular lovefor a doll. She had possessed dolls, of course, but she had neverbeen quite able to rise above the obvious sham of them, the cloth andthe sawdust and the paint. She had wondered how some little girlswhom she had known had loved to sleep with their dolls; as for her, she would as soon have thought of taking pleasure in dozing off withany little roll of linen clasped in her arms. It was rather singular, for she had a vivid imagination, but it had balked at a doll. When, as sometimes happened, she saw a little girl of her own age, wheelingwith solemnity a doll in a go-cart, she viewed her with amazement andcontempt, and thought privately that she was not altogether bright. But this baby was different. It did not have to be laid on its backto make its eyes close, it did not have to be shaken and squeezed tomake it vociferous. It was alive, and Maria, who was unusually alivein her emotional nature, was keenly aware of that effect. Thislittle, tender, rosy thing was not stuffed with sawdust, it wasstuffed with soul and love. It could smile; the smile was not paintedon its face in a doll-factory. Maria was so thankful that this baby, Ida's baby, did not have Her smile, unchanging and permanent for allobservers and all vicissitudes. When this baby smiled it smiled, andwhen it cried it cried. It was honest from the crown of its fuzzyhead to the soles of its little pink worsted socks. 

At the first reception which Ida gave after the baby came, and whenit was on exhibition in a hand-embroidered robe, it screamed everyminute. Maria was secretly glad, and proud of it. It meant much toher that _her_ baby should not smile at all the company, whether itwas smiling in its heart or not, the way She did. Maria had no roomin her heart for any other love, except that for her father and thebaby. She looked at Wollaston Lee, and wondered how she could everhave had dreams about him, how she could ever have preferred a boy toa baby like her little sister, even in her dreams. She ceasedhaunting the post-office for a letter from that other boy in NewEngland, who had asked her to correspond over the garden fence, andwho had either never written at all, or had misdirected his letter. She wondered how she had thought for a moment of doing such a thingas writing to a boy like that. She remembered with disgust howovergrown that boy was, and how his stockings were darned at theknees; and how she had seen patches of new cloth on his trousers, andhad heard her aunt Maria say that he was so hard on his clothes onaccount of his passion for bird-nesting, that it was all his mothercould do to keep him always decent. How could she have thought for amoment of a bird-nesting sort of boy? She was so thankful that thebaby was a girl. Maria, as sometimes happens, had a rather invertedsystem of growth. With most, dolls come first, then boys; with her, dolls had not come at all. Boys came first, then her little babysister, which was to her in the place of a doll, and the boys gotpromptly relegated to the background. 

Much to Maria's delight, the French nurse, whom she at once dislikedand stood in awe of, only remained until the baby was about twomonths old, then a little nurse-girl was engaged. On pleasant daysthe nurse-girl, whose name was Josephine, wheeled out the baby in herlittle carriage, which was the daintiest thing of the kind to befound, furnished with a white lace canopy lined with rose-coloredsilk. It was on these occasions that Maria showed duplicity. OnSaturdays, when there was no school, she privately and secretlybribed Josephine, who was herself under the spell of the baby, to gohome and visit her mother, and let her have the privilege of wheelingit herself. Maria had a small sum every week for her pocket-money, and a large part of it went to Josephine in the shape of chocolates, of which she was inordinately fond; in fact, Josephine, who came ofthe poor whites, like Gladys Mann, might have been said to be achocolate maniac. Maria used to arrange with Josephine to meet her ona certain corner on Saturdays, and there the transfer was made:Josephine became the possessor of half a pound of chocolates, andMaria of the baby. Josephine had sworn almost a solemn oath to nevertell. She at once repaired to her mother's, sucking chocolates on theway, and Maria blissfully wheeled the baby. She stood in very littledanger of meeting Her on these occasions, because the Edgham Woman'sClub met on Saturday afternoon. It often happened, however, thatMaria met some of the school-girls, and then nothing could haveexceeded her pride and triumph. Some of them had little brothers orsisters, but none of them such a little sister as hers. 

The baby had, in reality, grown to be a beauty among babies. All theinflamed red and aged puckers and creases had disappeared; instead ofthat was the sweetest flush, like that of just-opened rosebuds. Evelyn was a compact little baby, fat, but not overlapping andgrossly fat. It was such a matter of pride to Maria that the baby'scheeks did not hang the least bit in the world, but had only lovelylittle curves and dimples. She had become quite a connoisseur inbabies. When she saw a baby whose flabby cheeks hung down and touchedits bib, she was disgusted. She felt as if there was somethingmorally wrong with such a baby as that. Her baby was wrapped in thesoftest white things: furs, and silk-lined embroidered cashmeres, andher little face just peeped out from the lace frill of a charmingcap. There was only one touch of color in all this whiteness, besidethe tender rose of the baby's face, and that was a little knot ofpale pink baby-ribbon on the cap. Maria often stopped to make surethat the cap was on straight, and she also stopped very often to tuckin the white fur rug, and she also stopped often to thrust her ownlovely little girl-face into the sweet confusion of baby and lace andembroidery and fur, with soft kisses and little, caressing murmurs oflove. She made up little love phrases, which she would have beeninexpressibly ashamed to have had overheard. "Little honey love" wasone of them--"Sister's own little honey love. " Once, when walking onElm Street under the leafless arches of the elms, where she thoughtshe was quite alone, although it was a very bright, warm afternoon, and quite dry--it was not a snowy winter--she spoke more loudly thanshe intended, and looked up to see another, bigger girl, the daughterof the Edgham lawyer, whose name was Annie Stone. Annie Stone waslarge of her age--so large, in fact, that she had a nickname of"Fatty" in school. It had possibly soured her, or her over-plumpnessmay have been due to some physical ailment which rendered herirritable. At all events, Annie Stone had not that sweetness andplacidity of temperament popularly supposed to be coincident withstoutness. She had a bitter and sarcastic tongue for a young girl. Maria inwardly shuddered when she saw Annie Stone's fat, maliciousface surveying her from under her fur-trimmed hat. Annie Stone wasalways very well dressed, but even that did not seem to improve hermental attitude. Her large, high-colored face was also distinctlypretty, but she did not seemed to be cognizant of that to the resultof any satisfaction. 

"Sister's little honey love!" she repeated after Maria, with fairly asnarl of satire. 

Maria had spirit, although she was for the moment dismayed. 

"Well, she is--so there, " said she. 

"You wait till you have a few more little honey loves, " said AnnieStone, "and see how you feel. "

With that Annie Stone went her way, with soft flounces of her short, stout body, and Maria was left. She was still defiant; her blood wasup. "Sister's little honey love, " she said to the baby, in a tone soloud that Annie Stone must have heard. "Were folks that didn't haveanything but naughty little brothers jealous of her?" Annie Stonehad, in fact, a notorious little brother, who at the early age ofseven was the terror of his sisters and all law-abiding citizens; butAnnie Stone was not easily touched. 

"Sister's little honey love, " she shouted back, turning a malignantface over her shoulder. She had that very morning had a hand-to-handfight with her naughty little brother, and finally come outvictorious, by forcing him to the ground and sitting on him until hesaid he was sorry. It was not very reasonable that she should be atall sensitive with regard to him. 

After Annie Stone had gone out of sight, Maria went around to thefront of the little carriage, adjusted the white fur rug carefully, secured a tiny, white mitten on one of the baby's hands, andwhispered to the baby alone. "You _are_ sister's little honey love, aren't you, precious?" and the baby smiled that entrancing smile ofhonesty and innocence which sent the dimples spreading to the lacefrill of her cap, and reached out her arms, thereby displacing bothmittens, which Maria adjusted; then, after a fervent kiss, she wenther way. 

However, she was not that afternoon to proceed on her way longuninterrupted. For some time Josephine, the nurse-girl, had eitherbeen growing jealous, or chocolates were palling upon her. Josephinehad also found her own home locked up, and the key nowhere inevidence. There would be a good half-hour to wait at the usual cornerfor Maria. The wind had changed, and blew cold from the northwest. Josephine was not very warmly clad. She wore her white gown andapron, which Mrs. Edgham insisted upon, and which she resented. Shehad that day felt a stronger sense of injury with regard to it, andcounted upon telling her mother how mean and set up she thought itwas for any lady as called herself a lady to make a girl wear asummer white dress in winter. She shivered on her corner of waiting. Josephine got more and more wroth. Finally she decided to start insearch of Maria and the baby. She gave her white skirts an angryswitch and started. It was not very long after she had turned hersecond corner before she saw Maria and the baby ahead of her. Josephine then ran. She was a stout girl, and she plunged aheadheavily until she came up with Maria. The first thing Maria knew, Josephine had grabbed the handle of the carriage--two red girl handsappeared beside her own small, gloved ones. 

"Here, gimme this baby to once, " gabbled Josephine in the thickspeech of her kind. 

Maria looked at her. "The time isn't up, and you know it isn't, Josephine, " said she. "I just passed by a clock in Melvin & Adams'sjewelry store, and it isn't time for me to be on the corner. "

"Gimme the baby, " demanded Josephine. She attempted to pull thecarriage away from Maria, but Maria, although her strength wasinferior, had spirit enough to cope with any poor white. Her littlefingers clutched like iron. "I shall not give her up until fouro'clock, " said she. "Go back to the corner. "

Josephine's only answer was a tug which dislodged Maria's fingers andhurt her. But Maria came of the stock which believed in trusting theLord and keeping the powder dry. She was not yet conquered. The rightwas clearly on her side. She and Josephine had planned to meet at thecorner at four o'clock, and it was not quite half-past three, and shehad given Josephine half a pound of chocolates. She did not stop toreflect a moment. Maria's impulses were quick, and lack of decisionin emergencies was not a failing of hers. She made one dart to therear of Josephine. Josephine wore her hair in a braided loop, tiedwith a bow of black ribbon. Maria seized upon this loop of brownbraids, and hung. She was enough shorter than Josephine to render iteffectual. Josephine's head was bent backward and she was helpless, unless she let go of the baby-carriage. Josephine, however, had goodlungs, and she screamed, as she was pulled backward, still holding tothe little carriage, which was also somewhat tilted by the wholeperformance. 

"Lemme be, you horrid little thing!" she screamed, "or I'll tell yourma. "

"She isn't my mother, " said Maria in return. "Let go of my baby. "

"She is your ma. Your father married her, and she's your ma, and youcan't help yourself. Lemme go, or I'll tell on you. "

"Tell, if you want to, " said Maria, firmly, actually swinging withher whole weight from Josephine's loop of braids. "Let go my baby. "

Josephine screamed again, with her head bent backward, and thebaby-carriage tilted perilously. Then a woman, who had been watchingfrom a window near by, rushed upon the scene. She was Gladys Mann'smother. Just as she appeared the baby began to cry, and thataccelerated her speed. The windows of her house became filled withstaring childish faces. The woman, who was very small and lean butwiry, a bundle of muscles and nerve, ran up to the baby-carriage, andpulled it back to its proper status, and began at once quieting thefrightened baby and scolding the girls. 

"Hush, hush, " cooed she to the baby. "Did it think it was goin' toget hurted?" Then to the girls: "Ain't you ashamed of yourselves, twogreat girls fightin' right in the street, and most tippin' the babyover. S'posin' you had killed him?"

Then Josephine burst forth in a great wail of wrath and pain. Thebringing down of the carriage had increased her agony, for Mariastill clung to her hair. 

"Oh, oh, oh!" howled Josephine, her head straining back. "She's mostkillin' me. "

"An' I'll warrant you deserve it, " said the woman. Then she added toMaria--she was entirely impartial in her scolding--"Let go of her, ain't you shamed. " Then to the baby, "Did he think he was goin' toget hurted?"

"He's a girl!" cried Maria in a frenzy of indignation. "He is not aboy, he is a girl. " She still clung desperately to Josephine's hair, who in her turn clung to the baby-carriage. 

Then Gladys came out of the house, in a miserable, thin, dirty gown, and she was Maria's ally. 

"Let that baby go!" she cried to Josephine. She tugged fiercely atJosephine's white skirt. 

"Gladys Mann, you go right straight into the house. What be youbuttin' in for!" screamed her mother. "You let that girl's hairalone. Josephine, what you been up to. You might have killed thisbaby. "

The baby screamed louder. It wriggled around in its little, white furnest, and stretched out imploring pink paws from which the mittenshad fallen off. Its little lace hood was awry, the pink rosette wascocked over one ear. Maria herself began to cry. Then Gladys waxedfairly fierce. She paid no attention whatever to her mother. 

"You jest go round an' ketch on to the kid's wagin, " said she, "an'I'll take care of her. " With that her strong little hands made avicious clutch at Josephine's braids. 

Maria sprang for the baby-carriage. She straightened the lace hood, she tucked in the fur robe, and put on the mittens. The baby'sscreams subsided into a grieved whimper. "Did great wicked girls comeand plague sister's own little precious?" said Maria. But now she hadto reckon with Gladys's mother, who had recovered her equilibrium, lost for a second by her daughter's manoeuvre. She seized in her turnthe handle of the baby-carriage, and gave Maria a strong push aside. Then she looked at all three combatants, like a poor-white Solomon. 

"Who were sent out with him in the first place, that's what I want toknow?" she said. 

"I were, " replied Josephine in a sobbing shout. Her head was achingas if she had been scalped. 

"Shet up!" said Gladys's mother inconsistently. 

"Did your ma send her out with him?" she queried of her. 

"He is not a boy, " replied Maria shiftily. 

"Yes, she did, " said Josephine, still rubbing her head. 

Gladys, through a wholesome fear of her mother, had released her holdon her braids, and stood a little behind. 

Mrs. Mann's scanty rough hair blew in the winter wind as she tookhold of the carriage. Maria again tucked in the white fur robe toconceal her discomfiture. She was becoming aware that she was beingproved in the wrong. 

"Shet up!" said Mrs. Mann in response to Josephine's answer. Therewas not the slightest sense nor meaning in the remark, but it was, soto speak, her household note, learned through the exigency of beingin the constant society of so many noisy children. She toldeverybody, on general principles, to "shet up, " even when she wishedfor information which necessitated the reverse. 

Mrs. Mann was thin and meagre, and wholly untidy. The wind lashed herdirty cotton skirt around her, disclosing a dirtier petticoat andmen's shoes. The skin of her worn, blond face had a look as if thesoil of life had fairly been rubbed into it. All the lines of thisface were lax, displaying utter lassitude and no energy. She, however, had her evanescent streaks of life, as now. Once in a whilea bubble of ancestral blood seemed to come to the surface, althoughit soon burst. She had come, generations back, of a good family. Shewas the run out weed of it, but still, at times, the old colors ofthe blossom were evident. She turned to Maria. 

"If, " said she, "your ma sent her out with this young one, I don'tsee why you went to pullin' her hair fur?"

"I gave her a whole half-pound of chocolates, " returned Maria, in afine glow of indignation, "if she would let me push the baby tillfour o'clock, and it isn't four o'clock yet. "

"It ain't more than half-past three, " said Gladys. 

"Shet up!" said her mother. She stood looking rather helplessly atthe three little girls and the situation. Her suddenly wakened mentalfaculties were running down like those of a watch which has beenshaken to make it go for a few seconds. The situation was too muchfor her, and, according to her wont, she let it drop. Just then awhiff of strong sweetness came from the house, and her blank facelighted up. 

"We are makin' 'lasses candy, " said she. "You young ones all come inand hev' some, and I'll take the baby. He can get warm, and a littleof thet candy won't do him no harm, nuther. " Mrs. Mann used themasculine pronoun from force of habit; all her children with theexception of Gladys were boys. 

Maria hesitated. She had a certain scorn for the Manns. She eyed Mrs. Mann's dirty attire and face. But she was in fact cold, and the smellof the candy was entrancing. "She said never to take the baby inanywhere, " said she, doubtfully. 

Josephine having tired of chocolate, realized suddenly an enormoushunger for molasses candy. She sniffed like a hunting hound. "Shedidn't say not to go into Mrs. Mann's, " said she. 

"She said anywhere; I heard her tell you, " said Maria. 

"Mrs. Mann's ain't anywhere, " said Josephine, who had a will of herown. She rushed around and caught up the baby. "She's most froze, "said she. "She'll get the croup if she don't get warmed up. "

With that, Josephine carrying the baby, Maria, Gladys, and Mrs. Mannall entered the little, squalid Mann house, as hot as a conservatoryand reeking with the smell of boiled molasses. 

When Josephine and Maria and the baby started out again, Maria turnedto Josephine. 

"Now, " said she, "if you don't let me push her as far as the cornerof our street, I'll tell how you took her into Mrs. Mann's. You knowwhat She'll say. "

Josephine, whose face was smeared with molasses candy, and who waseven then sucking some, relinquished her hold on the carriage. "You'll be awful mean if you do tell, " said she. 

"I will tell if you don't do what you say you'll do another time, "said she. 

When they reached home, Ida had not returned, but she came in radiantsome few minutes later. She had read a paper on a famous man, for thepleasure and profit of the Edgham Woman's Club, and she had receivedmuch applause and felt correspondingly elated. Josephine had takenthe baby up-stairs to a little room which had recently been fitted upfor a nursery, and, not following her usual custom, Ida went in thereafter removing her outer wraps. She stood in her blue cloth dresslooking at the child with her usual air of radiant aloofness, seemingto shed her own glory, like a star, upon the baby, rather thanreceive its little light into the loving recesses of her own soul. Josephine and also Maria were in a state of consternation. They haddiscovered a large, sticky splash of molasses candy on the baby'swhite embroidered cloak. They had washed the baby's sticky littleface, but they did not know what was to be done about the cloak, which lay over a chair. Josephine essayed, with a dexterous gesture, to so fold the cloak over that the stain would be for the timeconcealed. But Ida Edgham had not been a school-teacher for nothing. She saw the gesture, and immediately took up the cloak herself. 

"Why, what is this on her cloak?" said she. 

There was a miserable silence. 

"It looks like molasses candy. It is molasses candy, " said Ida. "Josephine, did you give this child molasses candy?" Ida's voice wasentirely even, but there was something terrible about it. 

Maria saw Josephine turn white. "She wouldn't have given her thecandy if it hadn't been for me, " said she. 

Ida stood looking from one to the other. Josephine's face was whiteand scared, Maria's impenetrable. 

"If you ever give this child candy again, either of you, " said Ida, "you will never take her out again. " Then she went out, still smiling. 

Josephine looked at Maria with enormous gratitude. 

"Say, " said she, "you're a dandy. "

"You're a cheat!" returned Maria, with scorn. 

"I'm awful sorry I didn't wait on the corner till four o'clock, honest. "

"You'd better be. "

"Say, but you be a dandy, " repeated Josephine. 

Chapter XII

Maria began to be conscious of other and more vital seasons thanthose of the old earth on which she lived--the seasons of the humansoul. Along with her own unconscious and involuntary budding towardsbloom, the warm rush of the blood in her own veins, she realized thebudding progress of the baby. When little Evelyn was put into shortfrocks, and her little, dancing feet were shod with leather insteadof wool, Maria felt a sort of delicious wonder, similar to that withwhich she watched a lilac-bush in the yard when its blossoms deepenedin the spring. 

The day when Evelyn was put into short frocks, Maria glanced acrossthe school-room at Wollaston Lee, and her innocent passion, halfromance, half imagination, which had been for a time in abeyance, again thrilled her. All her pulses throbbed. She tried to work out asimple problem in her algebra, but mightier unknown quantities wereworking towards solution in every beat of her heart. Wollaston shot asidelong glance at her, and she felt it, although she did not see it. Gladys Mann leaned over her shoulder. 

"Say, " she whispered, "Wollaston Lee is jest starin' at you!"

Maria gave a little, impatient shrug of her shoulders, although ablush shot over her whole face, and Gladys saw distinctly the back ofher neck turn a roseate color. 

"He's awful stuck on you, I guess, " Gladys said. 

Maria shrugged her shoulders again, but she thought of Wollaston andthen of the baby in her short frock and she felt that her heart wasbursting with joy, as a bud with blossom. 

Ida, meantime, was curiously impassive towards her child'sattainments. There was something pathetic about this impassiveness. Ida was missing a great deal, and more because she did not even knowwhat she missed. However, she began to be conscious of a settledaversion towards Maria. Her manner towards her was unchanged, but shebecame distinctly irritated at seeing her about. When anythingannoyed Ida, she immediately entertained no doubt whatever that itwas not in accordance with the designs of an overruling Providence. It seemed manifest to her that if anything annoyed her, it should beremoved. However, in this case, the way of removal did not seem clearfor a long time. Harry was undoubtedly fond of Maria. That did nottrouble Ida in the least, although she recognized the fact. She wasnot a woman who was capable of jealousy, because her own love andadmiration for herself made her impregnable. She loved herself somuch more than Harry could possibly love her that his feeling forMaria did not ruffle her in the least. It was due to no jealousy thatshe wished Maria removed, at least for a part of the time. It wasonly that she was always conscious of a dissent, silent and helpless, still persistent, towards her attitude as regarded herself. She knewthat Maria did not think her as beautiful and perfect as she thoughtherself, and the constant presence of this small element of negationirritated her. Then, too, while she was not in the least jealous ofher child, she had a curious conviction that Maria cared more for herthan she herself cared, and that in itself was a covert reproach. When little Evelyn ran to meet her sister when she returned fromschool, Ida felt distinctly disturbed. She had no doubt of herultimate success in her purpose of ridding herself of at least theconstant presence of Maria, and in the mean time she continued toperform her duty by the girl, to that outward extent that everybodyin Edgham pronounced her a model step-mother. "Maria Edgham neverlooked half so well in her own mother's time, " they said. 

Lillian White spoke of it to her mother one Sunday. She had been tochurch, but her mother had remained at home on account of a cold. 

"I tell you she looked dandy, " said Lillian. Lillian was still assoftly and negatively pretty as ever. She was really charming becauseshe was not angular, because her skin was not thick and coarse, because she did not look anaemic, but perfectly well fed andnourished and happy. 

"Who?" asked her mother. 

"Maria Edgham. She was togged out to beat the band. Everything lookedsort of fadged up that she had before her own mother died. I tell youshe never had anything like the rig she wore to-day. "

"What was it?" asked her mother interestedly, wiping her rasped nosewith a moist ball of handkerchief. 

"Oh, it was the handsomest brown suit I ever laid my eyes on, withhand-embroidery, and fur, and a big picture hat trimmed with fur andchrysanthemums. She's an awful pretty little girl anyhow. "

"She always was pretty, " said Mrs. White, dabbing her nose again. 

"If Ida don't look out, her step-daughter will beat her in looks, "said Lillian. 

"I never thought myself that Ida was anything to brag of, anyway, "said Mrs. White. She still had a sense of wondering injury that HarryEdgham had preferred Ida to her Lillian. 

Lillian was now engaged to be married, but her mother did not feelquite satisfied with the man. He was employed in a retail clothingestablishment in New York, and had only a small salary. "FosterSimpkins" (that was the young man's name) "ain't really what youought to have, " she often said to Lillian. 

But Lillian took it easily. She liked the young man very much as shewould have liked a sugar-plum, and she thought it high time for herto be married, although she was scarcely turned twenty. "Oh, well, ma, " she said. "Men don't grow on every bush, and Foster is realgood-lookin', and maybe his salary will be raised. "

"You ain't lookin' very high, " said her mother. 

"No use in strainin' your neck for things out of your own sky, " saidLillian, who had at times a shrewd sort of humor, inherited from herfather. 

"Harry Edgham would have been a better match for you, " her mothersaid. 

"Lord, I'd a good sight rather have Foster than another woman'sleavin's, " replied Lillian. "Then there was Maria, too. It would havebeen an awful job to dress her, and look out for her. "

"That's so, " said her mother, "and then the two sets of children, too. "

Lillian colored and giggled. "Oh, land, don't talk about children, ma!" said she. "I'm contented as it is. But you ought to have seenthat young one to-day. "

"What did Ida wear?" asked Mrs. White. 

"She wore her black velvet suit, that she had this winter, and theway she strutted up the aisle was a caution. "

"I don't see how Harry Edgham lives the way he does, " said Mrs. White. "Black velvet costs a lot. Do you s'pose it is silk velvet?"

"You bet. "

"I don't see how he does it!"

"He looks sort of worn-out to me. He's grown awful old, I noticed itto-day. "

"Well, all Ida cares for is herself. _She_ don't see he's grown old, you can be sure of that, " said Mrs. White, with an odd sort ofbitterness. Actually the woman was so filled with maternal instinctsthat the bare dream of Harry as her Lillian's husband had given her asort of motherly solicitude for him, which she had not lost. "It's ashame, " said she. 

"Oh, well, it's none of my funeral, " said Lillian, easily. She took achocolate out of a box which her lover had sent her, and begannibbling it like a squirrel. 

"Poor man, " said Mrs. White. Tears of emotion actually filled hereyes and mingled with the rheum of her cold. She took out her moistball of handkerchief again and dabbed both her eyes and nose. 

Lillian looked at her half amusedly, half affectionately. "Mother, you do beat the Dutch, " said she. 

Mrs. White actually snivelled. "I can't help remembering the timewhen his poor first wife died, " said she, "and how he and littleMaria came here to take their meals, poor souls. Harry Edgham wasjust the one to be worked by a woman, poor fellow. "

Lillian sucked her chocolate with a full sense of its sweetness. "Ma, you can't keep track of all creation, nor cry over it, " said she. "You've got to leave it to the Lord. Have you taken your pink pellet?"

"Poor little Maria, too, " said Mrs. White. 

"Good gracious, ma, don't you take to worryin' over her, " saidLillian. "Here's your pink pellet. A young one dressed up the way shewas to-day!"

"Dress ain't everything, and nothin' is goin' to make me believe thatIda Slome is a good mother to her, nor to her own child neither. Itain't in her. "

Lillian, approaching her mother at the window with the pink pelletand a glass of water, uttered an exclamation. "For the land's sake, there she is now!" she said. "Look, ma, there is Maria in her newsuit, and she's got the baby in a little carriage on runners. Justlook at the white fur-tails hanging over the back. Ain't that ahandsome suit?"

Mrs. White gazed out eagerly. "It must have cost a pile, " said she. "I don't see how he does it. "

"She sees you at the window, " said Lillian. 

Both she and her mother smiled and waved at Maria. Maria bowed, andsmiled with a sweet irradiation of her rosy face. 

"She's a little beauty, anyhow, " said Lillian. 

"Dear child, " said Mrs. White, and she snivelled again. 

"Ma, either your cold or the stuff you are takin' is making youdreadful nervous, " said Lillian. "You cry at nothin' at all. Howstraight she is! No stoop about her. "

Maria was, in fact, carrying herself with an extreme straightnessboth of body and soul. She was conscious to the full of her ownbeauty in her new suit, and of the loveliness of her little sister inher white fur nest of a sledge. She was inordinately proud. She hadasked Ida if she might take the child for a little airing before theearly Sunday dinner, and Ida had consented easily. 

Ida also wished for an opportunity to talk with Harry about hercherished scheme, and preferred doing so when Maria was not in thehouse. For manifest reasons, too, Sunday was the best day on which toapproach her husband on a subject which she realized was a somewhatdelicate one. She was not so sure of his subservience when Maria wasconcerned, as in everything else, and Sunday was the day when hisnerves were less strained, when he had risen late. Ida did not insistupon his going to church, as his first wife had done. In fact, if thetruth was told, Harry wore his last winter's overcoat this year, andshe was a little doubtful about its appearance in conjunction withher new velvet costume. He sat in the parlor when Ida entered afterMaria had gone out with Evelyn. Harry looked at her admiringly. 

"How stunning you do look in that velvet dress!" he said. 

Ida laughed consciously. "I rather like it myself, " said she. "It's agreat deal handsomer than Mrs. George Henderson's, and I know she hadhers made at a Fifth Avenue tailor's, and it must have cost twice asmuch. "

Ida had filled Harry with the utmost faith in her financialmanagement. While he was spending more than he had ever done, andworking harder, he was innocently unconscious of it. He felt a senseof gratitude and wonder that Ida was such a good manager andaccomplished such great results with such a small expenditure. He wasunwittingly disloyal to his first wife. He remembered the rigideconomy under her sway, and owned to himself, although withremorseful tenderness, that she had not been such a financier as thiswoman. "You ought to go on Wall Street, " he often told Ida. He gazedafter her now with a species of awe that he had such a splendid, masterful creature for his wife, as she moved with the slow majestyhabitual to her out of the room, the black plumes on her hat softlyfloating, the rich draperies of her gown trailing in sumptuous foldsof darkness. 

When she came down again, in a rose-colored silk tea-gown trimmedwith creamy lace, she was still more entrancing. She brought with herinto the room an atmosphere of delicate perfume. Harry had stoppedsmoking entirely nowadays. Ida had persuaded him that it was bad forhim. She had said nothing about the expense, as his first wife hadbeen accustomed to do. Therefore there was no tobacco smoke to dullhis sensibilities to this delicate perfume. It was as if a livingrose had entered the room. Ida sank gracefully into a chair oppositehim. She was wondering how she could easily lead up to the subject inher mind. There was much diplomacy, on a very small and selfishscale, about Ida. She realized the expediency of starting fromapparently a long distance, to establish her sequences in order tomaintain the appearance of unpremeditativeness. 

"Isn't it a little too warm here, dear?" said she, presently, in thevoice which alone she could not control. Whenever she had an entirelyself-centred object in mind, an object which might possibly meet withopposition, as now, her voice rang harsh and lost its singing quality. 

Harry did not seem to notice it. He started up immediately. Theportieres between the room and the vestibule were drawn. He had, infact, felt somewhat chilly. It was a cold day, and he had a touch ofthe grip. "I will open the portieres, dear, " he said. "I dare say youare right. "

"I noticed it when I first came in, " said Ida. "I meant to draw theportieres apart myself, but going out through the library I forgotit. Thank you, dear. How is your cold?"

"It is nothing, dear, " replied Harry. "There is only a littlesoreness in my throat. "

He resumed his seat, and noticed the fragrance of roasted chickencoming through the parted portieres from the kitchen. Harry was veryfond of roasted chicken. He inhaled that and the delicate perfume ofIda's garments and hair. He regarded her glowing beauty withaffection which had no taint of sensuality. Harry had more of apoetic liking for sweet odors and beauty than a sensual one. 

Harry Edgham in these days had a more poetic and spiritual look thanformerly. He had not lost his strange youthfulness of expression; itwas as if a child had the appearance of having been longer on theearth. His hair had thinned, and receded from his temples, and thebold, almost babyish fulness of his temples was more evident. Hisface was thinner, too, and he had not much color. His mouth was drawndown at the corner, and he frowned slightly, as a child might, inhelpless but non-aggressive dissent. His worn appearance was verynoticeable, in spite of his present happy mood, of which his wifeshrewdly took advantage. 

Ida Edgham did not care for books, although she never admitted thatfact, but she could read with her cold feminine astuteness the moodsand souls of men, with unerring quickness. Those last were to heradvantage or disadvantage, and in anything of that nature she wasgifted by nature. Ida Edgham might have been, as her husband mighthave been, a poet, an adventuress, who could have made the success ofher age had she not been hindered, as well as aided, by herself-love. She had the shrewdness which prognosticates as well asdiscerns, and saw the inevitableness of the ultimatum of allirregularities in a world which, however irregular it is in practice, still holds regularity as its model of conduct and progression. IdaEdgham would, in the desperate state of the earth before the flood, have made herself famous. As it was, her irregular talents had alimited field; however, she did all she could. It always seemed toher that, as far as the right and wrong of things went, her ownhappiness was eminently right, and that it was distinctly wrong forher, or any one else, to oppose any obstacle to it. She allowed thepleasant influences of the passing moment to have their full effectupon her husband, and she continued her leading up to the subject bythose easy and apparently unrelated sequences which none but adiplomat could have managed. 

"Thank you, dear, " she said, when Harry resumed his seat. "The air iscold but very clear and pleasant out to-day, " she continued. 

"It looks so, " said Harry. 

"Still, if I were you, I think I would not go out; it might make yourcold worse, " said Ida. 

"No, I think it would be full as well for me to stay in to-day, "replied Harry happily. He hemmed a little as he spoke, realizing thetickle in his throat with rather a pleasant sense of importance thanannoyance. He stretched himself luxuriously in his chair, and gazedabout the warm, perfumed, luxurious apartment. 

"You have to go out to-morrow, anyway, " said Ida, and she increasedhis sense of present comfort by that remark. 

"That is so, " said Harry, with a slight sigh. 

Lately it had seemed harder than ever before for him to start earlyin the black winter mornings and hurry for his train. Then, too, hehad what he had never had before, a sense of boredom, of ennui, sointense that it was almost a pain. The deadly monotony of it weariedhim. For the first time in his life his harness of duty chafed hisspirit. He was so tired of seeing the same train, the same commuters, taking the same path across the station to the ferry-boat, beingjostled by the same throng, going to the same office, performing thesame, or practically the same, duties, that his very soul wasirritated. He had reached a point where he not only needed butdemanded a change, but the change was as impossible, withoutdestruction, as for a planet to leave its orbit. 

Ida saw the deepening of the frown on his forehead and thelengthening of the lines around his mouth. 

"Poor old man!" said she. "I wish I had a fortune to give you, so youwouldn't have to go. "

The words were fairly cooing, but the tone was still harsh. However, Harry brightened. He regarded this lovely, blooming creature andinhaled again the odor of dinner, and reflected with a sense ofgratitude upon his mercies. Harry had a grateful heart, and wasalways ready to blame himself. 

"Oh, I should be lost, go all to pieces, if I quit work, " he said, laughing. "If I were left a fortune, I should land in an insaneasylum very likely, or take to drink. No, dear, you can't teach suchan old bird new tricks; he's been in one tree too long, summer andwinter. "

"Well, after all, you have not got to go out to-day, " remarked Ida, skilfully, and Harry again stretched himself with a sense of presentcomfort. 

"That is so, dear, " he said. 

"I have something you like for supper, too, " said Ida, "and I thinkGeorge Adams and Louisa may drop in and we can have some music. "

Harry brightened still more. He liked George Adams, and the wife hadmore than a talent for music, of which Harry was passionately fond. She played wonderfully on Ida's well-tuned grand piano. 

"I thought you might like it, " said Ida, "and I spoke to Louisa as Iwas coming out of church. "

"You were very kind, sweetheart, " Harry said, and again a flood ofgratitude seemed to sweeten life for the man. 

Ida took another step in her sequence. 

"I think Maria had better stay up, if they do come, " said she. "Sheenjoys music so much. She can keep on her new gown. Maria is socareful of her gowns that I never feel any anxiety about her soilingthem. "

"She is just like--" began Harry, then he stopped. He had been aboutto state that Maria was just like her mother in that respect, but hehad remembered suddenly that he was speaking to his second wife. 

However, Ida finished his remark for him with perfect good-nature. She had not the slightest jealousy of Harry's first wife, only a sortof contempt, that she had gotten so little where she herself hadgotten so much. 

"Maria's own mother was very particular, wasn't she, dear?" she said. 

"Very, " replied Harry. 

"Maria takes it from her, without any doubt, " Ida said, smoothly. "She looked so sweet in that new gown to-day, that I would like tohave the Adamses see her without her coat to-night; and Maria lookseven prettier without her hat, too, her hair grows so prettily on hertemples. Maria grows lovelier every day, it seems to me. I don't knowhow many I saw looking at her in church this morning. "

"Yes, she is going to be pretty, I guess, " said Harry, and again hisvery soul seemed warm and light with pleasure and gratitude. 

"She _is_ pretty, " said Ida, conclusively. "She is at the awkwardage, too. But there is no awkwardness about Maria. She is like alittle fairy. "

Harry beamed upon her. "She is as proud as punch when she gets achance to take the little one out, and they made a pretty picturegoing down the street, " said he, "but I hope she won't catch cold. Isthat new suit warm?"

"Oh yes! it is interlined. I looked out for that. "

"You look out for my child as if she were your own, bless you, dear, "Harry said, affectionately. 

Then Ida thought that the time for her carefully-led-up-to coup hadarrived. "I try to, " said she, meekly. 

"You _do_. "

Ida began to speak, then she hesitated, with timid eyes on herhusband's face. 

"What is it, dear?" asked he. 

"Well, I have been thinking a good deal lately about Maria and herassociates in school here. "

"Why, what is the matter with them?" Harry asked, uneasily. 

"Oh, I don't know that there is anything very serious the matter withthem, but Maria is at an age when she is very impressible, and thereare many who are not exactly desirable. There is Gladys Mann, forinstance. I saw Maria walking down the street with her the other day. Now, Harry, you know that Gladys Mann is not exactly the kind of girlwhom Maria's own mother would have chosen for an intimate friend forher. "

"You are right, " Harry said, frowning. 

"Well, I have been thinking over the number of pupils of both sexesin the school who can be called degenerates, either in mind ormorals, and I must say I was alarmed. "

"Well, what is to be done?" asked Harry, moodily. "Maria must go toschool, of course. "

"Yes, of course, Maria must have a good education, as good as if herown mother had lived. "

"Well, what is to be done, then?"

Then Ida came straight to the point. "The only way I can see is toremove her from doubtful associates. "

"Remove her?" repeated Harry, blankly. 

"Yes; send her away to school. Wellbridge Hall, in Emerson, where Iwent myself, would be a very good school. It is not expensive. "

Harry stared. "But, Ida, she is too young. "

"Not at all. "

"You were older when you went there. "

"A little older. "

"How far is Emerson from here?"

"Only a night's journey from New York. You go to sleep in your berth, and in the morning you are there. You could always see her off. It isvery easy. "

"Send Maria away! Ida, it is out of the question. Aside from anythingelse, there is the expense. I am living up to my income as it is. "

"Oh, " said Ida--she gave her head a noble toss, and spokeimpressively--"I am prepared to go without myself to make it possiblefor you to meet her bills. You know I spoke the other day of a newlace dress. Well, that would cost at least a hundred; I will gowithout that. And I wanted some new portieres for my room; I will gowithout them. That means, say, fifty more. And you know thedining-room rug looks very shabby. I was thinking we must have anEastern rug, which would cost at least one hundred and fifty; Ithought it would pay in the end. Well, I am prepared to give that upand have a domestic, which only costs twenty-five; that is a hundredand twenty-five more saved. And I had planned to have my seal-skincoat made over after Christmas, and you know you cannot haveseal-skin touched under a hundred; there is a hundred more. There arethree hundred and seventy-five saved, which will pay for Maria'stuition for a year, and enough over for travelling expenses. " Nothingcould have exceeded the expression of lofty virtue of Ida Edgham whenshe concluded her speech. As for her own selfish considerations, those, as always, she thought of only as her duty. Ida establishedalways a clear case of conscience in all her dealings for her owninterests. 

But Harry continued to frown. The childish droop of his handsomemouth became more pronounced. "I don't like the idea, " he said, quitesturdily for him. 

"Suppose we leave it to Maria, " said Ida. 

"I really think, " said Harry, in almost a fretful tone, "that youexaggerate. I hardly think there is anything so very objectionableabout her associates here. I will admit that many of the childrencome from what we call the poor whites, but after all their main viceis shiftlessness, and Maria is not very likely to become contaminatedwith that. "

"Why, Harry, my dear, that is the very least of their vices. "

"What else?"

"Why, you know that they are notoriously light-fingered. "

"My dear Ida, you don't mean to say that you think Maria--"

"Why, of course not, Harry, but aside from that, their morals. "

Harry rose from his chair and walked across the room nervously. 

"My dear Ida, " he said, "you are exaggerating now. Maria is simplynot that kind of a girl; and, besides, I don't know that she does seeso much of those people, anyway. "

"Gladys Mann--"

"Well, I never heard any harm of that poor little runt. On the otherside, Ida, I should think Maria's influence over her for good was tobe taken into consideration. "

"I hope you don't mean Maria to be a home missionary?" said Ida. 

"She might go to school for a worse purpose, " replied Harry, simply. "Maria has a very strong character from her mother, if not from herfather. I actually think the chances are that the Mann girl will havea better chance of getting good from Maria than Maria evil from her. "

"Well, dear, suppose we leave it to Maria herself, " said Ida. "Nobodyis going to force the dear child away against her will, of course. "

"Very well, " said Harry. His face still retained a slightly sulky, disturbed expression. 

Ida, after a furtive glance at him, took up a sheet of the Sundaypaper, and began swaying back and forth gracefully in herrocking-chair, as she read it. 

"How foolish all this sentiment about that murderer in the Tombs is, "said she presently. "They are actually going to give him aChristmas-tree. "

"He is only a boy, " said Harry absently. 

"I know that--but the idea!"

Just then Maria passed the window, dragging little Evelyn in herwhite sledge. Ida rose with a motion of unusual quickness for her, but Harry stopped her as she was about to leave the room. 

"Don't go out, Ida, " he said, with a peremptoriness which satstrangely upon him. 

Ida stared at him. "Why, why not?" she asked. "I wanted to takeEvelyn out. You know Josephine is not here. "

"She is getting out all right with Maria's help; sit down, Ida, " saidHarry, still with that tone of command which was so foreign to him. 

Ida hesitated a second, then she sat down. She realized the grace andpolicy of yielding in a minor point, when she had a large one inview. Then, too, she was in reality rather vulnerable to a suddenattack, for a moment, although she was always as a rule sure ofultimate victory. She was at a loss, moreover, to comprehend Harry'smanner, which was easily enough understood. He wished to be the firstto ascertain Maria's sentiments with regard to going away to school. Without admitting it even to himself, he distrusted his wife'smethods and entire frankness. 

Presently Maria entered, leading little Evelyn, who was unusuallysturdy on her legs for her age. She walked quite steadily, with anoccasional little hop and skip of exuberant childhood. 

She could talk a little, in disconnected sentences, with fascinatingmistakes in the sounds of letters, but she preferred a gurgle oflaughter when she was pleased, and a wail of woe when things wentwrong. She was still in the limbos of primitivism. She was young withthe babyhood of the world. To-day she danced up to her father withher little thrill of laughter, at once as meaningless and as full ofmeaning as the trill of a canary. She pursed up her little lips for akiss, she flung frantic arms of adoration around his neck. She clungto him, when he lifted her, with all her little embracing limbs; shepressed her lovely, cool, rosy cheek against his, and laughed again. 

"Now go and kiss mamma, " said Harry. 

But the baby resisted with a little, petulant murmur when he tried toset her down. She still clung to him. Harry whispered in her ear. 

"Go and kiss mamma, darling. "

But Evelyn shook her head emphatically against his face. Maria, almost as radiant in her youth as the child, stood behind her. Sheglanced uneasily at Ida. She held the white fur robes and wraps whichshe had brought in from the sledge. 

"Take those things out and let Emma put them away, dear, " Ida said toher. She smiled, but her voice still retained its involuntaryharshness. 

Maria obeyed with an uneasy glance at little Evelyn. She knew thather step-mother was angry because the baby would not kiss her. Whenshe was out in the dining-room, giving the fluffy white things to themaid, she heard a shriek, half of grief, half of angry dissent, fromthe baby. She immediately ran back into the parlor. Ida was removingthe child's outer garments, smiling as ever, and with seeminggentleness, but Maria had a conviction that her touch on the tenderflesh of the child was as the touch of steel. Little Evelyn struggledto get to her sister when she saw her, but Ida held her firmly. 

"Stand still, darling, " she said. It was inconceivable how she couldsay darling without the loving inflection which alone gave the wordits full meaning. 

"Stand still and let mamma take off baby's things, " said Harry, andthere was no lack of affectionate cadences in his voice. He privatelythought that he himself could have taken off the child's wraps betterthan his wife, but he recognized her rights in the matter. Harryremembering his first wife, with her child, was in a state ofconstant bewilderment at the sight of his second with hers. He hadalways had the masculine opinion that women, in certain primevalrespects, were cut on one pattern, and his opinion was being rudelyshaken. 

"Call Emma, please, " said Ida to Maria, and Maria obeyed. 

When the maid came in, Ida directed her to take the child up-stairsand put on another frock. 

Maria was about to follow, but Harry stopped her. "Maria, " said he. 

Maria stopped, and eyed her father with surprise. 

"Maria, " said Harry, bluntly, "your mother and I have been talkingabout your going away to school. "

Maria turned slightly pale and continued to stare at him, but shesaid nothing. 

"She thinks, and I don't know but she is right, " said Harry, withpainful loyalty, "that your associates here are not just the properones for you, and that it would be much better for you to go toboarding-school. "

"How much would it cost?" asked Maria, in a dazed voice. The questionsounded like her own mother. 

"Father can manage that; you need not trouble yourself about that, "replied Harry, hurriedly. 

"Where?" said Maria, then. 

"To a nice school where your mother was educated. "

"My mother?"

"Ida--to Wellbridge Hall. "

"How often should I come home and see you and Evelyn? Every week?"

"I am afraid not, dear, " said Harry, uneasily. 

"How long are the terms?" asked Maria. 

"Only about twelve weeks, " said Ida. 

Maria stood staring from one to the other. Her face had turned deadlypale, and had, moreover, taken on an expression of despair andisolation. Somehow, although the little girl was only a few feet fromthe others, she had a look as if she were leagues off, as if she wereoutside something vital, which removed her, in fact, to immeasurabledistances. And, in fact, Maria had a feeling which never afterwardswholly left her, of being outside the love of life in which she hadhitherto dwelt with confidence. 

"Maybe you would like it, dear, " Harry said, feebly. 

"I will go, " Maria said, in a choking voice. Then she turned withoutanother word and went out of the room, up-stairs to her own littlechamber. When there she sat down beside the window. She did notthink. She did not seem to feel her hands and feet. It was as if shehad fallen from a height. The realization that her father and his newwife wanted to send her away, that she was not wanted in her home, stunned her. 

But in a moment the door was flung open and her father entered. Heknelt down beside Maria and pulled her head to his shoulder andkissed her, and she felt with a sort of dull wonder his face dampagainst her own. 

"Father's little girl!" said Harry. "Father's own little girl!Father's blessing! Did she think he wanted to send her away? I ratherguess he didn't. How would father get along without his own preciousbaby, when he came home at night. She shan't go one step. She needn'tfret a bit about it. "

Maria turned and regarded him with a frozen look still on her face. "It was She that wanted me to go?" she said, interrogatively. 

"She thought maybe it would be best for you, darling, " said Harry. "She means to do right by you, Maria; you must try to think so. "

Maria said nothing. 

"But father isn't going to let you go, " said Harry. "He can't dowithout his little girl. "

Then Maria's strange calm broke up. She clung, weeping, to herfather, as if he were her only stay. Harry continued to soothe her. 

"Father's blessing!" he whispered in her ear. "She was the bestlittle girl that ever was. She is just like her own dear mother. "

"I wish mother was back, " Maria whispered, her whisper stifledagainst his ear. 

"Oh, my God, so do I!" Harry said, with a half sob. For the minutethe true significance of his position overwhelmed him. He felt aregret, a remembrance, that was a passion. He realized, with nodisguise, what it all meant: that he a man with the weakness of achild in the hands of a masterly woman, had formerly been in theleading-strings of love for himself, for his own best good, whereashe was now in the grasp of the self-love of another who cared for himonly as he promoted her own interests. In a moment, however, herecovered himself. After all, he had a sense of loyalty and dutywhich amounted to positive strength. He put Maria gently from himwith another kiss. 

"Well, this won't bring your mother back, dear, " he said, "and Godtook her away, you know, and what He does is for the best; and Shemeans to do her duty by you, you know, dear. She thought it would bebetter for you, but father can't spare you, that's all there is aboutit. "

Chapter XIII

It was an utter impossibility for Ida Edgham to be entirely balked ofany purpose which she might form. There was something at onceimpressive and terrible about the strength of this beautiful, smilingcreature's will, about its silence, its impassibility beforeobstacles, its persistency. It was as inevitable and unswervable asan avalanche or a cyclone. People might shriek out against it andstruggle, but on it came, a mighty force, overwhelming petty thingsas well as great ones. It really seemed a pity, taking intoconsideration Ida's tremendous strength of character, that she hadnot some great national purpose upon which to exert herself, insteadof such trivial domestic ones. 

Ida realized that she could not send Maria to the school which shehad proposed. Her strength had that subtlety which acknowledges itslimitations and its closed doors, and can look about for other meansand ways. Therefore, when Harry came down-stairs that Sundayafternoon, his face working with emotion but his eyes filled with asteady light, and said, with no preface, "It's no use talking, Ida, that child does not want to go, and she shall never be driven fromunder my roof, while I live, " Ida only smiled, and replied, "Verywell, dear, I only meant it for her good. "

"She is not going, " Harry said doggedly. 

Harry resumed his seat with a gesture of defiance which was absurd, from its utter lack of any response from his wife. It was liketilting with a windmill. 

Ida continued to sway gently back and forth, and smile. 

"I think if the Adamses do come in to-night we will have a littlesalad, there will be enough left from the chicken, and some cake andtea, " she observed presently. "We won't have the table set, becauseboth the maids have asked to go out, but Maria can put on my Indiamuslin apron and pass the things. I will have the salad made beforethey go, and I will make the tea. We can have it on the table inhere. " Ida indicated, by a graceful motion of her shoulder, a prettylittle tea-table loaded with Dresden china. 

"All right, " replied Harry, with a baffled tone. He felt baffledwithout knowing exactly why. 

Ida took up another sheet of the Herald, a fashion page wasuppermost. She read something and smiled. "It says that gowns madelike Maria's new one are the most fetching ones of the season, " shesaid. "I am so glad I have the skirt plaited. "

Harry made a gesture of assent. He felt, without in the least knowingwhy, like a man who had been completely worsted in a hand-to-handcombat. He felt humiliated and unhappy. His first wife, even with herhigh temper and her ready tongue, had never caused him such a senseof abjectness. He had often felt angry with her, but never withhimself. She had never really attacked his self-respect as this womandid. He did not dare look up from his newspaper for a while, for herealized that he should experience agony at seeing the beautiful, radiant face of his second wife opposite him instead of the worn, stern, but altogether loving and single-hearted face of his first. Hewas glad when Maria came down-stairs, and looked up and greeted herwith a smile of reassuring confidence. Maria's pretty little face wasstill tear-stained, although she had bathed it with cold water. Shealso took up a sheet of the Sunday paper. 

"Did you see Alice Lundy's new hat in church to-day, dear?" Idapresently asked her, and her manner was exactly as if nothing hadoccurred to disturb anybody. 

Maria looked at her with a sort of wonder, which made her honest facealmost idiotic. 

"No, ma'am, " said she. 

Maria had been taught to say "yes, ma'am" and "no, ma'am" by her ownmother, whose ideas of etiquette were old-fashioned, and dated fromthe precepts of her own childhood. 

"It is a little better not to say ma'am, " said Ida, sweetly. "I thinkthat expression is not used so much as formerly. "

Maria looked at her with a quick defiance, which gave her an almoststartling resemblance to her own mother. 

"Yes, ma'am, " said she. 

Harry's mouth twitched behind his paper. Ida said no more. Shecontinued to smile, but she was not reading the paper which she held. She was making new plans to gain her own ends. She was seeking newdoors of liberty for her own ways, in lieu of those which she sawwere closed to her, and by the time dinner was served she was quitesure that she had succeeded. 

The next autumn, Maria began attending the Elliot Academy, inWardway. The Elliot Academy was an endowed school of a very highstanding, and Wardway was a large town, almost a city, about fifteenmiles from Edgham. When this plan was broached by Ida, Maria did notmake any opposition; she was secretly delighted. Wollaston Lee wasgoing to the Elliot Academy that autumn, and there was another Edghamgirl and her brother, besides Maria, who were going. 

"Now, darling, you need not go to the Elliot Academy any more than tothe other school she proposed, if you don't want to, " Harry toldMaria, privately, one Saturday afternoon in September, shortly beforethe term began. 

Ida had gone to her club, and Harry had come home early from thecity, and he and Maria were alone in the parlor. Evelyn was havingher nap up-stairs. A high wind was roaring about the house. Acherry-tree beside the house was fast losing its leaves in a yellowrain. In front of the window, a hydrangea bush, tipped withmagnificent green-and-rosy plumes, swayed in all its limbs like aliving thing. Somewhere up-stairs a blind banged. 

"I think I would like to go, " Maria replied, hurriedly. Then shejumped up. "That blind will wake Evelyn, " she said, and ran out ofthe room. 

She had colored unaccountably when her father spoke. When shereturned, she had a demure, secretive expression on her face whichmade Harry stare at her in bewilderment. All his life Harry Edghamhad been helpless and bewildered before womenkind, and now his littledaughter was beginning to perplex him. She sat down and took up apiece of fancy-work, and her father continued to glance at herfurtively over his paper. Presently he spoke of the academy again. 

"You need not go if you do not want to, " he repeated. 

Then again Maria's delicate little face and neck became suffused withpink. Her reply was not as loud nor more intelligible than the murmurof the trees outside in the wind. 

"What did you say, darling?" asked Harry. "Father did not understand. "

"I would like to go there, " Maria replied, in her sweet, decisivelittle pipe. A fresh wave of color swept over her face and neck, andshe selected with great care a thread from a skein of linen floss. 

"Well, she thought you might like that, " Harry said, with an air ofrelief. 

"Maud Page is going, too, " said Maria. 

"Is she? That will be nice. You won't have to go back and forthalone, " said Harry. 

Maria said nothing; she continued her work. 

Her father turned his paper and looked at the stock-list. Once he hadowned a hundred shares of one of the Industrials. He had long sincesold out, not at a loss, but the stock had risen since. He alwaysnoted it with an odd feeling of proprietorship, in spite of notowning any. He saw with pride that it had advanced half a point. 

Maria worked silently; and as she worked she dreamed, and the dreamwas visible on her face, had any one been astute enough to understandit. She was working a lace collar to wear with a certain blue blouse, and upon that flimsy keystone was erecting an air-castle. She wasgoing to the Elliot Academy, wearing the blue blouse and the lacecollar, and looking so lovely that Wollaston Lee worshipped her. Sheinvented little love-scenes, love-words, and caresses. She blushed, and dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth, the blue light ofher eyes under her downcast lids was like the light of living gems. She viewed with complacency her little, soft white hands plying theneedle. Maria had hands like a little princess. She cast a glance atthe toe of her tiny shoe. She remembered how somebody had told her tokeep her shoulders straight, and she threw them back with a charmingmotion, as if they had been wings. She was entirely oblivious of herfather's covert glances. She was solitary, isolated in the crystal ofher own thoughts. Presently, Evelyn woke and cried, and Maria rousedherself with a start and ran up-stairs. Soon the two came into theroom, Evelyn dancing with the uncertain motion of a winged seed on aspring wind. She was charming. One round cheek was more deeplyflushed than the other, and creased with the pillow. Her yellow hair, fine and soft and full of electric life, tossed like a little crest. She ran with both fat little hands spread palms outward, and pouncedviolently upon her father. Harry rolled her about on his knee, andplayed with her as if she had been a kitten. Maria stood by laughing. The child was fairly screaming with mirth. 

A graceful figure passed the window, its garments tightly wrapped bythe wind, flying out like a flag behind. Harry set the little girldown at once. 

"Here is mamma coming, " said he. "Go to sister and she will show youthe pictures in the book papa brought home the other day. "

Evelyn obeyed. She was a docile little thing, and she had a fear ofher mother without knowing why. She was sitting beside Maria, lookingdemurely at the pictures which her sister pointed out to her, whenIda entered. 

"See the horsey running away, " said Maria. Then she added in awhisper, "Go and kiss mamma, baby. "

The child hesitated, then she rose, and ran to her mother, whostooped her radiant face over her and kissed her coolly. 

"Have you been a good little girl?" asked she. Ida was lookingparticularly self-satisfied to day, and more disposed consequently toquestion others as to their behavior. 

"Yeth, " replied Evelyn, without the slightest hesitation. A happybelief in her own merits was an inheritance from her mother. As yetit was more charming than otherwise, for the baby had unquestionablemerits in which to believe. Harry and Maria laughed. 

"Mamma is very glad, " said Ida. She did not laugh; she saw no humorin it. She turned to Harry. "I think I will go in on the early trainwith you to-morrow, dear, " she said. "I want to see about Maria'snew dress. " Then she turned to Maria. "I have been in to see MissKeeler, " said she, "and she says she can make it for you next week, so you can have it when you begin school. I thought of brown with atouch of blue and burnt-orange. How would you like that?"

"I think that would be perfectly lovely, " said Maria with enthusiasm. She cast a grateful look at her step-mother, almost a look ofaffection. She was always very grateful to Ida for her new clothes, and just now clothes had a more vital interest for her than ever. Shetook another stitch in her collar, with Evelyn leaning against herand kicking out first one chubby leg, then the other, and sheimmediately erected new air-castles, in which she figured in herbrown suit with the touches of burnt-orange and blue. 

A week later, when she started on the train for Wardway in her newattire, she felt entirely satisfied with herself and life in general. She was conscious of looking charming in her new suit of brown, withthe touches of blue and burnt-orange, and her new hat, also brownwith blue and burnt-orange glimpses in the trimmings. Wollaston Leegot on the same car and sat behind her. Maud Page, the other Edghamgirl who was going to the academy, had a cousin in Wardway, and hadgone there the night before. There were only Maria, Wollaston, andEdwin Shaw, who sat by himself in a corner, facing the otherpassengers with a slightly shamed, sulky expression. He was verytall, and had blacked his shoes well, and the black light from themseemed to him obtrusive, the more so because his feet were verylarge. He looked out of the window as the train left the station, andsaw a very pretty little child with a fluff of yellow hair, carryinga big doll, climbing laboriously on a train on the other track, withthe tender assistance of a brakeman. She was in the wake of a verystout woman, who stumbled on her skirts going up the steps. EdwinShaw thought that the child looked like Maria's little sister, butthat she could not be, because the stout woman was a stranger to him. Then he thought no more about it. He gazed covertly at Maria, withthe black sparkles of his shoes continuing to disturb him. He admiredMaria. Presently he saw Wollaston Lee lean over the back of her seatand say something to her, and saw her half turn and dimple, andnoticed how the lovely rose flushed the curve of her cheek, and hescowled at his shiny shoes. 

As for Maria, when she felt the boy's warm breath on her neck, herheart beat fast. She realized herself on the portals of an air-castle. 

"Well, glad you are going to leave this old town?" said Wollaston. 

"I am not going to leave it, really, " replied Maria. 

"Oh, of course not, but you are going to leave the old school, anyhow. I had got mighty tired of it, hadn't you?"

"Yes, I had, rather. "

"It's behind the times, " said the boy; and, as he spoke he himselflooked quite up to the times. He had handsome, clearly cut featuresand black eyes, which seemed at the same time to demand and question. He had something of a supercilious air, although the expression ofyouthful innocence and honesty was still evident on his face. He worea new suit as well as Maria, only his was gray instead of brown, andhe wore a red carnation in his button-hole. Maria inhaled the clovyfragrance of it. At the next station more passengers got into thetrain, and Wollaston seized upon that excuse to ask to share Maria'sseat. They talked incessantly--an utterly foolish gabble like that ofyoung birds. An old gentleman across the aisle cast an impatientglance at them from time to time. Finally he arose stiffly and wentinto the smoker. Their youth and braggadocio of innocence andignorance, and the remembrance of his own, irritated him. He did notin the least regret his youth, but the recollection of the firststages of his life, now that he was so near the end, was like lookingbackward over a long road, which had led to absurdly different goalsfrom what he had imagined. It all seemed inconceivable, silly andfutile to him, what he had done, and what they were doing. He cast afurious glance at them as he passed out, but neither noticed it. Wollaston said something, and Maria laughed an inane little gigglewhich was still musical, and trilled through the car. Maria's cheekswere burning, and she seldom looked at the boy at her side, butoftener at the young autumn landscape through which they werepassing. The trees had scarcely begun to turn, but here and there oneflamed out like a gold or red torch among the green, and all theway-sides were blue and gold with asters and golden-rod. It was avery warm morning for the season. When they stopped at one of thestations, a yellow butterfly flew in through an open window andflitted airily about the car. Maria removed her coat, with thesolicitous aid of her companion. She cast a conscious glance at theorange and blue on her sleeves. 

"Say, that dress is a stunner!" whispered Wollaston. 

Maria laughed happily. "Glad you like it, " said she. 

Before they reached Wardway, Wollaston's red carnation was fastenedat one side of her embroidered vest, making a discord of color which, for Maria, was a harmony of young love and romance. 

"That is the academy, " said Wollaston, as the train rolled intoWardway. He pointed to a great brick structure at the right--a mainbuilding flanked by enormous wings. "Are you frightened?" he asked. 

"I guess not, " replied Maria, but she was. 

"You needn't be a bit, " said the boy. "I know some of the boys thatgo there, and I went to see the principal with father. He's realpleasant. I know the Latin teacher, Miss Durgin, too. My Uncle Frankmarried her cousin, and she has been to my house. You'll be in herclass. " Wollaston spoke with a protective warmth for which Maria wasvery grateful. 

She had a very successful although somewhat confused day. She wasasked this and that and led hither and yon, and so surrounded bystrange faces and sights that she felt fairly dizzy. She felt moreherself at luncheon, when she sat beside Maud Page in thedining-hall, with Wollaston opposite. There was a restaurant attachedto the academy, for the benefit of the out-of-town pupils. 

When Maria went down to the station to take her train for home, MaudPage was there, and Wollaston. There was a long time to wait. Theywent out in a field opposite and picked great bunches of golden-rod, and the girls pinned them on their coats. Edwin Shaw was lingeringabout the station when they returned, but he was too shy to speak tothem. When the train at last came in, Maria, with a duplicity whichshamed her in thinking of it afterwards, managed to get away fromMaud, and enter the car at the same time with Wollaston, who seatedhimself beside her as a matter of course. It was still quite light, but it had grown cold. Everything had a cold look--the clear cowslipsky, with its reefs of violet clouds; even the trees tossed crisply, as if stiffened with cold. 

"Hope we won't have a frost, " said Wollaston, as they got off atEdgham. 

"I hope not, " said Maria; and then Gladys Mann ran up to her, cryingout:

"Say, Maria, Maria, did you know your little sister was lost?"

Maria turned deadly white. Wollaston caught hold of her little arm inits brown sleeve. 

"When was she lost?" he asked, fiercely, of Gladys. "Don't you knowany better than to rush right at anybody with such a thing as that?Don't you be frightened, Maria. I'll find her. "

A little knot of passengers from the train gathered around them. Gladys was pale herself, and had a strong sense of the sadness of theoccasion, still she had a feeling of importance. Edwin Shaw camelumbering up timidly, and Maud Page pressed quickly to Maria's sidewith a swirl of her wide skirts. 

"Gladys Mann, what on earth are you talking about?" said she, sharply. "Who's lost?"

"Maria's little sister. "

"Hm! I don't believe a word of it. "

"She is, so there! Nobody has seen a sign of her since morning, andMaria's pa's most crazy. He's been sending telegrams all round. Maria's step-mother, she telegraphed for him to come home, and hecome at noon, and he sent telegrams all round, and then he wenthimself an hour ago. "

"Went where?"

"Back to New York. Guess he's gone huntin' himself. Guess he thoughthe could hunt better than policemen. Maria's step-mother don't actscared, but I guess she is, awful. My mummer says that folks thatbear up the best are the ones that feel things most. My mummer wentover to see if she could do anything and see how she took it. "

"When was she lost?" gasped Maria. She was shaking from head to foot. 

"Your step-mother went down to the store, and when she got back thebaby was gone. Josephine said she hadn't seen her after you hadstarted for Wardway. She took her doll with her. "

"Where?" gasped Maria. 

"Nobody knows where, " said Gladys, severely, although the tears werestreaming down her own grimy cheeks. "She wouldn't be lost, wouldshe, if folks knew where she was? Nothin' ain't never lost when youknow where it is unless you drop it down a well, and you 'ain't gotno well, have you, Maria Edgham?"

"No, " said Maria. She was conscious of an absurd thankfulness andrelief that she had no well. 

"And there ain't no pond round here big enough to drown a babykitten, except that little mud-puddle up at Fisher's, and they'vedragged every inch of that. I see 'em. "

All this time Edwin Shaw had been teetering on uncertain toes on theborders of the crowd. He remembered the child with the doll whom hehad seen climbing into the New York train in the morning, and he waseager to tell of it, to make himself of importance, but he wasafraid. After all, the child might not have been Evelyn. There wereso many little, yellow-haired things with dolls to be seen about, andthen there was the stout woman to be accounted for. Edwin neverdoubted that the child had been with the stout woman whom he had seenstumbling over her voluminous skirts up the car steps. At last hestepped forward and spoke, with a moist blush overspreading his face, toeing in and teetering with embarrassment. 

"Say, " he began. 

The attention of the whole company was at once riveted upon him. Hewriggled; the blood looked as if it would burst through his face. Great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead. He stammeredwhen he spoke. He caught a glimpse of Maria's blue-and-orangetrimmings, and looked down, and again the black light of his shoes, which all the dust of the day had not seemed to dim, flashed in hiseyes. He came of a rather illiterate family with aspirations, andwhen he was nervous he had a habit of relapsing into the dialect incommon use in his own home, regardless of his educationalattainments. He did so now. 

"I think she has went to New York, " he said. 

"Who?" demanded Wollaston, eagerly. His head was up like a huntinghound; he kept close hold of Maria's little arm. 

"Her. "

"Who?"

"Her little sister-in-law. " Edwin pointed to Maria. 

Gladys Mann went peremptorily up to Edwin Shaw, seized hiscoat-collar, and shook him. "For goodness sake! when did she went?"she demanded. "When did you see her? If you know anythin', tell it, an' not stand thar like a fool!"

"I saw a little girl jest about her size, a-carryin' of a doll, thatclim on the New York train jest as we went out this mornin', " repliedEdwin with a gasp, as if the information were wrung from him bytorture. "And she was with a awful fat woman. Leastways--"

"A fat woman!" cried Wollaston Lee. "Who was the fat woman?"

"I hadn't never saw her afore. She was awful fat, and was a steppin'on her dress. "

Wollaston was keen-witted, and he immediately grasped at the truth ofthe matter. 

"You idiot!" he said. "What makes you think she was with the stoutwoman--just because she was climbing into the train after her?"

"Little girls don't never go to New York alone with dolls, "vouchsafed Edwin, more idiotically than ever. "Leastways--"

"If you don't stop saying leastways, I'll punch your head, " saidWollaston. "Are you sure the child was Maria's little sister?"

"Looked like her, " said Edwin, shrinking back a little. "Leastways--"

"What was she dressed in?" asked Maria, eagerly. 

"I didn't see as she had nothin' on. "

"You great gump!" said Gladys, shaking him energetically. "Of courseshe had something on. "

"She had a big doll. "

"What did she have on? You answer me this minute!" said Gladys. 

"She might have had on a blue dress, " admitted Edwin, with a franticgrasp at his memory, "but she didn't have nothin' on her, nohow. Leastways--"

"Oh!" sobbed Maria, "she did wear her little blue dress this morning. She did! Was her hair light?"

"Yes, it were, " said Edwin, quite positively. "Leastways--"

"It was Evelyn, " sobbed Maria. "Oh, poor little Evelyn, all alone inNew York! She never went but once with Her and me, and she wouldn'tknow where to go. Oh, oh!"

"Where did she go when she went with your step-ma and you?" demandedGladys, who seemed to have suddenly developed unusual acumen. Herface was streaming with tears but her voice was keen. 

"She went to Her cousin's, who lives in an apartment in WestForty-ninth Street, " said Maria. 

"She'd try to go there again, " said Gladys. "Did she know the woman'sname?"

"Yes, she did. "

"You bet she did. She was an awful bright kid, " said Gladys. "Now, Itell you what, Maria, I shouldn't a mite wonder if your step-ma hadhad a telegram from her cousin by this time, that she was to herhouse. You'd better jest run home an' see. "

"She was only her third cousin, " said Maria, "and She hardly everheard from her. It was only the other day I heard Her say that shedidn't know but she had left New York. I don't think Her cousin likedher very well. "

"What was the cousin's name?"

"She called her Alice, but her name was Mrs. George B. Edison. "

"That's jest where the kid has went, " said Gladys. "You go righthome, M'ria. We'll go with you, and I'll bet a cooky you'll find thatyour step-ma has had a telegram. "

Maria hesitated a moment; then she started, Wollaston Lee stillkeeping close hold of her arm. Gladys was on the other side. 

Chapter XIV

When Maria reached home, she pushed open the front door, which wasunlocked, and rushed violently in. Wollaston and Gladys followed her, after a slight hesitation, but remained standing in the vestibule. When Maria had come in sight of the house, she had perceived theregular motion of a rocking female head past the parlor light, andshe knew that it was Ida. Ida nearly always occupied a rocking-chair, and was fond of the gentle, swaying motion. 

"There she is, rocking just as if the baby wasn't lost, " Mariathought, with the bitterest revulsion and sarcasm. When she openedthe door she immediately smelled tea, the odor of broiling beefsteakand fried potatoes. "Eating just as if the baby wasn't lost, " shethought. She rushed into the parlor, and there was Ida swaying backand forth in her rocking-chair, and there were three ladies with her. One was Mrs. Jonas White; one was a very smartly dressed woman, Mrs. Adams, perhaps the most intimate friend whom Ida had in Edgham; onewas the wife of the minister whose church the Edghams attended, Mrs. Applegate, or, as she was called, Mrs. Dr. Applegate--her husband hada degree. Her sister had just died and she was dressed in the deepestmourning; sitting in the shade in a corner, she produced a curiouseffect of a vacuum of grief. Mrs. Adams, who was quite young and verypretty, stout and blond, was talking eagerly; Mrs. Jonas White wassniffing quietly; Mrs. Applegate, who was ponderously religious, asked once in a while, in a subdued manner, if Mrs. Edgham did notthink it would be advisable to unite in prayer. 

Ida made no reply. She continued to rock, and she had a curious setexpression. Her lips were resolutely compressed, as if to restrainthat radiant smile of hers, which had become habitual with her. Shelooked straight ahead, keeping her eyes fastened upon a Tiffany vasewhich stood on a little shelf, a glow of pink and gold against askilful background of crimson velvet. It was as if she were havingher photograph taken and had been requested by the photographer tokeep her eyes fixed upon that vase. 

"The detective system of New York is so lax, " said Mrs. Adams. "I dowish there was more system among them and among the police. One wouldfeel--" She heaved a deep sigh. 

Mrs. Jonas White sobbed audibly. 

"Do you not think, dear friends, that it would be a good plan tooffer up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the dear child'sreturn?" asked Mrs. Applegate in a solemn voice, albeit somewhatdiffidently. She was a corpulent woman, and was richly dressed, inspite of her deep mourning. A jet brooch rimmed with pearls, gleamedout of the shadow where she sat. 

Ida continued to rock. 

"But, " said Mrs. Adams, "a great many children are lost every yearand found. Sometimes the system does really work in a manner toastonish any one. I should not be surprised at any minute to see Mr. Edgham or a policeman walking in with her. But--well--there is somuch to be done. The other night, when Mr. Adams and I went in tohear Mrs. Fiske, we drove eight blocks after the performance withoutseeing one policeman. "

"I suppose, though, if you had been really attacked, a dozen wouldhave sprung out from somewhere, " said Mrs. White, in a tearful voice. Mrs. White could not have heard Satan himself assailed without a wordin his defence, such was the maternal pity of her heart. 

"That was what Mr. Adams said, " retorted Mrs. Adams, with someasperity, "and I told him that I would rather the dozen policemenwere in evidence before I was shot and robbed than after. I had onall my rings, and my diamond sunburst. "

"Do you not think, dear friend, that it would be a good plan to offerup our voices at the Throne of Grace for the safe restoration of thedear child?" asked Mrs. Applegate again. Her voice was sonorous, verymuch like her husband's. She felt that, so far as in her lay, she wastaking his place. He was out of town. 

It was then that Maria rushed into the room. She ran straight up toher step-mother. The other women started. Ida continued to rock, andlook at the Tiffany vase. It seemed as if she dared not take her eyesfrom it for fear of losing her expression. Then Maria spoke, and hervoice did not sound like her own at all. It was accusatory, menacing. 

"Where is my little sister?" she cried. "Where is she?"

Mrs. Jonas White rose, approached Maria, and put her arms around hercaressingly. "You poor, dear child, " she sobbed, "I guess you do feelit. You did set a heap by that blessed little thing, didn't you?"

"She is in the hands of the Lord, " said Mrs. Applegate. 

"If the police of New York were worth anything, she would be in thepolice station by this time, " said Mrs. Adams, with a fierce toss ofher pretty blond head. 

"We know not where His islands lift their fronded palms in air; weonly know we cannot drift beyond His love and care, " said Mrs. Applegate, with a solemn aside. Tears were in her own eyes, but sheresolutely checked her impulse to weep. She felt that it would show alack of faith. She was entirely in earnest. 

"Mebbe she _is_ in the police-station, " sobbed Mrs. White, continuingto embrace Maria. But Maria gave her a forcible push away, and againaddressed herself to her step-mother. 

"Where is she?" she demanded. 

"Oh, you poor, dear child! Your ma don't know where she is, and sheis so awful upset, she sets there jest like marble, " said Mrs. White. 

"She isn't upset at all. You don't know her as well as I do, " saidMaria, mercilessly. "She thinks she ought to act upset, so she sitsthis way. She isn't upset. "

"Oh, Maria!" gasped Mrs. White. 

"The child is out of her head, " said Mrs. Adams, and yet she lookedat Maria with covert approval. She was Ida's intimate friend, but inher heart of hearts she doubted her grief. She had once lost by deatha little girl of her own. She kept thinking of her little Alice, andhow she should feel in a similar case. It did not seem to her thatshe should rock, and look at a Tiffany vase. She inveighed againstthe detectives and police with a reserve meaning of indignationagainst Ida. It seemed to her that any woman whose child was lostshould be up and generally making a tumult, if she were doing nothingelse. 

The Maria, standing before the beautiful woman swaying gently, withher eyes fixed upon the pink and gold of the vase, spoke out for thefirst time what was in her heart of hearts with regard to her. 

"You are a wicked woman, " said she; "that is what you are. I don'tknow as you can help being wicked. I guess you were made wicked; butyou _are_ a wicked woman. Your mouth smiles, but your heart neverdoes. You act now as if you were sorry, " said she, "but you are notsorry, the way my mother would have been sorry if she had lost me, the way she would have been sorry if Evelyn had been her little girlinstead of yours. You are a wicked woman. I have always known it, butI have never told you so before. Now I am going to tell you. Your ownchild is lost, you let her be lost. You didn't look out for her. Yes, your own child is lost, and you sit there and rock!"

Ida for a moment made no reply. The other women, and Gladys andWollaston in the vestibule, listened with horror. 

"You have had beefsteak and fried potatoes cooked, too, " continuedMaria, sniffing, "and you have eaten them. You have been eatingbeefsteak and fried potatoes when your own child was lost and you didnot know where she was!" It might have been ridiculous, this lastaccusation in the thin, sweet, childish voice, but it was not. It waseven more terrible than anything else. 

Ida turned at last. "I hate you, " she said slowly. "I have alwayshated you. You have hated me ever since I came into this house, " shesaid, "though I have done more than your own mother ever did for you. "

"You have not!" cried Maria. "You have got nice clothes for me, butmy own mother loved me. What are nice clothes to love? You have noteven loved Evelyn. You have only got her nice clothes. You have neverloved her. Poor papa and I were the only ones that loved her. Younever even loved poor papa. You saw to it that he had things to eat, but you never loved him. You are not made right. All the love in yourheart is for your own self. You are turned the wrong way. I don'tknow as you can help it, but you are a dreadful woman. You arewicked. You never loved the baby, and now you have let her be lost. She is my own little sister, and papa's child, a great deal more thanshe is anything to you. Where is she?" Maria's voice rang wild. Herface was blazing. She had an abnormal expression in her blue eyesfixed upon her step-mother. 

Ida, after her one outburst, gazed upon her with a sort of fear aswell as repulsion. She again turned to the Tiffany vase. 

Mrs. White, sobbing aloud like a child, again put her arms aroundMaria. 

"Come, come, " she said soothingly, "you poor child, I know how youfeel, but you mustn't talk so, you mustn't, dear! You have no rightto judge. You don't know how your mother feels. "

"I know how She doesn't feel!" Maria burst out, "and She isn't mymother. My mother loves me more way off in heaven than that womanloves Her own child on earth. She doesn't feel. She just rocks, andthinks how She looks. I hate Her! Let me go!" With that Maria was outof the room, and ran violently up-stairs. 

When she had gone, the three visiting women looked at one another, and the same covert expression of gratified malice, at some onehaving spoken out what was in their inmost hearts, was upon all threefaces. Ida was impassive, with her smiling lips contracted. Mrs. Applegate again murmured something about uniting in prayer. 

Maria came hurrying down-stairs. She had in her hand her purse, whichcontained ten dollars, which her father had given her on herbirthday, also a book of New York tickets which had been a presentfrom Ida, and which Ida herself had borrowed several times sincegiving them to Maria. Maria herself seldom went to New York, and Idahad a fashion of giving presents which might react to her ownbenefit. Maria, as she passed the parlor door, glanced in and saw herstep-mother rocking and staring at the vase. Then she was out of thefront-door, racing down the street with Wollaston Lee and Gladyshardly able to keep up with her. Wollaston reached her finally, andagain caught her arm. The pressure of the hard, warm boy hand wasgrateful to the little, hysterical thing, who was trembling from headto foot, with a strange rigidity of tremors. Gladys also clutched herother sleeve. 

"Say, M'ria Edgham, where be you goin'?" she demanded. 

"I'm going to find my little sister, " gasped out Maria. She gave adry sob as she spoke. 

"My!" said Gladys. 

"Now, Maria, hadn't you better go back home?" ventured Wollaston. 

"No, " said Maria, and she ran on towards the station. 

"Come home with me to my mother, " said Wollaston, pleadingly, but alittle timidly. A girl in such a nervous strait as this was a newexperience for him. 

"She can go home with me, " said Gladys. "My mother's a heap betterthan Ida Slome. Say, M'ria, all them things you said was true, butland! how did you darse?"

Maria made no reply. She kept on. 

"Say, M'ria, you don't mean you're goin' to New York?" said Gladys. 

"Yes, I am. I am going to find my little sister. "

"My!" said Gladys. 

"Now, Maria, don't you think you had better go home with me, and seemother?" Wollaston said again. 

But Maria seemed deaf. In fact, she heard nothing but the sound ofthe approaching New York train. She ran like a wild thing, herlittle, slim legs skimming the ground like a bird's, almost as ifassisted by wings. 

When the train reached the station, Maria climbed in, Wollaston andGladys after her. Neither Wollaston nor Gladys had the slightestpremeditation in the matter; they were fairly swept along by theemotion of their companion. 

When the train had fairly started, Gladys, who had seated herselfbeside Maria, while Wollaston was in the seat behind them, heaved adeep sigh of bewilderment and terror. "My!" said she. 

Wollaston also looked pale and bewildered. He was only a boy, and hadnever been thrown much upon his own responsibility. All that had beenuppermost in his mind was the consideration that Maria could not bestopped, and she must not go alone to New York. But he did not knowwhat to think of it all. He felt chaotic. The first thing whichseemed to precipitate his mentality into anything like clearness wasthe entrance of the conductor. Then he thought instinctively aboutmoney. Although still a boy, money as a prime factor was alreadyfirmly established in his mind. He reflected with dismay that he hadonly his Wardway tickets, and about three dollars beside. It was nowdark. The vaguest visions of what they were to do in New York were inhis head. The fare to New York was a little over a dollar; he hadonly enough to take them all in, then what next? He took out hispocket-book, but Gladys looked around quickly. 

"She's got a whole book of tickets, " she said. 

However, Wollaston, who was proud, started to pay the conductor, buthe had reached Maria first, and she had said "Three, " peremptorily. Then she handed the book to Wollaston, with the grim little ghost ofa smile. "You please keep this, " said she. "I haven't got any pocket. "

Wollaston was so bewildered that the possession of pockets seemedinstantly to restore his self-respect. He felt decidedly more at hisease when he had Maria's ticket-book in his innermost pocket. Thenshe gave him her purse also. 

"I wish you would please take this, " said she. "There are ten dollarsin it, and I haven't any pocket. " Wollaston took that. 

"All right, " he said. He buttoned his gray vest securely over Maria'spretty little red purse. Then he leaned over the seat, and began tospeak, but he absolutely did not know what to say. He made an idioticremark about the darkness. "Queer how quick it grows dark, when itbegins, " said he. 

Maria ignored it, but Gladys said: "Yes, it is awful queer. "

Gladys's eyes looked wild. The pupils were dilated. She had been toNew York but once before in her life, and now to be going in theevening to find Maria's little sister was almost too much for herintelligence, which had its limitations. 

However, after a while, Wollaston Lee spoke again. He was in realitya keen-witted boy, only this was an emergency into which he had beensurprised, and which he had not foreseen, and Maria's own abnormalmood had in a measure infected him. Presently he spoke to the point. 

"What on earth are you going to do when you get to New York, anyhow?"said he to Maria. 

"Find her, " replied Maria, laconically. 

"But New York is a mighty big city. How do you mean to go to work?Now I--"

Maria cut him short. "I am going right up to Her cousin's, on WestForty-ninth Street, and find out if Evelyn is there, " said she. 

"But what would make the child want to go there, anyhow?"

"It was the only place she had ever been in New York, " said Maria. 

"But I don't see what particular reason she would have for goingthere, though, " said Wollaston. "How would she remember the streetand number?"

"She was an awful bright kid, " said Gladys, with a momentary lapse ofreason, "and kids is queer. I know, 'cause we've got so many of 'emto our house. Sometimes they'll remember things you don't ever thinkthey would. My little sister Maud remembers how my mother drownedfive kittens oncet, when she was in long clothes. We knowed she did, 'cause when the cat had kittens next time we caught her trying todrown 'em herself. Kids is awful queer. Maud can't remember how tospell her own name, either, and she's most six now. She spells itM-a-u-d, when it had ought to be M-a-u-g-h-d. I shouldn't be one mitesurprised if M'ria's little sister remembered the street and number. "

"Anyway, she knew her whole name, because I've heard her say it, "said Maria. "Her cousin's name is Mrs. George B. Edison. Evelyn usedto say it, and we used to laugh. "

"Oh, well, if she knew the name like that she might have found theplace all right, " said Wollaston. "But what puzzles me is why shewanted to go there, anyway?"

"I don't know, " said Maria. 

"I don't know, " said Wollaston, "but it seems to me the best thing todo would be to go directly to a police-office and have the chief ofpolice notified, and set them at work; but then I suppose your fatherhas done that already. "

Maria turned upon him with indignation. "Go to a police-station tofind my little sister!" said she. "What would I go there for?"

"Yes, what do you suppose that kid has did?" asked Gladys. 

"What would I go there for?" demanded Maria, flashing the light ofher excited, strained little face upon the boy. 

Maria no longer looked pretty. She no longer looked even young. Linesof age were evident around her mouth, her forehead was wrinkled. Theboy fairly started at the sight of her. She seemed like a stranger tohim. Her innermost character, which he had heretofore only guessed atby superficial signs, was written plainly on her face. The boy felthimself immeasurably small and young, manly and bold of his age as hereally was. When a young girl stretches to the full height of herinstincts, she dwarfs any boy of her own age. Maria's feeling for herlittle sister was fairly maternal. She was in spirit a mothersearching for her lost young, rather than a girl searching for herlittle sister. Her whole soul expanded. She fairly looked larger, aswell as older. When they got off the train at Jersey City, she ledthe little procession straight for the Twenty-third Street ferry. Shemarched ahead like a woman of twice her years. 

"You had better hold up your dress, M'ria, " said Gladys, coming upwith her, and looking at her with wonder. "My, how you do race!"

Maria reached round one hand and caught a fold of her skirt. Her newdress was in fact rather long for her. Ida had remarked that morningthat she would have Miss Keeler shorten it on Saturday. Ida had nowish to have a grown-up step-daughter quite yet, whom people mighttake for her own. 

The three reached the ferry-boat just as she was about to leave herslip. They sat down in a row midway of the upper deck. The heatinside was intense. Gladys loosened her shabby little sacque. Mariasat impassible. 

"Ain't you most baked in here?" asked Gladys. 

"No, " replied Maria. 

Both Gladys and Wollaston looked cowed. They kept glancing at eachother and at Maria. Maria sat next Gladys, Wollaston on Gladys'sother side. Gladys nudged Wollaston, and whispered to him. 

"We've jest got to stick close to her, " she whispered, in an alarmedcadence. The boy nodded. 

Then they both glanced again at Maria, who seemed quite oblivious oftheir attention. When they reached the other side, Wollaston, with aneffort, asserted himself. 

"We had better take a cross-town car to the Sixth Avenue Elevated, "he said, pressing close to Maria's side and seizing her arm again. 

Maria shook her head. "No, " she said. "Where Mrs. Edison lives is notso near the Elevated. It will be better to take a cross-town car andtransfer at Seventh Avenue. "

"All right, " said Wollaston. He led the way in the run down thestairs, and aided his companions onto the cross-town car. He paidtheir fares, and got the transfers, and stopped the other car. He wasbeginning to feel himself again, at least temporarily. 

"Well, I think the police-station is the best place to look, but haveyour own way. It won't take long to see if she is there now, " saidWollaston. He was hanging on a strap in front of Maria. The car wascrowded with people going to up-town theatres. Some of the ladies, inshowy evening wraps, giving glimpses of delicate waists, lookedcuriously at the three. There was something extraordinary about theirappearance calculated to attract attention, although it was difficultto say just why. After they had left the car, a lady with a whitelace blouse showing between the folds of a red cloak, said to herescort: "I wonder who they were?"

"I don't know, " said the man, who had been watching them. "I thoughtthere was something unusual. "

"I thought so, too. That well-dressed young woman, and that handsomeboy, and that shabby little girl. " By the "young woman" she meantMaria. 

"Yes, a queer combination, " said the man. 

"It wasn't altogether that, but they looked so desperately inearnest. "

Meantime, while the lights of the car disappeared up the avenue, Maria, Wollaston, and Gladys Mann searched for the house in which hadlived Ida Edgham's cousin. 

At last they found it, mounted the steps, and rang the bell. It wasan apartment-house. After a little the door opened of itself. 

"My!" said Gladys, but she followed Wollaston and Maria inside. 

Wollaston began searching the names above the rows of bells on thewall of the vestibule. 

"What did you say the name was?" he asked of Maria. 

"Edison. Mrs. George B. Edison. "

"There is no such name here. "

"There must be. "

"There isn't. "

"Let me see, " said Maria. She searched the names. "Well, I don'tcare, " said she. "It was on the third floor, and I am going up andask, anyway. "

"Now, Maria, do you think--" began Wollaston. 

But Maria began climbing the stairs. There was no elevator. 

"My!" said Gladys, but she followed Maria. 

Wollaston pushed by them both. "See here, you don't know what you aregetting into, " said he, sternly. "You let _me_ go first. "

When they reached the third floor, Maria pointed to a door. "That isthe door, " she whispered, breathlessly. 

Wollaston knocked. Immediately the door was flung open by a verypretty young woman in a rose-colored evening gown. Her whiteshoulders gleamed through the transparent chiffon, and a comb setwith rhinestones sparkled in the fluff of her blond hair. When shesaw the three she gave a shrill scream, and immediately a very smallman, much smaller than she, but with a fierce cock of a black pointedbeard, and a tremendous wiriness of gesture, appeared. 

"Oh, Tom!" gasped the young woman. "Oh!"

"What on earth is the matter, Stella?" asked the man. Then he lookedfiercely at the three. "Who are these people?" he asked. 

"I don't know. I opened the door. I thought it was Adeline andRaymond, and then I saw these strange people. I don't know how theygot in. "

"We came in the door, " said Gladys, with some asperity, "and we arelookin' for M'ria's little sister. Be you her ma-in-law's cousin?"

"I don't know who these people are, " the young woman said, faintly, to the man. "I think they must be burglars. "

"Burglars, nothin'!" said Gladys, who had suddenly assumed theleadership of the party. Opposition and suspicion stimulated her. Sheloved a fight. "Be you her ma-in-law's cousin, and have you got herlittle sister?"

Wollaston looked inquiringly at Maria, who was very pale. 

"It isn't Her cousin, " she gasped. "I don't know who she is. I neversaw her. "

Then Wollaston spoke, hat in hand, and speaking up like a man. "Pardon us, sir, " he said, "we did not intend to intrude, but--"

"Get out of this, " said the man, with a sudden dart towards the door. 

His wife screamed again, and put her hand over a little diamondbrooch at her throat. "I just know they are sneak-thieves, " shegasped. "Do send them away, Tom!"

Wollaston tried to speak again. "We merely wished to ascertain, " saidhe, "if a lady by the name of Mrs. George A. --"

"B. " interrupted Gladys. 

"B. Edison lived here. This young lady's little sister is lost, andMrs. Edison is a relative, and we thought--"

The man made another dart. "Don't care what you thought, " he shouted. "Keep your thoughts to yourself! Get out of here!"

"Do you know where Mrs. George B. Edison lives now?" asked Wollaston, courteously, but his black eyes flashed at the man. 

"No, I don't. "

"No, we don't, " said the young woman in pink. "Do make them go, Tom. "

"We are perfectly willing to go, " said Wollaston. "We have no desireto remain any longer where people are not willing to answer civilquestions. "

Maria all this time had said nothing. She was perfectly overcome withthe conviction that Ida's cousin was not there, and consequently notEvelyn. Moreover, she was frightened at the little man's fiercemanner. She clung to Wollaston's arm as they retreated, but Gladysturned around and deliberately stuck her tongue out at the man andthe young woman in rose. The man slammed the door. 

The three met on the stoop of the house two people in gay attire. 

"Go up and see your friends that don't know how to treat folksdecent, " said Gladys. The woman looked wonderingly at her from underthe shade of a picture hat. Her escort opened the door. "Ten chancesto one they had the kid hid somewhere, " said Gladys, so loudly thatboth turned and looked at her. 

"Hush up, " said Wollaston. 

"Well, what be you goin' to do now?" asked Gladys. 

"I am going to a drug-store, and see if I can find out where Maria'srelatives have moved to, " replied Wollaston. He walked quite alertlynow. Maria's discomfiture had reassured him. 

They walked along a few blocks until they saw the lights of adrug-store on the corner. Then Wollaston led them in and marched upto the directory chained to the counter. 

"What's that?" Gladys asked. "A Bible?"

"No, it's a directory, " Maria replied, in a dull voice. 

"What do they keep it chained for? Books don't run away. "

"I suppose they are afraid folks will steal it. "

"My!" said Gladys, eying the big volume. "I don't see what on earththey'd do with it when they got it stole, " she remarked, in a low, reflective voice. 

Maria leaned against the counter and waited. 

Finally, Wollaston turned to her with an apologetic air. "I can'tfind any George B. Here, " he said. "You are sure it was B?"

"Yes, " replied Maria. 

"Well, there's no use, " said Wollaston. "There is no George B. Edisonin this book, anyhow. "

He came forward, and stood looking at Maria. Maria gazed absently atthe crowds passing on the street. Gladys watched them both. 

"Well, " said Gladys, presently, "you ain't goin' to stand here allnight, be you? What be you goin' to do next? Go to the police-station?"

"I don't see that there is any use, " replied Wollaston. "Maria'sfather must have been there by this time. This is a wild-goose chaseanyhow. " Wollaston's tone was quite vicious. He scowledsuperciliously at the salesman who stepped forward and asked if hewanted anything. "No, we don't, thank you, " he said. 

"What be you goin' to do?" asked Gladys, again. She looked at thesoda-fountain. 

"I don't see anything to do but to go home, " said Wollaston. "Thereis no sense in our chasing around New York any longer, that I cansee. "

"You can't go home to-night, anyhow, " Gladys said, quite calmly. "They've took off that last train, and there ain't more'n ten minutesto git down to the station. "

Wollaston turned pale, and looked at her with horror. "What makes youthink they've taken off that last train?" he demanded. 

"Ain't my pa brakeman when he's sober, and he's been real sober forquite a spell now. "

Wollaston seized Maria by the arm. "Come, quick!" he said, andleaving the drug-store he broke into a run for the Elevated, withGladys following. 

"There ain't no use in your runnin', " said she. "You know yourselfyou can't git down to Cortlandt Street, and walk to the ferry in tenminutes. I never went but oncet, but I know it can't be did. "

Wollaston slackened his pace. "That is so, " he said. Then he lookedat Maria in a kind of angry despair. He felt, in spite of hisromantic predilection for her, that he wished she were a boy, so hecould say something forcible. He realized his utter helplessness withthese two girls in a city where he knew no one, and he again thoughtof the three dollars in his pocket-book. He did not suppose thatMaria had more than fifty cents in hers. Then, too, he was worldlywise enough to realize the difficulty of the situation, the possibledanger even. It was ten o'clock at night, and here he was with twoyoung girls to look out for. 

Then Gladys, who had also worldly wisdom, although of a crude andvulgar sort, spoke. "Folks are goin' to talk like the old Harry if westay in here all night, " said she, "and besides, there's no knowin'what is a safe place to go into. "

"That is so, " said Wollaston, gloomily, "and I--have not much moneywith me. "

"I've got money enough, " Maria said, suddenly. "There are ten dollarsin my pocket-book I gave you to keep. "

"My!" said Gladys. 

Wollaston brightened for a moment, then his face clouded again. "Well, I don't know as that makes it much better, " said he. "I don'tquite see how to manage. They are so particular in hotels now, that Idon't know as I can get you into a decent one. As for myself, I don'tcare. I can look out for myself, but I don't know what to do withyou, Maria. "

Gladys made a little run and stepped in front of them. "There ain'tbut one thing you can do, so Maria won't git talked about all therest of her life, and I kin tell you what it is, " said she. 

"What is it?" asked Wollaston, in a burst of anger. "I call it apretty pickle we are in, for my part. Ten chances to one, Mr. Edghamhas got the baby back home safe and sound by this time, anyway, andhere we are, here is Maria!"

"There ain't but one thing you can do, " said Gladys. Her tone wasforcible. She was full of the vulgar shrewdness of a degenerate race, for the old acumen of that race had sharpened her wits. 

"What! in Heaven's name?" cried Wollaston. 

The three had been slowly walking along, and had stopped near achurch, which was lighted. As they were talking the lights went out. A thin stream of people ceased issuing from the open doors. A man ina clerical dress approached them, walking quite rapidly. He wasevidently bound, from the trend of his steps, to a near-by house, which was his residence. 

"Git married, " said Gladys, abruptly. Then, before the othersrealized what she was doing, she darted in front of the approachingclergyman. "They want to git married, " said she. 

The clergyman stopped and stared at her, then at the couple beyond, who were quite speechless with astonishment. He was inconceivablyyoung for his profession. He was small, and had a round, rollickingface, which he was constantly endeavoring to draw down into lines ofasceticism. 

"Who wants to get married?" asked the clergyman. 

"Them two, " replied Gladys, succinctly. She pointed magisterially atWollaston and Maria. 

Wollaston was tall and manly looking for his age, Maria's dresstouched the ground. The clergyman had not, at the moment, a doubt asto their suitable age. He was not a brilliant young man, naturally. He had been pushed through college and into his profession by wealthyrelatives, and, moreover, with his stupidity, he had a certain spiritof recklessness and sense of humor which gave life a spice for him. 

"Want to get married, eh?" he said. 

Then Wollaston spoke. "No, we do not want to get married, " he said, positively. Then he said to Gladys, "I wish you would mind your ownbusiness. "

But he had to cope with the revival of a wonderful feminine wit of afine old race in Gladys. "I should think you would be plum ashamed ofyourself, " she said, severely, "after you have got that poor girl inhere; and if she stays and you ain't married, she'll git talkedabout. "

The clergyman approached Wollaston and Maria. Maria had begun to cry. She was trembling from head to foot with fear and confusion. Wollaston looked sulky and angry. 

"Is that true--did you induce this girl to come to New York to bemarried?" he inquired, and his own boyish voice took on severe tones. He was very strong in moral reform. 

"No, I did not, " replied Wollaston. 

"He did, " said Gladys. "She'll get talked about if she ain't, too, and the last train has went, and we've got to stay in New York allnight. "

"Where do you come from?" inquired the young clergyman, and his tonewas more severe still. 

"From Edgham, New Jersey, " replied Gladys. 

"Who are you?" inquired the clergyman. 

"I ain't no account, " replied Gladys. "All our folks git talkedabout, but she's different. "

"I suppose you are her maid, " said the clergyman, noting with quickeye the difference in the costumes of the two girls. 

"Call it anything you wanter, " said Gladys, indifferently. "I ain'tgoin' to have her talked about, nohow. "

"Come, Maria, " said Wollaston, but Maria did not respond even to hisstrong, nervous pull on her arm. She sobbed convulsively. 

"No, that girl does not go one step, young man, " said the clergyman. He advanced closely, and laid a hand on Maria's other arm. Althoughsmall in body and mind, he evidently had muscle. "Come right in thehouse, " said he, and Maria felt his hand on her arm like steel. Sheyielded, and began following him, Wollaston in vain trying to holdher back. 

Gladys went behind Wollaston and pushed vigorously. "You git right inthere, the way he says, Wollaston Lee, " said she. "You had ought tobe ashamed of yourself. "

Before the boy well knew what he was doing he found himself in asmall reception-room lined with soberly bound books. All that wasclear in his mind was that he could not hinder Maria from entering, and that she must not go into the house alone with Gladys and thisstrange man. 

A man had been standing in the doorway of the house, waiting theentrance of the clergyman. He was evidently a servant, and his masterbeckoned him. 

"Call Mrs. Jerrolds, Williams, " he said. 

"What is your name?" he asked Maria, who was sobbing more wildly thanever. 

"Her name is Maria Edgham, " replied Gladys, "and his is WollastonLee. They both live in Edgham. "

"How old are you?" the clergyman asked of Wollaston; but Gladys cutin again. 

"He's nineteen, and she's goin' on, " she replied, shamelessly. 

"We are neither of us, " began Wollaston, whose mind was in a whirl ofanger of confusion. 

But the clergyman interrupted him. "I am ashamed of you, young man, "he said, "luring an innocent young girl to New York and then tryingto lie out of your responsibility. "

"I am not, " began Wollaston again; but then the man who had stood inthe door entered with a portly woman in a black silk tea-gown. Shelooked as if she had been dozing, or else was naturally slow-witted. Her eyes, under heavy lids, were dull; her mouth had a sleepy, although good-natured pout, like a child's, between her fat cheeks. 

"I am sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Jerrolds, " said the clergyman, "butI need you and Williams for witnesses. " Then he proceeded. 

Neither Wollaston nor Maria were ever very clear in their minds howit was done. Both had thought marriage was a more complicatedproceeding. Neither was entirely sure of having said anything. Indeed, Wollaston was afterwards quite positive that Gladys Mannanswered nearly all the clergyman's questions; but at all events, thefirst thing he heard distinctly was the clergyman's pronouncing himand Maria man and wife. Then the clergyman, who was zealous to thepoint of fanaticism, and who honestly considered himself to have donean exceedingly commendable thing, invited them to have somewedding-cake, which he kept ready for such emergencies, and somecoffee, but Wollaston replied with a growl of indignation anddespair. This time Maria followed his almost brutally spoken commandto follow him, and the three went out of the house. 

"See that you treat your wife properly, young man, " the clergymancalled out after him, in a voice half jocular, half condemnatory, "orthere will be trouble. "

Wollaston growled an oath, the first which he had ever uttered, underhis breath, and strode on. He had released his hold on Maria's arm. Ahead of them, a block distant, was an Elevated station, and Maria, who seemed to suddenly recover her faculties, broke into a run for it. 

"Where be you goin'?" called out Gladys. 

"I am going down to the Jersey City station, quick, " replied Maria, in a desperate voice. 

"I thought you'd go to a hotel. There ain't no harm, now you'remarried, you know, " said Gladys, "and then we could have some supper. I'm awful hungry. I ain't eat a thing sence noon. "

"I am going right down to the station, " repeated Maria. 

"The last train has went. What's the use?"

"I don't care. I'm going down there. "

"What be you goin' to do when you git there?"

"I am going to sit there, and wait till morning. "

"My!" said Gladys. 

However, she went on up the Elevated stairs with Maria and Wollaston. Wollaston threw down the fares and got the tickets, and strode onahead. His mouth was set. He was very pale. He probably realized to agreater extent than any of them what had taken place. It wasinconceivable to him that it had taken place, that he himself hadbeen such a fool. He felt like one who has met with some utterlyunexplainable and unaccountable accident. He felt as he had done oncewhen, younger, he had stuck his own knife, with which he waswhittling, into his eye, to the possible loss of it. It seemed to himas if something had taken place without his volition. He was like apuppet in a show. He looked at Maria, and realized that he hated her. He wondered how he could ever have thought her pretty. He looked atGladys Mann, and felt murderous. He had a high temper. As the trainapproached, he whispered in her ear, "Damn you, Gladys Mann, it's a pretty pickle you have got us into. "

Gladys was used to being sworn at. She was not in the leastintimidated. 

"Do you s'pose I was goin' to have M'ria talked about?" she said. "You can cuss all you want to. "

They got into the train. Wollaston sat by himself, Gladys and Mariatogether. Maria was no longer weeping, but she looked terrifiedbeyond measure, and desperate. A horrible imagination of evil wasover her. She never glanced at Wollaston. She thought that she wishedthere would be an accident on the train and he might be killed. Shehated him more than he hated her. 

They were just in time for a boat at Cortlandt Street. When theyreached the Jersey City side Wollaston went straight to theinformation bureau, and then returned to Gladys and Maria, seated ona bench in the waiting-room. 

"Well, there _is_ a train, " he said, curtly. 

"'Ain't it been took off?" asked Gladys. 

"No, but we've got to wait an hour and a half. " Then he bent down andwhispered in Gladys's ear, "I wish to God you'd been dead before yougot us into this, Gladys Mann!"

"My father said it had been took off, " said Gladys. "You sure thereis one?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

"My!" said Gladys. 

Wollaston went to a distant seat and sat by himself. The two girlswaited miserably. Gladys had suffered a relapse. Her degeneracy ofwit had again overwhelmed her. She looked at Maria from time to time, then she glanced around at Wollaston, and her expression was almostidiotic. The people who were on the seat with them moved away. Mariaturned suddenly to Gladys. 

"Gladys Mann, " said she, "if you ever tell of this--"

"Then you ain't goin' to--" said Gladys. 

"Going to what?"

"Live with him?"

"Live with him! I hate him enough to wish he was dead. I'll neverlive with him; and if you tell, Gladys Mann, I'll tell you what I'lldo. "

"What?" asked Gladys, in a horrified whisper. 

"I'll go and drown myself in Fisher's Pond, that's what I'll do. "

"I never will tell, honest, M'ria, " said Gladys. 

"You'd better not. "

"Hope to die, if I do. "

"You _will_ die if you do, " said Maria, "for I'll leave a note sayingyou pushed me into the pond, and it will be true, too. Oh, GladysMann! it's awful what you've done!"

"I didn't mean no harm, " said Gladys. 

"And there's a train, too. "

"Father said there wasn't. "

"Your father!"

"I know it. There ain't never tellin' when father lies, " said Gladys. "I guess father don't know what lies is, most of the time. I s'posehe's always had a little, if he 'ain't had a good deal. But I'llnever tell, Maria, not as long as I live. "

"If you do, I'll drown myself, " said Maria. 

Then the two sat quietly until the train was called out, when theywent through the gate, Maria showing her tickets for herself andGladys. Wollaston had purchased his own and returned Maria's. He keptbehind the two girls as if he did not belong to their party at all. On the train he rode in the smoking-car. 

The car was quite full at first, but the passengers got off at theway-stations. When they drew near Edgham there were only a few left. Wollaston had not paid the slightest attention to the passengers. Hecould not have told what sort of a man occupied the seat with him, nor even when he got off. He was vaguely conscious of the reekingsmoke of the car, but that was all. When the conductor came throughhe handed out his ticket mechanically, without looking at him. Hestared out of the window at the swift-passing, shadowy trees, at thegreen-and-red signal-lights, and the bright glare from the lights ofthe stations through which they passed. Once they passed by a largefactory on fire, surrounded by a shouting mob of men, and engines. Even that did not arrest his attention, although it caused quite acommotion in the car. He sat huddled up in a heap, staring out withblank eyes, all his consciousness fixed upon his own affairs. He feltas if he had made an awful leap from boyhood to manhood in a minute. He was full of indignation, of horror, of shame. He was conscious ofwishing that there were no girls in the world. After they had passedthe last station before reaching Edgham he looked wearily away fromthe window, and recognized, stupidly, Maria's father in a seat in theforward part of the car. Harry was sitting as dejectedly hunched uponhimself as was the boy. Wollaston recognized the fact that he couldnot have found little Evelyn, and realized wickedly and furiouslythat he did not care, that a much more dreadful complication had comeinto his own life. He turned again to the window. 

Maria, in the car behind the smoker, sat beside Gladys, and lookedout of the window very much as Wollaston was doing. She also wasconscious of an exceeding horror and terror, and a vague shame. Itwas, to Maria, as if she had fallen through the fairy cobweb ofromance and struck upon the hard ground of reality with such forcethat her very soul was bleeding. Wollaston, in the smoker, wished nomore devoutly that there were no girls in the world, than Mariawished there were no boys. Her emotions had been, as it were, thrustback down her own throat, and she was choked and sickened with them. She would not look at nor speak to Gladys. Once, when Gladysaddressed a remark to her, Maria thrust out an indignant shouldertowards her. 

"You needn't act so awful mad, " whispered Gladys. "I ain't goin' totell, and I was doin' it on your account. My mother will give it tome when I git home. "

"What are you going to tell her?" asked Maria, with sudden interest. 

"I'm goin' to tell her I've been out walkin' with Ben Jadkins. She'stold me not to, and she'll lick me for all she's wuth, " said Gladys, angrily. "But I don't care. It's lucky father 'ain't been throughthis train. It's real lucky to have your father git drunk sometimes. I'll git licked, but I don't care. "

Maria, sitting there, paid no more attention. The shock of her ownplight had almost driven from her mind the thought of Evelyn, butwhen a woman got on the train leading a child about her age, the oldpain concerning her came back. She began to weep again quietly. 

"I don't see what you are cryin' for, " said Gladys, in an accusingvoice. "You might have been an old maid. "

"I don't believe she is found, " Maria moaned, in a low voice. 

"Oh, the kid! You bet your life she'll turn up. Your pa 'll find herall right. I didn't know as you were cryin' about that. "

When they reached Edgham, Maria and Gladys got off the train, Wollaston Lee also got off, and Harry Edgham, and from a rear car astout woman, yanking, rather than leading, by the hand, a little girlwith a fluff of yellow hair. The child was staggering with sleep. Thestout woman carried on her other arm a large wax-doll whose facesmiled inanely over her shoulder. 

Suddenly there was a rush and cry, and Maria had the little girl inher arms. She was kneeling beside her on the dusty platform, regardless of her new suit. 

"Sister! Sister!" screamed the child. 

"Sister's own little darling!" said Maria, then she began to sobwildly. 

"It's her little sister. Where did you get her?" Gladys asked, severely, of the stout woman, who stood holding the large doll andglowering, while Harry Edgham came hurrying up. Then there wasanother scream from the baby, and she was in her father's arms. Therewere few at the station at that hour, but a small crowd gatheredaround. On the outskirts was Wollaston Lee, looking on with hissulky, desperate face. 

The stout woman grasped Harry vehemently by the arm. "Look at here, "said she. "I want to know, an' I ain't got no time to fool around, for I want to take the next train back. Is that your young one? Speakup quick. "

Harry, hugging the child to his breast, looked at the stout woman. 

"Yes, " he replied, "she is mine, and I have been looking for her allday. Where--Did you?"

"No, I didn't, " said the stout woman, emphatically. "_She_ did. Idon't never meddle with other folks' children. I 'ain't never beenmarried, and I 'ain't never wanted to be. And I 'ain't never carednothin' about children; always thought they was more bother than theywere worth. And when I changed cars here this mornin', on my way fromLawsons, where I've been to visit my married sister, this young onetagged me onto the train, and nothin' I could say made anybodybelieve she wa'n't mine. I told 'em I wa'n't married, but it didn'tmake no difference. I call it insultin'. There I was goin' up toTarrytown to-day to see my aunt 'Liza. She's real feeble, and theysent for me, and there I was with this young one. I had a cousin inNew York, and I took her to her house, and she didn't know any betterwhat to do than I did. She was always dreadful helpless. We waitedtill her husband got home. He runs a tug down the harbor, and he saidtake her to the police-station, and mebbe I'd find out somebody hadbeen tryin' to find her. So my cousin's husband and me went to thestation, and he was so tuckered out and mad at the whole performancethat I could hear him growlin' cuss words under his breath the wholeway. We took her and this great doll down to the station, and wefound out there who she was most likely, and who she belonged to. Andmy cousin's husband said I'd got to take her out here. He looked itup and found out I could git back to New York to-night. He said hewouldn't come nohow. " Suddenly a light flashed on the woman. "Say, "she said, "you don't mean to say you've been on the train yourselfall the way out from New York?"

"Yes, I came out on the train, " admitted Harry, meekly. "I am sorry--"

"Well, you'd better be, " said the woman. "Here I've traipsed out herefor nothin' this time of night. I call you all a set of numskulls. Idon't call the young one very bright, either. Couldn't tell where shelived, nor what her father's name was. Jest said it was papa, and hername was peshious, or some such tomfoolery. I advise you to tag herif she is in the habit of runnin' away. Here I ought to have been upin Tarrytown, and I've been foolin' round in New York all day withyour young one and this big doll. " With that the stout woman thrustthe doll at Maria. "Here, take this thing, " said she. "I've hadenough of it! There ain't any sense in lettin' a child of her sizelug around a doll as big as that, anyhow. When does my train come?Hev I got to cross to the other side? My cousin's husband said itwould be about twenty minutes I'd have to wait. "

"I'll take you round to the other side, and I cannot be gratefulenough for your care, " began Harry, but the woman stopped him again. 

"I suppose you'll be willin' to pay my fare back to New York; that'sall I want, " said she. "I don't want no thanks. I 'ain't no use forchildren, but I ain't a heathen. "

"I'll be glad to give you a great deal more than your fare to NewYork, " Harry said, in a broken voice. Evelyn was already fast asleepon his shoulder. He led the way down the stairs towards the othertrack. 

"I don't want nothin' else, except five cents for my car-fare. I canget a transfer, and it won't be more'n that, " said the woman, following. "I've got enough to git along with, and I ain't a heathen. "

Harry, with Evelyn asleep in his arms, and Maria and Gladys, waitedwith the stout woman until the train came. The station was closed, and the woman sat down on a bench outside and immediately fell asleepherself. 

When the train came, Harry thrust a bank-note into the woman's hand, having roused her with considerable difficulty, and she stumbled onto the train over her skirts just as she had done in the morning. 

Harry knew the conductor. "Look out for that woman, " he called out tohim. "She found my little girl that was lost. "

The conductor nodded affably as the train rolled out. 

Wollaston Lee had gone home when the others descended the stairs andcrossed to the other track. When Harry, with Evelyn in his arms, herlimp little legs dangling, and Maria and Gladys, were on their wayhome, the question, which he in his confusion had not thought to putbefore, came. 

"Why, Maria, where did you come from?" he asked. 

"From New York, " replied Maria, meekly. 

"Her and me went up to her ma-in-law's cousin's, on Forty-ninthStreet, to find the kid, " Gladys cut in, glibly, "but the cousin hadmoved. "

Harry stared at them. "Why, how happened you to do such a thing?" heasked. 

"I couldn't wait home and not do anything, " Maria sobbed, nervously. 

"Her ma-in-law's cousin had moved, " said Gladys. 

"How did you find your way?"

"I had been there before, " sobbed Maria. She felt for her father'shand, and grasped it with a meaning of trust and fear which he didnot understand. 

"Well, you must never do such a thing again, no matter what happens, "he said, and held the poor little girl's hand firmly. "Thank Godfather's got you both back safe and sound. "

Gladys made an abrupt departure on a corner. 

"Good-night, M'ria!" she sung out, and was gone, a slim, flyingfigure in the gloom. 

"Are you afraid to go alone?" Harry called after her, in someuncertainty. 

"Land, no!" came cheerily back. 

"How happened she to be with you?" asked Harry. 

"She was down at the station when I came home from Wardway, " repliedMaria, faintly. Her strength was almost gone. She could hardlystagger up the steps of the house with her father, he bearing hisrecovered child, she bearing her secret. 

Chapter XV

Ida was still to be seen rocking when Harry, with Evelyn and Maria, came in sight of the house. The visiting ladies had gone. Josephine, with her face swollen and tear-stained, was standing watching at awindow in the dark dining-room. When she saw the three approachingshe screamed:

"Oh, Mis' Edgham, they've found her! They're comin'! They've gother!" and rushed to open the door. 

Ida rose, and came gracefully to meet them with a sinuous movementand a long sweep of her rose-colored draperies. Her radiant smile litup her face again. She looked entirely herself when Harry greeted her. 

"Well, Ida, our darling is found, " he said, in a broken voice. 

Ida reached out her arms, from which hung graceful pendants of laceand ribbons, but the sleepy child clung to her father and whimperedcrossly. 

"She is all tired out, poor little darling! Papa's poor littledarling!" said Harry, carrying her into the parlor. 

"Josephine, tell Annie to heat some milk at once, " Ida said, sharply. 

Annie, whose anxious face had been visible peeping through the darkentrance of the dining-room, hastened into the kitchen. 

"Josephine, go right up-stairs and get Miss Evelyn's bed ready, "ordered Ida. Then she followed Harry into the parlor and beganquestioning him, standing over him, and now and then touching theyellow head of the child, who always shrank crossly at her touch. 

Harry told his story. "I had the whole police force of New York onthe outlook, although I did not really think myself she was in thecity, and there papa's precious darling was all the time right on thetrain with him and he never knew it. And here was poor little Maria, "added Harry, looking at Maria, who had sunk into a corner of adivan--"here was poor little Maria, Ida, and she had gone hunting herlittle sister on her own account. She thought she might be at yourcousin Alice's. If I had known that both my babies were wanderingaround New York I should have been crazy. When I got off the train, there was Maria and that little Mann girl. She was down at thestation when she got home from Wardway, Maria says, and those twochildren went right off to New York. "

"Did they?" said Ida, in a listless voice. She had resumed her seatin her rocking-chair. 

"Edwin Shaw said he thought he saw Evelyn getting on the New Yorktrain this morning, " said Maria, faintly. 

"She is all used up, " Harry said. "You had better drink some hot milkyourself, Maria. Only think of that child and that Mann girl goingoff to New York on their own accounts, Ida!"

"Yes, " said Ida. 

"Wollaston Lee went, too, " Maria said, suddenly. A quick impulse forconcealment in that best of hiding-places, utter frankness andopenness, came over her. "He got off the train here. You know hebegan school, too, at Wardway this morning, and he and Gladys bothwent. "

"Well, I'm thankful you had him along, " said Harry. "The Lord onlyknows what you two girls would have done alone in a city like NewYork. You must never do such a thing again, whatever happens, Maria. You might as well run right into a den of wild beasts. Only think ofthat child going to New York, and coming out on the last train, withthat Mann girl; and Wollaston is only a boy, though he's bright andsmart. And your cousin has moved, Ida. "

"I thought she had, " said Ida. 

"And to think of what those children might have got into, " saidHarry, "in a city like New York, which is broken out all over withplague spots instead of having them in one place! Only think of it, Ida!"

Harry's voice was almost sobbing. It seemed as if he fairly appealedto his wife for sympathy, with his consciousness of the dangersthrough which his child had passed. But Ida only said, "Yes. "

"And the baby might have fallen into the worst hands, " said Harry. "But, thank God, a good woman, although she was coarse enough, gothold of her. "

"Yes, we can't be thankful enough, " Ida said, smoothly, and thenJosephine came in with a tray and a silver cup of hot milk for Evelyn. 

"Is that all the milk Annie heated?" asked Harry. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Well, tell Annie to go to the sideboard and get that bottle ofport-wine and pour out a glass for Miss Maria; and, Josephine, youhad better bring her something to eat with it. You haven't had anysupper, have you, child?"

Maria shook her head. "I don't want any, thank you, papa, " said she. 

"Is there any cold meat, Josephine, do you know?"

Josephine said there was some cold roast beef. 

"Well, bring Miss Maria a plate, with a slice of bread-and-butter, and some beef. "

"Have you had any supper yourself, dear?" Ida asked. 

"I declare I don't know, dear, " replied Harry, who looked unutterablyworn and tired. "No, I think not. I don't know when I could have gotit. No, I know I have not. "

"Josephine, " said Ida, "tell Annie to broil a piece of beefsteak forMr. Edgham, and make a cup of tea. "

"Thank you, dear, " poor Harry said, gratefully. Then he said toMaria, "Will you wait and have some hot beefsteak and tea with papa, darling?"

Maria shook her head. 

"I think she had better eat the cold beef and bread, and drink thewine, and go at once to bed, if she is to start on that early trainto-morrow, " Ida said. 

"Maybe you are right, dear, " Harry said. "Hurry with the roast beefand bread and wine for Miss Maria, Josephine, and Annie can see to mysupper afterwards. "

All this time Harry was coaxing the baby to imbibe spoonfuls of thehot milk. It was hard work, for Evelyn was not very hungry. She hadbeen given a good deal of cake and pie from a bakery all day. 

However, at last she was roused sufficiently to finish her littlemeal, and Maria drank her glass of wine and ate a little of the breadand meat, although it seemed to her that it would choke her. She wasconscious of her father's loving, anxious eyes upon her as she ate, and she made every effort. 

Little Evelyn had recently had her own little room fitted up. It wasnext to Maria's; indeed, there was a connecting door between the tworooms. Evelyn's room was a marvel. It was tiny, but complete. Ida hadthe walls hung with paper with a satin gloss, on which were strewngarlands of rose-buds. There was a white matting and a white fur rug. The small furniture was white, with rose-bud decorations. There was acanopy of rose silk over the tiny bed, and a silk counterpane of arose-bud pattern. 

After Evelyn had finished her hot milk, her father carried herup-stairs into this little nest, and Josephine undressed her and puther to bed. The child's head drooped as helplessly as a baby's allthe time, she was so overcome with sleep. When she was in bed, Idacame in and kissed her. She was so fast asleep that she did not know. She and Harry stood for a moment contemplating the little thing, withher yellow hair spread over the white pillow and her round rose of aface sunken therein. Harry put his arm around his wife's waist. 

"We ought to be very thankful, dear, " he said, and he almost sobbed. 

"Yes, " said Ida. To do her justice, she regarded the littlerosy-and-white thing sunk in slumber with a certain tenderness. Shewas even thankful. She had been exceedingly disturbed the whole day. She was very glad to have this happy termination, and to be able togo to rest in peace. She bent again over the child, and touched herlips lightly to the little face, and when she looked up her own wassoftened. "Yes, " she whispered, with more of womanly feeling thanHarry had ever seen in her--"yes, you are right, we have a great dealto be thankful for. "

Maria, in the next room, heard quite distinctly what Ida said. Itwould once have aroused in her a contemptuous sense of herstep-mother's hypocrisy, but now she felt too humbled herself toblame another, even to realize any fault in another. She felt as ifshe had undergone a tremendous cataclysm of spirit, which had casther forever from her judgment-seat as far as others were concerned. Was she not deceiving as never Ida had deceived? What would Ida say?What would her father say if he knew that she was--? She could notsay the word even to herself. When she was in bed and her light out, she was overcome by a nervous stress which almost maddened her. Facesseemed to glower at her out of the blackness of the night, faceswhich she knew were somehow projected out of her own consciousness, but which were none the less terrific. She even heard her nameshouted, and strange, isolated words, and fragments of sentences. Shelay in a deadly fear. Now was the time when, if her own mother hadbeen alive, she would have screamed aloud for some aid. But now shecould call to no one. She would have spoken to her father. She wouldnot have told him--she was gripped too fast by her sense of the needof secrecy--but she would have obtained the comfort and aid of hispresence and soothing words; but there was Ida. She remembered howshe had talked to Ida, and her father was with her. A dull wondereven seized her as to whether Ida would tell her father, and sheshould be allowed to remain at home after saying such dreadfulthings. There was no one upon whom she could call. All at once shethought of the maid Annie, whose room was directly over hers. Anniewas kindly. She would slip up-stairs to her, and make some excuse fordoing so--ask her if she did not smell smoke, or something. It seemedto her that if she did not hear another human voice, come in contactwith something human, she should lose all control of herself. 

Maria, little, slender, trembling girl, with all the hystericalfancies of her sex crowding upon her, all the sufferings of her sexwaiting for her in the future, and with no mother to soften them, slipped out of bed, stole across her room, and opened the door withinfinite caution. Then she went up the stairs which led to the thirdstory. Both maids had rooms on the third story. Josephine went homeat night, and Hannah, the cook, had gone home with her after thereturn of the wanderers, and was to remain. She was related toJosephine's mother. She knocked timidly at Annie's door. She waited, and knocked again. She was trembling from head to foot in a nervouschill. She got no response to her knock. Then she called, "Annie, "very softly. She waited and called again. At last, in desperation, she opened the door, which was not locked. She entered, and the roomwas empty. Suddenly she remembered that Annie, kind-hearted as shewas, and a good servant, had not a character above suspicion. Sheremembered that she had heard Gladys intimate that she had asweetheart, and was not altogether what she should be. She gazedaround the empty, forlorn little room, with one side sloping with theslope of the roof, and an utter desolation overcame her, along with ahorror of Annie. She felt that if Annie were there she would be norefuge. 

Maria turned, and slipped as silently as a shadow down the stairsback to her room. She looked at her bed, and it seemed to her thatshe could not lie down again in it. Then suddenly she thought ofsomething else. She thought of little Evelyn asleep in the next room. She opened the connecting door softly and stole across to the baby'slittle bed. It was too small, or she would have crept in beside her. Maria hesitated a moment, then she slid her arms gently under thelittle, soft, warm body, and gathered the child up in her arms. Shewas quite heavy. At another time Maria, who had slender arms, couldscarcely have carried her. Now she bore her with entire ease into herown room and laid her in her own bed. Then she got in beside her andfolded her little sister in her arms. Directly a sense of safety andpeace came over her when she felt the little snuggling thing, who hadwakened just enough to murmur something unintelligible in her babytongue, and cling close to her with all her little, rosy limbs, andthrust her head into the hollow of Maria's shoulder. Then she gave adeep sigh and was soundly asleep again. Maria lay awake a littlewhile, enjoying that sense of peace and security which the presenceof this little human thing she loved gave her. Then she fell asleepherself. 

She waked early. The thought of the early train was in her mind, andMaria was always one who could wake at the sub-recollection of aneed. Evelyn was still asleep, curled up like a flower. Maria raisedher and carried her back to her own room and put her in her bedwithout waking her. Then she dressed herself in her school costumeand went down-stairs. She had smelled coffee while she was dressing, and knew that Hannah had returned. Her father was in the dining-roomwhen she entered. He usually took an earlier train, but this morninghe had felt utterly unable to rise. Maria noticed, with a suddenqualm of fear, how ill and old and worn-out he looked, but Harryhimself spoke first with concern for her. 

"Papa's poor little girl!" he said, kissing her. "She looks tiredout. Did you sleep, darling?"

"Yes, after a while. Are you sick, papa?"

"No, dear. Why?"

"Because you did not go on the other train. "

"No, dear, I am all right, just a little tired, " replied Harry. Thenhe added, looking solicitously at Maria, "Are you sure you feel ableto go to school to-day?--because you need not, you know. "

"I am all right, " said Maria. 

She and her father had seated themselves at the table. Harry lookedat his watch. 

"We shall neither of us go if we don't get our breakfast beforelong, " he said. 

Then Hannah came in, with a lowering look, bringing the coffee-potand the chops and rolls. 

"Where is Annie?" asked Harry. 

"I don't know, " replied Hannah, with a toss of her head and acompression of her lips. She was a large, solid woman, with a cast inher eyes. She had never been married. 

"You don't know?" said Harry, helping Maria to a chop and a roll, while Hannah poured the coffee. 

"No, " said Hannah again, and this time her face was fairly malicious. "I don't know how long I can stand such doin's, and that's thetruth, " she said. 

Hannah had come originally from New England, and had principles, inwhich she took pride, perhaps the more because they had never in onesense been assailed. Annie was a Hungarian, and considered by Hannahto have no principles. She was also pretty, in a rough, half-finishedsort of fashion, and had no cast in her eyes. Hannah privatelyconsidered that as against her. 

Harry began sipping his coffee, which Hannah had set down with suchimpetus that she spilled a good deal in the saucer, and he lookeduneasily at her. 

"What do you mean, Hannah?" he asked. 

"I mean that I am not used to being throwed in with girls who staysout all night, and nobody knows where they be, and that's the truth, "said Hannah, with emphasis. 

"Do you mean to say that Annie--"

"Yes, I do. She wa'n't in, and they do say she's married, and--"

"Hush, Hannah, we'll talk about this another time, " Harry said, witha glance at Maria. 

Just then a step was heard in the kitchen. 

"There she is now, the trollop, " said Hannah, but she whispered thelast word under her breath, and she also gave a glance at Maria, asone might at any innocent ignorance which must be shielded even fromknowledge itself. 

Annie came in directly. Her pretty, light hair was nicely arranged;she was smiling, but she looked doubtful. 

Hannah went with a flounce into the kitchen. Annie had removed herhat and coat and tied on a white apron in a second, and she beganwaiting exactly as if she had come down the back stairs after a nightspent in her own room. Indeed, she did not dream that either Harry orMaria knew that she had not, and she felt quite sure of Hannah'signorance, since Hannah herself had been away all night. 

Maria from time to time glanced at Annie, and, although she hadalways liked her, a feeling of repulsion came over her. She shrank alittle when Annie passed the muffins to her. Harry gave one keen, scrutinizing glance at the girl's face, but he said nothing. Afterbreakfast he went up-stairs to bid Ida, who had a way of rising late, good-bye, and he whispered to her, "Annie was out all last night. "

"Oh, well, " replied Ida, sleepily, with a little impatience, "it doesnot happen very often. What are we going to do about it?"

"Hannah is kicking, " said Harry, "and--"

"I can't help it if she is, " said Ida. "Annie does her work well, andit is so difficult to get a maid nowadays; and I cannot set up as amoral censor, I really cannot, Harry. "

"I hate the example, that is all, " said Harry. "There Hannah said, right before Maria, that Annie had been out. "

"It won't hurt Maria any, " Ida replied, with a slight frown. "Mariawouldn't know what she meant. She is not only innocent, but ignorant. I can't turn off Annie, unless I see another maid as good inprospect. Good-bye, dear. "

Harry and Maria walked to the station together. Their trains reachedEdgham about the same time, although going in opposite directions. Itwas a frosty morning. There had been a slight frost the night before. A light powder of glistening white lay over everything. The roofswere beginning to smoke as it melted. Maria inhaled the clear air, and her courage revived a little--still, not much. Nobody knew howshe dreaded the day, the meeting Wollaston. She could not yet bringherself to call him her husband. It seemed at once horrifying andabsurd. The frosty air brought a slight color to the girl's cheeks, but she still looked wretched. Harry, who himself looked more thanusually worn and old, kept glancing at her, as they hastened along. 

"See here, darling, " he said, "hadn't you better not go to schoolto-day? I will write a note of explanation myself to the principal, at the office, and mail it in New York. Hadn't you better turn aroundand go home and rest to-day?"

"Oh no, " replied Maria. "I would much rather go, papa. "

"You look as if you could hardly stand up, much less go to school. "

"I am all right, " said Maria; but as she spoke she realized that herknees fairly bent under her, and her heart beat loudly in her ears, for they had come in sight of the station. 

"You are sure?" Harry said, anxiously. 

"Yes, I am all right. I want to go to school. "

"Well, look out that you eat a good luncheon, " said Harry, as hekissed her good-bye. 

Maria had to go to the other side to take her Wardway train. She lefther father and went under the bridge and mounted the stairs. When shegained the platform, the first person whom she saw, with a grasp ofvision which seemed to reach her very heart, although she apparentlydid not see him at all, was Wollaston Lee. He also saw her, and hisboyish face paled. There were quite a number waiting for the train, which was late. Maud Page was among them. Maria at once went close toher. Maud asked about her little sister. She had heard that she wasfound, although it was almost inconceivable how the news had spreadat such an early hour. 

"I am real glad she's found, " said Maud. Then she stared curiously atMaria. "Say, was it so?" she asked. 

"Was what true?" asked Maria, trembling. 

"Was it true that you and Wollaston Lee and Gladys Mann all went toNew York looking for your sister, and came out on the last train?"

"Yes, it is true, " replied Maria, quite steadily. 

"What ever made you?"

"I thought she might have gone to a cousin of Hers who used to liveon Forty-ninth Street, but we found the cousin had moved when we gotthere. "

"Gracious!" said Maud. "And you didn't come out till that last train?"

"No. "

"I should think you would be tired to death, and you don't look anytoo chipper. " Maud turned and stared at Wollaston, who was standingaloof. "I declare, he looks as if he had been up a week of Sundays, too, " said she. Then she called out to him, in her high-pitchedtreble, which sounded odd coming from her soft circumference ofthroat. Maud's voice ought, by good rights, to have been a rich, husky drone, instead of bearing a resemblance to a parrot's. "Say, Wollaston Lee, " she called out, and the boy approached perforce, lifting his hat--"say, " said Maud, "I hear you and Maria eloped lastnight. " Then she giggled. 

The boy cast a glance of mistrust and doubt at Maria. His face turnedcrimson. 

"You are telling awful whoppers, Maud Page, " Maria responded, promptly, and his face cleared. "We just went in to find Evelyn. "

"Oh!" said Maud, teasingly. 

"You are mean to talk so, " said Maria. 

Maud laughed provokingly. 

"What made Wollaston go for, then?" she asked. 

"Do you suppose anybody would let a girl go alone to New York on anight train?" said Maria, with desperate spirit. "He went because hewas polite, so there. "

Wollaston said nothing. He tried to look haughty, but succeeded inlooking sheepish. 

"Gladys Mann went, too, " said Maria. 

"I don't see what makes you go with a girl like that anywhere?" saidMaud. 

"She's as good as anybody, " said Maria. 

"Maybe she is, " returned Maud. Then she glanced at Wollaston, who waslooking away, and whispered in Maria's ear: "They talk like furyabout her, and her mother, too. "

"I don't care, " Maria said, stoutly. "She was down at the station andtold me how Evelyn was lost, and then she went in with me. "

Maud laughed her aggravating laugh again. 

"Well, maybe it was just as well she did, " she said, "or else theywould have said you and Wollaston had eloped, sure. "

Maria began to speak, but her voice was drowned by the rumble of theNew York train on the other track. The Wardway train was late. Usually the two trains met at the station. 

However, the New York train had only just pulled out of sight beforethe Wardway train came in. As Maria climbed on the train she felt apaper thrust forcibly into her hand, which closed over itinstinctively. She sat with Maud, and had no opportunity to look atit all the way to Wardway. She slipped it slyly into her Algebra. 

Maud's eyes were sharp. "What's that you are putting in yourAlgebra?" she asked. 

"A marker, " replied Maria. She felt that Maud's curiosity was suchthat it justified a white lie. 

She had no chance to read the paper which Wollaston had slipped intoher hand until she was fairly in school. Then she read it under coverof a book. It was very short, and quite manly, although manifestlywritten under great perturbation of spirit. 

Wollaston wrote: "Shall I tell your folks to-night?"

Wollaston was not in Maria's classes. He was older, and had enteredin advance. She had not a chance to reply until noon. Going into therestaurant, she in her turn slipped a paper forcibly into his hand. 

"Good land! look out!" said Maud Page. "Why, Maria Edgham, you buttedright into Wollaston Lee and nearly knocked him over. "

What Maria had written was also short, but desperate. She wrote:

"If you ever tell your folks or my folks, or anybody, I will drownmyself in Fisher's Pond. "

A look of relief spread over the boy's face. Maria glanced at himwhere he sat at a distant table with some boys, and he gave an almostimperceptible nod of reassurance at her. Maria understood that he hadnot told, and would not, unless she bade him. 

On the train going home that night he found a chance to speak to her. He occupied the seat behind her, and waited until a woman who satwith Maria got off the train at a station, and also a man who hadoccupied the seat with him. Then he leaned over and said, ostentatiously, so he could be heard half the length of the car, "Itis a beautiful day, isn't it?"

Maria did not turn around at all, but her face was deadly white asshe replied, "Yes, lovely. "

Then the boy whispered, and the whisper seemed to reach her inmostsoul. "Look here, I want to do what is right, and--honorable, youknow, but hang me if I know what is. It is an awful pickle. "

Maria nodded, still with her face straight ahead. 

"I don't know how it happened, for my part, " the boy whispered. 

Maria nodded again. 

"I didn't say anything to my folks, because I didn't know how youwould feel about it. I thought I ought to ask you first. But I am notafraid to tell, you needn't think that, and I mean to be honorable. If you say so, I will go right home with you and tell your folks, andthen I will tell mine, and we will see what we can do. "

Maria made no answer. She was in agony. It seemed to her that thewhisper was deafening her. 

"I will leave school, and go to work right away, " said the boy, andhis voice was a little louder, and full of pathetic manliness; "and Iguess in a year's time I could get so I could earn enough to supportyou. I mean to do what is right. All is I want to do what you want meto do. I didn't know how you felt about it. "

Then Maria turned slightly. He leaned closer. 

"I told you how I felt, " she whispered back. 

"You mean what you wrote?"

"Yes, what I wrote. "

"You don't want me to tell at all?"

"Never, as long as you live. "

"How about her?"

"Gladys?"

"Yes, confound her!"

"She won't tell. She won't dare to. "

Wollaston was silent for a moment, then he whispered again. "Well, "he said, "I want to do what you want me to and what is honorable. Ofcourse, we are both young, and I haven't any money except what fathergives me, but I am willing to quit school to-morrow and go to work. You needn't think I mean to back out and show the white feather. I amnot that kind. We have got into this, and I am ready and willing todo all I can. "

"I meant what I wrote, " whispered Maria again. "I never want you totell, and--"

"And what?"

"I wish you would go and sit somewhere else, and not speak to meagain. I hate the very sight of you. "

"All right, " said the boy. There was a slight echo of rancor in hisown voice, still it was patient, with the patience of a man with awoman and her unreason. All his temper of the night before haddisappeared. He was quite honest in saying that he wished to do whatwas right and honorable. He was really much more of a man than he hadbeen the day before. He was conscious of not loving Maria--hisbudding boy-love for her had been shocked out of life. He was evenrepelled by her, but he had a strong sense of his duty towards her, and he was full of pity for her. He saw how pale and nervous andfrightened she was. He got up to change his seat, but before he went, he leaned over her and whispered again: "You need not be a miteafraid, Maria. All I want is what will please you and what is right. I will never tell, unless you ask me to. You need not worry. You hadbetter put it all out of your mind. "

Maria nodded. She felt very dizzy. She was glad when Wollaston notonly left his seat, but the car, going into the smoker. She heard thedoor slam after him with a sense of relief. She felt a great reliefat his assurance that he would keep their secret. Wollaston Lee was aboy whose promises had weight. She looked out of the window and alittle of her old-time peace seemed to descend upon her. She saw howlovely the landscape was in the waning light. She saw the new moonwith a great star attendant, and reflected that it was over her rightshoulder. After all, youth is hard to down, and hope finds a richsoil in it. Then, too, a temporization to one who is young meanseternity. If Wollaston did not tell, and Gladys did not tell, and shedid not tell, it might all come right somehow in the end. 

She looked at the crescent of the moon, and the great depth of lightof the star, and her own affairs seemed to quiet her with their verylittleness. What was little Maria Edgham and her ridiculous andtragic matrimonial tangle compared with the eternal light of thosestrange celestial things yonder? She would pass, and they wouldremain. She became comforted. She even reflected that she was hungry. She had not obeyed her father's injunction, and had eaten very littleluncheon. She thought with pleasure of the good dinner which would beawaiting her. Then suddenly she remembered how she had talked to Her. How would she be treated? But she remembered that Ida could not havesaid anything against her to her father, or, if she had done so, ithad made no difference to him. She considered Ida's character, and itseemed to her quite probable that she would make no further referenceto the subject. Ida was averse even to pursuing enmities, because ofthe inconvenience which they might cause her. It was infinitely lesstrouble to allow birds which had pecked at her to fly away than topursue them; then, too, she always remained unshaken in her belief inherself. Maria's tirade would not in the least have disturbed herself-love, and it is only a wound in self-love which can affect somepeople. Maria was inclined to think that Ida would receive her withthe same coldly radiant smile as usual, and she was right. Thatnight, when she entered the bright parlor, glowing with soft lightsunder art-shades, Ida, in her pretty house-gown--scarlet cashmeretrimmed with medallions of cream lace--greeted her in the samefashion as she had always done. Evelyn ran forward with those squealsof love which only a baby can accomplish. Maria, hugging her littlesister, saw that Ida's countenance was quite unchanged. 

"So you have got home?" said she. "Is it very cold?"

"Not very, " replied Maria. 

"I have not been out, and I did not know, " Ida said, in her usualfashion of making commonplaces appear like brilliances. 

"There may be a frost, I don't know, " Maria said. She was actuallyconfused before this impenetrability. Remembering the awful thingsshe had said to Her, she was suddenly conscience-stricken as she sawIda's calm radiance of demeanor. She began to wonder if she had notbeen mistaken, if Ida was not really much better than she herself. She knew that is she had had such things said to her she could nothave appeared so forgiving. Such absolute self-love, and self-belief, was incomprehensible to her. She had accused Ida of more than shecould herself actually comprehend. She began to think Ida had aforgiving heart, and that she herself had been the wicked one, notShe. She responded to everything which Ida said with a conciliatoryair. Presently Harry came in. He was late. He looked very worn andtired. Ida sent Josephine up-stairs to get his smoking-jacket andslippers, and Maria thought She was very kind to her father. Evelynclimbed into his arms, but he greeted even her rather wearily. Idanoticed it. 

"Come away, darling, " she said. "Papa is tired, and you are a heavylittle lump of honey, " Ida smiled, entrancingly. 

Harry looked at her with loving admiration, then at Maria. 

"I tell you what it is, I feel pretty thankful to-night, when I thinkof last night--when I realize I have you all home, " said he. 

Ida smiled more radiantly. "Yes, we ought to be very thankful, " shesaid. 

Maria made up her mind that she would apologize to her if she had achance. She did not wish to speak before her father, not because shedid not wish him to know, but because she did not wish to annoy him, he looked so tired. She had a chance after dinner, when Josephine wasputting Evelyn to bed, and Harry had been called to the door to speakto a man on business. 

"I am sorry I spoke as I did to you, " she said, in a low voice, toIda. 

They were both in the parlor. Maria had a school-book in her hand, and Ida was embroidering. The rosy shade of the lamp intensified theglow on her beautiful face. She looked smilingly at Maria. 

"Why, my dear, " she said, "I don't know what you said. I haveforgotten. "

Chapter XVI

Now commenced an odd period of her existence for Maria Edgham. Sheescaped a transition stage which comes to nearly every girl by herexperience in New York, the night when Evelyn was lost. There isusually for a girl, if not for a boy, a stage of existence when sheflutters, as it were, over the rose of life, neither lighting upon itnor leaving it, when she is not yet herself, when she does notcomprehend herself at all, except by glimpses of emotions, as one maysee one facet of a diamond but never the complete stone. Maria had, in a few hours, become settled, crystallized, and she gave evidenceof it indisputably in one way--she had lost her dreams. When a girlno longer dreams of her future she has found herself. Maria hadalways been accustomed to go to sleep lulled by her dreams ofinnocent romance. Now she no longer had them, it was as if a childmissed a lullaby. She was a long time in getting to sleep at all, andshe did not sleep well. She no longer stared over the page of alesson-book into her own future, as into a crystal well wherein shesaw herself glorified by new and strange happiness. She studied, andtook higher places in her classes, but she did not look as young oras well. She grew taller and thinner, and she looked older. Peoplesaid Maria Edgham was losing her beauty, that she would not be aspretty a woman as she had promised to make, after all. Maria nolonger dwelt so long and pleasurably upon her reflection in theglass. She simply arranged her hair and neck-gear tidily and went herway. She did not care so much for her pretty clothes. A girl withouther dreams is a girl without her glory of youth. She did not quiterealize what was the matter, but she knew that she was no longer sofair to see, and that the combination of herself and a new gown wasnot what it had been. She felt as if she had reached the last page ofher book of life, and the _ennui_ of middle age came over her. Shehad not reached the last page; she was, of course, mistaken; but shehad reached a paragraph so tremendous that it seemed to her theclimax, as if there could be nothing beyond it. She was married--thatis, she had been pronounced a wife! There was, there could be, nothing further. She was both afraid of, and disliked, the boy whohad married her. There was nothing ahead that she could see but acommonplace existence without romance and without love. She as yetdid not dwell upon the possible complications which might arise fromher marriage. It simply seemed to her that she should always live aspinster, although the marriage ceremony had been pronounced overher. She began to realize that in order to live in this way she musttake definite steps. She knew that her father was not rich. Thenecessity for work and earning her own living in the future began topresent itself. She made up her mind to fit herself for a teacher. 

"Papa, I am going to teach, " she told her father one afternoon. 

Ida had gone out. It was two years after her marriage, and Marialooked quite a woman. She and her father were alone. Evelyn had goneto bed. Maria had tucked her in and kissed her good-night. Josephinewas no longer a member of the family. In a number of ways expenseshad been retrenched. Harry would not admit it, and Ida did not seemaware of it, but his health was slowly but surely failing. That veryday he had consulted a specialist in New York, taking his turn in thelong line of waiting applicants in the office. When he came out hehad a curious expression on his face, which made more than one of theother patients, however engrossed in their own complaints, turnaround and look after him. He looked paler than when he had enteredthe office, but not exactly cast down. He had rather a settledexpression, as of one who had come in sight, not of a goal oftriumph, but of the end of a long and wearisome journey. In thesedays Harry Edgham was so unutterably weary, he drove himself to hiswork with such lashes of spirit, that he was almost incapable ofrevolt against any sentence of fate. There comes a time to every one, to some when young, to some when old, that too great a burden oflabor, or of days, renders the thought of the last bed of earthunterrifying. The spirit, overcome with weariness of matter, droops earthward with no rebellion. Harry, who had gotten hisdeath-sentence, went out of the doctor's office and hailed hisferry-bound car, and realized very little difference in his attitudefrom what he had done before. He had still time before him, possiblyquite a long time. He thought of leaving Ida and the little one andMaria, but he had a feeling as if he were beginning the traversing ofa circle which would in the end bring him back, rather than ofdeparture. It was as if he were about to circumnavigate life itself. Suddenly, however, his forehead contracted. Material matters began toirritate him. He thought of Maria, and how slight a provision he hadmade for her. His life was already insured for the benefit of Ida. Ida would have that and her widow's share. Little Evelyn would alsohave her share of his tiny estate, which consisted of nothing morethan his house and lot in Edgham and a few hundreds in the bank, andpoor Maria would have nothing except the paltry third remaining. WhenMaria, sitting alone with him in the parlor, announced her intentionof fitting herself for a teacher, he viewed her with quick interest. It was the evening of the very day on which he had consulted thespecialist. 

"Let me see, dear, " he returned; "how many years more have you at theacademy?"

"I can graduate next year, " Maria replied, with pride. This last yearshe had been taking enormous strides, which had placed her ahead ofher class. "At least, I can if I work hard, " she added. 

"I don't want you to work too hard, " Harry said, anxiously. 

"I am perfectly well, " said Maria. And she did in reality lookentirely well, in spite of her thinness and expression of prematurematurity. There was a wiriness about her every movement which argued, if not actual robustness, the elasticity of bending and not breakingbefore the stresses of life. 

"Let me see, you will be pretty young to teach, then, " said Harry. 

"I think I can get a school, " Maria said. 

"Where?"

"Aunt Maria said she thought I could get that little school near herin Amity. The teacher is engaged, and she said she thought she wouldget married before so very long. She said she thought she must havealmost enough money for her wedding outfit. That is what she has beenworking for. "

Harry smiled a little. 

"Aunt Maria said she was to marry a man with means, and she wasworking quite a while in order to buy a nice trousseau, " said Maria. "Aunt Maria said she was a very high-spirited young lady. But shesaid she thought she had been engaged so long that she would probablynot wait more than a year longer, and she could get the school forme. Uncle Henry is one of the committee, you know. "

"You are pretty young to begin teaching, " Harry said, thoughtfully. 

"Aunt Maria said she thought I did not look as young as I really was, and there wouldn't be any difficulty about it, " said Maria. "She saidshe thought I would have good government, and Uncle Henry thought so, too, and Aunt Eunice. "

Aunt Eunice was Maria's Uncle Henry's wife. Maria had paid a visit toAmity the summer before, renewing her acquaintance with her relatives. 

"Well, we will see, " said Harry, after a pause. Then he added, somewhat pitifully: "Father wishes there was no need for his littlegirl to work. He wishes he had been able to put more by, but if--"

Maria looked at her father with quick concern. 

"Father, what is the matter with you?" she asked. "I don't care aboutthe working part. I want to work. I shall like to go to Amity, andboard with Aunt Maria, and teach, except for leaving you and Evelyn, but--what is the matter with you, father?"

"Nothing is the matter. Why?" asked Harry; and he tried to smile. 

"What made you speak so, father?"

Maria had sprung to her feet, and was standing in front of herfather, with pale face and dilated eyes. Her father looked at her andhesitated. 

"Tell me, father; I ought to know, " said Maria. 

"There is nothing immediate, as far as I know, " said Harry, "but--"

"But what?"

"Well, dear, nobody can live always, and of course you can't realizeit, young as you are, and with no responsibilities; but father isolder, and sometimes he can't help thinking. He wishes he had beenable to save a little more, in case anything happened to him, and hecan't help planning what you would do if--anything happened to him. You know, dear, " Harry hesitated a little, then he continued--"youknow, dear, that father had his life insured for--Ida, and I doubtif--I am older, you know, now, and those companies don't like totake chances. I doubt if I could, or I would have an additionalinsurance put on my life for you. Then Ida would have by law hershare of this property, and Evelyn her share, and all you would havewould be a very little, and--Well, father can't help thinking thatperhaps it would be wise for you to make some plans so you can helpyourself a little, but--it almost breaks father's heart to thinkthat--his--little girl--" Poor Harry fairly broke down and sobbed. 

Maria's arm was around his neck in a moment, and his poor gray head, which had always been, in a way, the head of an innocent boy, was onher young girl breast. She did not ask him any more questions. Sheknew. "Poor father!" she said. Her own voice broke, then she steadiedit again with a resolute effort of her will. There was a good deal ofher mother in Maria. The sight of another's weakness always arousedher own strength. "Father, " she said, "now you just listen to me. Iwon't hear any more talk of anything happening to you. You have noteaten enough lately. I have noticed it. That is all that ails you. You have not had enough nourishment. I want you to go to-morrow toDr. Wells and get some of that tonic that helped you so much before, and, father, I want you to stop worrying about me. I honestly want toteach. I want to be independent. I should, if you were worth amillion. It does not worry me at all to think I am not going to haveenough money to live on without working, not at all. I want you toremember that, and not fret any more about it. "

For answer, Harry sobbed against the girl's shoulder. "It seems as ifI might have saved more, " he said, pitifully, "but--I have had heavyexpenses, and somehow I didn't seem to have the knack that some menhave. I made one or two investments that didn't turn out well. Ididn't say anything about them to--Ida. "

"I sha'n't say a word, father, " Maria responded, quickly. 

"Well, I thought maybe--if they turned out all right, I might havesomething to leave you, but--they didn't. There's never any countingon those things, and I wasn't on the inside of the market. I thoughtthey were all right. I meant it for the best. "

Maria stroked the gray head, as her mother might have done. "Ofcourse you did, father, " said she. "Now, don't you worry one bit moreabout it. You get that tonic. You don't look just right, and you needsomething to give you an appetite; and don't you ever have anotherthought as far as I am concerned. I have always wanted to teach, ordo something to make myself independent. "

"You may marry somebody who will look out for you after father hasgone, " half whimpered Harry. His disease and his distress were makinghim fairly childish, now he realized a supporting love beside him. 

Maria quivered a little. "I shall never marry, father, " she said. 

Harry laughed a little, even in the midst of his distress. "Well, dear, we won't worry about that now, " he said; "only, if you ever domarry, I hope you will marry a good, honest man who can take care ofyou. "

"I never shall marry, " Maria said again. There was an odd inflectionin her voice which her father did not understand. Her cheeks burnedhot against his, but it was not due to the modesty of young girlhood, which flees even that which it secretly desires. Maria was reflectingupon her horrible deception, how every day and every minute of herlife she was deceiving her father, but she dared not tell him. Shedared less now than ever, in the light of her sudden convictionconcerning his ill-health. Maria had been accustomed so long toseeing her father look tired and old that the true significance of ithad not struck her. She had not reflected that her father was not inreality an old man--but scarcely past middle age--and that there mustbe some disease to account for his appearance. Now she knew; butalong with the knowledge came the conviction that he must not knowthat she had it, that it would only add to his distress. She kissedhim, and took up the evening paper which had fallen from his knees tothe floor. 

"Suppose I read to you, father?" she said. 

Harry looked gratefully at her. "But you have to learn your lesson. "

"Oh, I can finish that in school to-morrow. I don't feel like workingany more to-night, and I do feel like reading the paper. "

"Won't it tire you, dear?"

"Tire me? Now, father, what do you take me for?" Maria settledherself in a chair. Harry leaned back his head contentedly; he hadalways like to be read to, and lately reading to himself had hurt hiseyes. "Now, what shall I read, father?" she said. 

Poor Harry, remembering his own futile investments, asked for thestock-list, and Maria read it very intelligently for a young girl whoknew nothing about stocks. 

"Once I owned some of that stock, " said Harry, proudly. 

"Did you, father?" Maria responded, admiringly. 

"Yes, and only look where it is now! If I could only have held on toit, I might have been quite a rich man. "

Harry spoke, oddly enough, with no regret. Such was the childishnessof the man that a possession once his never seemed wholly lost tohim. It seemed to him that he had reason to be proud of having madesuch a wise investment, even if he had never actually reaped anybenefit from it. 

"I don't see how you knew what to invest in, " Maria said, fosteringhis pride. 

"Oh, I had to study the stock-lists and ask brokers, " Harry replied. He looked brighter. This little reinstatement in his self-esteemacted like a tonic. In some fashion Ida always kept him alive to hisown deficiencies, and that was not good for a man who was naturallyhumble-minded. Harry sat up straighter. He looked at Maria withbrighter eyes as she continued reading. "Now _that_ is a goodinvestment, " said he--"that bond. If I had the money to spare I wouldbuy one of those bonds to-morrow morning. "

"Are bonds better than stocks, father?" asked Maria. 

"Yes, " replied Harry, importantly. "Always remember that, if you haveany money to invest. A man can afford to buy stocks, because he hasbetter opportunities of judging of the trend of the market, but bondsare always safer for a woman. "

Maria regarded her father again with that innocent admiration for hiswisdom, which seemed to act like a nerve stimulant. A subtlephysician might possibly have reached the conclusion, had he beenfully aware of all the circumstances, that Ida, with her radiantsuperiority, her voiceless but none the less positive self-assertionover her husband, was actually a means of spiritual depression whichhad reacted upon his physical nature. Nobody knows exactly to whatextent any of us are responsible for the lives of others, and how farour mere existences may be derogatory to our fellow-beings. Harry wasvisibly brighter. 

"You don't look half as tired as you did, father, " Maria said. 

"I don't feel so tired, " replied Harry. "It has rested me to hear youread. Remember what I have told you, dear, about bonds--always bonds, and never stocks, for a woman. "

"Yes, father, " said Maria. Then she added, "I am going to save all Ican when I begin to earn. "

"Your aunt Maria will only ask you enough board to make it possiblefor her to pay the bills? You know she has only a hundred a year tolive on. Of course your uncle Henry lets her have her rent free, orshe couldn't do it, but she is a fine manager. She manages very muchas your mother did. " As he spoke, Harry looked around the luxuriousapartment and reflected that, had his first wife lived, he himselfcould have saved, and there might have been no need for this little, delicate girl to earn her own living. He sighed, and the weary looksettled over his face again. 

Maria rose. "Father, " said she, "Annie has gone out, and so hasHannah, and I am going out in the kitchen and make a cup of thatthick chocolate that you like, for you. "

"It is too much trouble, dear. "

"Nonsense!" said Maria. "I would like to do it, and it won't take aminute. There is a good fire in the range. "

While Maria was gone, Harry sat gazing out of the window. He hadalways now, when he looked out of a window, the sensation of a manwho was passing in rapid motion all the old familiar objects, all thelandmarks of his life, or rather--for one never rids one's self ofthat particular optical delusion--it was as if they were passing. Theconviction of one's own transit is difficult to achieve. Harry gazedout of the window, and it was to him as if the familiar trees whichbordered the sidewalk, the shrubs in the yard, the houses which werewithin view, were flitting past him in a mad whirl. He was glad whenMaria entered with the chocolate, in his own particular cup, and adainty plate of cheese sandwiches. 

"I thought perhaps you could eat a sandwich, father, " she said. "Idon't believe you had anything decent for lunch in New York. "

"I didn't have much, " said Harry. He did not add, what was the truth, that lately he had been stinting himself on his luncheons in theeffort to save a little more of his earnings. He ate nearly all thesandwiches, and drank two cups of chocolate, and really looked muchbetter. 

"You need more nourishment, father, " said Maria, with a wise, maternal air, which was also half accusatory, and which made Harrythink so strongly of his first wife that he regarded Maria as hemight have regarded her mother. 

"You grow more and more like your own mother, dear, " he said. 

"Well, I am glad of that, " replied Maria. "Mother was a good woman. If I can only be half as good as mother was. "

"Your mother _was_ a good woman, " said Harry, reflectively; and as hespoke he seemed to feel the arms of strong, almost stern, feminityand faithfulness which had encompassed his childlike soul for so manyyears. He owned to himself that Maria's mother had been a much moresuitable wife for him than this other woman. Then he had a littlequalm of remorse, for Ida came in sight, richly dressed and elegant, as usual, with Evelyn dancing along beside her. Mrs. Adams was withher. Mrs. Adams was talking and Ida was smiling. It was more becomingto Ida to smile than to talk. She had discovered long since that shehad not so very much to say, and that her smiles were better coin ofher little realm; she therefore generally employed them in preference. 

Maria got up hastily and took the tray and the chocolate-cups. "Iguess Mrs. Adams is coming in, " said she. 

"You didn't make enough chocolate to give them?" Harry said, hesitatingly. 

"No, " replied Maria, and her tone was a little curt even to herfather. "And I used up the last bit of chocolate in the house, too. "Then she scudded out of the room with her tray and passed the frontdoor as the sound of Ida's latch-key was heard in the lock. Maria sether tray on the kitchen-table and hurried up the back stairs to herown room. She entered it and locked both doors, the one communicatingwith the hall and the one which connected it with Evelyn's room. Shehad no sooner done so than she heard the quick patter of little feet, and the door leading into Evelyn's room was tried, then violentlyshaken. "Let me in, sister; let me in, " cried the sweet little fluteof a voice on the other side. Evelyn could now talk plainly, but shestill kept to her baby appellation for her sister. 

"No, darling, sister can't let you in now, " replied Maria. 

"Why not? Let me in, sister. "

"Sister is going to study, " said Maria, in a firm voice. "She can'thave Evelyn. Run down-stairs, darling; run down to mamma. "

"Evelyn don't want mamma. Evelyn wants sister. "

"Papa is down there, too. Put on your clothes, like a nice girl, andshow papa how smart you can be; then run down. "

"Evelyn can't button up her dress. "

"Put everything on but that, then run down, and mamma can do it foryou. "

"Let me in, sister. "

"No, dear, " Maria said again. "Evelyn can't come in now. "

There came a little whimper of grief and anger which cut Maria'sheart, but she was firm. She could not have even Evelyn then. She hadto be alone with the knowledge she had just gained of her father'sstate of health. She sat down in her little chair by the window; itwas her own baby chair, which she had kept all these years, and inwhich she could still sit comfortably, she was so slender. Then sheput her face in her hands and began to weep. She had never wept asshe did then, not even when her mother died. She was so much youngerwhen her mother died that her sensibilities had not acquired theirfull acumen; then, too, she had not had at that time the awfulforetaste of a desolate future which tinctured with bitter her verysoul. Somehow, although Maria had noticed for a long time that herfather did not look as he had done, it had never occurred to her thatthat which had happened to her mother could happen to her father. Shehad been like one in a house which has been struck by lightning, andhad been rendered thereby incredulous of a second stroke. It had notoccurred to her that whereas she had lost her mother, she could alsolose her father. It seemed like too heavy a hammer-stroke ofProvidence to believe in and keep her reason. She had thought thather father was losing his youth, that his hair turning gray had muchto do with his altered looks. She had never thought of death. Itseemed to her monstrous. A rage against Providence, like nothingwhich she had known before, was over her. Why should she loseeverything? What had she done? She reviewed her past life, and shedefended herself like Job, with her summary of self-righteousness. She had always done right, so far as she knew. Her sins had been sopetty as hardly to deserve the name of sins. She remembered how shehad once enjoyed seeing her face in her looking-glass, how she hadliked pretty, new dresses, and she could not make that seem veryculpable. She remembered how, although she had never loved herstep-mother, she had observed, except on that one occasion whenEvelyn was lost, the utmost respect and deference for her--how shehad been, after the first, even willing to love her had she met withthe slightest encouragement. She could not honestly blame herself forher carefully concealed attitude of disapproval towards Ida, for shesaid to herself, with a subtlety which was strange for a girl soyoung, that she had merited it, that she was a cold, hard, self-centred woman, not deserving love, and that she had in realitybeen injurious for her father. She was convinced that, had her ownmother lived, with her half-censorious yet wholly loving care forhim, he might still have preserved his youth and his handsomeboyishness and health. She thought of the half-absurd, half-tragicsecret which underlay her life, and she could not honestly thinkherself very much to blame for that. She always thought of that withbewilderment, as one might think of some dimly remembered vagary ofdelirium. Sometimes it seemed to her now that it could not be true. Maria realized that she was full of self-righteousness, but she wasalso honest. She saw no need for her to blame herself for faultswhich she had not committed. She thought of the doctrine which shehad heard, that children were wholly evil from their birth, and itdid not seem to her true. She could _say_ that she had been whollyevil from her birth, but she felt that she should, if she did say so, tell a lie to God and herself. She honestly could not see why, forany fault of hers, her father should die. Then suddenly her mind gavea leap from her own standing-point to that of her father. Shesuddenly reflected that it was not wholly her own grief for his losswhich was to be considered, but her father's grief at quitting theworld wherein he had dwelt so long, and his old loves of life. Shereflected upon his possible fear of the Unknown into which he was togo. There was in Maria's love for her father, as there had been inher mother's, a strong element of the maternal. She thought of herfather with infinite pity, as one might think of a little child aboutto go on a long, strange journey to an unknown place, all alone byhimself. It seemed to her an awful thing for God to ask one like herfather to die a lingering death, to realize it all fully, what he hadto do, then to go off by himself, alone. She remembered what she hadheard from the pulpit on Sundays, but somehow that Unknown seemed sofrightfully wide and vast for a soul like her father's, which hadalways been so like the soul of a child, to find her mother in. Thenshe got some comfort from the memory of her mother, of her greatstrength. It seemed to her that her mother, wherever she was, wouldnot let her father wander alone very long. That she would meet himwith that love and chiding which is sometimes the very concert-pitchof love itself, its key-note, and lead him into those green pasturesand beside those still waters of the Psalmist. Maria, at that moment, got more comfort from her memory of the masterliness of her mother, whom she had known, than from her conception of God, towards whom hersoul reached out, it is true, but whom it no more comprehended than aflower comprehends the sun. The very love of God needs a humantrellis whereby His creatures can reach Him, and Maria now climbedtowards a trust in Him, by the reflection of her mother's love, andstrength in spite of love. 

Then racking pity for herself and her own loss, and rage because ofit, and a pity for her father which almost roused her to a fury ofrebellion, again swept away every other consideration. 

"Poor father! poor father!" she sobbed, under her breath. "There heis going to die, and he hasn't got mother to take care of him! _She_won't do anything. She will try not to smile, that is all. And Ican't do anything, the way mother could. Father don't want me to evenact as if I knew it; but if mother were alive he would tell her, andshe would help him. " Then Maria thought of herself, poor, solitary, female thing travelling the world alone, for she never thought, atthat time, of her marriage being anything which would ever be amarriage in reality, but as of something which cast her outside thepale of possibilities and made her more solitary still, and she weptsilently, or as silently as she could; once in awhile a murmur ofagony or a sob escaped her. She could not help it. She got up out ofher little chair and flung herself on the floor, and fairly writhedwith the pain of her awful grief and sense of loss. She became deafto any sound; all her senses seemed to have failed her. She was aliveonly to that sense of grief which is the primeval sense of theworld--the grief of existence itself and the necessity of death andloss. 

All at once she felt a little, soft touch, and another little, weeping, human thing, born like herself to all the awful chances oflove and grief, flung itself down beside her. 

Maria had locked her doors, but she had forgotten her window, whichopened on an upper balcony, and was easily accessible to any oneclimbing out of the hall window. Evelyn had been listening at herdoor and had heard her sobs. Knowing from experience that her sistermeant what she said, she had climbed out of the hall window, scuddedalong the little balcony, and into Maria's window. She flung herselfdown on the floor, and wept so violently that Maria was alarmed. 

"Why, baby, darling, what is it? Tell sister, " she said, hushing herown sobs. 

The child continued to sob. Her whole little frame was shakenconvulsively. 

"Tell sister, " whispered Maria. 

"I'm cryin' 'cause--'cause--" panted the child. 

"Because what, darling?"

"Because you are crying, and--and--"

"And what?"

"'Cause I 'ain't got anything to cry for. "

"Why, you precious darling!" said Maria. She hugged the child close, and all at once a sense of peace and comfort came over her, even inthe face of approaching disaster. She sensed the love and pity whichholds the world, through this little human key-note of it which hadstruck in her ears. 

Chapter XVII

Harry Edgham's disease proved to be one of those concerning which nophysician can accurately calculate its duration or termination. Ithad, as diseases often have, its periods of such utter quiescencethat it seemed as if it had entirely disappeared. It was not a yearafter Harry had received his indeterminate death sentence before helooked better than he had done for a long while. The color came backto his cheeks, his expression regained its youthful joyfulness. Everybody said that Harry Edgham was quite well again. He hadobserved a certain diet and taken remedies; then, in the summer, hetook, for the first time for years, an entire vacation of threeweeks, and that had its effect for the better. 

Maria began to be quite easy with regard to her father's health. Itseemed to her that, since he looked so well, he must be well. Herlast winter at the Lowe Academy was entirely free from thatworriment. Then, too, Wollaston Lee had graduated and begun hiscollege course, and she no longer had him constantly before her eyes, bringing to memory that bewildering, almost maddening experience oftheirs that night in New York. She was almost happy, in an odd, middle-aged sort of fashion, during her last term at the academybefore her graduation. She took great pride in her progress in herstudies. She was to graduate first of her class. She did not evenhave to work very hard to accomplish it. Maria had a mind ofmarvellous quickness of grasp. Possibly her retentive powers were notentirely in proportion, but, at all events, she accomplished muchwith comparatively little labor. 

Harry was very proud of her. The evening before her graduation Idahad gone to New York to the theatre and Evelyn was in bed, and Mariadressed herself in her graduation gown, which was charming--Ida hadnever neglected her, in respect to dress, at least--and came down toshow herself to her father. He would not be able to be present at thegraduation on account of an unusual press of business. Maria came solightly that she almost seemed to float into the room, with her finewhite draperies trailing behind her and her knots of white ribbonfluttering, and stood before her father. 

"Father, " said she, "I want you to see the way I'll look to-morrow. Isn't this dress pretty?"

"Lovely, " said Harry. "It is very becoming, too, " he added. 

Indeed, Maria really looked pretty again in this charming costume. During the last few months her cheeks had filled out and she hadgotten some lovely curves of girlhood. Her eyes shone with a peculiarbrilliancy, her red lips trembled into a smile, her hair, in a fluffabove her high forehead, caught the light. 

Maria laughed gayly. "Take care, father, or you will make me vain, "she said. 

"You have some reason to be, " Harry said, honestly. "You are going tograduate first in your class, and--well, you are pretty, dear--atleast you are to father, and, I guess, to other folks. "

Maria blushed. "Only to father, because he is partial, " she said. Then she went up to him and rubbed her blooming cheek against his. "Do you know what makes me happier than anything else?" shesaid--"happier than graduating first, happier than my pretty dress, happier than anything?"

"No. What, dear?"

"Feeling that you are well again. "

There was an almost imperceptible pause before Harry replied. Then hesaid, in his pleasant voice, which had never grown old, "Yes, dear; Iam better, dear, I think. "

"Think, " Maria said, gayly. "Why, you are well, father. Don't youknow you are well?"

"Yes, I think I am better, dear. "

"Better? You are well. Nobody can look as young and handsome as youdo and be ill, possibly. You are well, father. I know you can't quiteget what that horrid old croaking doctor told you out of your mind, but doctors don't know everything. You are well, and that makes mehappier than anything else in the world. "

Harry laughed a little faintly. "Well, I dare say you are right, dear, " he said. 

"Right?--of course I am right, " said Maria. Then she danced off tochange her gown. 

After she had gone, Harry rose from the chair; he had been sittingbeside the centre-table with the evening paper. He walked over to thewindow and looked out at the night. It was bright moonlight. Thetrees were in full leaf, and the shadows were of such loveliness thatthey fairly seemed celestial. Harry gazed out at the night scene, atthe moon riding through the unbelievable and unfathomable blue of thesky, like a crystal ball, with a slight following of golden clouds;he gazed at the fairy shadows which transformed the familiar villagestreet into something beyond earth, and he sighed. The conviction ofhis approaching dissolution had never been so strong as at thatmoment. He seemed fairly to see his own mortality--that gate of deathwhich lay wide open for him. Yet, all at once, a sense of peace andtrust almost ineffable came over him. Death seemed merely thegoing-out into the true open, the essence of the moonlight and thebeauty. It seemed the tasting and absorbing the food for his ownspiritual hunger, which had been upon him from birth, that which hadalways been just out of his reach. When Maria returned in her pinkgingham school-gown, she found her father seated beside the table ashe had been when she left. He looked up at her with a bright smilewhich somehow chilled her, although she tried to drive the convictionof the chill from her mind. She got a new book from the case, andproposed reading aloud to him. 

"Hadn't you better go to bed, dear?" said Harry. "You will have ahard day to-morrow. "

"No; I am going to sit up with you till She comes home, " said Maria, "and we might as well amuse ourselves. " She began to read, and Harrylistened happily. But Maria, whenever she glanced over her book ather father's happy face, felt the same undefinable chill. 

However, when Ida came home and they had a little supper of sardinesand crackers, she did not think any more of it. She went to bed withher head full of the morrow and her new gown and the glories awaitingher. She tried not to be vain, but was uncomfortably conscious thatshe was glad that she was first in her class, instead of some othergirl or instead of a boy. Maria felt especially proud of rankingahead of the boys. 

The next day was, as she had anticipated, one of happy triumph forher. She stood on the stage in her lovely dress and read hervaledictory, which, although trite enough, was in reality ratherbetter in style than most valedictories. She received a number ofpresents, a tiny gold watch from her father among them, and a ringwith a turquoise stone from Ida, and quantities of flowers. The dayafter the graduation Maria had her photograph taken, with all herfloral offerings around her, with a basket of roses on her arm andgreat bouquets in her lap and on a little photographic table besideher. The basket of roses was an anonymous offering. It came with nocard. If Maria had dreamed that Wollaston Lee had sent it, she wouldnever have sat for her photograph with it on her arm. But she did notthink of Wollaston at all that day. He was completely out of her mindfor the time, swallowed up in her sense of personal joy and triumph. Wollaston had not graduated first in his class in the academy theyear before. A girl had headed that class also. Maria had felt amalicious joy at the fact, at the time, and it was entirely beyondher imagination now that Wollaston, who had seemed to dislike her, although she was forced to admit that he had been exceedinglyhonorable, had sent roses to her. She suspected that one of theteachers, a young man who had paid, in a covert and shamefaced way, alittle attention to her, had sent the basket. She thought the roseslovely, and recognized the inadvisability of thanking this teacher, since he had not enclosed his card. She did not like him verywell--indeed, she felt a certain repugnance to him--but roses wereroses, and she was a young girl. 

"Who gave you the basket of roses, dear?" her father asked when shewas displaying her trophies the day after her graduation. 

Maria blushed. "I don't know, " said she; "there wasn't any card withthem. " As she spoke she seemed to see the face of the young historyteacher, Mr. Latimer, with his sparse, sandy beard, and she felt howvery distasteful he was to her, even if gilded, so to speak, by roses. 

"I think some enamoured boy in her class who was too shy to send hiscard with his floral offering was the one, " Ida said to Harry whenMaria had gone out. She laughed a softly sarcastic laugh. 

Harry looked at her uneasily. 

"Maria is too young to get such ideas into her head, " he said. 

"My dear, " said Ida, "you forget that such ideas do not get intogirls' heads; they are born in them. "

"I presume one of the other girls sent them, " said Harry, almostangrily. 

"Perhaps, " replied Ida, and again she laughed her soft, sarcasticlaugh, which grated terribly on Harry. It irritated him beyondmeasure that any boy should send roses to this little, delicate, fairgirl of his. For all he had spoken of her marriage, the very idea ofconfiding her to any other man than himself made him furious. Especially the idea of some rough school-boy, who knew little elsethan to tumble about in a football game and was not his girl's mentalequal, irritated him. He went over in his mind all the boys in herclass. The next morning, going to New York, Edwin Shaw, who had lostmuch of his uncouthness and had divorced himself entirely from hisfamily in the matter of English, was on the train, and he scowled athim with such inscrutable fierceness that the boy fairly trembled. Healways bowed punctiliously to Maria's father, and this morning Mariawas with her father. She was to have a day off: sit in her father'soffice and read a book until noon, then go to lunch with him at aFrench restaurant, then go to the matinee. She wore a festive silkwaist, and looked altogether lovely, the boy thought. 

"Who is that great gawk of a fellow?" asked Harry of Maria. 

"Edwin Shaw. He was in my class, " replied Maria, and she blushed, forno earthly reason except that her father expected her to do so. Younggirls are sometimes very ready, even to deceit, to meet the emotionalexpectations of their elders. Harry then and there made up his mindthat Edwin Shaw was the sender of the basket of roses. 

"He comes of a family below par, and he shows it, " he said, viciously, to Maria. He scowled again at Edwin's neck, which wasawkwardly long above his collar, but the boy did not see it. He saton the opposite side of the car a seat in advance. 

Harry said again to Maria, when they had left the train, and Edwin, conscious of his back, which he was straightening, was striding infront of them, what a great gawk of a fellow he was, and how he cameof a family below par. Maria assented indifferently. She did notdream of her father's state of mind, and, as for Edwin Shaw, he wasno more to her than a set of car-steps, not so much, because thecar-steps were of obvious use. 

That very night, when Maria and her father reached home after ariotous day in the city, there was a letter in the post-office fromAunt Maria, to the effect that there was no doubt that Maria couldhave the school in Amity in the fall. The teacher who had held theposition was to be married in a few weeks. The salary was notmuch--Amity was a poor little country village--but Maria felt as ifshe had expectations of untold wealth. She was sorry at the prospectof leaving her father and Evelyn, but the idea of self-support andindependence, and taking a little of the burden from her father, intoxicated her. Maria had the true spirit of the women of her race. She liked the feel of her own muscles and nerves of individuality andself-reliance. She felt a head taller after she had read her aunt'sletter. 

"She says she will board me for four dollars a week, " she said. "Ishall have quite a lot of money clear. "

"Well, four dollars a week will recompense her, and help her, too, "said Harry, a little gloomily. To tell the truth, he did not in theleast like the idea of Maria's going to Amity to teach. Nothingexcept the inner knowledge of his own failing health could have ledhim to consent to it. Ida was delighted at the news, but sheconcealed her delight as well as her annoyance under her smilingmask, and immediately began to make plans for Maria's wardrobe. 

"Whatever I have new I am going to pay you back, father, now I amgoing to earn money, " Maria said, proudly. 

After she went up-stairs to bed that night, Evelyn, who was now aslim, beautiful little girl, rather tall for her age, and going to aprivate school in the village, came into her room, and Maria toldEvelyn how much she was going to do with the money which she was toearn. Maria, at this time, was wholly mercenary. She had not theleast ambition to benefit the young. She was, in fact, young herself, but her head was fairly turned with the most selfish ofconsiderations. It was true that she planned to spend the money whichshe would earn largely upon others, but that was, in itself, asubtle, more rarefied form of selfishness. 

"I remember Aunt Maria's parlor carpet was worn almost threadbare, and I mean to buy her a new one with the very first money I earn, "Maria said to little Evelyn; and she thought, as she met Evelyn'sbeautiful, admiring eyes, how very kind and thoughtful she, Maria, would be with her wealth. 

"I suppose Aunt Maria is very poor, " Evelyn remarked, in her charminglittle voice. 

"Oh, very. She lives on a hundred dollars a year. "

"Will you get enough to eat?" asked Evelyn, anxiously. 

"Oh yes. I shall pay her four dollars a week, and if she got alongwith only a hundred a year, only think what she can do with that. Iknow Aunt Eunice, Uncle Henry's wife, hasn't a good dress, either. Ithink I shall buy a brown satin for her. "

"How awful good you are, sister!" said little Evelyn, and Maria quiteagreed with her. The conviction of her own goodness, and herforthcoming power to exercise it, filled her soul with a gentle, stimulating warmth after she was in bed. The moonlight shone brightlyinto her room. She gazed at the bright shaft of silver it made acrossall her familiar possessions, and, notwithstanding her young girldreams were gone, she realized that, although she had lost all theusual celestial dreams and rafters of romance which go to make ayoung girl's air-castle, she had still left some material, even if ofless importance. 

She spent, on the whole, a very happy summer. Her father lookedentirely well; she was busy in preparations for her life in Amity;and, what relieved her the most, Wollaston Lee was not at home formore than five days during the entire vacation. He went camping-outwith a party of college-boys. Maria was, therefore, not subjected tothe nervous strain of seeing him. During the few days he was at homehe had his chum with him, and Maria only saw him twice--once on thestreet, when she returned his bow distantly and heard with nopleasure the other boy ask who that pretty girl was, and once inchurch. She gave only the merest side-glance at him in church, andshe was not sure that he looked at her at all, but she went home paleand nervous. A secret of any kind is a hard thing for a girl to bearabout with her, and Maria's, which was both tragic and absurd, wasseverer than most. At times it seemed to her, when she looked in herglass, that all she saw was the secret; it seemed to her, when otherpeople looked at her, that it was all they saw. It was one reason forher readiness to go to Amity. She would there be out of reach ofpeople who could in any way have penetrated her secret. She would notrun the risk of meeting Wollaston; of meeting his father and mother, and wondering if he had, after all, told; of meeting Gladys Mann, andwondering if she had told, and knowing that she knew. 

Maria, in these last months, saw very little of Gladys, who hadsunken entirely into the lower stratum of society in which shebelonged. Gladys had left school, where she had not learned much, andshe went out cleaning and doing house-work, at seventy-five cents aday. Sometimes Maria met her going to and fro from a place ofemployment, and at such times there was fear in Maria's face and apathetic admiration and reassurance in the other girl's. Gladys hadgrown hard and large as to her bones and muscles, but she did notlook altogether well. She had a half-nourished, spiritually andbodily, expression, which did not belie the true state of affairswith her. She had neither enough meat nor enough ideality. She wassuffering, and the more because she did not know. Gladys was of theopinion that she was, on the whole, enjoying life and having a prettygood time. She earned enough to buy herself some showy clothes, andshe had a lover, a "steady, " as she called him. It is true that shewas at times a little harassed by jealousy concerning another girlwho had a more fully blown beauty than she, and upon whom shesometimes suspected her lover was casting admiring eyes. 

It was at this time that Gladys, whose whole literature consisted ofthe more pictorial of the daily papers, wrote some badly spelled andvery pathetic little letters, asking advice as to whether a girl ofher age, who had been keeping steady company with a young man of herlover's age, whom she dearly loved, should make advances if he seemedto exhibit a preference for another girl, and she inquired pitifullyof the editor, as of some deity, as to whether she thought her loverdid really prefer the other girl to her. These letters, and theanswers, were a source of immense comfort to Gladys. Sometimes, whenshe met Maria, they made her feel almost on terms of equality withher. She doubted if Maria, smart as she was, had ever really appearedin the papers. She wrote her letters under different names, and evensent them from neighboring towns, and walked long distances, when shefelt that she wanted to save car-fare, to post them. Once Maria mether as she was walking along with an evening paper in her hand, reading the reply to one of her letters, and Maria wondered at theexpression on Gladys's face. She at once pitied, feared, and detestedGladys. She doubted if she were a good girl; she herself, like a nunwithout even dreams, seemed living in another sphere, she felt so farremoved. She was in reality removed, although Gladys, if the truthwere told, was not so bad, and she got some good advice from theanswers in response to her letters, which restrained her. Still, herview of everything was different. She was different. Black was not asblack to her as to Maria; a spade was not so truly a spade. Sherecognized immorality as a fact, but it did not seem to her of somuch importance. In one sense she was more innocent even than Maria, for she had never felt the true living clutch of vice on her soul, even in imagination; she could not. The devil to her was not ofenough consequence to enable her to sin in the truest sense of theword. All her family were immoral, and a constant living in anatmosphere of immorality may, in one sense, make one incapable ofspiritual sin. One needs to fully sense a sin in order to actuallycommit it. Gladys could hardly sense sin as Maria could. Still shehad a sense of proud virtue after reading the paragraphs of goodadvice in reply to her letters to the paper, and she felt that itplaced her nearer Maria's level. On the occasion when Maria met herreading the paper, she even spoke. 

"Hullo, M'ria!" said she. 

"Good-evening, " Maria replied, politely and haughtily. 

But Gladys did not seem to notice the haughtiness. She pressed closeto Maria. 

"Say!" said she. 

"What?" asked Maria. 

"Ain't you ever goin' to--?"

"No, I am not, " replied Maria, deadly pale, and trembling from headto foot. 

"Why don't you write to this paper and ask what you had better do?"said Gladys. "It's an awful good plan. You do git awful good advice. "

"I don't wish to, " replied Maria, trying to pass, but Gladys stood inher way. 

"But say, M'ria, you be in an awful box, " said she. "You can't nevermarry nobody else without you get locked up, you know. "

"I don't want to, " Maria said, shortly. 

"Mebbe you will. "

"I never shall. "

"Well, if you do, you had better write to this paper, then you canfind out just what to do. It won't tell you to do nothin' wrong, andit's awful sensible. Say, M'ria. "

"Well, what?"

"I 'ain't never told a living soul, and I never shall, but I don'tsee what you are goin' to do if either you or him wants to gitmarried to anybody else. "

"I am not worrying about getting married, " said Maria. This time shepushed past Gladys. Her knees fairly knocked together. 

Gladys looked at her with sympathy and the old little-girl love andadoration. "Well, don't you worry about me tellin', " said she. 

Chapter XVIII

Maria began her teaching on a September day. It was raining hard, butthere was all about an odd, fictitious golden light from the spray ofmaple-leaves which overhung the village. Amity was a typical littleNew England village--that is, it had departed but little from itsoriginal type, although there was now a large plant of paper-mills, which had called in outsiders. The outsiders were established bythemselves on a sort of Tom Tidler's ground called "Across theRiver. " The river was little more than a brook, except in spring, when, after heavy snows, it sometimes verified its name of the RamseyRiver. Ramsey was an old family name in Amity, as Edgham was inEdgham. Once, indeed, the little village had been called Ramsey FourCorners. Then the old Ramsey family waned and grew less in popularesteem, and one day the question of the appropriateness of naming thevillage after them came up. There was another old family, by the nameof Saunders, between whom and the Ramseys had always been a dignifiedNew England feud. The Saunders had held their own much better thanthe Ramseys. There was one branch especially, to which Judge JosiahSaunders belonged, which was still notable. Judge Josiah had servedin the State legislature, he was a judge of the superior court, andhe occupied the best house in Amity, a fine specimen of the oldcolonial mansion house, which had been in the Saunders family forgenerations. Judge Saunders had made additions to this old mansion, conservative, modern colonial additions, and it was really a noblebuilding. It was shortly after he had made the additions to hishouse, and had served his first term as judge of the superior court, that the question of changing the name of the village from RamseyFour Corners to Saunders had been broached. Meetings had been held, in which the name of our celebrated townsman, the Honorable JosiahSaunders, had been on every tongue. The Ramsey family obtained scantrecognition for past merits, but a becoming silence had beenmaintained as to their present status. The only recognized survivorsof the old house of Ramsey at that time were the widow, AmeliaRamsey, the wife of Anderson Ramsey, deceased, as she appeared in theminutes of the meetings, and her son George, a lad of sixteen, andthe same who, in patched attire, had made love to Maria over thegarden fence when she was a child. It was about that time that themeetings were taking place, and the name of the village had beenchanged to Amity. It had been held to be a happy, even a noble andgenerous thought, on the part of Josiah Saunders. "Would that in suchwise, by a combination of poetical aspirations and practical deeds, all differences might be adjusted upon this globe, " said the AmityArgus, in an account of the meeting. Thenceforth, Ramsey Four Cornersbecame Amity, and the most genteel of the ladies had Amity engravedon their note-paper. 

Mrs. Amelia Ramsey and George, who had suffered somewhat in theirfeelings, in spite of the poetical adjustment of the difference, hadno note-paper. They were poor, else Amity might never have been. Theylived in a house which had been, in its day, as pretentious as theSaunders mansion. At the time of Maria's first visit to Amity it hadbeen a weather-beaten old structure, which had not been painted foryears, and had a curious effect as of a blur on the landscape, withits roof and walls of rain and sun stained shingles and clapboards, its leaning chimneys, and its Corinthian pillars widely out of theperpendicular, supporting crazily the roofs of the double veranda. When Maria went to Amity to begin teaching, the old house hadundergone a transformation. She gazed at it with amazement out of thesitting-room window, which faced it, on the afternoon of her arrival. 

"Why, what has happened to the old Ramsey house?" she asked her auntMaria. 

"Well, in the first place, a cousin died and left them some money, "replied Aunt Maria. "It was a matter of ten thousand dollars. ThenAmelia and George went right to work and fixed up the house. It wasnone of my business, but it seemed dreadful silly to me. If I hadbeen in their place, I'd have let that old ramshackle of a place goto pot and bought a nice little new house. There was one they couldhave got for fifteen hundred dollars, on this side of the river; butno, they went to work, and they must have laid out three thousandclear on that old thing. "

"It is beautiful!" said Maria, regarding it with admiration. 

"Well, I don't think it's very beautiful, but everybody to theirliking, " replied Aunt Maria, with a sniff of her high, transparentnostrils. "For my part, I'd rather have a little, clean new housebefore all the old ones, that folks have died in and worried in, increation. "

But Maria continued to regard the renovated Ramsey house withadmiration. It stood close to the street, as is the case with so manyold houses in rural New England. It had a tiny brick strip of yard infront, on which was set, on either side of the stoop, a greatcentury-plant in a pot. Above them rose a curving flight of steps toa broad veranda, supported with Corinthian pillars, which were nowupright and glistening with white paint, as was the entire house. 

"They had it all fixed up, inside and out, " said Aunt Maria. "Therewasn't a room but was painted and papered, and a good many had to beplastered. They did not get much new furniture, though. I should havethought they'd wanted to. All they've got is awful old. But I heardGeorge Ramsey say he wouldn't swap one of those old mahogany piecesfor the best new thing to be bought. Well, everybody to their taste. If I had had my house all fixed up that way, I should have wanted newfurniture to correspond. "

"What is George Ramsey doing?" asked Maria, with a little, consciousblush of which she was ashamed. Maria, all her life, would blushbecause people expected it of her. She knew as plainly as if she hadspoken, that her aunt Maria was considering suddenly the advantagesof a possible match between herself and George Ramsey. What AuntMaria said immediately confirmed this opinion. She spoke with a sortof chary praise of George. Aunt Maria had in reality never liked theRamseys; she considered that they felt above her, and for no goodreason; still, she had an eye for the main chance. It flashed swiftlyacross her mind that her niece was pretty, and George might lose hisheart to her and marry her, and then Mrs. Amelia Ramsey might have totreat her like an equal and no longer hold her old, aristocratic headso high. 

"Well, " said she, "I suppose George Ramsey is pretty smart. They sayhe is. I guess he favors his grandfather. His father wasn't any toobright, if he was a Ramsey. George Ramsey, they say, worked his waythrough college, used to be bell-boy or waiter or something in ahotel summers, unbeknown to his mother. Amelia Ramsey would have hada conniption fit if she had known that her precious boy was workingout. She used to talk as grand as you please about George's beingaway on his vacation. Maybe she did know, but if she did she neverlet on. I don't know as she let on even to herself. Amelia Ramsey isone of the kind who can shut their eyes even when they look atthemselves. There never was a lookin'-glass made that could showAmelia Ramsey anything she didn't want to see. I never had anypatience with her. I believe in being proud if you've got anything tobe proud of, but I don't see any sense in it otherwise. Anyhow, Iguess George is doing pretty well. A distant relation of his mother, an Allen, not a Ramsey, got a place in a bank for him, they say, andhe gets good pay. I heard it was three thousand a year, but I don'tbelieve it. He ain't much over twenty, and it ain't likely. I don'tknow jest how old he is. He's some older than you. "

"He's a good deal older than I, " said Maria, remembering sundryconfidences with the tall, lanky boy over the garden fence. 

"Well, I don't know but he is, " said Aunt Maria, "but I don't believehe gets three thousand a year, anyhow. "

The next morning Maria, on her way to school in the rain, passingunder the unconquerable golden glow of the maples, cast asurreptitious glance at the old Ramsey house as she passed. It hadbeen wonderfully changed for the better. Even the garden at the sidenext her aunt's house was no longer a weedy enclosure, but displayedan array of hardy flowers which the frost had not yet affected. Marigolds tossed their golden and russet balls through the misty windof the rain, princess-feathers waved bravely, and chrysanthemumsshowed in gorgeous clumps of rose and yellow and white. As shepassed, a tidy maid emerged from the front door and began sweepingout the rain which had lodged in the old hollows of the stone stoop, worn by the steps of generations. The rain flew before her plyingbroom in a white foam. The maid wore a cap and a wide, white apron. Maria reflected that the Ramseys had indeed come into palmier days, since they kept a maid so attired. She thought of George Ramsey withhis patched trousers, and again the old feeling of repulsion andwonder at herself that she could have had romantic dreams about himcame over her. Maria felt unutterably old that morning, and yet shehad a little, childish dread of her new duties. She was in realityafraid of the school-children, although she did not show it. She gotthrough the day very creditably, although that night she was tired asshe had never been in her life, and, curiously enough, her sense ofsmell seemed to be the most affected. Many of her pupils came frompoor families, the families of operatives in the paper-mills, andtheir garments were shabby and unclean. Soaked with rain, they gaveout pungent odors. Maria's sense of smell was very highly developed. It seemed to her that her very soul was permeated, her very thoughtsand imagination, with the odor of damp, unclean clothing, of draggledgowns and wraps and hats and wet leather. She could not eat hersupper; she could not eat the luncheon which her aunt had put up forher, since the school being a mile away, it was too far to walk homefor the noonday dinner in the rain. 

"You 'ain't eat hardly a mite of luncheon, " Aunt Maria said when sheopened the box. 

"I did not feel very hungry, " Maria replied, apologetically. 

"If you don't eat, you'll never hold out school-teaching in theworld, " said Aunt Maria. 

She repeated it when Maria scarcely tasted her supper, although itwas a nice one--cold ham, and scrambled eggs, scrambled with cream, and delicious slabs of layer-cake. "You'll never hold out in theworld if you don't eat, " said she. 

"To tell the truth, " replied Maria, "I can smell those poorchildren's wet clothes so that it has taken away all my appetite. "

"Land! you'll have to get over that, " said Aunt Maria. 

"It seems to me that everything smells and tastes of wet, dirtyclothes and shoes, " said Maria. 

"You'll have to learn not to be so particular, " said Aunt Maria, andshe spoke with the same affectionate severity that Maria rememberedin her mother. "Put it out of your mind, " she added. 

"I can't, " said Maria, and a qualm of nausea came over her. It was asif the damp, unclean garments and the wet shoes were pressed closeunder her nostrils. She looked pale. 

"Well, drink your tea, anyhow, " said Aunt Maria, with a glance at her. 

After supper Aunt Maria, going into the other side of the house toborrow some yeast, said to her brother Henry that she did not believethat Maria would hold out to teach school. "She has come home sick onaccount of the smells the very first day, " said she, "and she hasn'teat her supper, and she scarcely touched her luncheon. "

Henry Stillman laughed, a bitter, sardonic laugh which he hadacquired of late years. "Oh, well, she will get used to it, " hereplied. "Don't you worry, Maria. She will get used to it. The smellof the poor is the smell of the world. Heaven itself must be full ofit. "

His wife eyed him with a half-frightened air. "Why, don't talk so, Henry!" she said. 

Henry Stillman laughed, half sardonically, half tenderly. "It is so, my dear, " he said, "but don't you worry about it. "

In these days Henry Stillman, although always maintaining his gentlemanner towards children and women, had become, in the depths of hislong-suffering heart, a rebel against fate. He had borne too longthat burden which is the heaviest and most ignoble in the world, theburden of a sense of injury. He knew that he was fitted for betterthings than he had. He thought that it was not his own personal faultthat he did not have them, and his very soul was curdling with aconviction of wrong, both at the hands of men and God. In these dayshe ceased going to church. He watched his wife and sister set outevery Sunday, and he stayed at home. He got a certain satisfactionout of that. All who realize an injury have an amount of childishnessin acts of retaliation. He, Henry Stillman, actually had a convictionthat he was showing recrimination and wounding fate, which had soinjured him, if only with a pin-prick, by staying away from church. After Maria came to live with them, she, too, went to church, but hedid not view her with the same sardonic air that he did the olderwomen, who had remained true to their faith in the face of disaster. He looked at Maria, in her pretty little best gowns and hats, settingforth, and a sweet tenderness for her love of God and beliefsweetened his own agnosticism. He would not for the world have said aword to weaken the girl's faith nor to have kept her away fromchurch. He would have urged her to go had she manifested theslightest inclination to remain at home. He was in a manner jealousof the girl's losing what he had himself lost. He tried to refrainfrom airing his morbid, bitter views of life to his wife, but once ina while he could not restrain himself as now. However, he laughed sonaturally, and asked Maria, who presently came in, how many pupilshad been present, and how she liked school-teaching, that his wifebegan to think that he had not been in earnest. 

"They are such poor, dirty little things, " Maria said, "and theirclothes were wet, and--and--" A look of nausea overspread her face. 

"You will get used to that, " said her uncle, laughing pleasantly. "Eunice, haven't we got some cologne somewhere?"

Eunice got a bottle of cologne, which was seldom used, being aluxury, from a closet in the sitting-room, and put some on Maria'shandkerchief. "You won't think anything about it after a little, "said she, echoing her husband. 

"I suppose the scholars in Lowe Academy were a different class, " saidAunt Maria, who had seated herself as primly as ever, with her handscrossed but not touching the lap of her black gown. The folds of theskirt were carefully arranged, and she did not move after having onceseated herself, for fear of creasing it. 

"They were clean, at least, " said Maria, with a little grimace ofdisgust. "It does seem as if people might be clean, if they are poor. "

"Some folks here are too poor to buy soap and wash-cloths andtowels, " her uncle said, still not bitterly. "You must take that intoaccount, Maria. It takes a little extra money even to keep clean;people don't get that into their heads, generally speaking, but it isso. "

"Well, I haven't had much money, " said Aunt Maria, "but I must say Ihave kept myself in soap and wash-rags and towels. "

"You might not have been able to if you had had half a dozen childrenand a drinking husband, or one who was out of work half the time, "her brother said. 

An elderly blush spread over his sister's face. "Well, the Lord knowsI'd rather have the soap and towels and wash-rags than a drunkenhusband and half a dozen dirty children, " she retorted, sharply. 

"Lucky for you and the children that you have, " said Henry. Then heturned again to his niece, of whom he was very fond. "It won't rainevery day, dear, " he said, "and the smells won't be so bad. Don'tworry. "

Maria smiled back at him bravely. "I shall get used to it, " she said, sniffing at the cologne, which was cheap and pretty bad. 

Maria was in reality dismayed. Her experience with children--that is, her personal experience--had been confined to her sister Evelyn. She compared dainty little Evelyn with the rough, uncouth, half-degenerates which she had encountered that morning, sittingbefore her with gaping mouths of stupidity or grins of impishimpudence, in their soiled, damp clothing, and her heart sank. Therewas nothing in common except youth between these children, theoffspring of ignorance and often drunken sensuality, and Evelyn. Atfirst it seemed to her that there was absolutely no redeeming qualityin the whole. However, the next morning the sun shone through theyellow maple boughs, and was reflected from the golden carpet ofleaves which the wind and rain of the day before had spread beneath. The children were dry; some of them had become ingratiating, evenaffectionate. She discovered that there were a number of prettylittle girls and innocent, honest little boys, whose mothers had madepathetic attempts to send them clean and whole to school. She alsodiscovered that some of them had reasonably quick intelligence, especially one girl, by name Jessy Ramsey. She was of a distantbranch of the old Ramseys, and had a high, spiritual forehead, fromwhich the light hair was smoothly combed in damp ridges, and adelicate face with serious, intent blue eyes, under brows strangelypent for a child. Maria straightway took a fancy to Jessy Ramsey. When, on her way home at night, the child timidly followed in herwake, she reached out and grasped her tiny hand with a warm pressure. 

"You learned your lessons very well, Jessy, " she said, and thechild's face, as she looked up at her, grew positively brilliant. 

When Maria got home she enthused about her. 

"There is one child in the school who is a wonder, " said she. 

"Who?" asked Aunt Maria. She was in her heart an aristocrat. Sheconsidered the people of Amity--that is, the manufacturing people(she exempted her own brother as she might have exempted a prince ofthe blood drawn into an ignoble pursuit from dire necessity)--asdistinctly below par. Maria's school was across the river. Sheregarded all the children below par. "I do wish you could have had aschool this side of the river, " she added, "but Miss Norcross hasheld the other ten years, and I don't believe she will ever getmarried, she is so mortal homely, and they like her. Who is the childyou are talking about?"

"Her name is Ramsey, Jessy Ramsey. "

Aunt Maria sniffed. "Oh!" said she. "She belongs to that EugeneRamsey tribe. "

"Any relation to the Ramseys next door?" asked Maria. 

"About a tenth cousin, I guess, " replied Aunt Maria. "There was aEugene Ramsey did something awful years ago, before I was born, andhe got into state-prison, and then when he came out he married as lowas he could. They have never had anything to do with these Ramseys. They are just as low as they can be--always have been. "

"This little girl is pretty, and bright, " said Maria. 

Aunt Maria sniffed again. "Well, you'll see how she'll turn out, " shesaid. "Never yet anything good came of that Eugene Ramsey tribe. Thatchild's father drinks like a fish, and he's been in prison, and hermother's no better than she should be, and she's got a sister thateverybody talks about--has ever since she was so high. "

"This seems like a good little girl, " said Maria. 

"Wait and see, " said Aunt Maria. 

But for all that Maria felt herself drawn towards this poor littleoffspring of the degenerate branch of the Ramseys. There wassomething about the child's delicate, intellectual, fairly noble castof countenance which at once aroused her affection and pity. It wasin December, on a bitterly cold day, when Maria had been teaching inAmity some two months, when this affection and pity ripened intoabsolute fondness and protection. The children were out in the bareschool-yard during the afternoon recess, when Maria, sitting huddledover the stove for warmth, heard such a clamor that she ran to thewindow. Out in the desolate yard, a parallelogram of frozen soilhedged in with a high board fence covered with grotesque, and evenobscene, drawings of pupils who had from time to time reigned indistrict number six, was the little Ramsey girl, surrounded by acrowd of girls who were fairly yelping like little mongrel dogs. Theboys' yard was on the other side of the fence, but in the fence was aknot-hole wherein was visible a keen boy-eye. One girl after anotherwas engaged in pulling to the height of her knees Jessy Ramsey'spoor, little, dirty frock, thereby disclosing her thin, naked legs, absolutely uncovered to the freezing blast. Maria rushed bareheadedout in the yard and thrust herself through the crowd of little girls. 

"Girls, what are you doing?" she asked, sternly. 

"Please, teacher, Jessy Ramsey, she 'ain't got nothin' at all onunder her dress, " piped one after another, in accusing tones; thenthey yelped again. 

Tears of pity and rage sprang to Maria's eyes. She caught hold of thethin little shoulder, which was, beyond doubt, covered by nothingexcept her frock, and turned furiously upon the other girls. 

"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!" said she; "great girls likeyou making fun of this poor child!"

"She had ought to be ashamed of herself goin' round so, " retorted thebiggest girl in school, Alice Sweet, looking boldly at Maria. "Sheain't no better than her ma. My ma says so. "

"My ma says I mustn't go with her, " said another girl. 

"Both of you go straight into the school-house, " said Maria, at awhite heat of anger as she impelled poor little Jessy Ramsey out ofthe yard. 

"I don't care, " said Alice Sweet, with quite audible impudence. 

The black eye at the knot-hole in the fence which separated thegirls' yard from the boys' was replaced by a blue one. Maria'sattention was attracted towards it by an audible titter from theother side. 

"Every one of you boys march straight into the school-house, " shecalled. Then she led Jessy into a little room which was dedicated tothe teacher's outside wraps. The room was little more than a closet, and very cold. Maria put her arm around Jessy and felt with horrorthe little, naked body under the poor frock. 

"For Heaven's sake, child, why are you out with so little on such aday as this?" she cried out. 

Jessy began to cry. She had heretofore maintained a sullen silence ofdepression under taunts, but a kind word was too much for her. 

"I 'ain't got no underclothes, teacher; I 'ain't, honest, " shesobbed. "I'd outgrowed all my last year's ones, and Mamie she's got'em; and my mother she 'ain't got no money to buy any more, and myfather he's away on a drunk. I can't help it; I can't, honest, teacher. "

Maria gazed at the little thing in a sort of horror. "Do you mean tosay that you have actually nothing to put on but your dress, JessyRamsey?" said she. 

"I can't help it, honest, teacher, " sobbed Jessy Ramsey. 

Maria continued to gaze at her, then she led her into the school-roomand rang the bell furiously. When the scholars were all in theirplaces, she opened her lips to express her mind to them, but asecond's reflection seemed to show her the futility of it. Instead, she called the geography class. 

After school that night, Maria, instead of going home, went straightto Jessy Ramsey's home, which was about half a mile from theschool-house. She held Jessy, who wore a threadbare little cape overher frock, by the hand. Franky Ramsey and Mamie Ramsey, Jessy'syounger brother and sister, tagged timidly behind her. Finally, Mariawaited for them to come up with her, which they did with a cringingair. 

"I want to know, " said Maria to Mamie, "if you are wearing all yoursister's underclothes this winter?"

Mamie whimpered a little as she replied. Mamie had a habitual whimperand a mean little face, with a wisp of flaxen hair tied with a dirtyblue ribbon. 

"Yes, ma'am, " she replied. "Jessy she growed so she couldn't git into'em, and mummer--"

The boy, who was very thin, almost to emaciation, and lookedconsumptive, but who was impishly pert, cut in. 

"I had to wear Jessy's shirts, " he said. "Mamie she couldn't wearthem 'ere. "

"So you haven't any flannel shirts?" Maria asked of Mamie. 

"I'm wearin' mummer's, " said Mamie. "Mummer's they shrunk so shecouldn't wear 'em, and Jessy couldn't nuther. "

"What is your mother wearing?" asked Maria. 

"Mr. John Dorsey he bought her some new ones, " replied Mamie, and alight of evil intelligence came into the mean little face. 

"Who is Mr. John Dorsey?" asked Maria. 

"Oh, he's to our house considerable, " replied Mamie, still with thatevil light, which grew almost confidential, upon her face. 

The boy chuckled a little and dug his toes into the frozen earth, then he whistled. 

The Ramsey house was the original old homestead of the family. It wasunspeakably decrepit and fallen from a former high estate. The oldhouse presented to Maria's fancy something in itself degraded andloathsome. It seemed to partake actually of the character of itsinmates--to be stained and swollen and out of plumb withunmentionable sins of degeneration. It was a very poisonous fungus ofa house, with blotches of paint here and there, with its frontportico supported drunkenly on swaying pillars, with its roofhollowed about the chimney, with great stains here and there upon thewalls, which seemed like stains of sin rather than of old rains. Maria marched straight to the house, leading Jessy, with Mamie andFranky at her heels. She knocked on the door; there was no bell, ofcourse. But Franky pushed past her and opened the door, and sang out, in his raucous voice:

"Hullo, mummer! Mummer!"

Mamie echoed him in her equally raucous voice, full of dissonances. "Mummer! Mummer!"

A woman, large and dirty, but rather showily clad, with a bravedisplay of cheap jewelry, appeared in the doorway of a room on theright, from which also issued a warm, spirituous odor, mingled withonions and boiling meat. The woman, who had at one time been weaklypretty, and even now was not bad-looking, stared with a sort ofvacant defiance at Maria. 

"It's teacher, mummer, " volunteered Mamie. 

Franky chuckled again, and again whistled. Franky's chuckles andwhistles were characteristic of him. He often disturbed the school insuch fashion. 

Maria had a vision of a man in his shirt-sleeves, smoking beside ared-hot stove, on which boiled the meat and onions. She began at onceupon her errand. 

"How do you do, Mrs. Ramsey?" said she. 

The woman mumbled something inarticulate and backed a little. The manin the room leaned forward and rolled bloodshot eyes at her. Mariabegan at once. She had much of her mother's spirit, which, when itwas aroused, balked at nothing. She pointed at Jessy, then sheextended her small index-finger severely at Mrs. Ramsey. 

"Mrs. Ramsey, " said she, and she stood so straight that she lookedmuch taller, her blue eyes flashed like steel at the slinking ones ofthe older woman, "I want to inquire why you sent this child to schoolsuch a day as this in such a condition?"

Mrs. Ramsey again murmured something inarticulate and backed stillfarther. Maria followed her quite into the room. A look of insolentadmiration became evident in the bloodshot eyes of the man beside thestove. Maria had no false modesty when she was righteously incensed. She would have said just the same before a room full of men. 

"That child, " she said, and she again pointed at Jessy, shivering inher little, scanty frock--"that child came to school to-day withoutany clothing under her dress; one of the coldest days of the year, too. I don't see what you are thinking of, you, her own mother, tolet a child go out in such a condition! You ought to be ashamed ofyourself!"

Then the woman crimsoned with wrath and she found speech, the patoisof New England, instead of New Jersey, to which Maria was accustomed, and which she understood. This woman, instead of half speaking, ranall her words together in a coarse, nasal monotone. 

"Hadn't nothin' to put on her, " she said. "She'd outgrowed all shehad, hadn't nothin', mind your own business, go 'long home, where youb'long. "

Maria understood the last words, and she replied, fiercely, "I am notgoing home one step until you promise me you'll get decent underwearfor this child to wear to school, " said she, "and that you won'tallow her to go out-of-doors in this condition again. If you do, I'llhave you arrested. "

The woman's face grew redder. She made a threatening movement towardsMaria, but the man beside the stove unexpectedly arose and slouchedbetween them, grinning and feeling in his pocket, whence he withdrewtwo one-dollar notes. 

"Here, " he said, in a growling voice, which was nevertheless intendedto be ingratiating. "Go 'n' buy the young one somethin' to go toschool in. Don't yer mind. "

Maria half extended her hand, then she drew it back. She looked atthe man, who exhaled whiskey as a fungus an evil perfume. She glancedat Mrs. Ramsey. 

"Is this man your father?" she asked of Jessy. 

Immediately the boy burst into a peal of meaning laughter. The manhimself chuckled, then looked grave, with an effort, as he stoodextending the money. 

"Better take 'em an' buy the young one some clothes, " he said. 

"Who is this man?" demanded Maria, severely, of the laughing boy. 

"It's Mr. John Dorsey, " replied Franky. 

Then a light of the underneath evil fire of the world broke uponMaria's senses. She repelled the man haughtily. 

"I don't want your money, " said she. "But"--she turned to thewoman--"if you send that child to school again, clothed as she isto-day, I will have you arrested. I mean it. " With that she was gone, with a proud motion. Laughter rang out after her, also a scoldingvoice and an oath. She did not turn her head. She marched straight onout of the yard, to the street, and home. 

She could not eat her supper. She had a sick, shocked feeling. 

"What is the matter?" her aunt Maria asked. "It's so cold you can'thave been bothered with the smells to-day. "

"It's worse than smells, " replied Maria. Then she told her story. 

Her aunt stared at her. "Good gracious! You didn't go to that awfulhouse, a young girl like you?" she said, and her prim cheeks burned. "Why, that man's livin' right there with Mrs. Ramsey, and her husbandwinking at it! They are awful people!"

"I would have gone anywhere to get that poor child clothed decently, "said Maria. 

"But you wouldn't take his money!"

"I rather guess I wouldn't!"

"Well, I don't blame you, but I don't see what is going to be done. "

"I don't, " said Maria, helplessly. She reflected how she had disposedalready of her small stipend, and would not have any more for sometime, and how her own clothing no more than sufficed for her. 

"I can't give her a thing, " said Aunt Maria. "I'm wearin' flannelsmyself that are so patched there isn't much left of the first of 'em, and it's just so with the rest of my clothes. I'm wearin' a petticoatmade out of a comfortable my mother made before Henry was married. Itwas quilted fine, and had a small pattern, if it is copperplate, butI don't darse hold my dress up only just so. I wouldn't have anybodyknow it for the world. And I know Eunice ain't much better off. Theyhad that big doctor's bill, and I know she's patched and darned soshe'd be ashamed of her life if she fell down on the ice and broke abone. I tell you what it is, those other Ramseys ought to dosomething. I don't care if they are such distant relations, theyought to do something. "

After supper Maria and her aunt went into the other side of thehouse, and Aunt Maria, who had been waxing fairly explosive, told thetale of poor little Jessy Ramsey going to school with noundergarments. 

"It's a shame!" said Eunice, who was herself nervous and easilyaroused to indignation. She sat up straight and the hollows on herthin cheeks blazed, and her thin New England mouth tightened. 

"George Ramsey ought to do something if he is earning as much as theysay he is, " said Aunt Maria. 

"That is so, " said Eunice. "It doesn't make any difference if theyare so distantly related. It is the same name and the same blood. "

Henry Stillman laughed his sardonic laugh. "You can't expect theflowers to look out for the weeds, " he said. "George Ramsey and hismother are in full blossom; they have fixed up their house and areholding up their heads. You can't expect them to look out for poorrelations who have gone to the bad, and done worse--got too poor tobuy clothes enough to keep warm. "

Maria suddenly sprang to her feet. "I know what I am going to do, "she announced, with decision, and made for the door. 

"What on earth are you going to do?" asked her aunt Maria. 

"I am going straight in there, and I am going to tell them how thatpoor little thing came to school to-day, and tell them they ought tobe ashamed of themselves. "

Before the others fairly realized what she was doing, Maria was outof the house, running across the little stretch which intervened. Heraunt Maria called after her, but she paid no attention. She was atthat moment ringing the Ramsey bell, with her pretty, uncovered hairtossing in the December wind. 

"She will catch her own death of cold, " said Aunt Maria, "running outwithout anything on her head. "

"She will just get patronized for her pains, " said Eunice, who had asecret grudge against the Ramseys for their prosperity and theirrenovated house, a grudge which she had not ever owned to her inmostself, but which nevertheless existed. 

"She doesn't stop to think one minute; she's just like her fatherabout that, " said Aunt Maria. 

Henry Stillman said nothing. He took up his paper, which he had beenreading when Maria and his sister entered. 

Meantime, Maria was being ushered into the Ramsey house by a maid whowore a white cap. The first thing which she noticed as she enteredthe house was a strong fragrance of flowers. That redoubled herindignation. 

"These Ramseys can buy flowers in midwinter, " she thought, "whiletheir own flesh and blood go almost naked. "

She entered the room in which the flowers were, a great bunch of pinkcarnations in a tall, green vase. The room was charming. It was notonly luxurious, but gave evidences of superior qualities in itsowners. It was empty when Maria entered, but soon Mrs. Ramsey and herson came in. Maria recognized with a start her old acquaintance, orrather she did not recognize him. She would not have known him at allhad she not seen him in his home. She had not seen him before, for hehad been away ever since she had come to Amity. He had been West onbusiness for his bank. Now he at once stepped forward and spoke toher. 

"You are my old friend, Miss Edgham, I think, " he said. "Allow me topresent my mother. "

Maria bowed perforce before the very gentle little lady in a softlavender cashmere, with her neck swathed in laces, but she did notaccept the offered seat, and she utterly disregarded the glance ofastonishment which both mother and son gave at her uncoveredshoulders and head. Maria's impetuosity had come to her from twosides. When it was in flood, so to speak, nothing could stop it. 

"No, thank you, I can't sit down, " she said. "I came on an errand. You are related, I believe, to the other Ramseys. The children go tomy school. There are Mamie and Franky and Jessy. "

"We are very distantly related, and, on the whole, proud of thedistance rather than the relationship, " said George Ramsey, with alaugh. 

Then Maria turned fiercely upon him. "You ought to be ashamed ofyourself, " said she. 

The young man stared at her. 

Maria persisted. "Yes, you ought, " she said. "I don't care howdistant the relationship is, the same blood is in your veins, and youbear the same name. "

"Why, what is the matter?" asked George Ramsey, still in a puzzled, amused voice. 

Maria spoke out. "That poor little Jessy Ramsey, " said she, "and sheis the prettiest and brightest scholar I have, too, came to schoolto-day without a single stitch of clothing under her dress. It is awonder she didn't die. I don't know but she will die, and if she doesit will be your fault. "

George Ramsey's face suddenly sobered; his mother's flushed. Shelooked at him, then at Maria, almost with fright. She felt reallyafraid of this forcible girl, who was so very angry and so verypretty in her anger. Maria had never looked prettier than she didthen, with her cheeks burning and her blue eyes flashing withindignation and defiance. 

"That is terrible, such a day as this, " said George Ramsey. 

"Yes; I had no idea they were quite so badly off, " murmured hismother. 

"You ought to have had some idea, " flashed out Maria. 

"We had not, Miss Edgham, " said George, gently. "You must rememberhow very distant the relationship is. I believe it begins with thefourth generation from myself. And there are other reasons--"

"There ought not to be other reasons, " Maria said. 

Mrs. Ramsey looked with wonder and something like terror and aversionat this pretty, violent girl, who was espousing so vehemently, not tosay rudely, the cause of the distant relatives of her husband'sfamily. The son, however, continued to smile amusedly at Maria. 

"Won't you sit down, Miss Edgham?" he said. 

"Yes, won't you sit down?" his mother repeated, feebly. 

"No, thank you, " said Maria. "I only came about this. I--I would dosomething for the poor little thing myself, but I haven't any moneynow, and Aunt Maria would, and Uncle Henry, and Aunt Eunice, butthey--"

All at once Maria, who was hardly more than a child herself, and whohad been in reality frightfully wrought up over the piteous plight ofthe other child, lost control of herself. She began to cry. She puther handkerchief to her face and sobbed helplessly. 

"The poor little thing! oh, the poor little thing!" she panted, "withnobody in the world to do anything for her, and her own people soterribly wicked. I--can't bear it!"

The first thing she knew, Maria was having a large, soft cloak foldedaround her, and somebody was leading her gently to the door. Sheheard a murmured good-night, to which she did not respond except by asob, and was led, with her arm rather closely held, along thesidewalk to her own door. At the door George Ramsey took her hand, and she felt something pressed softly into it. 

"If you will please buy what the poor little thing needs to make hercomfortable, " he whispered. 

"Thank you, " Maria replied, faintly. She began to be ashamed of heremotion. 

"You must not think that my mother and I were knowing to this, "George Ramsey said. "We are really such very distant relations thatthe name alone is the only bond between us; still, on generalprinciples, if the name had been different, I would do what I could. Such suffering is terrible. You must not think us hard-hearted, MissEdgham. "

Maria looked up at the young fellow's face, upon which an electriclight shone fully, and it was a good face to see. She could not atall reconcile it with her memory of the rather silly little boy withthe patched trousers, with whom she had discoursed over the gardenfence. This face was entirely masterly, dark and clean-cut, with fineeyes, and a distinctly sweet expression about the mouth which he hadinherited from his mother. 

"I suppose I was very foolish, " Maria said, in a low voice. "I amafraid I was rude to your mother. I did not mean to be, but the poorlittle thing, and this bitter day, and I went home with her, andthere was a dreadful man there who offered me money to buy things forher--"

"I hope you did not take it, " George Ramsey said, quickly. 

"No. "

"I am glad of that. They are a bad lot. I don't know about thislittle girl. She may be a survival of the fittest, but take them alltogether they are a bad lot, if they are my relatives. Good-night, Miss Edgham, and I beg you not to distress yourself about it all. "

"I am very sorry if I was rude, " Maria said, and she spoke like alittle girl. 

"You were not rude at all, " George responded, quickly. "You were onlyall worked up over such suffering, and it did you credit. You werenot rude at all. " He shook hands again with Maria. Then he asked ifhe might call and see her sometime. Maria said yes, and fled into thehouse. 

She went into her aunt Maria's side of the house, and ran straightup-stairs to her own room. Presently she heard doors opening andshutting and knew that her aunt was curiously following her from theother side. She came to Maria's door, which was locked. Aunt Mariawas not surprised at that, as Maria always locked her door atnight--she herself did the same. 

"Have you gone to bed?" called Aunt Maria. 

"Yes, " replied Maria, who had, indeed, hurriedly hustled herself intobed. 

"Gone to bed early as this?" said Aunt Maria. 

"I am dreadfully tired, " replied Maria. 

"Did they give you anything? Why didn't you come into the other sideand tell us about it?"

"Mr. George Ramsey gave me ten dollars. "

"Gracious!" said Aunt Maria. 

Presently she spoke again. "What did they say?" she asked. 

"Not much of anything. "

"Gave you ten dollars?" said Aunt Maria. "Well, you can get enough tomake her real comfortable with that. Didn't you get chilled throughgoing over there without anything on?"

"No, " replied Maria, and as she spoke she realized, in the moonlitroom, a mass of fur-lined cloak over a chair. She had forgotten toreturn it to George Ramsey. "I had Mrs. Ramsey's cloak coming home, "she called. 

"Well, I'm glad you did. It's awful early to go to bed. Don't youwant something?"

"No, thank you. "

"Don't you want me to heat a soapstone and fetch it up to you?"

"No, thank you. "

"Well, good-night, " said Aunt Maria, in a puzzled voice. 

"Good-night, " said Maria. Then she heard her aunt go away. 

It was a long time before Maria went to sleep. She awoke about twoo'clock in the morning and was conscious of having been awakened by astrange odor, a combined odor of camphor and lavender, which camefrom Mrs. Ramsey's cloak. It disturbed her, although she could nottell why. Then all at once she saw, as plainly as if he were reallyin the room, George Ramsey's face. At first a shiver of delight cameover her; then she shuddered. A horror, as of one under conviction ofsin, came over her. It was as if she repelled an evil angel from herdoor, for she remembered all at once what had happened to her, andthat it was a sin for her even to dream of George Ramsey; and she hadallowed him to come into her waking dreams. She got out of bed, tookup the soft cloak, thrust it into her closet, and shut the door. Thenshe climbed shivering back into bed, and lay there in the moonlight, entangled in the mystery of life. 

Chapter XIX

The very next day, which was Saturday, and consequently a holiday, Maria went on the trolley to Westbridge, which was a provincial cityabout six miles from Amity. She proposed buying some clothing forJessy Ramsey with the ten dollars which George Ramsey had given her. Her aunt Eunice accompanied her. 

"George Ramsey goes over to Westbridge on the trolley, " said Eunice, as they jolted along--the cars were very well equipped, but the roadwas rough--"and I shouldn't wonder if he was on our car coming back. "

Maria colored quickly and looked out of the window. The cars wereconstructed like those on steam railroads, with seats facing towardsthe front, and Maria's aunt had insisted upon her sitting next to thewindow because the view was in a measure new to her. She had not beenover the road many times since she had come to Amity. She stared outat the trimly kept country road, lined with cheap Queen Anne housesand the older type of New England cottages and square frame houses, and it all looked strange to her after the red soil and the lapsetowards Southern ease and shiftlessness of New Jersey. But nothingthat she looked upon was as strange as the change in her own heart. Maria, from being of an emotional nature, had many times consideredherself as being in love, young as she was, but this was different. When her aunt Eunice spoke of George Ramsey she felt a rigid shiverfrom head to foot. It seemed to her that she could not see him norspeak to him, that she could not return to Amity on the same car. Shemade no reply at first to her aunt's remark, but finally she said, ina faint voice, that she supposed Mr. Ramsey came home after bankhours at three o'clock. 

"He comes home a good deal later than that, as a general thing, " saidEunice. "Oftener than not I see him get off the car at six o'clock. Iguess he stays and works after bank hours. George Ramsey is a worker, if there ever was one. He's a real likely young man. "

Maria felt Eunice's eyes upon her, and realized that she wasthinking, as her aunt Maria had done, that George Ramsey would be agood match for her. A sort of desperation seized upon her. 

"I don't know what you mean by likely, " Maria said, impertinently, inher shame and defiance. 

"Don't know what I mean by likely?"

"No, I don't. People in New Jersey don't say likely. "

"Why, I mean he is a good young man, and likely to turn out well, "responded Eunice, rather helplessly. She was a very gentle woman, andhad all her life been more or less intimidated by her husband's andsister-in-laws' more strenuous natures; and, if the truth were told, she stood in a little awe of this blooming young niece, with herself-possession and clothes of the New York fashion. 

"I don't see why he is more _likely_, as you call it, than any otheryoung man, " Maria returned, pitilessly. "I should call him a veryordinary young man. "

"He isn't called so generally, " Eunice said, feebly. 

They were about half an hour reaching Westbridge. Eunice by that timehad plucked up a little spirit. She reflected that Maria knew almostnothing about the shopping district, and she herself had shoppedthere all her life since she had been of shopping age. Eunice had agreat respect for the Westbridge stores, and considered themdistinctly superior to those of Boston. She was horrified when Mariaobserved, shortly before they got off the car, that she supposed theycould have done much better in Boston. 

"I guess you will find that Adams & Wood's is as good a store as anyyou could go to in New York, " said Eunice. "Then there is the BostonStore, too, and Collins & Green's. All of them are very good, andthey have a good assortment. Hardly anybody in Amity goes anywhereelse shopping, they think the Westbridge stores so much better. "

"Of course it is cheaper to come here, " said Maria, as they got offthe car in front of Adams & Wood's. 

"That isn't the reason, " said Eunice, eagerly. "Why, Mrs. JudgeSaunders buys 'most everything here; says she can do enough sightbetter than she can anywhere else. "

"If the dress Mrs. Saunders had on at the church supper was a sample, she dresses like a perfect guy, " said Maria, as they entered thestore, with its two pretentious show-windows filled with waxen ladiesdressed in the height of the fashion, standing in the midst ofsymmetrically arranged handkerchiefs and rugs. 

Maria knew that she was even cruelly pert to her aunt, but she feltlike stinging--like crowding some of the stings out of her own heart. She asked herself was ever any girl so horribly placed as she was, married, and not married; and now she had seen some one else whom shemust shun and try to hate, although she wished to love him. Mariafelt instinctively, remembering the old scenes over the garden fence, and remembering how she herself had looked that very day as shestarted out, with her puffy blue velvet turban rising above the softroll of her fair hair and her face blooming through a film of brownlace, and also remembering George Ramsey's tone as he asked if hemight call, that if she were free that things might happen with heras with other girls; that she and George Ramsey might love eachother, and become engaged; that she might save her school money for atrousseau, and by-and-by be married to a man of whom she should bevery proud. The patches on George Ramsey's trousers became very dimto her. She admired him from the depths of her heart. 

"I guess we had better look at flannels first, " Eunice said. "Itwon't do to get all wool, aside from the expense, for with thatRamsey woman's washing it wouldn't last any time. "

She and her aunt made most of their purchases in Adams & Wood's. Theysucceeded in obtaining quite a comfortable little outfit for JessyRamsey, and at last boarded a car laden with packages. Eunice had afish-net bag filled to overflowing, but Maria, who, coming from thevicinity of New York, looked down on bags, carried her parcels in herarms. 

Directly they were seated in the car Eunice gave Maria a violentnudge with her sharp elbow. "He's on this car, " she whispered in herear, with a long hiss which seemed to penetrate the girl's brain. 

Maria made an impatient movement. 

"Don't you think you ought to just step over and thank him?"whispered Eunice. "I'll hold your bundles. He's on the other side, aseat farther back. He raised his hat to me. "

"Hush! I can't here. "

"Well, all right, but I thought it would look sort of polite, " saidEunice. Then she subsided. Once in a while she glanced back at GeorgeRamsey, then uneasily at her niece, but she said nothing more. 

The car was crowded. Workmen smelling of leather clung to the straps. One, in the aisle next Maria, who sat on the outside this time, leaned fairly against her. He was a good-looking young fellow, but hehad a heavy jaw. He held an unlighted pipe in his mouth, and carrieda two-story tin dinner-pail. Maria kept shrinking closer to her aunt, but the young man pressed against her all the more heavily. His eyeswere fixed with seeming unconsciousness ahead, but a furtive smilelurked around his mouth. 

George Ramsey was watching. All at once he arose and quietly andunobtrusively came forward, insinuated himself with a gentle forcebetween Maria and the workman, and spoke to her. The workman mutteredsomething under his breath, but moved aside. He gave an ugly glanceat George, who did not seem to see him at all. Presently he sat downin George's vacated seat beside another man, who said something tohim with a coarse chuckle. The man growled in response, and continuedto scowl furtively at George, who stood talking to Maria. He saidsomething about the fineness of the day, and Maria responded rathergratefully. She was conscious of an inward tumult which alarmed her, and made her defiant both at the young man and herself, but she couldnot help responding to the sense of protection which she got from hispresence. She had not been accustomed to anything like the rudenessof the young workman. In New Jersey caste was more clearly defined. Here it was not defined at all. An employe in a shoe-factory had notthe slightest conception that he was not the social equal of aschool-teacher, and indeed in many cases he was. There were by nomeans all like this one, whose mere masculine estate filled him withentire self-confidence where women were concerned. In a sense hisignorance was pathetic. He had honestly thought that the pretty, strange girl must like his close contact, and he felt aggrieved thatthis other young man, who did not smell of leather and carried nodinner-pail, had ousted him. He viewed Maria's delicate profile witha sort of angry tenderness. 

"Say, she's a beaut, ain't she?" whispered the man beside him, with amalicious grin, and again got a surly growl in response. 

Maria finally, much to her aunt's delight, said to George that theyhad been shopping, and thanked him for the articles which his moneyhad enabled them to buy. 

"The poor little thing can go to school now, " said Maria. There wasgratitude in her voice, and yet, oddly enough, still a tinge ofreproach. 

"If mother and I had dreamed of the true state of affairs we wouldhave done something before, " George Ramsey said, with an accent ofapology; and yet he could not see for the life of him why he shouldbe apologetic for the poverty of these degenerate relatives of his. He could not see why he was called upon to be his brother's keeper inthis case, but there was something about Maria's serious, accusinggaze of blue eyes, and her earnest voice, that made him realize thathe could prostrate himself before her for uncommitted sins. Somehow, Maria made him feel responsible for all that he might have done wrongas well as his actual wrong-doing, although he laughed at himself forhis mental attitude. Suddenly a thought struck him. "When are yougoing to take all these things (how you ever managed to get so muchfor ten dollars I don't understand) to the child?" he asked, eagerly. 

Maria replied, unguardedly, that she intended to take them aftersupper that night. "Then she will have them all ready for Monday, "she said. 

"Then let me go with you and carry the parcels, " George Ramsey said, eagerly. 

Maria stiffened. "Thank you, " she said, "but Uncle Henry is goingwith me, and there is no need. "

Maria felt her aunt Eunice give a sudden start and make aninarticulate murmur of remonstrance, then she checked herself. Mariaknew that her uncle walked a mile from his factory to save car-fare;she knew also that she was telling what was practically an untruth, since she had made no agreement with her uncle to accompany her. 

"I should be happy to go with you, " said George Ramsey, in a boyish, abashed voice. 

Maria said nothing more. She looked past her aunt out of the window. The full moon was rising, and all at once all the girl's sweet lightof youthful romance appeared again above her mental horizon. She feltthat it would be almost heaven to walk with George Ramsey in thatdelicious moonlight, in the clear, frosty air, and take little JessyRamsey her gifts. Maria was of an almost abnormal emotional nature, although there was little that was material about the emotion. Shedreamed of that walk as she might have dreamed of a walk with a fairyprince through fairy-land, and her dream was as innocent, but itunnerved her. She said again, in a tremulous voice, that she was verymuch obliged, and murmured something again about her uncle Henry; andGeorge Ramsey replied, with a certain sober dignity, that he shouldhave been very happy. 

Soon after that the car stopped to let off some passengers, andGeorge moved to a vacant seat in front. He did not turn around again. Maria looked at his square shoulders and again gazed past her aunt atthe full orb of the moon rising with crystalline splendor in the paleamber of the east. There was a clear gold sunset which sent itsreflection over the whole sky. 

Presently, Eunice spoke in her little, deprecating voice, which had aslight squeak. 

"Did you speak to your uncle Henry about going with you thisevening?" she asked. 

"No, I didn't, " admitted Maria, reddening, "but I knew he would bewilling. "

"I suppose he will be, " said Eunice. "But he does get home awfultuckered out Saturday nights, and he always takes his bath Saturdaynights, too. "

Eunice looked out of the window with a slight frown. She adored herhusband, and the thought of that long walk for him on his wearySaturday evening, and the possible foregoing of his bath, troubledher. 

"I don't believe George Ramsey liked it, " she whispered, after alittle. 

"I can't help it if he didn't, " replied Maria. "I can't go with him, Aunt Eunice. "

As they jolted along, Maria made up her mind that she would not askher uncle to go with her at all; that she would slip out unknown toAunt Maria and ask the girl who lived in the house on the other side, Lily Merrill, to go with her. She thought that two girls need not beafraid, and she could start early. 

As she parted from her aunt Eunice at the door of the house, afterthey had left the car (Eunice's door was on the side where theRamseys lived, and Maria's on the Merrill side), she told her of herresolution. 

"Don't say anything to Uncle Henry about going with me, " said she. 

"Why, what are you going to do?"

"I'll get Lily Merrill. I know she won't mind. "

Maria and Lily Merrill had been together frequently since Maria hadcome to Amity, and Eunice accounted them as intimate. She lookedhesitatingly a second at her niece, then she said, with an evidentair of relief:

"Well, I don't know but you can. It's bright moonlight, and it's latein the season for tramps. I don't see why you two girls can't gotogether, if you start early. "

"We'll start right after supper, " said Maria. 

"I would, " said Eunice, still with an air of relief. 

Maria took her aunt's fish-net bag, as well as her own parcels, andcarried them around to her aunt Maria's side of the house, anddeposited them on the door-step. There was a light in the kitchen, and she could see her aunt Maria's shadow moving behind the curtain, preparing supper. Then she ran across the yard, over the frozenfurrows of a last year's garden, and knocked at the side-door of theMerrill house. 

Lily herself opened the door, and gave a little, loving cry ofsurprise. "Why, is it you, dear?" she said. 

"Yes. I want to know if you can go over the river with me to-night onan errand?"

"Over the river? Where?"

"Oh, only to Jessy Ramsey's. Aunt Eunice and I have been toWestbridge and bought these things for her, and I want to carry themto her to-night. I thought maybe you would go with me. "

Lily hesitated. "It's a pretty lonesome walk, " said she, "and thereare an awful set of people on the other side of the river. "

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Maria. "You aren't afraid--we two together--andit's bright moonlight, as bright as day. "

"Yes, I know it is, " replied Lily, gazing out at the silver lightwhich flooded everything, but she still hesitated. A light in thehouse behind gave her a background of light. She was a beautifulgirl, prettier than Maria, taller, and with a timid, pliant grace. Her brown hair tossed softly over her big, brown eyes, which weresurmounted by strongly curved eyebrows, her nose was small, and hermouth, and she had a fascinating little way of holding her lipsslightly parted, as if ready for a loving word or a kiss. Everybodysaid that Lily Merrill had a beautiful disposition, albeit someclaimed that she lacked force. Maria dominated her, although she didnot herself know it. Lily continued to hesitate with her beautiful, startled brown eyes on Maria's face. 

"Aren't you afraid?" she said. 

"Afraid? No. What should I be afraid of? Why, it's bright moonlight!I would just as soon go at night as in the daytime when the moon isbright. "

"That is an awful man who lives at the Ramseys'!"

"Nonsense! I guess if he tried to bother us, Mrs. Ramsey would takecare of him, " said Maria. "Come along, Lily. I would ask Uncle Henry, but it is the night when he takes his bath, and he comes home tired. "

"Well, I'll go if mother will let me, " said Lily. 

Then Lily called to her mother, who came to the sitting-room door inresponse. 

"Mother, " said Lily, "Maria wants me to go over to the Ramseys', those on the other side of the river, after supper, and carry thesethings to Jessy. "

"Aren't you afraid?" asked Lily's mother, as Lily herself had done. She was a faded but still pretty woman who had looked like herdaughter in her youth. She was a widow with some property, enough forher Lily and herself to live on in comfort. 

"Why, it's bright moonlight, Mrs. Merrill, " said Maria, "and theRamseys live just the other side of the river. "

"Well, if Lily isn't afraid, I don't care, " said Mrs. Merrill. Shehad an ulterior motive for her consent, of which neither of the twogirls suspected her. She was smartly dressed, and her hair wascarefully crimped, and she had, as always in the evening, hopes thata certain widower, the resident physician of Amity, Dr. Ellridge, might call. He had noticed her several times at church suppers, andonce had walked home with her from an evening meeting. Lily neverdreamed that her mother had aspirations towards a second husband. Herfather had been dead ten years; the possibility of any one in hisplace had never occurred to her; then, too, she looked upon hermother as entirely too old for thoughts of that kind. But Mrs. Merrill had her own views, which she kept concealed behind herpretty, placid exterior. She always welcomed the opportunity of beingleft alone of an evening, because she realized the very seriousdrawback that the persistent presence of a pretty, well-growndaughter might be if a wooer would wish to woo. She knew perfectlywell that if Dr. Ellridge called, Lily would wonder why he called, and would sit all the evening in the same room with her fancy-work, entirely unsuspicious. Lily might even think he came to see her. Mrs. Merrill had a measure of slyness and secrecy which her daughter didnot inherit. Lily was not brilliant, but she was as entirely sweetand open as the flower for which she was named. She was emotional, too, with an innocent emotionlessness, and very affectionate. Mrs. Merrill made almost no objection to Lily's going with Maria, butmerely told her to wrap up warmly when she went out. Lily lookedcharming, with a great fur boa around her long, slender throat, andred velvet roses nestling under the brim of her black hat against thesoft puff of her brown hair. She bent over her mother and kissed her. 

"I hope you won't be very lonesome, mother dear, " she said. 

Mrs. Merrill blushed a little. To-night she had confident hopes ofthe doctor's calling; she had even resolved upon a coup. "Oh no, Ishall not be lonesome, " she replied. "Norah isn't going out, youknow. "

"We shall not be gone long, anyway, " Lily said, as she went out. Shehad not even noticed her mother's blush. She was not very acute. Sheran across the yard, the dry grass of which shone like a carpet ofcrisp silver in the moonlight, and knocked on Maria's door. Mariaanswered her knock. She was all ready, and she had her aunt Eunice'sfish-net bag and her armful of parcels. 

"Here, let me take some of them, dear, " said Lily, in her cooingvoice, and she gathered up some of the parcels under her long, supplearm. 

Maria's aunt Maria followed her to the door. "Now, mind you don't gointo that house, " said she. "Just leave the things and run righthome; and if you see anybody who looks suspicious, go right up to ahouse and knock. I don't feel any too safe about you two girls going, anyway. "

Aunt Maria spoke in a harsh, croaking voice; she had a cold. Mariaseized her by the shoulders and pushed her back, laughingly. 

"You go straight in the house, " said she. "And don't you worry. Lilyand I both have hat-pins, and we can both run, and there's nothing tobe afraid of, anyway. "

"Well, I don't half like the idea, " croaked Aunt Maria, retreating. 

Lily and Maria went on their way. Lily looked affectionately at hercompanion, whose pretty face gained a singular purity of beauty fromthe moonlight. 

"How good you are, dear, " she said. 

"Nonsense!" replied Maria. Somehow all at once the consciousness ofher secret, which was always with her, like some hidden wound, stungher anew. She thought suddenly how Lily would not think her good atall if she knew what an enormous secret she was hiding from her, ofwhat duplicity she was guilty. 

"Yes, you are good, " said Lily, "to take all this trouble to get thatpoor little thing clothes. "

"Oh, as for that, " said Maria, "Mr. George Ramsey is the one to bethanked. It was his money that bought the things, you know. "

"He is good, too, " said Lily, and her voice was like a song withcadences of tenderness. 

Maria started and glanced at her, then looked away again. A qualm ofjealousy, of which she was ashamed, seized her. She gave her head atoss, and repeated, with a sort of defiance, "Yes, he is good enough, I suppose. "

"I think you are real sweet, " said Lily, "and I do think GeorgeRamsey is splendid. "

"I don't see anything very remarkable about him, " said Maria. 

"Don't you think he is handsome?"

"I don't know. I don't suppose I ever think much about a man beinghandsome. I don't like handsome men, anyway. I don't like men, anyway, when it comes to that. "

"George Ramsey is very nice, " said Lily, and there was an accent inher speech which made the other girl glance at her. Lily's face wasturned aside, although she was clinging close to Maria's arm, for shewas in reality afraid of being out in the night with another girl. 

They walked along in silence after that. When they came to thecovered bridge which crossed the river, Lily forced Maria into a rununtil they reached the other side. 

"It is awful in here, " she said, in a fearful whisper. 

Maria laughed. She herself did not feel the least fear, although shewas more imaginative than the other girl. At that time a kind of rageagainst life itself possessed her which made her insensible toordinary fear. She felt that she had been hardly used, and she was, in a measure, at bay. She knew that she could fight anything untilshe died, and beyond that there was nothing certainly to fear. Shehad become abnormal because of her strained situation as regardedsociety. However, she ran because Lily wished her to do so, and theysoon emerged from the dusty tunnel of the bridge, with its strongodor of horses, and glimpses between the sides of the silver currentof the river, into the moon-flooded road. 

After the bridge came the school-house, then, a half-mile beyondthat, the Ramsey house. The front windows were blazing with light, and the sound of a loud, drunken voice came from within. 

Lily shrank and clung closely to Maria. 

"Oh, Maria, I am awfully afraid to go to the door, " she whispered. "Just hear that. Eugene Ramsey must be home drunk, and--and perhapsthe other man, too. I am afraid. Don't let's go there. "

Maria looked about her. "You see that board fence, then?" she said toLily, and as she spoke she pointed to a high board fence on the otherside of the street, which was completely in shadow. 

"Yes. "

"Well, if you are afraid, just go and stand straight against thefence. You will be in shadow, and if you don't move nobody canpossibly see you. Then I will go to the door and leave the things. "

"Oh, Maria, aren't you afraid?"

"No, I am not a bit afraid. "

"You won't go in, honest?"

"No, I won't go in. Run right over there. "

Lily released her hold of Maria's arm and made a fluttering break forthe fence, against which she shrank and became actually invisible asa shadow. Maria marched up to the Ramsey door and knocked loudly. Mrs. Ramsey came to the door, and Maria thrust the parcels into herhands and began pulling them rapidly out of the fish-net bag. Mrs. Ramsey cast a glance behind her at the lighted room, through whichwas visible the same man whom Maria had seen before, and alsoanother, and swung the door rapidly together, so that she stood inthe dark entry, only partly lighted by the moonlight. 

"I have brought some things for Jessy to wear to school, Mrs. Ramsey, " said Maria. 

"Thank you, " Mrs. Ramsey mumbled, doubtfully, with still anotherglance at the closed door, through which shone lines and chinks oflight. 

"There are enough for her to be warmly clothed, and you will see toit that she has them on, won't you?" said Maria. Her voice was quitesweet and ingratiating, and not at all patronizing. 

Suddenly the woman made a clutch at her arm. "You are a good youngone, doin' so much for my young one, " she whispered. "Now you'dbetter git up and git. They've been drinkin'. Git!"

"You will see that Jessy has the things to wear Monday, won't you?"said Maria. 

"Sure. " Suddenly the woman wiped her eyes and gave a maudlin sob. "You're a good young one, " she whimpered. "Now, git. "

Maria ran across the road as the door closed after her. She did notknow that Mrs. Ramsey had given the parcels which she had brought atoss into another room, and when she entered the room in which themen were carousing and was asked who had come to the door, hadreplied, "The butcher for his bill, " to be greeted with roars oflaughter. She did, indeed, hear the roars of laughter. Lily slunkalong swiftly beside the fence by her side. Maria caught her by thearm. Curiously enough, while she was not afraid for herself, she didfeel a little fear now for her companion. The two girls hurried untilthey reached the bridge, and ran the whole length. On the other side, coming into the lighted main street of Amity, they felt quite safe. 

"Did you see any of those dreadful men?" gasped Lily. 

"I just caught a glimpse of them, then Mrs. Ramsey shut the door, "said Maria. 

"They were drunk, weren't they?"

"I shouldn't wonder. "

"I do think it was an awful place to go to, " said Lily, with a littlesigh of relief that she was out of it. 

The girls went along the street until they reached the Ramsey house, next the one where Maria lived. Suddenly a man's figure appeared fromthe gate. It was almost as if he had been watching. 

"Good-evening, " he said, and the girls saw that he was George Ramsey. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Ramsey, " responded Maria. She felt Lily's armtremble in hers. George walked along with them. "I have been to carrythe presents which I bought with your money, " said Maria. 

"Good heavens! You don't mean that you two girls have been all aloneup there?" said George. 

"Why, yes, " said Maria. "Why not?"

"Weren't you afraid?"

"Maria isn't afraid of anything, " Lily's sweet, little, tremulousvoice piped on the other side. 

George was walking next Maria. There was a slight and very gentleaccusation in the voice. 

"It wasn't safe, " said George, soberly, "and I should have been gladto go with you. "

Maria laughed. "Well, here we are, safe and sound, " she said. "Ididn't see anything to be much afraid of. "

"All the same, they are an awful set there, " said George. They hadreached Maria's door, and he added, "Suppose you walk along with me, Miss Edgham, and I will see Lily home. " George had been to schoolwith Lily, and had always called her by her first name. 

Maria again felt that little tremor of Lily's arm in hers, and didnot understand it. "All right, " she said. 

The three walked to Lily's door, and had said good-night, when Lily, who was, after all, the daughter of her mother, although her littleartifices were few and innocent, had an inspiration. She discoveredthat she had lost her handkerchief. 

"I think I took it out when we reached your gate, Mr. Ramsey, " shesaid, timidly, for she felt guilty. 

It was quite true that the handkerchief was not in her muff, in whichshe had carried it, but there was a pocket in her coat which she didnot investigate. 

They turned back, looking along the frozen ground. 

"Never mind, " Lily said, cheerfully, when they had reached the Ramseygate and returned to the Edgham's, and the handkerchief was notforthcoming, "it was an old one, anyway. Good-night. "

She knew quite well that George Edgham would do what he did--walkhome with her the few steps between her house and Maria's, and thatMaria would not hesitate to say good-night and enter her own door. 

"I guess I had better go right in, " said Maria. "Aunt Maria has acold, and she may worry and be staying up. "

Lily was entirely happy at walking those few steps with GeorgeRamsey. He had pulled her little hand through his arm in a school-boysort of fashion. He left her at the door with a friendly good-night, but she had got what she wanted. He had not gone those few stepsalone with Maria. Lily loved Maria, but she did not want GeorgeRamsey to love her. 

When Lily entered the house, to her great astonishment she found Dr. Ellridge there. He was seated beside her mother, who was lying on thesofa. 

"Why, mother, what is it--are you sick?" Lily cried, anxiously, whilethe doctor looked with admiration at her face, glowing with the cold. 

"I had one of my attacks after supper, and sent Norah for Dr. Ellridge. I thought I had better, " Mrs. Merrill explained, feebly. She sighed and looked at the doctor, who understood perfectly, butdid not betray himself. He was, in fact, rather flattered. 

"Yes, your mother has been feeling quite badly, but she will be allright now, " he said to Lily. 

"I am sorry you did not feel well, mother, " Lily said, sweetly. Thenshe got her fancy-work from her little silk bag on the table andseated herself, after removing her wraps. 

Her mother sighed. The doctor's mouth assumed a little, humorouspucker. 

Lily looked at her mother with affectionate interest. She was quiteaccustomed to slight attacks of indigestion which her mother oftenhad, and was not much alarmed, still she felt a little anxious. "Youare sure you are better, mother?" she said. 

"Oh yes, she is much better, " the doctor answered for her. "There isnothing for you to be alarmed about. "

"I am so glad, " said Lily. 

She took another stitch in her fancy-work, and her beautiful facetook on an almost seraphic expression; she was thinking of GeorgeRamsey. She hardly noticed when the doctor took his leave, and shedid not in the least understand her mother's sigh when the doorclosed. For her the gates of love were wide open, but she had noconception that for her mother they were not shut until she should goto heaven to join her father. 

Chapter XX

The next evening Maria, as usual, went to church with her two aunts. Henry Stillman remained at home reading the Sunday paper. He took acertain delight in so doing, although he knew, in the depths of hissoul, that his delight was absurd. He knew perfectly well that it didnot make a feather's weight of difference in the universal scheme ofthings that he, Henry Stillman, should remain at home and read thecolumns of scandal and politics in that paper, instead of going tochurch, and yet he liked to think that his small individuality andits revolt because of its injuries at the hands of fate had itsweight, and was at least a small sting of revenge. 

He watched his wife adjust her bonnet before the looking-glass in thesitting-room, and arrange carefully the bow beneath her witheredchin, and a great pity for her, because she was no longer as she hadbeen, but was so heavily marked by time, and a great jealousy thatshe should not lose the greatest of all things, which he himself hadlost, came over him. As she--a little, prim, mild woman, in herold-fashioned winter cape and her bonnet, with its stiff tuft ofvelvet pansies--passed him, he caught her thin, black-gloved hand anddrew her close to him. 

"I'm glad you are going to church, Eunice, " he said. 

Eunice colored, and regarded him with a kind of abashed wonder. 

"Why don't you come, too, Henry?" she said, timidly. 

"No, I've quit, " replied Henry. "I've quit begging where I don't getany alms; but as for you, if you get anything that satisfies yoursoul, for God's sake hold on to it, Eunice, and don't let it go. "Then he pulled her bonneted head down and kissed her thin lips, witha kind of tenderness which was surprising. "You've been a good wife, Eunice, " he said. 

Eunice laid her hand on his shoulder and looked at him a second. Shewas almost frightened. Outward evidences of affection had not beenfrequent between them of late years, or indeed ever. They wereNew-Englanders to the marrow of their bones. Anything like anoutburst of feeling or sentiment, unless in case of death ordisaster, seemed abnormal. Henry realized his wife's feeling, and hesmiled up at her. 

"We are getting to be old folks, " he said, "and we've had more bitterthan sweet in life, and we have neither of us ever said much as tohow we felt to each other, but--I never loved you as much as I loveyou now, Eunice, and I've taken it into my head to say it. "

Eunice's lips quivered a little and her eyes reddened. "There ain't awoman in Amity who has had so good a husband as I have all theseyears, if you don't go to meeting, " she replied. Then she added, after a second's pause: "I didn't know as you did feel just as youused to, Henry. I didn't know as any man did. I know I've lost mylooks, and--"

"I can seem to see your looks, brighter than ever they were, in yourheart, " said Henry. He colored himself a little at his own sentiment. Then he pulled her face down to his again and gave her a second kiss. "Now run along to your meeting, " he said. "Have you got enough on?The wind sounds cold. "

"Yes, " replied Eunice. "This cape's real thick. I put a new lining init this winter, you know, and, besides, I've got my crocheted jacketunder it. I'm as warm as toast. "

Eunice, after she had gone out in the keen night air with hersister-in-law and her niece, reflected with more uneasiness thanpleasure upon her husband's unwonted behavior. 

"Does it seem to you that Henry looks well lately?" she asked theelder Maria, as they hurried along. 

"Yes; why not?" returned Maria. 

"I don't know. It seems to me he's been losing flesh. "

"Nonsense!" said Maria. "I never saw him looking better than he doesnow. I was thinking only this morning that he was making a better, healthier old man than he was as a young man. But I do wish he wouldgo to meeting. I don't think his mind is right about some things. Suppose folks do have troubles. They ought to be led to the Lord bythem, instead of pulling back. Henry hasn't had anything more toworry him, nor half as much, as most men. He don't take things right. He ought to go to meeting. "

"I guess he's just as good as a good many who do go to meeting, "returned Eunice, with unwonted spirit. 

"I don't feel competent to judge as to that, " replied Maria, with atone of aggravating superiority. Then she added, "'By their works yeshall know them. '"

"I would give full as much for Henry's chances as for some who go tomeeting every Sunday of their lives, " said Eunice, with still morespirit. "And as for trials, they weigh heavier on some than onothers. "

Then young Maria, who had been listening uneasily, broke in. She feltherself a strong partisan of her Aunt Eunice, for she adored heruncle, but she merely said that she thought Uncle Henry did look alittle thin, and she supposed he was tired Sunday, and it was theonly day he had to rest; then she abruptly changed the whole subjectby wondering if the Ramseys across the river would let Jessy go tochurch if she trimmed a hat for her with some red velvet and afeather which she had in her possession. 

"No, they wouldn't!" replied her aunt Maria, sharply, at oncediverted. "I can tell you just exactly what they would do, if youwere to trim up a hat with that red velvet and that feather and giveit to that young one. Her good-for-nothing mother would have it onher own head in no time, and go flaunting out in it with that manthat boards there. "

Nothing could excel the acrimonious accent with which Aunt Mariaweighed down the "man who boards there, " and the acrimony washeightened by the hoarseness of her voice. Her cold was still farfrom well, but Aunt Maria stayed at home from church for nothingshort of pneumonia. 

The church was about half a mile distant. The meeting was held in alittle chapel built out like an architectural excrescence at the sideof the great, oblong, wooden structure, with its piercing steeple. The chapel windows blazed with light. People were flocking in. Asthey entered, a young lady began to play on an out-of-tune piano, which Judge Josiah Saunders had presented to the church. She played aMoody-and-Sankey hymn as a sort of prologue, although nobody sang it. It was a curious custom which prevailed in the Amity church. AMoody-and-Sankey hymn was always played in evening meetings insteadof the morning voluntary on the great organ. 

Maria and her two aunts moved forward and seated themselves. Marialooked absently at the smooth expanse of hair which showed below thehat of the girl who was playing. The air was played very slowly, otherwise the little audience might have danced a jig to it. Mariathought of the meetings which she used to attend in Edgham, and howshe used to listen to the plaint of the whippoorwill on theriver-bank while the little organ gave out its rich, husky drone. This, somehow, did not seem so religious to her. She remembered howshe had used to be conscious of Wollaston Lee's presence, and how shehad hoped he would walk home with her, and she reflected with whatshame and vague terror she now held him constantly in mind. Then shethought of George Ramsey, and directly, without seeing him, shebecame aware that he was seated on her right and was furtivelyglancing at her. A wild despair seized her at the thought that hemight offer to accompany her home, and how she must not allow it, andhow she wanted him to do so. She kept her head steadfastly averted. The meeting dragged on. Men rose and spoke and prayed, at intervalsthe out-of-tune piano was invoked. A woman behind Maria sangcontralto with a curious effect, as if her head were in a tin-pail. There were odd, dull, metallic echoes about it which filled the wholechapel. The woman's daughter had some cheap perfume on herhandkerchief, and she was incessantly removing it from her muff. Aman at the left coughed a good deal. Maria saw in front of her LilyMerrill's graceful brown head, in a charming hat with red roses underthe brim, and a long, soft, brown feather. Lily's mother was not withher. Dr. Ellridge did not attend evening meetings, and Mrs. Merrillalways remained at home in the hope that he might call. 

After church was over, Maria stuck closely to her aunts. She evenpushed herself between them, but they did not abet her. Both Euniceand Aunt Maria had seen George Ramsey, and they had their own views. Maria could not tell how it happened, but at the door of the chapelshe found herself separated from both her aunts, and George Ramseywas asking if he might accompany her home. Maria obeyed herinstincts, although the next moment she could have killed herself forit. She smiled, and bowed, and tucked her little hand into the crookof the young man's offered arm. She did not see her aunts exchangingglances of satisfaction. 

"It will be a real good chance for her, " said Eunice. 

"Hush, or somebody will hear you, " said Maria, in a sharp, pleasedtone, as she and her sister-in-law walked together down the moonlitstreet. 

Maria did not see Lily Merrill's start and look of piteous despair asshe took George's arm. Lily was just behind her. Maria, in fact, sawnothing. She might have been walking in a vacuum of emotion. 

"It is a beautiful evening, " said George Ramsey, and his voicetrembled a little. 

"Yes, beautiful, " replied Maria. 

Afterwards, thinking over their conversation, she could not rememberthat they had talked about anything else except the beauty of theevening, but had dwelt incessantly upon it, like the theme of a song. 

The aunts lagged behind purposely, and Maria went in Eunice's door. She thought that her niece would ask George to come in and she wouldnot be in the way. Henry looked inquiringly at the two women, who hadan air of mystery, and Maria responded at once to his unspokenquestion. 

"George Ramsey is seeing her home, " she said, "and the front-door keyis under the mat, and I thought Maria could ask him in, and I wouldgo home through the cellar, and not be in the way. Three is acompany. " Maria said the last platitude with a silly simper. 

"I never saw anything like you women, " said Henry, with a look ofincredulous amusement. "I suppose you both of you have been makingher wedding-dress, and setting her up house-keeping, instead oflistening to the meeting. "

"I heard every word, " returned Maria, with dignity, "and it was avery edifying meeting. It would have done some other folks good ifthey had gone, and as for Maria, she can't teach school all her days, and here is her father with a second wife. "

"Well, you women do beat the Dutch, " said her brother, with atenderly indulgent air, as if he were addressing children. 

Aunt Maria lingered in her brother's side of the house, talking aboutvarious topics. She hesitated even about her stealthy going throughthe cellar, lest she should disturb Maria and her possible lover. Nowand then she listened. She stood close to the wall. Finally she said, with a puzzled look to Eunice, who was smoothing out herbonnet-strings, "It's queer, but I can't hear them talking. "

"Maybe he didn't come in, " said Eunice. 

"If they are in the parlor, you couldn't hear them, " said Henry, still with his half-quizzical, half-pitying air. 

"She would have taken him in the parlor--I should think she wouldhave known enough to, " said Eunice; "and you can't always heartalking in the parlor in this room. "

Maria made a move towards her brother's parlor, on the other side ofthe tiny hall. 

"I guess you are right, " said she, "and I know she would have takenhim in there. I started a fire in there on purpose before I went tomeeting. It was borne in upon me that somebody might come home withher. "

Maria tiptoed into the parlor, with Eunice, still smoothing herbonnet-strings, at her heels. Both women stood close to the wall, papered with white-and-gold paper, and listened. 

"I can't hear a single thing, " said Maria. 

"I can't either, " said Eunice. "I don't believe he did come in. "

"It's dreadful queer, if he didn't, " said Maria, "after the way heeyed her in meeting. "

"Suppose you go home through the cellar, and see, " said Eunice. 

"I guess I will, " said Maria. "I'll knock low on the wall when I gethome, if he isn't there. "

The cellar stairs connected with the kitchen on either side of theStillman house. Both women flew out into the kitchen, and Mariadisappeared down the cellar stairs, with a little lamp which Eunicelit for her. Then Eunice waited. Presently there came a muffled knockon the wall. 

"No, he didn't come in, " Eunice said to her husband, as shere-entered the sitting-room. 

Suddenly Eunice pressed her ear close to the sitting-room wall. Twotreble voices were audible on the other side, but not a word of theirconversation. "Maria and she are talking, " said Eunice. 

What Aunt Maria was saying was this, in a tone of sharp wonder:

"Where is he?"

"Who?" responded Maria. 

"Why, you know as well as I do--George Ramsey. " Aunt Maria lookedsharply at her niece. "I hope you asked him in, Maria Edgham?" saidshe. 

"No, I didn't, " said Maria. 

"Why didn't you?"

"I was tired, and I wanted to go to bed. "

"Wanted to go to bed? Why, it's only a little after nine o'clock!"

"Well, I can't help it, I'm tired. " Maria spoke with a wearinesswhich was unmistakable. She looked away from her aunt with a sort ofblank despair. 

Aunt Maria continued to regard her. "You do act the queerest of anygirl I ever saw, " said she. "There was a nice fire in the parlor, andI thought you could offer him some refreshments. There is some ofthat nice cake, and some oranges, and I would have made some cocoa. "

"I didn't feel as if I could sit up, " Maria said again, in her weary, hopeless voice. She went out into the kitchen, got a little lamp, andreturned. "Good-night, " she said to her aunt. 

"Good-night, " replied Aunt Maria. "You are a queer girl. I don't seewhat you think. "

Maria went up-stairs, undressed, and went to bed. After she was inbed she could see the reflection of her aunt's sitting-room lamp onthe ground outside, in a slanting shaft of light. Then it went out, and Maria knew that her aunt was also in bed in her little room outof the sitting-room. Maria could not go to sleep. She heard the clockstrike ten, then eleven. Shortly after eleven she heard a queersound, as of small stones or gravel thrown on her window. Maria was abrave girl. Her first sensation was one of anger. 

"What is any one doing such a thing as that for?" she asked herself. She rose, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and went straight to thewindow next the Merrill house, whence the sound had come. She openedit cautiously and peered out. Down on the ground below stood a long, triangle-shaped figure, like a night-moth. 

"Who is it?" Maria called, in a soft voice. She was afraid, for somereason which she could not define, of awakening her aunt. She wasmore afraid of that than anything else. 

A little moan answered her; the figure moved as if in distress. 

"Who is it? What do you want?" Maria asked again. 

A weak voice answered her then, "It's I. "

"Who's I? Lily?"

"Yes. Oh, do let me in, Maria. " Lily's voice ended in a little, hysterical sob. 

"Hush, " said Maria, "or Aunt Maria will hear you. Wait a minute. "Maria unlocked her door with the greatest caution, opened it, andcrept down-stairs. Then she unlocked and opened the front door. Luckily Aunt Maria's room was some feet in the rear. "Come quick, "Maria whispered, and Lily came running up to her. Then Maria closedand locked the front door, while Lily stood trembling and waiting. Then she led her up-stairs in the dark. Lily's slender fingers closedupon her with a grasp of ice. When they were once in Maria's room, with the door closed and locked, Maria took hold of Lily violently bythe shoulders. She felt at once rage and pity for her. 

"What on earth is the matter, Lily Merrill, that you come over herethis time of night?" she asked. Then she added, in a tone of horror, "Lily Merrill, you haven't a thing on but a skirt and your night-gownunder your shawl. Have you got anything on your feet?"

"Slippers, " answered Lily, meekly. Then she clung to Maria and beganto sob hysterically. 

"Come, Lily Merrill, you just stop this and get into bed, " saidMaria. She unwound Lily's shawl, pulled off her skirt, and fairlyforced her into bed. Then she got in beside her. "What on earth isthe matter?" she asked again. 

Lily's arm came stealing around her and Lily's cold, wet cheektouched her face. "Oh, Maria!" she sobbed, under her breath. 

"Well, what is it all about?"

"Oh, Maria, are--are you--"

"Am I what?"

"Are you going with him?"

"With whom?"

"With George--with George Ramsey?" A long, trembling sob shook Lily. 

"I am going with nobody, " answered Maria, in a hard voice. 

"But he came home with you. I saw him; I did, Maria. " Lily sobbedagain. 

"Well, what of it?" asked Maria, impatiently. "I didn't care anythingabout his going home with me. "

"Didn't he come in?"

"No, he didn't. "

"Didn't you--ask him?"

"No, I didn't. "

"Maria. "

"Well, what?"

"Maria, aren't you going to marry him if he asks you?"

"No, " said Maria, "I am never going to marry him, if that is what youwant to know. I am never going to marry George Ramsey. "

Lily sobbed. 

"I should think you would be ashamed of yourself. I should think anygirl would, acting so, " said Maria. Her voice was a mere whisper, butit was cruel. She felt that she hated Lily. Then she realized how icycold the girl was and how she trembled from head to feet in a nervouschill. "You'll catch your death, " she said. 

"Oh, I don't care if I do!" Lily said, in her hysterical voice, whichhad now a certain tone of comfort. 

Maria considered again how much she despised and hated her, and againLily shook with a long tremor. Maria got up and tiptoed over to hercloset, where she kept a little bottle of wine which the doctor hadordered when she first came to Amity. It was not half emptied. Awineglass stood on the mantel-shelf, and Maria filled it with thewine by the light of the moon. Then she returned to Lily. 

"Here, " she said, still in the same cruel voice. "Sit up and drinkthis. "

"What is it?" moaned Lily. 

"Never mind what it is. Sit up and drink it. "

Lily sat up and obediently drank the wine, every drop. 

"Now lie down and keep still, and go to sleep, and behave yourself, "said Maria. 

Lily tried to say something, but Maria would not listen to her. 

"Don't you speak another word, " said she. "Keep still, or Aunt Mariawill be up. Lie still and go to sleep. "

It was not long before, warmed by the wine and comforted by Maria'sassertion that she was never going to marry George Ramsey, that Lilyfell asleep. Maria lay awake hearing her long, even breaths, and shefelt how she hated her, how she hated herself, how she hated life. There was no sleep for her. Just before dawn she woke Lily, bundledher up in some extra clothing, and went with her across the yard, home. 

"Now go up to your own room just as still as you can, " said she, andher voice sounded terrible even in her own ears. She waited until sheheard the key softly turn in the door of the Merrill house. Then shesped home and up to her own room. Then she lay down in bed again andwaited for broad daylight. 

Chapter XXI

When Maria dressed herself the next morning, she had an odd, shamedexpression as she looked at herself in her glass while braiding herhair. It actually seemed to her as if she herself, and not LilyMerrill, had so betrayed herself and given way to an unsought love. She felt as if she saw Lily instead of herself, and she was at oncehumiliated and angered. She had to pass Lily's house on her way toschool, and she did not once look up, although she had a convictionthat Lily was watching her from one of the sitting-room windows. Itwas a wild winter day, with frequent gusts of wind swaying the treesto the breaking of the softer branches, and flurries of snow. It washard work to keep the school-house warm. Maria, in the midst of herperturbation, had a comforted feeling at seeing Jessy Ramsey in herwarm clothing. She passed her arm around the little girl at recess;it was so cold that only a few of the boys went outside. 

"Have you got them on, dear?" she whispered. 

"Yes'm, " said Jessy. Then, to Maria's consternation, she caught herhand and kissed it, and began sobbing. "They're awful warm, " sobbedJessy Ramsey, looking at Maria with her little, convulsed face. 

"Hush, child, " said Maria. "There's nothing to cry about. Mind youkeep them nice. Have you got a bureau-drawer you can put themin?--those you haven't on? Don't cry. That's silly. "

"I 'ain't got no bureau, " sobbed Jessy. "But--"

"Haven't any, " corrected Maria. 

"Haven't any bureau-drawer, " said the child. "But I got a box whatsomethin'--"

"That something, " said Maria. 

"That something came from the store in, an' I've got 'em--"

"Them. "

"Them all packed away. They're awful warm. "

"Don't cry, dear, " said Maria. 

The other children did not seem to be noticing them. Suddenly Maria, who still had her arm around the thin shoulders of the little girl, stooped and kissed her rather grimy but soft little cheek. As she didso, she experienced the same feeling which she used to have whencaressing her little sister Evelyn. It was a sort of rapture oftenderness and protection. It was the maternal instinct glorified andrendered spiritual by maidenhood, and its timid desires. JessyRamsey's eyes looked up into Maria's like blue violets, and Marianoticed with a sudden throb that they were like George Ramsey's. Jessy, coming as she did from a degenerate, unbeautiful branch of thefamily-tree, had yet some of the true Ramsey features, and, amongothers, she had the true Ramsey eyes. They were large and very darkblue, and they were set in deep, pathetic hollows. As she looked upat Maria, it was exactly as if George were looking at her withpleading and timid love. Maria took her arm sudden away from thechild. 

"Be you mad?" asked Jessy, humbly. 

"No, I am not, " replied Maria. "But you should not say 'be you mad';you should say are you angry. "

"Yes'm, " said Jessy Ramsey. 

Jessy withdrew, still with timid eyes of devotion fixed upon herteacher, and Maria seated herself behind her desk, took out somepaper, and began to write an exercise for the children to copy uponthe black-board. She was trembling from head to foot. She feltexactly as if George Ramsey had been looking at her with eyes oflove, and she remembered that she was married, and it seemed to herthat she was horribly guilty. 

Maria never once looked again at Jessy Ramsey, at least not fully inthe eyes, during the day. The child's mouth began to assume a piteousexpression. After school that afternoon she lingered, as usual, towalk the little way before their roads separated, so to speak, in herbeloved teacher's train. But Maria spoke quite sharply to her. 

"You had better run right home, Jessy, " she said. "It is snowing, andyou will get cold. I have a few things to see to before I go. Runright home. "

Poor little Jessy Ramsey, who was as honestly in love with herteacher as she would ever be with any one in her life, turnedobediently and went away. Maria's heart smote her. 

"Jessy, " she called after her, and the child turned back halffrightened, half radiant. Maria put her arm around her and kissedher. "Wash your face before you come to school to-morrow, dear, " shesaid. "Now, good-bye. "

"Yes'm, " said Jessy, and she skipped away quite happy. She thoughtteacher had rebuffed her because her face was not washed, and thatdid not trouble her in the least. Lack of cleanliness or lack ofmorals, when brought home to them, could hardly sting any scion ofthat branch of the Ramseys. Lack of affection could, however, andJessy was quite happy in thinking that teacher loved her, and wasonly vexed because her face was dirty. Jessy had not gone a dozenpaces from the school-house before she stopped, scooped up some snowin a little, grimy hand, and rubbed her cheeks violently. Then shewiped them on her new petticoat. Her cheeks tingled frightfully, butshe felt that she was obeying a mandate of love. 

Maria did not see her. She in reality lingered a little over someexercises in the school-house before she started on her way home. Itwas snowing quite steadily, and the wind still blew. The snow madethe wind seem as evident as the wings of a bird. Maria hurried along. When she reached the bridge across the Ramsey River she saw a girlstanding as if waiting for her. The girl was all powdered with snowand she had on a thick veil, but Maria immediately knew that she wasLily Merrill. Lily came up to her as she reached her with almost anabject motion. She had her veiled face lowered before the storm, andshe carried herself as if her spirit also was lowered before somewind of fate. She pressed timidly close to Maria when she reached her. 

"I've been waiting for you, Maria, " she said. 

"Have you?" returned Maria, coldly. 

"Yes, I wanted to see you, and I didn't know as I could, unless I metyou. I didn't know whether you would have a fire in your roomto-night, and I thought your aunt would be in the sitting-room, and Ithought you wouldn't be apt to come over to my house, it storms so. "

"No, I shouldn't, " Maria said, shortly. 

Then Lily burst out in a piteous low wail, a human wail piercing thewail of the storm. The two girls were quite alone on the bridge. 

"Oh, Maria, " said Lily, "I did want you to know how dreadfullyashamed I was of what I did last night. "

"I should think you would be, " Maria said, pitilessly. She walked onahead, with her mouth in a straight line, and did not look at theother girl. 

Lily came closer to her and passed one of her arms through Maria'sand pressed against her softly. "I wanted to tell you, too, " shesaid, "that I made an excuse about--that handkerchief the othernight. I thought it was in my coat-pocket all the time. I did it justso he would go home with me last. "

Maria looked at her. "I never saw such a girl as you are, LilyMerrill, " she said, contemptuously, but in spite of herself there wasa soft accent in her voice. It was not in Maria's nature to be hardupon a repentant sinner. 

Lily leaned her face against Maria's snow-powdered shoulder. "I wasdreadfully ashamed of it, " said she, "and I thought I must tell you, Maria. You don't think so very badly of me, do you? I know I wasawful. " The longing for affection and approbation in Lily's voicegave it almost a singing quality. She was so fond of love andapproval that the withdrawal of it smote her like a frost of thespirit. 

"I think it was terribly bold of you, if you want to know just what Ithink, " Maria said; "and I think you were very deceitful. Before Iwould do such a thing to get a young man to go home with me, Iwould--" Maria paused. Suddenly she remembered that she had hersecret, and she felt humbled before this other girl whom she wasjudging. She became conscious to such an extent of the beam in herown eye that she was too blinded to see the mote in that of poorLily, who, indeed, was not to blame, being simply helpless before herown temperament and her own emotions. 

"I know I did do a dreadful thing, " moaned Lily. 

Then Maria pressed the clinging arm under her own. 

"Well, " said she, as she might have spoken to a child, "if I were youI would not think any more about it, Lily, I would put it out of mymind. Only, I would not, if I were you, and really wanted a young manto care for me, let him think I was running after him. "

As she said the last, Maria paled. She glanced at Lily's beautifulface under the veil, and realized that it might be very easy for anyyoung man to care for such a girl, who had, in reality, a sweetnature, besides beauty, if she only adopted the proper course to winhim, and that it was obviously her (Maria's) duty to teach her to winhim. 

"I know it. I won't again, " Lily said, humbly. 

The two girls walked on; they had crossed the bridge. Suddenly Lilyplucked up a little spirit. 

"Say, Maria, " said she. 

"What is it, dear?"

"I just happened to think. Mother was asked to tea to Mrs. RalphWright's to-night, but she isn't going. Is your aunt going?"

"Yes, I believe she is, " said Maria. 

"She won't be home before eight o'clock, will she?"

"No, I don't suppose she will. They are to have tea at six, Ibelieve. "

"Then I am coming over after mother and I have tea. I have somethingI want to tell you. "

"All right, dear, " replied Maria, hesitatingly. 

When Maria got home she found her aunt Maria all dressed, except forher collar-fastening. She was waiting for Maria to attend to that. Her thin gray-blond hair was beautifully crimped, and she wore herbest black silk dress. She was standing by the sitting-room windowwhen Maria entered. 

"I am glad you have come, Maria, " said she. "I have been standingquite awhile. You are late. "

"Yes, I am rather late, " replied Maria. "But why on earth didn't yousit down?"

"Do you suppose I am going to sit down more than I can help in thisdress?" said her aunt. "There is nothing hurts a silk dress more thansitting down in it. Now if you will hook my collar, Maria. I can doit, but I don't like to strain the seams by reaching round, and Ididn't want to trail this dress down the cellar stairs to get Euniceto fasten it up. " Aunt Maria bewailed the weather in a deprecatingfashion while Maria was fastening the collar at the back of herskinny neck. "I never want to find fault with the weather, " said she, "because, of course, the weather is regulated by Something higherthan we are, and it must be for our best good, but I do hate to wearthis dress out in such a storm, and I don't dare wear my cashmere. Mrs. Ralph Wright is so particular she would be sure to think Ididn't pay her proper respect. "

"You can wear my water-proof, " said Maria. "I didn't wear it to-day, you know. I didn't think the snow would do this dress any harm. Thewater-proof will cover you all up. "

"Well, I suppose I can, and can pin my skirt up, " said Aunt Maria, ina resigned tone. "I don't want to find fault with the weather, but Ido hate to pin up a black silk skirt. "

"You can turn it right up around your waist, and fasten the braid toyour belt, and then it won't hurt it, " said Maria, consolingly. 

"Well, I suppose I can. Your supper is all ready, Maria. There'sbread and butter, and chocolate cake, and some oysters. I thought youwouldn't mind making yourself a little stew. I couldn't make itbefore you came, because it wouldn't be fit to eat. You know how. Besure the milk is hot before you put the oysters in. There is a goodfire. "

"Oh yes, I know how. Don't you worry about me, " said Maria, turningup her aunt's creaseless black silk skirt gingerly. It was ratherincomprehensible to her that anybody should care so much whether ablack silk skirt was creased or not, when the terrible undertone ofemotions which underline the world, and are its creative motive, werein existence, but Maria was learning gradually to be patient with thesmall worries of others which seemed large to them, and upon whichshe herself could not place much stress. She stood at the window, when her aunt at last emerged from the house, and picked her waythrough the light snow, and her mouth twitched a little at theabsurd, shapeless figure. Her Aunt Eunice had joined her, and she wasnot so shapeless. She held up her dress quite fashionably on oneside, with a rather generous display of slender legs. Aunt Maria didnot consider that her sister-in-law was quite careful enough of herclothes. "Henry won't always be earning, " she often said to Maria. To-day she had eyed with disapproval Eunice's best black silktrailing from under her cape, when she entered the sitting-room. Shehad come through the cellar. 

"Are you going that way, in such a storm, in your best black silk?"she inquired. 

"I haven't any water-proof, " replied Eunice, "and I don't see whatelse I can do. "

"You might wear my old shawl spread out. "

"I wouldn't go through the street cutting such a figure, " saidEunice, with one of her occasional bursts of spirit. She wasdelighted to go. Nobody knew how this meek, elderly woman loved alittle excitement. There were red spots on her thin cheeks, and shelooked almost as if she had used rouge. Her eyes snapped. 

"I should think you would turn your skirt up, anyway, " said AuntMaria. "You've got your black petticoat on, haven't you?"

"Yes, " replied Eunice. "But if you think I am going right through theMain Street in my petticoat, you are mistaken. Snow won't hurt thesilk any. It's a dry snow, and it will shake right off. "

So Eunice, at the side of Aunt Maria, went with her dress kiltedhigh, and looked as preternaturally slim as her sister-in-law lookedstout. Maria, watching them, thought how funny they were. She herselfwas elemental, and they, in their desires and interests, were likemotes floating on the face of the waters. Maria, while she had alwayslike pretty clothes, had come to a pass wherein she relegated them totheir proper place. She recognized many things as externals which shehad heretofore considered as essentials. She had developedwonderfully in a few months. As she turned away from the window shecaught a glimpse of Lily Merrill's lovely face in a window of theopposite house, above a mass of potted geraniums. Lily nodded, andsmiled, and Maria nodded back again. Her heart sank at the idea ofLily's coming that evening, a sickening jealous dread of theconfidence which she was to make to her was over her, and yet shesaid to herself that she had no right to have this dread. Sheprepared her supper and ate it, and had hardly cleared away the tableand washed the dishes before Lily came flying across the yard beforethe storm-wind. Maria hurried to the door to let her in. 

"Your aunt went, didn't she?" said Lily, entering, and shaking theflakes of snow from her skirts. 

"Yes. "

"I don't see why mother wouldn't go. Mother never goes out anywhere, and she isn't nearly as old as your aunts. "

Lily and Maria seated themselves in the sitting-room before thestove. Lily looked at Maria, and a faint red overspread her cheeks. She began to speak, then she hesitated, and evidently said somethingwhich she had not intended. 

"How pretty that is!" she said, pointing to a great oleander-tree inflower, which was Aunt Maria's pride. 

"Yes, I think it is pretty. "

"Lovely. The very prettiest one I ever saw. " Lily hesitated again, but at last she began to speak, with the red on her cheeks brighterand her eyes turned away from Maria. "I wanted to tell you something, Maria, " said she. 

"Well?" said Maria. Her own face was quite pale and motionless. Shewas doing some fancy-work, embroidering a centre-piece, and shecontinued to take careful stitches. 

"I know you thought I was awful, doing the way I did last night, "said Lily, in her sweet murmur. She drooped her head, and the flushon her oval cheeks was like the flush on a wild rose. Lily wore agreen house-dress, which set her off as the leaves and stem set off aflower. It was of some soft material which clung about her anddisplayed her tender curves. She wore at her throat an old cameobrooch which had belonged to her grandmother, and which had upon itsonyx background an ivory head as graceful as her own. Maria, besideLily, although she herself was very pretty, looked ordinary in herflannel blouse and black skirt, which was her school costume. 

Maria continued taking careful stitches in the petals of a daisywhich she was embroidering. "I think we have talked enough about it, "she said. 

"But I want to tell you something. "

"Why don't you tell it, then?"

"I know you thought I did something awful, running across the yardand coming here in the night the way I did, and showing you thatI--I, well, that I minded George Ramsey's coming home with you;but--look here, Maria, I--had a little reason. "

Maria paled perceptibly, but she kept on steadily with her work. 

Lily flushed more deeply. "George Ramsey has been home with me fromevening meeting quite a number of times, " she said. 

"Has he?" said Maria. 

"Yes. Of course we were walking the same way. He may not really havemeant to see me home. " There was a sort of innate honesty in Lilywhich always led her to retrieve the lapses from the strict truthwhen in her favor. "Maybe he didn't really mean to see me home, andsometimes he didn't offer me his arm, " she added, with a childlikewistfulness, as if she desired Maria to reassure her. 

"I dare say he meant to see you home, " said Maria, rather shortly. 

"I am not quite sure, " said Lily. "But he did walk home with me quitea number of times, first and last, and you know we used to go to thesame school, and a number of times then, when we were a good dealyounger, he really did see me home, and--he kissed me good-nightthen. Of course he hasn't done that lately, because we were older. "

"I should think not, unless you were engaged, " said Maria. 

"Of course not, but he has said several things to me. Maybe he didn'tmean anything, but they sounded--I thought I would like to tell you, Maria. I have never told anybody, not even mother. Once he said myname just suited me, and once he asked me if I thought married peoplewere happier, and once he said he thought it was a doubtfulexperiment for a man to marry and try to live either with his wife'smother or his own. You know, if he married me, it would have to beone way or the other. Do you think he meant anything, Maria?"

"I don't know, " said Maria. "I didn't hear him. "

"Well, I thought he spoke as if he meant it, but, of course, a girlcan never be sure. I suppose men do say so many things they don'tmean. Don't you?"

"Yes, I suppose they do. "

"Do you think he did, Maria?" asked Lily, piteously. 

"My dear child, I told you I didn't hear him, and I don't see how Ican tell, " repeated Maria, with a little impatience. It did seem hardto her that she should be so forced into a confidence of this kind, but an odd feeling of protective tenderness for Lily was stealingover her. She reached a certain height of nobility which she hadnever reached before, through this feeling. 

"I know men so often say things when they mean nothing at all, " Lilysaid again. "Perhaps he didn't mean anything. I know he has gone homewith Agnes Sears several times, and he has talked to her a good dealwhen we have been at parties. Do you think she is pretty, Maria?"

"Yes, I think she is quite pretty, " replied Maria. 

"Do you think--she is better-looking than--I am?" asked Lily, feebly. 

"No, of course I don't, " said Maria. "You are a perfect beauty. "

"Oh, Maria, do you think so?"

"Of course I do! You know it yourself as well as I do. "

"No, honest, I am never quite sure, Maria. Sometimes it does seem tome when I am dressed up that I am really better-looking than somegirls, but I am never quite sure that it isn't because it is I who amlooking at myself. A girl wants to think she is pretty, you know, Maria, especially if she wants anybody to like her, and I can't evertell. "

"Well, you can rest easy about that, " said Maria. "You are a perfectbeauty. There isn't a girl in Amity to compare with you. You needn'thave any doubt at all. "

An expression of quite innocent and naive vanity overspread Lily'scharming face. She cast a glance at herself in a glass which hung onthe opposite wall, and smiled as a child might have done at her ownreflection. "Do you think this green dress is becoming to me?" saidshe. 

"Very. "

"But, Maria, do you suppose George Ramsey thinks I am so pretty?"

"I should think he must, if he has eyes in his head, " replied Maria. 

"But you are pretty yourself, Maria, " said Lily, with the most openjealousy and anxiety, "and you are smarter than I am, and he is sosmart. I do think he cares a great deal more for you than for me. Ithink he must, Maria. "

"Nonsense!" said Maria. "Just because a young man walks home with meonce you think he is in love with me. " Maria tried to speak lightlyand scornfully, but in spite of herself there was an accent ofgratification in her tone. In spite of herself she forgot for themoment. 

"I think he does, all the same, " said Lily, dejectedly. 

"Nonsense! He doesn't; and if he did, he would have to take it out incaring. "

"Then you were in earnest about what you said last night?" said Lily, eagerly. "You really mean you wouldn't have George Ramsey if he askedyou?"

"Not if he asked every day in the year for a hundred years. "

"I guess you must have seen somebody else whom you liked, " said Lily, and Maria colored furiously. Then Lily laughed. "Oh, you have!" shecried, with sudden glee. "You are blushing like anything. Do tell me, Maria. "

"I have nothing to tell. "

"Maria Edgham, you don't dare tell me you are not in love withanybody?"

"I should not answer a question of that kind to any other girl, anyway, " Maria replied, angrily. 

"You are. I know it, " said Lily. "Don't be angry, dear. I am realglad. "

"I didn't say I was in love, and there is nothing for you to be gladabout, " returned Maria, fairly scarlet with shame and rage. Shetangled the silk with which she was working, and broke it short off. Maria was as yet not wholly controlled by herself. 

"Why, you'll spoil that daisy, " Lily said, wonderingly. She herselfwas incapable of any such retaliation upon inanimate objects. Shewould have carefully untangled her silk, no matter how deeply shesuffered. 

"I don't care if I do!" cried Maria. 

"Why, Maria!"

"Well, I don't care. I am fairly sick of so much talk and thinkingabout love and getting married, as if there were nothing else. "

"Maybe you are different, Maria, " admitted Lily, in a humiliatedfashion. 

"I don't want to hear any more about it, " Maria said, taking a freshthread from her skein of white silk. 

"But do you mean what you said?"

"Yes, I do, once for all. That settles it. "

Lily looked at her wistfully. She did not find Maria as sympatheticas she wished. Then she glanced at her beautiful visage in the glass, and remembered what the other girl had said about her beauty, andagain she smiled her childlike smile of gratified vanity andpleasure. Then suddenly the door-bell rang. 

Lily gave a great start, and turned white as she looked at Maria. "It's George Ramsey, " she whispered. 

"Nonsense! How do you know?" asked Maria, laying her work on thetable beside the lamp, and rising. 

"I don't know. I do know. "

"Nonsense!" Still Maria stood looking irresolutely at Lily. 

"I know, " said Lily, and she trembled perceptibly. 

"I don't see how you can tell, " said Maria. She made a step towardsthe door. 

Lily sprang up. "I am going home, " said she. 

"Going home? Why?"

"He has come to see you, and I won't stay. I won't. I know youdespised me for what I did the other night, and I won't do such athing as to stay when he has come to see another girl. I am not quiteas bad as that. " Lily started towards her cloak, which lay over achair. 

Maria seized her by the shoulders with a nervous grip of her littlehands. "Lily Merrill, " said she, "if you stir, if you dare to stir togo home, I will not go to the door at all!"

Lily gasped and looked at her. 

"I won't!" said Maria. 

The bell rang a second time. 

"You have got to go to the door, " said Maria, with a sudden impulse. 

Lily quivered under her hands. 

"Why? Oh, Maria!"

"Yes, you have. You go to the door, and I will run up-stairs the backway to my room. I don't feel well to-night, anyway. I have an awfulheadache. You go to the door, and if it is--George Ramsey, you tellhim I have gone to bed with a headache, and you have come over tostay with me because Aunt Maria has gone away. Then you can ask himin. "

A flush of incredulous joy came over Lily's face. 

"You don't mean it, Maria?" she whispered, faintly. 

"Yes, I do. Hurry, or he'll go away. "

"Have you got a headache, honest?"

"Yes, I have. Hurry, quick! If it is anybody else do as you likeabout asking him in. Hurry!"

With that Maria was gone, scudding up the back stairs which led outof the adjoining room. She gained her chamber as noiselessly as ashadow. The room was very dark except for a faint gleam on one wallfrom a neighbor's lamp. Maria stood still, listening, in the middleof the floor. She heard the front door opened, then she heard voices. She heard steps. The steps entered the sitting-room. Then she heardthe voices in a steady flow. One of them was undoubtedly a man's. Thebass resonances were unmistakable. A peal of girlish laughter rangout. Maria noiselessly groped her way to her bed, threw herself uponit, face down, and lay there shaking with silent sobs. 

Chapter XXII

Maria did not hear Lily laugh again, although the conversationcontinued. In reality, Lily was in a state of extreme shyness, andwas, moreover, filled with a sense of wrong-doing. There had beensomething about Maria's denial which had not convinced her. In herheart of hearts, the heart of hearts of a foolish but loving girl, who never meant anybody any harm, and, on the contrary, wishedeverybody well, although naturally herself first, she was quite surethat Maria also loved George Ramsey. She drooped before him with thisconsciousness when she opened the door, and the young man naturallystarted with a little surprise at the sight of her. 

"Maria has gone to bed with a headache, " she faltered, before Georgehad time to inquire for her. Then she added, in response to the youngman's look of astonishment, the little speech which Maria hadprepared for her. "Her aunt has gone out, and so I came over to staywith her. " Lily was a born actress. It was not her fault that alittle accent of tender pity for Maria in her lonely estate, with heraunt away, and a headache, crept into her voice. She at the momentalmost believed what she said. It became quite real to her. 

"I am sorry Miss Edgham has a headache, " said George, after a barelyperceptible second of hesitation, "but, as long as she has, I may aswell come in and make you a little call, Lily. "

Lily quivered perceptibly. She tried to show becoming pride, butfailed. "I should be very happy to have you, " she said, "but--"

"Well, it _is_ asking you to play second fiddle, and no mistake, "laughed George Ramsey, "for I did think I would make Miss Edgham alittle call. But, after all, the second fiddle is an indispensablething, and you and I are old friends, Lily. "

He could not help the admiration in his eyes as he looked at Lily. She carried a little lamp, and the soft light was thrown upon herlovely face, and her brown hair gleamed gold in it. No man could havehelped admiring her. Lily had never been a very brilliant scholar, but she could read admiration for herself. She regained herself-possession. 

"I don't mind playing second fiddle, " said she. "I should be glad ifI could play any fiddle. Come in, Mr. Ramsey. "

"How very formal we have grown!" laughed George, as he took off hiscoat and hat in the icy little hall. "Why, don't you remember we wentto school together? What is the use?"

"George, then, " said Lily. Her voice seemed to caress the name. 

The young man colored. He was of a stanch sort, but he was a man, andthe adulation of such a beautiful girl as this touched him. He tookthe lamp out of her hand. 

"Come in, then, " he said; "but it is rather funny for me to becalling on you here, isn't it?"

"Funnier than it would be for you to call on me at my own house, "said Lily, demurely, with a faint accent of reproach. 

"Well, I must admit I am not very neighborly, " George replied, withan apologetic air. "But, you see, I am really busy a good manyevenings with accounts, and I don't go out very much. "

Lily reflected that he had come to call on Maria, in spite of beingbusy, but she said nothing. She placed Maria's vacant chair for himbeside the sitting-room stove. 

"It is a hard storm, " she said. 

"Very. It is a queer night for Miss Edgham's aunt to go out, it seemsto me. "

"Mrs. Ralph Wright has a tea-party, " said Lily. "Maria's aunt Eunicehas gone, too. My mother was invited, but mother never goes out inthe evening. "

After these commonplace remarks, Lily seated herself opposite GeorgeRamsey, and there was a little silence. Again the expression ofadmiration came into the young man's face, and the girl read it withdelight. Sitting gracefully, her slender body outlined by the softgreen of her dress, her radiant face showing above the ivory cameobrooch at her throat, she was charming. George Ramsey owned tohimself that Lily was certainly a great beauty, but all the same hethought regretfully of the other girl, who was not such a beauty, butwho had somehow appealed to him as no other girl had ever done. Then, too, Maria was in a measure new. He had known Lily all his life; theelement of wonder and surprise was lacking in his consciousness ofher beauty, and she also lacked something else which Maria had. Lilymeant no more to him--that is, her beauty meant no more to him--thana symmetrical cherry-tree in the south yard, which was a marvel ofscented beauty, humming with bees every spring. He had seen that treeever since he could remember. He always looked upon it with pleasurewhen it was in blossom, yet it was not to him what a new tree, standing forth unexpectedly with its complement of flowers and bees, would have been. It was very unfortunate for Lily that George hadknown her all his life. In order really to attract him it would benecessary for him to discover something entirely new in her. 

"It was very good of you to come in and stay with Miss Edgham whileher aunt was gone, " said George. 

He felt terribly at a loss for conversation. He had, without knowingit, a sense of something underneath the externals which put aconstraint upon him. 

Lily had one of the truth-telling impulses which redeemed her fromthe artifices of her mother. 

"Oh, " said she, "I wanted to come. I proposed coming myself. It isdull evenings at home, and I did not know that Maria would go to bedor that you would come in. "

"Well, mother has gone to that tea-party, too, " said George, "and Ilooked over here and saw the light, and I thought I would just run ina minute. "

For some unexplained reason tears were standing in Lily's eyes andher mouth quivered a little. George could not see, for the life ofhim, why she should be on the verge of tears. He felt a littleimpatient, but at the same time she became more interesting to him. He had never seen Lily weeping since the time when she was a child atschool, and used to conceal her weeping little face in a ring of herright arm, as was the fashion among the little girls. 

"This light must shine right in your sitting-room windows, " saidLily, in a faint voice. She was considering how pitiful it was thatGeorge had not had the impulse to call upon her, Lily, when she wasso lovely and loving in her green gown; and how even this littlehappiness was not really her own, but another girl's. She had not theleast realization of how Maria was suffering, lying in her roomdirectly overhead. 

Maria suffered as she had never suffered before. George Ramsey washer first love; the others had been merely childish playthings. Shewas strangling love, and that is a desperate deed, and the stranglersuffers more than love. Maria, with the memory of that marriage whichwas, indeed, no marriage, but the absurd travesty of one, upon her, was in almost a suicidal frame of mind. She knew perfectly well thatif it had not been for that marriage secret which she held always inmind, that George Ramsey would continue to call, that they wouldbecome engaged, that her life might be like other women's. And now hewas down there with Lily--Lily, in her green gown. She knew just howLily would look at him, with her beautiful, soft eyes. She hated her, and yet she hated herself more than she hated her. She told herselfthat she had no good reason for hating another girl for doing whatshe herself had done--for falling in love with George Ramsey. Sheknew that she should never have made a confidant of another girl, asLily had made of her. She realized a righteous contempt because ofher weakness, and yet she felt that Lily was the normal girl, thatnine out of ten would do exactly what she had done. And she also hada sort of pity for her. She could not quite believe that a young manlike George Ramsey could like Lily, who, however beautiful she was, was undeniably silly. But then she reflected how young men werepopularly supposed not to mind a girl's being silly if she wasbeautiful. Then she ceased to pity Lily, and hated her again. Shebecame quite convinced that George Ramsey would marry her. 

She had locked her door, and lay on her bed fully dressed. She madeup her mind that when Aunt Maria came she would pretend to be asleep. She felt that she could not face Aunt Maria's wondering questions. Then she reflected that Aunt Maria would be home soon, and amalicious joy seized her that Lily would not have George Ramsey longto herself. Indeed, it was scarcely half-past eight before Mariaheard the side-door open. Then she heard, quite distinctly, AuntMaria's voice, although she could not distinguish the words. Marialaughed a little, smothered, hysterical laugh at the absurdity of thesituation. 

It was, in fact, ludicrous. Aunt Maria entered the sitting-room, agrotesque figure in her black skirt bundled up under Maria'swaterproof, which was powdered with snow. She wore her old blackbonnet, and the wind had tipped that rakishly to one side. She staredat Lily and George Ramsey, who both rose with crimson faces. 

"Good-evening, " Lily ventured, feebly. 

"Good-evening, Miss Stillman, " George said, following the girl'slead. Then, as he was more assured, he added that it was a verystormy night. 

George had been sitting on one side of the stove, Lily on the other, in the chairs which Maria and Lily had occupied before the youngman's arrival. They had both sprung up with a guilty motion when AuntMaria entered. Aunt Maria stood surveying them. She did not returntheir good-evenings, nor George's advance with regard to the weather. Her whole face expressed severe astonishment. Her thin lips gapedslightly, her pale eyes narrowed. She continued to look at them, andthey stood before her like culprits. 

"Where's Maria gone?" said Aunt Maria, finally, in a voice whichseemed to have an edge to it. 

Then Lily spoke with soft and timid volubility. "Maria said her headached so she thought she had better go to bed, Miss Stillman, " shesaid. 

"I didn't hear anything about any headache before I went away. Musthave come on mighty sudden, " said Aunt Maria. 

"She said it ached very hard, " repeated Lily. "And when the door-bellrang, when Mr. Ramsey came--"

"It's mighty queer she should have had a headache when George Ramseyrang the door-bell, " said Aunt Maria. 

"I guess it must have ached before, " said Lily, faintly. 

"I should suppose it must have, " Aunt Maria said, sarcastically. "Idon't see any reason why Maria's head should begin to ache when thedoor-bell rang. "

"Of course, " said Lily. "I suppose she just felt she couldn't talk, that was all. "

"It's mighty queer, " said Aunt Maria. She stood quite immovable. Shewas so stern that even her rakishly tipped bonnet did not seem at allfunny. She looked at Lily and George Ramsey, and did not make amovement to remove her wraps. 

Lily took a little, faltering step towards her. "You are all coveredwith snow, Miss Stillman, " she said, in her sweet voice. 

"I don't mind a little snow, " said Aunt Maria. 

"Won't you take this chair?" asked George Ramsey, pointing to the onewhich he had just vacated. 

"No, thank you, " replied Aunt Maria. "I ain't going to sit down. I'vegot on my best black silk, and I don't ever sit down in it when I canhelp it. I'm going to take it off and go to bed. "

Then George Ramsey immediately made a movement towards his coat andhat, which lay on the lounge beside Lily's wraps. "Well, " he said, with an attempt to laugh and be easy, "I must be going. I have totake an early car to-morrow. "

"I must go, too, " said Lily. 

They both hustled on their outer garments. They said good-eveningwhen they went out, but Aunt Maria did not reply. She immediatelytook off Maria's water-proof and her bonnet, and slipped off her bestblack silk gown. Then she took the little lamp which was lighted inthe kitchen and went up-stairs to Maria's room. She had an old shawlover her shoulders, otherwise she was in her black quilted petticoat. She stepped softly, and entered the spare room opposite Maria's. Itwas icy cold in there. She set the lamp on the bureau and went out, closing the door softly. It was then quite dark in the littlepassageway between the spare room and Maria's. Aunt Maria stoodlooking sharply at Maria's door, especially at the threshold, whichwas separated from the floor quite a space by the shrinkage of theyears. The panels, too, had their crevices, through which light mightbe seen. It was entirely dark. Aunt Maria opened the door of thespare room very softly and got the little lamp off the bureau, andtiptoed down-stairs. Then she sat down before the sitting-room stoveand pulled up her quilted petticoat till her thin legs were exposed, to warm herself and not injure the petticoat. She looked unutterablystern and weary. Suddenly, as she sat there, tears began to roll overher ascetic cheeks. 

"Oh, Lord!" she sighed to herself; "to think that child has got to gothrough the world just the way I have, when she don't need to!"

Aunt Maria rose and got a handkerchief out of her bureau-drawer inher little bedroom. She did not take the one in the pocket of hergown because that was her best one, and very fine. Then she sat downagain, pulled up her petticoat again, put the handkerchief before herpoor face, and wept for herself and her niece, because of aconviction which was over her that for both the joy of life was tocome only from the windows of others. 

Chapter XXIII

Lily Merrill, going home across the yard through the storm, leaningon George Ramsey's arm, gave a little, involuntary sob. It was a sobhalf of the realization of slighted affection, half of shame. It gavethe little element of strangeness which was lacking to fascinate theyoung man. He had a pitiful heart towards women, and at the sound ofthe little, stifled sob he pressed Lily's arm more closely under hisown. 

"Don't, Lily, " he said, softly. 

Lily sobbed again; she almost leaned her head towards George'sshoulder. She made a little, irresistible, nestling motion, like achild. 

"I can't help it, " she said, brokenly. "She did look at me so. "

"Don't mind her one bit, Lily, " said George. He half laughed at thememory of Aunt Maria's face, even while the tender tone sounded inhis voice. "Don't mind that poor old maid. Neither of us were toblame. I suppose it did look as if we had taken possession of herpremises, and she was astonished, that was all. How funny she looked, poor thing, with her bonnet awry!"

"I know she must think I have done something dreadful, " sobbed Lily. 

"Nonsense!" George said again, and his pressure of her arm tightened. "I was just going when she came in, anyway. There is nothing at allto be ashamed of, only--" He hesitated. 

"What?" asked Lily. 

"Well, to tell you the truth, Lily, " he said then, "it does look tome as if Miss Edgham's headache was only another way of telling meshe did not wish to see me. "

"Oh, I guess not, " said Lily. 

"For some reason or other she does not seem to like me, " George said, with rather a troubled voice; but he directly laughed. 

"I don't see any reason why she shouldn't like you, " Lily said. 

They had reached Lily's door, and the light from the sitting-roomwindows shone on her lovely face, past which the snow drifted like awhite veil. 

"Well, I think she doesn't, " George said, carelessly, "but you aremighty good to say you see no reason why she shouldn't. You and Ihave always been good friends, haven't we, Lily, ever since we wentto school together?"

"Yes, " replied Lily, eagerly, although she did not like the wordfriends, which seemed to smite on the heart. She lifted her face tothe young man's, and her lips pouted almost imperceptibly. It couldnot have been said that she was inviting a kiss, but no man couldhave avoided kissing her. George Ramsey kissed her as naturally as hebreathed. There seemed to be nothing else to do. It was one of theinevitables of life. Then Lily opened the door and slid into thehouse with a tremulous good-night. 

George himself felt tremulous, and also astonished and vexed withhimself. He had certainly not meant to kiss Lily Merrill. But itflashed across his mind that she would not think anything of it, thathe had kissed her often when they were children, and it was the samething now. As he went away he glanced back at the lighted windows, and a man's shadow was quite evident. He wondered who was calling onLily's mother, and then wondered, with a slight shadow of jealousy, if it could be some one who had come to see Lily herself. Hereflected, as he went homeward through the storm, that a girl aspretty as Lily ought to have some one worthy of her. He went over inhis mind, as he puffed his cigar, all the young men in Amity, and itdid not seem to him that any one of them was quite the man for her. 

When he reached home he found his mother already there, warmingherself by the sitting-room register. She had gone to the tea-partyin a carriage (George would not have her walk), but she was chilled. She was a delicate, pretty woman. She looked up, shivering, as Georgeentered. 

"Where have you been, dear?" she asked. 

George laughed, and colored a little. "Well, mother, I went to seeone young lady and saw another, " he replied. 

Just then the maid came in with some hot chocolate, which Mrs. Ramseyalways drank before she went to bed, and she asked no more questionsuntil the girl had gone; then she resumed the conversation. 

"What do you mean, dear?" she inquired, looking over the rim of thechina cup at her son, with a slight, anxious contraction of herforehead. 

"Well, I felt a little lonely after you went, mother, and I hadnothing especial to do, and it occurred to me that I would go overand call on our neighbor. "

"On young Maria Edgham?"

"Yes, mother. "

"Well, I suppose it was a polite thing for you to do, " said hismother, mildly, "but I don't quite care for her has I do for somegirls. She is so very vehement. I do like a young girl to be gentle. "

"Well, I didn't see her, mother, in either a gentle or vehementmood, " said George. "As nearly as I can find out, she had apremonition who it was when I rang the door-bell, and said she had aheadache, and ran up-stairs to bed. "

"Why, how do you know?" asked his mother, staring at him. "Her auntwas at the tea. Who told you?"

"Lily Merrill was there, " replied George, and again he was consciousof coloring. "She had come to stay with Maria because her aunt wasgoing out. She answered my ring, and so I made a little call on heruntil Miss Stillman returned, and was so surprised to see herpremises invaded and her niece missing that I think she inferred aconspiracy or a burglar. At all events, Lily and I were summarilydismissed. I have just seen Lily home. "

"Lily Merrill is pretty, and I think she is a nice, lady-like girl, "said Mrs. Ramsey, and she regarded her son more uneasily than before, "but I don't like her mother, George. "

"Why, what is the matter with Lily's mother?"

"She isn't genuine. Adeline Merrill was never genuine. She has alwayshad her selfish ends, and she has reached them by crooks and turns. "

"I think Lily is genuine enough, " said George, carelessly, puttinganother lump of sugar in his cup of chocolate. "I have seen morebrilliant girls, but she is a beauty, and I think she is genuine. "

"Well, perhaps she is, " Mrs. Ramsey admitted. "I don't know her verywell, but I do know her mother. I know something now. "

"What?"

"I know you don't like gossip, but if ever a woman was--I know it isa vulgar expression--but if ever a woman was setting her cap for aman, she is setting hers for Dr. Ellridge. She never goes anywhereevenings, in the hope that he may call, and she sends for him whenthere is nothing whatever the matter with her, if he doesn't. I know, because Dr. Ellridge's wife's sister, Miss Emmons, who has kept housefor him since his wife died, told me so. He goes home and tells her, and laughs, but I know she isn't quite sure that the doctor won'tmarry her. "

"Miss Emmons is jealous, perhaps, " said George. "Perhaps Mrs. Merrillis really ill. "

"No, the doctor says she is not, and Miss Emmons is not jealous. Shetold me that as far as she was concerned, although she would lose herhome, she should be glad to see the doctor married, if he chose asuitable woman; but I don't think she likes Mrs. Merrill. I don't seehow anybody can like a woman who so openly proclaims her willingnessto marry a man before he has done her the honor to ask her. It seemsshameless to me. "

"Perhaps she doesn't, " George said again. Then he added, "It would berather hard for Lily if her mother did marry the doctor. He is a goodman enough, but with his own three girls, the oldest older than Lily, she would have a hard time. "

George looked quite sober, reflecting upon the possible sad lot ofpoor Lily if her mother married the second time. 

"Adeline Merrill wouldn't stop for such a thing as the feelings ofher own daughter, if she had her mind set on anything, " said hismother, in her soft voice, which seemed to belie the bitterness ofher words. She was not in reality bitter at all, not even towardsMrs. Merrill, but she had clearly defined rules of conduct forgentlewomen, and she mentioned it when these rules were transgressed. 

"Well, mother dear, I can't see that it is likely to make muchdifference to either you or me, anyway, " said George, and his motherfelt consoled. She told herself that it was not possible that Georgethought seriously of Lily, or he would not speak so. 

"Miss Stillman is very eccentric, " she remarked, departing from thesubject. "I offered to bring her home with me in the carriage. I knewyou would not mind the extra money. She has such a cold that I reallywondered that she came at all in such a storm; but, no, she seemedfairly indignant at the idea. I never saw any one so proud. I askedMrs. Henry Stillman, but she did not like to have her sister-in-lawto go alone, so she would not accept, either; but Miss Stillmanwalked herself, and made her sister walk, too, and I am positive itwas because she was proud. Do you really mean you think young Mariadid not want to see you, George?"

"It looked like it, " George replied, laughing. 

"Why?" asked his mother. 

"How do I know, mother dear? I don't think Miss Edgham altogetherapproves of me for some reason. "

"I should like to know what reason she has for not approving of you, "cried his mother, jealously. She looked admiringly at her son, whowas handsome, with a sort of rugged beauty, and whose face displayedstrength, and honesty not to be questioned. "I would like to know whoMaria Edgham thinks she is. She is rather pretty, but she cannotcompare with Lily Merrill as far as that goes, and she is teaching alittle district school, and from what I have seen of her, her mannersare subject to criticism. She is not half as lady-like as other girlsin Amity. When I think of the way she flew in here and attacked usfor not clothing those disreputable people across the river, justbecause they have the same name, I can't help being indignant. Inever heard of a young girl's doing such a thing. And I think that ifshe ran off when the bell rang, because she thought it was you, itwas certainly very rude. I think she virtually ascribed more meaningto your call than there was. "

"Lily said she had a headache, " said George, but his own face assumedan annoyed expression. That version of Maria's flight had notoccurred to him, and he was a very proud fellow. When he wentup-stairs to his own room he continued wondering whether it waspossible that Maria, remembering their childish love-affair, couldhave really dreamed that he had called that evening with seriousintentions, and he grew more and more indignant at the idea. Then thememory of that soft, hardly returned kiss which he had given Lilycame to him, and now he did not feel vexed with himself because ofit. He was quite certain that Lily was too gentle and timid to thinkfor a minute that he meant anything more than their old childishfriendship. The memory of the kiss became very pleasant to him, andhe seemed to feel Lily's lips upon his own like a living flower whichthrilled the heart. The next morning, when he took the trolley-car infront of his house, Maria was just passing on her way to school. Shewas wading rather wearily, yet still sturdily, through the snow. Ithad cleared during the night, and there were several inches ofdrifted snow in places, although some portions of the road were asbare as if swept by a broom of the winds. 

Maria, tramping through the snow, which was deep just there, merelyglanced at George Ramsey, and said good-morning. She had plenty oftime, if she had chosen to do so, to express her regrets at notseeing him the evening before, for the car had not yet reached him. But she said nothing except good-morning, and George responded rathercurtly, raising his hat, and stepping forward towards the car. Hefelt it to be unmistakable that Maria wished him to understand thatshe did not care for his particular acquaintance, and the sting whichhis mother had suggested the evening before, that she must considerthat his attentions were significant, or she would not take so muchtrouble to repulse them, came over him again. He boarded the car, which was late, and moving sluggishly through the snow. It came to afull stop in front of the Merrill house, and George saw Lily's headbehind a stand of ferns in one of the front windows. He raised hishat, and she bowed, and he could see her blush even at that distance. He thought again, comfortably, that Lily, remembering their childishcaresses, could attach no importance to what had happened the nightbefore, and yet a thrill of tenderness and pleasure shot through him, and he seemed to feel again the flower-like touch of her lips. It wasa solace for any man, after receiving such an unmistakable rebuff ashe had just received from Maria Edgham. He had no conception of thegirl plodding through the snow to her daily task. He did not dreamthat she saw, instead of the snowy road before, a long stretch ofdreary future, brought about by that very rebuff. But she was quitemerciless with herself. She would not yield for a moment to regrets. She accepted that stretch of dreary future with a defiantacquiescence. She bowed pleasantly to the acquaintances whom she met. They were not many that morning, for the road was hardly passable inplaces, being overcurved here and there with blue, diamond-crested, snowlike cascades, and now presenting ridges like graves. Half-way tothe school-house, Maria saw the village snow-plough, drawn by astruggling horse and guided by a red-faced man. She stood aside tolet it pass. The man did not look at her. He frowned ahead at histask. He was quite an old man, and bent, but with the red of youthbrought forth in his cheeks by the frosty air. 

"Everybody has to work in some way, " Maria thought, "and very few gethappiness for their labor. "

She reflected how soon that man would be lying stiff and stark underthe wintry snows and the summer heats, and how nothing which mighttrouble him now would matter. She reflected that, although sheherself was younger and had presumably longer to live, that the timewould inevitably come when even such unhappiness as weighed her downthis morning would not matter. She continued in the ineffectual trackwhich the snow-plough had made, with a certain pleasure in theexertion. All Maria's heights of life, her mountain-summits which shewould agonize to reach, were spiritual. Labor in itself could neverdaunt her. Always her spirit, the finer essence of her, would soarbutterfly-like above her toiling members. 

It was a beautiful morning; the trees were heavily bent with snow, which gave out lustres like jewels. The air had a very purity of lifein it. Maria inhaled the frosty, clear air, and regarded the trees asone might have done who was taking a stimulant. She kept her mindupon them, and would not think of George Ramsey. As she neared theschool-house, the first child who ran to meet her, stumbling throughthe snow, was little Jessy Ramsey. Maria forced herself to meetsmilingly the upward, loving look of those blue Ramsey eyes. She bentdown and kissed Jessy, and the little thing danced at her side in arapture. 

"They be awful warm, my close, teacher, " said she. 

"My clothes are very warm, teacher, " corrected Maria, gravely. 

"My clothes are very warm, teacher, " said Jessy, obediently. 

Maria caught the child up in her arms (she was a tiny, half-fedlittle thing), and kissed her again. Somehow she got a measure ofcomfort from it. After all, love was love, in whatever guise it came, and this was an innocent love which she could admit with no question. 

"That's a good little girl, dear, " she said, and set Jessy down. 

Chapter XXIV

Maria did not go home for the Christmas holidays. She was veryanxious to do so, but she received a letter from Ida Edgham whichmade her resolve to remain where she was. 

"We should be so very glad to have you come home for the holidays, dear, " wrote Ida, "but of course we know how long the journey is, andhow little you are earning, and we are all well. Your father seemsquite well, and so we shall send you some little remembrance, and tryto console ourselves as best we can for your absence. "

Maria read the letter to her aunt Maria. 

"You won't go one step?" said Aunt Maria, interrogatively. 

"No, " said Maria. She was quite white. Nobody knew how she had longedto see her father and little Evelyn, and she had planned to go, andtake Aunt Maria with her, defraying the expenses out of her scantyearnings. 

"I wouldn't go if you were to offer me a thousand dollars, " said AuntMaria. 

"I would not, either, " responded Maria. She opened the stove door andthrust the letter in, and watched it burn. 

"How your father ever came to marry that woman--" said Aunt Maria. 

"There's no use talking about that now, " said Maria, arousing todefence of her father. "She was very pretty!"

"Pretty enough, " said Aunt Maria, "and I miss my guess if she didn'tdo most of the courting. Well, as you say, there is no use talking itover now. What's done is done. "

Aunt Maria watched Maria's pitiful young face with covert glances. Maria was finishing a blouse which she had expected to wear on herjourney. She continued her work with resolution, but every line onher face took a downward curve. 

"You don't need to hurry so on that waist now, " said Aunt Maria. 

"I want the waist, anyway, " replied her niece. "I may as well get itdone. "

"You will have to send the Christmas presents, " said Aunt Maria. "Idon't very well see how you can pack some of them. "

"I guess I can manage, " said Maria. 

The next day her week of vacation began. She packed the gifts whichshe had bought for her father and Evelyn and Ida, and took them tothe express office. The day after that she received the remembrancesof which Ida spoke. They were very pretty. Aunt Maria thought themextravagant. Ida had sent her a tiny chatelaine watch, and her fathera ring set with a little diamond. Maria knew perfectly well how herfather's heart ached when he sent the ring. She never for one momentdoubted him. She wrote him a most loving letter, and even a deceptiveletter, because of her affection. She repeated what Ida had written, that it was a long journey, and expensive, and she did not think itbest for her to go home, although she had longed to do so. 

Ida sent Aunt Maria a set of Shakespeare. When it was unpacked, AuntMaria looked shrewdly at her niece. 

"How many sets of Shakespeare has she got?" she inquired. "Do youknow, Maria?"

Maria admitted that she thought she had two. 

"I miss my guess but she has another exactly just like this, " saidAunt Maria. "Well, I don't mean to be ungrateful, and I knowShakespeare is called a great writer, and they who like him can readhim. I would no more sit down and read all those books through, myself, than I would read Webster's Dictionary. "

Maria laughed. 

"You can take this set of books up in your room, if you want them, "said Aunt Maria. "For my part I consider it an insult for her to sendShakespeare to me. She must have known I had never had anything to dowith Shakespeare. She might just as well have sent me a crown. Now, your father he has more sense. He sent me this five-dollar gold-pieceso I could buy what I wanted with it. He knew that he didn't knowwhat I wanted. Your father's a good man, Maria, but he was weak whenhe married her; I've got to say it. "

"I don't think father was weak at all!" Maria retorted, with spirit. 

"Of course, I expect you to stand up for your father, that is right. I wouldn't have you do anything else, " Aunt Maria said approvingly. "But he was weak. "

"She could have married almost anybody, " said Maria, gathering up thedespised set of books. She was very glad of them to fill up the smallbamboo bookcase in her own room, and, beside, she did not share heraunt's animosity to Shakespeare. She purchased some handkerchiefs forher aunt, with the covert view of recompensing her for the loss ofIda's present, and Aunt Maria was delighted with them. 

"If she had had the sense to send me half a dozen handkerchiefs likethese, " said she, "I should have thanked her. Anybody in their senseswould rather have half a dozen nice handkerchiefs than a set ofShakespeare. That is, if they said just what they meant. I know somefolks would be ashamed of not thinking much of Shakespeare. As forme, I say what I mean. " Aunt Maria tossed her head as she spoke. 

She grew daily more like her brother Henry. The family traits in eachbecame more accentuated. Each posed paradoxically as not being aposer. Aunt Maria spoke her mind so freely and arrogantly that shewas not much of a favorite in Amity, although she commanded a certainmeasure of respect from her strenuous exertions at her own trumpet, which more than half-convinced people of the accuracy of her ownopinion of herself. Sometimes Maria herself was irritated by heraunt, but she loved her dearly. She was always aware, too, of AuntMaria's unspoken, but perfect approbation and admiration for herself, Maria, and of a certain sympathy for her, which the elder woman hadthe delicacy never to speak of. She had become aware that Maria, while she repulsed George Ramsey, was doing so for reasons which shecould not divine, and that she suffered because of it. 

One afternoon, not long after Christmas, when Maria returned fromschool, almost the first words which her aunt said to her were, "I dohate to see a young man made a fool of. "

Maria turned pale, and looked at her aunt. 

"George Ramsey went past here sleigh-riding with Lily Merrill alittle while ago, " said Aunt Maria. "That girl's making a fool ofhim!"

"Lily is a nice girl, Aunt Maria, " Maria said, faintly. 

"Nice enough, but she can't come up to him. She never can. And whenone can't come up, the other has to go down. I've seen it too manytimes not to know. There's sleigh-bells now. I guess it's them comingback. Yes, it is. "

Maria did not glance out of the window, and the sleigh, with itssinging bells, flew past. She went wearily up to her own room, andremoved her wraps before supper. Maria had a tiny coal-stove in herroom now, and that was a great comfort to her. She could get away byherself, when she chose, and sometimes the necessity for so doing wasstrong upon her. She wished to think, without Aunt Maria's sharp eyesupon her, searching her thoughts. Emotion in Maria was reaching itshigh-water mark; the need for concealing, lest it be profaned byother eyes, was over her. Maria felt, although she was conscious ofher aunt's covert sympathy for something that troubled her which shedid not know about, and grateful for it, that she should die of shameif Aunt Maria did know. After supper that night she returned to herown room. She said she had some essays to correct. 

"Well, I guess I'll step into the other side a minute, " said AuntMaria. "Eunice went to the sewing-meeting this afternoon, and I wantto know what they put in that barrel for that minister out West. Idon't believe they had enough to half fill it. Of all the things theysent the last time, there wasn't anything fit to be seen. "

Maria seated herself in her own room, beside her tiny stove. She hada pink shade on her lamp, which stood on her little centre-table. Theexercises were on the table, but she had not touched them when sheheard doors opening and shutting below, then a step on the stairs. She knew at once it was Lily. Her room door opened, after a softknock, and Lily glided gracefully in. 

"I knew you were up here, dear, " she said. "I saw your light, and Isaw your aunt's sitting-room lamp go out. "

"Aunt Maria has only gone in Uncle Henry's side. Sit down, Lily, "said Maria, rising and returning Lily's kiss, and placing a chair forher. 

"Does she always put her lamp out when she goes in there?" asked Lilywith innocent wonder. 

"Yes, " replied Maria, rather curtly. That was one of poor AuntMaria's petty economies, and she was sensitive with regard to it. Acertain starvation of character, which had resulted from the lack ofmaterial wealth, was evident in Aunt Maria, and her niece recognizedthe fact with exceeding pity, and a sense of wrong at the hands ofProvidence. 

"How very funny, " said Lily. 

Maria said nothing. Lily had seated herself in the chair placed forher, and as usual had at once relapsed into a pose which would havedone credit to an artist's model, a pose of which she was innocentlyconscious. She cast approving glances at the graceful folds ofcrimson cashmere which swept over her knees; she extended one littlefoot in its pointed shoe; she raised her arms with a gesture peculiarto her and placed them behind her head in such a fashion that sheseemed to embrace herself. Lily in crimson cashmere, which lent itswarm glow to her tender cheeks, and even seemed to impart a rosyreflection to the gloss of her hair, was ravishing. To-night, too, her face wore a new expression, one of triumphant tenderness, whichcaused her to look fairly luminous. 

"It has been a lovely day, hasn't it?" she said. 

"Very pleasant, " said Maria. 

"Did you know I went sleigh-riding this afternoon?"

"Did you?"

"Yes; George took me out. "

"That was nice, " said Maria. 

"We went to Wayland. The sleighing is lovely. "

"I thought it looked so, " said Maria. 

"It is. Say, Maria!"

"Well?"

"He said things to me this afternoon that sounded as if he did meanthem. He did, really. "

"Did he?"

"Do you want me to tell you?" asked Lily, eying Maria happily and yeta little timidly. 

Maria straightened herself. "If you want to know what I really think, Lily, " she said, "I think no girl should repeat anything a man saysto her, if she does think he really means it. I think it is betweenthe two. I think it should be held sacred. I think the girl cheapensit by repeating it, and I don't think it is fair to the man. I don'tcare to hear what Mr. Ramsey said, if you want the truth, Lily. "

Lily looked abashed. "I dare say you are right, Maria, " she said, meekly. "I won't repeat anything he said if you don't think I ought, and don't want to hear it. "

"Is your new dress done?" asked Maria, abruptly. 

"It is going to be finished this week, " said Lily. "Do you think I amhorrid, proposing to tell you what he said, Maria?"

"No, only I don't care to hear any more about it. "

"Well, I hope you don't think I am horrid. "

"I don't, dear, " said Maria, with an odd sensation of tenderness forthe other, weaker girl, whom she had handled in a measure roughlywith her own stronger character. She looked admiringly at her as shespoke. "Nobody can ever really think you horrid, " she said. 

"If they did, I should think I was horrid my own self, " said Lily, with the ready acquiescence in the opinion of another which signifiedthe deepest admiration, even to her own detriment, and was theredeeming note in her character. 

Maria laughed. "I declare, Lily, " said she, "I hope you will never beaccused of a crime, for I do believe even if you were innocent, youwould side with the lawyer for the prosecution. "

"I don't know but I should, " said Lily. 

Then she ventured to say something more about George Ramsey, encouraged by Maria's friendliness, but she met with such scantysympathy that she refrained. She arose soon, and said she thought shemust go home. 

"I am tired to-night, and I think I had better go to bed early, " shesaid. 

"Don't hurry, " Maria said, conventionally; but Lily kissed Maria andwent. 

Maria knew that her manner had driven Lily away, but she did not feelas if she could endure hearing her confidences, and Lily'sconfidences had all the impetus of a mountain stream. Had sheremained, they could not have been finally checked. Maria moved herwindow curtains slightly and watched Lily flitting across the yard. She saw her enter the door, and also saw, quite distinctly the shadowof a man upon the white curtain as he rose to greet her when sheentered. She wondered whether the man was Dr. Ellridge, or GeorgeRamsey. The shadow looked like that of the older man, she thought, and she was not mistaken. 

Lily, on entering the sitting-room, found Dr. Ellridge with hermother, and her mother's face was flushed, and she had a conscioussimper. Lily said good-evening, and sat down as usual with herfancy-work, after she had removed her wraps, but soon her mother saidto her that there was a good fire in her own room, and she thoughtthat she had better go to bed early, as she must be tired, and Dr. Ellridge echoed her with rather a foolish expression. 

"I don't think you ought to sit up late working on embroidery, Lily, "he said. "You are looking tired to-night. You must let me prescribefor you a glass of hot milk and bed. "

Lily looked at both of them with wondering gentleness, then she rose. 

"There is a good fire in the kitchen, " said her mother, "and Hannahwill heat the milk for you. You had better do as Dr. Ellridge said. You are going out to-morrow night, too, you know. "

Lily said good-night, and went out with a smouldering disquiet in herheart. When she asked Hannah out in the kitchen to heat the milk forher, because Dr. Ellridge said she must drink it and then go to bed, the girl, who had been long with the family and considered that shein reality was the main-spring of the house, eyed her curiously. 

"Said you had better go to bed?" said she. "Why, it isn't nineo'clock!"

"He said I looked tired, Hannah, " said Lily faintly. 

Hannah, who was a large, high-shouldered Nova Scotia girl, with alarge, flat face obscured with freckles, sniffed. Lily heard her sayquite distinctly as she went into the pantry for the milk, that shecalled it a shame when there were so many grown-up daughters to thinkof, for her part. 

Lily knew what she meant. She sat quite pale and still while the milkwas heating, and then drank it meekly, said good-night to Hannah andwent up-stairs. 

She could not go to sleep, although she went at once to bed, andextinguished her lamp. She lay there and heard a clock down in thehall strike the hours. The clock had struck twelve, and she had notheard Dr. Ellridge go. The whole situation filled her with a sort ofwonder of disgust. She could not imagine her mother and Dr. Ellridgesitting up until midnight as she might sit up with George Ramsey. Shefelt as if she were witnessing a ghastly inversion of things, as ifLove, instead of being in his proper panoply of wings and roses, wasinvested with a medicine-case, an obsolete frock-coat, and elderlyobesity. Dr. Ellridge was quite stout. She wondered how her mothercould, and then she wondered how Dr. Ellridge could. Lily loved hermother, but she had relegated her to what she considered her properplace in the scheme of things, and now she was overstepping it. Lilycalled to mind vividly the lines on her mother's face, her matronlyfigure. It seemed to her that her mother had had her time of lovewith her father, and this was as abnormal as two springs in one year. Shortly after twelve, Lily heard a soft murmur of voices in the hall, then the front door close. Then her mother came up-stairs and enteredher room. 

"Are you asleep, Lily?" she whispered, softly, and Lily recognizedwith shame the artificiality of the whisper. 

"No, mother, I am not asleep, " she replied, quite loudly. 

Her mother came and sat down on the bed beside her. She patted Lily'scheeks, and felt for her hand. Lily's impulse was to snatch it away, but she was too gentle. She let it remain passively in her mother'snervous clasp. 

"Lily, my dear child, I have something to tell you, " whispered Mrs. Merrill. 

Lily said nothing. 

"Lily, my precious child, " said her mother, in her strained whisper. "I don't know whether you have suspected anything or not, but I ammeditating a great change in my life. I have been very lonely sinceyour dear father died, and I never had a nature to live alone and behappy. You might as well expect the vine to live without its tree. Ihave made up my mind that I shall be much happier, and Dr. Ellridgewill. He needs the sympathy and love of a wife. His daughters do aswell as they can, but a daughter is not like a wife. "

"Oh, mother!" said Lily. Then she gave a little sob. Her mother bentover and kissed her, and Lily smelled Dr. Ellridge's cigar, and shethought also medicine. She shrank away from her mother, and sobbedconvulsively. 

"My dear child, " said Mrs. Merrill, "you need not feel so badly. There will be no change in your life until you yourself marry. Weshall live right along here. This house is larger and more convenientthan the doctor's. He will rent his house, and we shall live here. "

"And all those Ellridge girls, " sobbed Lily. 

"They are very nice girls, dear. Florence and Amelia will roomtogether; they can have the southeast room. Mabel, I suppose, willhave to go in the best chamber. Perhaps, by-and-by, Dr. Ellridge willfinish off another room for her. I don't quite like the idea ofhaving no spare room. But you will keep your own room, and you willbe all the happier for having three nice sisters. "

"I never liked them, " sobbed Lily. It really seemed to her that shewas called upon to marry the Ellridge girls, and that was the mainissue. 

"They are very nice girls, " repeated Mrs. Merrill, and there wasobstinacy in her artificially sweet tone. "Everybody says they arevery nice girls. You certainly would not wish your mother to give upher chance of a happy life, because you have an unwarrantableprejudice against the poor doctor's daughters. "

"You have been married once, " said Lily, feebly. It was as if shemade a faint remonstrance because of her mother, who had already hadher reasonable share of cake, taking a second slice. She had toosweet a disposition to say bitter things, but the bitterness of thethings she might have said was in her heart. 

"I suppose you think because I am older it is foolish, " said hermother, in an aggressive voice. "Wait till you yourself are older andyou may know how I feel. You may find out that you cannot give up allthe joys of life because you have been a few years longer in theworld. You may not feel so very different from what you do now. " Mrs. Merrill's voice rang true in this last. There was even a patheticappeal to her daughter for sympathy. But Lily continued to sobweakly, and did not say any more. 

"Well, good-night, my dear child, " Mrs. Merrill said finally. "Youwill feel very differently about all this later on. You will come tosee, as I do, that it is for the best. You will be much happier. "Mrs. Merrill kissed Lily again, and went out. She closed the doorwith a slight slam. 

Lily knew that her mother was angry with her. As for herself, sheconsidered that she had never been so unhappy in her whole life. Shethought of living with the Ellridge girls, who were really of acommon cast, and always with Dr. Ellridge at the head of the table, dictating to her as he had done to-night, in his smooth, slightlysatirical way, and her whole soul rose in revolt. She felt sure thatDr. Ellridge was not at all in love with her mother, as George Ramseymight be in love with herself. All the romance had been sucked out ofthem both years before. She called to mind again her mother's linedface, her too aggressive curves, her tightly frizzed hair, and sheknew that she was right. She remembered hearing that Dr. Ellridge'sdaughters were none of them domestic, that he had hard work to keep ahouse-keeper, that his practice was declining. She remembered howshabby and mean his little house had looked when she had passed it inthe sleigh with George Ramsey, that very day. She said to herselfthat Dr. Ellridge was only marrying her mother for the sake of theloaves and fishes, for a pretty, well-kept home for himself and hisdaughters. Lily had something of a business turn in spite of herfeminity. She calculated how much rent Dr. Ellridge could get for hisown house. That will dress the girls, she thought. She knew that hermother's income was considerable. Dr. Ellridge would be immeasurablybetter off as far as this world's goods went. There was no doubt ofthat. Lily felt such a measure of revolt and disgust that it wasfairly like a spiritual nausea. Her own maiden innocence seemedassaulted, and besides that there was a sense of pitiful grief andwonder that her mother, besides whom she had nobody in the world, could so betray her. She was like the proverbial child with its poorlittle nose out of joint. She lay and wept like one. The nextmorning, when she went down to breakfast, her pretty face was paleand woe-begone. Her mother gave one defiant glance at her, thenspooned out the cereal with vehemence. Hannah gave a quick, shrewdglance at her when she set the saucer containing the smoking messbefore her. 

"Her mother has told her, " she thought. She also thought that sheherself would give notice were it not for poor Miss Lily. 

Lily's extreme gentleness, even when she was distressed, wascalculated to inspire faithfulness in every one. Hannah gave morethan one pitying, indignant glance at the girl's pretty, sad face. Lily did not dream of sulking to the extent of not eating herbreakfast. She ate just as usual. She even made a remark about theweather to her mother, although in a little, weeping voice, as if theweather itself, although it was a brilliant morning, were a source ofmisery. Mrs. Merrill replied curtly. Lily took another spoonful ofher cereal. 

She remained in her own room the greater part of the day. In theafternoon her mother, without saying anything to her, took thetrolley for Westbridge. Lily thought with a shiver that she might begoing over there to purchase some article for her trousseau. Thethought of her mother with a trousseau caused her to laugh a little, hysterical laugh, as she sat alone in her chamber. That evening sheand her mother went to a concert in the town hall. Lily knew that Dr. Ellridge would accompany her mother home. She wondered what sheshould do, what she should be expected to do--take the doctor's otherarm, or walk behind. She had seen the doctor with two of hisdaughters seated, when she and her mother passed up the aisle. Sheknew that the two daughters would go home together, and the doctorwould go with her mother. She thought of George Ramsey. Now and thenas the concert proceeded she twisted her neck slightly and peeredaround, but she saw nothing of him. She concluded that he was notthere. But when the concert was over, and she and her mother werepassing out the door, and Dr. Ellridge was pressing close to hermother, under a fire of hostile glances from his daughters, Lily felta touch on her own arm. She turned, and saw George Ramsey's handsomeface with a quiver of unutterable bliss. She took his arm, andfollowed her mother and Dr. Ellridge. When they were out in thefrosty air, under a low sky sparkling with multitudinous starstraversed by its mysterious nebulous highway of the gods, this poorlittle morsel of a mortal, engrossed with her poor little troubles, answered a remark of George's concerning the weather in a tremblingvoice. Then she began to weep unreservedly. George with a quickglance around, drew her around a corner which they had just reachedinto a street which afforded a circuitous route home, and which wasquite deserted. 

"Why Lily, what in the world is the matter?" he said. There wasabsolutely nothing in his voice or his heart at the time exceptfriendliness and honest concern for his old playmate's distress. 

"Mother is going to be married to Dr. Ellridge, " whispered Lily, "andhe and his three horrid daughters are all coming to live at ourhouse. "

George whistled. 

Lily sobbed quite aloud. 

"Hush, poor little girl, " said George. He glanced around; there wasnot a soul to be seen. Lily's head seemed to droop as naturallytowards his shoulder as a flower towards the sun. A sudden impulse oftenderness, the tenderness of the strong for the weak, of man forwoman, came over the young fellow. Before he well knew what he wasdoing, his arm had passed around Lily's waist, and the pretty headquite touched his shoulder. George gave one last bitter thoughttowards Maria, then he spoke. 

"Well, " he said, "don't cry, Lily dear. If your mother is going tomarry Dr. Ellridge, suppose you get married too. Suppose you marryme, and come and live at my house. "

Chapter XXV

The next morning, before Maria had started for school, Lily Merrillcame running across the yard, and knocked at the side door. Shealways knocked unless she was quite sure that Maria was alone. Shewas afraid of her aunt. Aunt Maria opened the door, and Lily shrank alittle before her, in spite of the wonderful glowing radiance whichlit her lovely face that morning. 

"Good-morning, Miss Stillman, " said Lily, timidly. 

"Well?" said Aunt Maria. The word was equivalent to "What do youwant?"

"Has Maria gone?" asked Lily. 

"No, she is getting dressed. "

"Can I run up to her room and see her a minute? I have somethingparticular I want to tell her. "

"I don't know whether she'd want anybody to come up while she'sdressing or not, " said Aunt Maria. 

"I don't believe she'd mind me, " said Lily, pleadingly. "Would youmind calling up and asking her, please, Miss Stillman?"

"Well, " said Aunt Maria. 

She actually closed the door and left Lily standing in the bitterwind while she spoke to Maria. Lily heard her faintly calling. 

"Say, Maria, that Merrill girl is at the door, and wants to know ifshe can come a minute. She's got something she wants to tell you. "

Then Aunt Maria opened the door. "I suppose you can go up, " she said, ungraciously. The radiance in Lily's face filled her with hostility, she did not know why. 

"Oh, thank you!" cried Lily; and ran into the house and up the stairsto Maria's room. 

Maria was standing before the glass brushing her hair, which was verylong, and bright, and thick. Lily went straight to her and threw herarms around her and began to weep. Maria pushed her aside gently. 

"Why, what is the matter, Lily?" she asked. "Excuse me, but I mustfinish my hair; I have no more than time. What is the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, " sobbed Lily, "only--Oh Maria I am so happy!I have not slept a wink all night I was so happy. Oh, you don't knowhow happy I am!"

Maria's face turned deadly white. She swept the glowing lengths ofher hair over it with a deft movement. "Why, what makes you sohappy?" she asked, coolly. 

"Oh, Maria, he was in earnest, he was. I am engaged to George. "

Maria brushed her hair. "I am very glad, " she said, in an unfalteringvoice. She bent her head, bringing her hair entirely over her face, preparatory to making a great knot on the top of her head. "I hopeyou will be very happy. "

"Happy!" said Lily. "Oh, Maria, you don't know how happy I am!"

"I am very glad, " Maria repeated, brushing her hair smoothly from herneck. "He seems like a very fine young man. I think you have made awise choice, Lily. "

Lily flung herself into a chair and looked at Maria. "Oh, Mariadear, " she said, "I wish you were as happy as I. I hope you will besome time. "

Maria laughed, and there was not a trace of bitterness in her laugh. "Well, I shall not cry if I never am, " she said. "What a little gooseyou are, Lily, to cry!" She swept the hair back from her face, andher color had returned. She looked squarely at Lily's reflection inthe glass, and there was an odd, triumphant expression on her face. 

"I can't help it, " sobbed Lily. "I always have cried when I was veryhappy, and I never was so happy as this; and last night, beforehe--before George asked me--I was so miserable I wanted to die. Onlythink, Maria, mother is going to marry Dr. Ellridge, and he and histhree horrid girls are coming to live at our house. I don't know howI could have stood it if George hadn't asked me. Now I shall livewith him in his house, of course, with his mother. I have alwaysliked George's mother. I think she is sweet. "

"Yes, she is a very sweet woman, and I should think you could livevery happily with her, " said Maria, twisting her hair carefully. Maria had a beautiful neck showing above the lace of her underwaist. Lily looked at it. Her tears had ceased, and left not a trace on hersmooth cheeks. The lace which Maria's upward-turned hair displayedhad set her flexible mind into a new channel. 

"Say, Maria, " she said, "it is to be a very short engagement. It willhave to be, on account of mother. A double wedding would be tooridiculous, and I want to get away before all those Ellridges comeinto our house. Dr. Ellridge can't let his house before spring, andso I think in a month, if I can get ready. " Lily blushed until herface was like the heart of a rose. 

"Well, you have a number of very pretty dresses now, " said Maria. "Ishould think you could get ready. "

"I shall have to get a wedding-dress made, and a tea-gown, and onebesides for receiving calls, " said Lily. "Then I must have someunderwear. Will you go shopping with me in Westbridge some Saturday, Maria?"

"I should be very glad to do so, dear, " replied Maria. 

"That is a very pretty lace on your waist, " Lily said, meditatively. "I think I shall get ready-made things. It takes so much time to makethem one's self, and besides I think they are just as pretty. Don'tyou?"

"I think one can buy very pretty ready-made things, " Maria said. Sheslipped on her blouse and fastened her collar. 

"I shall be so much obliged to you if you will go, " said Lily. "Iwon't ask mother. To tell you the truth, Maria, I think it isdreadful that she is going to marry again--a widower with threegrown-up daughters, too. "

"I don't see why, " Maria said, dropping her black skirt over her head. 

"You don't see why?"

"No, not if it makes her happy. People have a right to all thehappiness they can get, at all ages. I used to think myself thatolder people were silly to want things like young people, but now Ihave changed my mind. Dr. Ellridge is a good man, and I dare say yourmother will be happier, especially if you are going away. "

"Oh, if she had not been going to get married herself, I shouldrather have lived at home, after I was married, " said Lily. Shelooked reflectively at Maria as she fastened her belt. "It's queer, "she said, "but I do believe my feeling so terribly about mother'smarrying made George ask me sooner. Of course, he must have meant toask me some time, or he would not have asked me at all. "

"Of course, " said Maria, getting her hat from the closet-shelf. 

"But he walked home with me from the concert last night, and Icouldn't help crying, I felt so dreadfully. Then he asked me what thematter was, and I told him, and then he asked me right away. I thinkmaybe he had thought of waiting a little, but that hastened him. Oh, Maria, I am so happy!"

Maria fastened on her hat carefully. "I am very glad, dear, " shesaid. She turned from the glass, and Lily's face, smiling at her, seemed to give out light like a star. It might not have been thehighest affection which the girl, who was one of clear and limpidshadows rather than depths, felt; it might have had its roots inselfish ends; but it fairly glorified her. Maria with a suddenimpulse bent over her and kissed her. "I am very glad, dear, " shesaid, "and now I must run, or I shall be late. My coat isdown-stairs. "

"Don't say anything before your aunt Maria, will you?" said Lily, rising and following her. 

"No, of course, if you don't want me to. "

"Of course it will be all over town before night, " said Lily, "butsomeway I would rather your aunt Maria did not hear it from me. Shedoesn't like me a bit. " Lily said the last in a whisper. 

Both girls went down-stairs, and Maria took her coat from the rack inthe hall. 

Aunt Maria opened the sitting-room door. She had a little satchelwith Maria's lunch. "Here is your luncheon, " said she, in a hardtone, "and you'd better hurry and not stop to talk, or you'll belate. "

"I am going right away, Aunt Maria, " said Maria. She took thesatchel, and kissed her aunt on her thin, sallow cheek. 

"Good-morning, Miss Stillman, " said Lily, sweetly, as she followedMaria. 

Aunt Maria said nothing at all; she gave Lily a grim nod, while herlips were tightly compressed. She turned the key in the door with anaudible snap. 

"Well, good-bye, dear, " said Lily to Maria. "I hope you will be ashappy as I am some day, and I know you will. "

Lily's face was entirely sweet and womanly as she turned it towardsMaria for a kiss, which Maria gave her. 

"Good-bye, dear, " she said, gently, and was off. 

Nobody knew how glad she was to be off. She had a stunned, shockedfeeling; she realized that her knees trembled, but she held up herhead straight and went on. She realized that worse than anything elsewould be the suspicion on the part of any one that Lily's engagementto George Ramsey troubled her. All the time, as she hurried along thefamiliar road, she realized that strange, shocked feeling, as of sometremendous detonation of spirit. She bowed mechanically to peoplewhom she met. She did not fairly know who they were. She kept on herway only through inertia. She felt that if she stopped to think, shewould scarcely know the road to the school-house. She wondered whenshe met a girl somewhat older than herself, just as she reached thebridge, if that girl, who was plain and poorly dressed, one of thosewho seem to make no aspirations to the sweets of life, if she hadever felt as she herself did. Such a curiosity possessed herconcerning it that she wished she could ask the girl, although shedid not know her. She dreaded lest Jessy Ramsey should run to meether, and her dread was realized. However, Maria was not as distressedby it as she thought. She stooped and kissed Jessy quite easily. 

"Good-morning, dear, " she said. 

A shock of any kind has the quality of mercy in that it benumbs as topain. Maria's only realization was that something monstrous hadhappened, something like mutilation, but there was no sting of agony. She entered the school-house and went about her duties as usual. Thechildren realized no difference in her, but all the time she realizedthe difference in herself. Something had gone from her, someessential part which she could never recover, not in itself, nomatter what her future life might be. She was shorn of her firstlove, and that which has been never can be again. 

When Maria reached the bridge on her way home, there was Lily waitingfor her, as she had half expected she would be. 

"Maria, dear, " said Lily, with a pretty gesture of pleading, "I hadto come and meet you, because I am so happy, and nobody else knows, except mother, and, somehow, her being pleased doesn't please me. Isuppose I am wicked, but it makes me angry. I know it is awful to saysuch a thing of my own mother, but I can't help feeling that shethinks now she can have my room for Mabel Ellridge, and won't have togive up the spare chamber. I have nobody to talk to but you, Maria. George won't come over before evening, and I am scared to go in andsee his mother. I am so afraid she won't like me. Do you think shewill like me, Maria dear?"

"I don't see why she should not, " replied Maria. Lily had hold of herarm and was nestling close to her. 

"Don't you, honest?"

"No, dear. I said so. "

"You don't mind my coming to meet you and talk it over, do you, Maria?"

"Of course I don't! Why should I?" asked Maria, almost angrily. 

"I thought you wouldn't. Maria, do you think a blue tea-gown or apink one would be prettier?"

"I think pink is your color, " said Maria. 

"Well, I rather like the idea of pink myself. Mother says I shallhave enough money to get some nice things. I suppose it is verysilly, but I always thought that one of the pleasantest things aboutgetting married, must be having some pretty, new clothes. Do youthink I am very silly, Maria?"

"I dare say most girls feel so, " said Maria, patiently. 

As she spoke she looked away from the other girl at the wintrylandscape. There was to the eastward of Amity a low range of hills, hardly mountains. These were snow-covered, and beneath the light ofthe setting sun gave out wonderful hues and lights of rose and blueand pearl. It was to Maria as if she herself, being immeasurablytaller than Lily and the other girls whom she typified, could seefarther and higher, even to her own agony of mind. It is a great dealfor a small nature to be pleased with the small things of life. Alarge nature may miss a good deal in not being pleased with them. Maria realized that she herself, in Lily's place, could have no graspof mind petty enough for pink and blue tea-gowns, that she hadoutgrown that stage of her existence. She still liked pretty things, but they had now become dwarfed by her emotions, whereas, in the caseof the other girl, the danger was that the emotions themselves shouldbecome dwarfed. Lily was typical, and there is after all a certainsecurity as to peace and comfort in being one of a kind, and notisolated. 

Lily talked about her bridal wardrobe all the way until they reachedthe Ramsey house; then she glanced up at the windows and bowed, dimpling and blushing. "That's his mother, " she said to Maria. "Iwonder if George has told her. "

"I should think he must have, " said Maria. 

"I am so glad you think she will like me. I wonder what room we shallhave, and whether there will be new furniture. I don't know how theup-stairs rooms are furnished, do you?"

"No, how should I? I was never up-stairs in the house in my life, "said Maria. Again she gazed away from Lily at the snow-covered hills. Her face wore an expression of forced patience. It really seemed toher as if she were stung by a swarm of platitudes like bees. 

Lily kissed her at her door. "I should ask if I couldn't come overthis evening, and sit up in your room and talk it over, " said she, "but I suppose he will be likely to come. He didn't say so, but Isuppose he will. "

"I should judge so, " said Maria. 

When she entered the sitting-room, her aunt, who was knitting with asort of fierce energy, looked up. "Oh, it's you!" said she. Her facehad an expression of hostility and tenderness at once. 

"Yes, Aunt Maria. "

Aunt Maria surveyed her scrutinizingly. "You don't mean to say youdidn't wear your knit jacket under your coat, such a bitter day asthis?" said she. 

"I have been warm enough. "

Aunt Maria sniffed. "I wonder when you will ever be old enough totake care of yourself?" said she. "You need to be watched everyminute like a baby. "

"I was warm enough, Aunt Maria, " Maria repeated, patiently. 

"Well, sit down here by the stove and get heated through while I seeto supper, " said Aunt Maria, crossly. "I've got a hot beef-stew withdumplings for supper, and I guess I'll make some chocolate instead oftea. That always seems to me to warm up anybody better. "

"Don't you want me to help?" said Maria. 

"No; everything is all done except to make the chocolate. I've hadthe stew on hours. A stew isn't good for a thing unless you have iton long enough to get the goodness out of the bone. "

Aunt Maria opened the door leading to the dining-room. In winter itserved the two as both kitchen and dining-room, having a compromisingsort of stove on which one could cook, and which still did not lookentirely plebeian and fitted only for the kitchen. Maria saw throughthe open door the neatly laid table, with its red cloth and AuntMaria's thin silver spoons and china. Aunt Maria had a weakness inone respect. She liked to use china, and did not keep that which haddescended to her from her mother stored away, to be taken out onlyfor company, as her sister-in-law thought she properly should do. Thechina was a fine Lowestoft pattern, and it was Aunt Maria's pridethat not a piece was missing. 

"As long as I take care of my china myself, and am not dependent onsome great, clumsy girl, I guess I can afford to use it, " she said. 

As Maria eyed the delicate little cups a savory odor of stew floatedthrough the room. She realized that she was not hungry, that the odorof food nauseated her with a sort of physical sympathy with thenausea of her soul, with life itself. Then she straightened herself, and shut her mouth hard. The look of her New England ancestresses whohad borne life and death without flinching was on her face. 

"I will be hungry, " Maria said to herself. "Why should I lose myappetite because a man who does not care for me is going to marryanother girl, and when I am married, too, and have no right even tothink of him for one minute even if he had been in earnest, if he hadthought of me? Why should I lose my appetite? Why should I go withoutmy supper? I will eat. More than that, I will enjoy eating, andneither George Ramsey nor Lily Merrill shall prevent it, neither theynor my own self. "

Maria sniffed the stew, and she compelled herself, by sheer force ofwill, to find the combined odor of boiling meat and vegetablesinviting. She became hungry. 

"That stew smells so good, " she called out to her aunt, and her voicerang with triumph. 

"I guess it _is_ a good stew, " her aunt called back in reply. "I'vehad it on four hours, and I've made dumplings. "

"Lovely!" cried Maria. She said to herself defiantly and proudly, that there were little zests of life which she might have if shecould not have the greatest joys, and those little zests she wouldnot be cheated out of by any adverse fate. She said practically toherself, that if she could not have love she could have a stew, andit might be worse. She smiled to herself over her whimsical conceit, and her face lost its bitter, strained look which it had worn allday. She reflected that even if she could not marry George Ramsey, and had turned the cold shoulder to him, he had been undeniablyfickle; that his fancy had been lightly turned aside by a pretty facewhich was not accompanied by great mental power. She had felt acontempt for George, and scorn for Lily, but now her face cleared, and her attitude of mind. She had gained a petty triumph overherself, and along with that came a clearer view of the situation. When Aunt Maria called her to supper, she jumped up, and ran into thedining-room, and seated herself at the table. 

"I am as hungry as a bear, " said she. 

Aunt Maria behind her delicate china teacups gave a sniff ofsatisfaction, and her set face softened. "Well, I'm glad you are, "said she. "I guess the stew is good. "

"Of course it is, " said Maria. She lifted the cover of the dish andbegan ladling out the stew with a small, thin, silver ladle which hadcome to Aunt Maria along with the china from her mother. She passed aplate over to her aunt, and filled her own, and began eating. "It isdelicious, " said she. The stew really pleased her palate, and she hadthe feeling of a conqueror who has gained one of the outposts in abattle. Aunt Maria passed her a thin china cup filled with frothingchocolate, and Maria praise that too. "Your chocolate is so muchnicer than our cook used to make, " said she, and Aunt Maria beamed. 

"I've got some lemon-cake, too, " said she. 

"I call this a supper fit for a queen, " said Maria. 

"I thought I would make the cake this afternoon. I thought maybe youwould like it, " said Aunt Maria, smiling. Her own pride was appeased. The feeling that Maria, her niece whom she adored, had been slighted, had rankled within her all day. Now she told herself that Maria didnot care; that she might have been foolish in not caring and takingadvantage of such a matrimonial chance, but that she did not care, and that she consequently was not slighted. 

"Well, I s'pose Lily told you the news this morning?" she said, presently. "I s'pose that was why she wanted to see you. I s'pose shewas so tickled she couldn't wait to tell of it. "

"You mean her engagement to Mr. Ramsey?" said Maria, helping herselfto more stew. 

"Yes. Eunice came in and told before you'd been gone half an hour. She'd been down to the store, and I guess Lily's mother had told itto somebody there. I s'pose Adeline Merrill is tickled to death toget Lily out of the way, now she's going to get married herself. Shewould have had to give up her spare chamber if she hadn't. "

"It seems to me a very nice arrangement, " said Maria, taking aspoonful of stew. "It would have been hard for poor Lily, and now shewill live with Mr. Ramsey and his mother, and Mrs. Ramsey seems to bea lovely woman. "

"Yes, she is, " assented Aunt Maria. "She was built on a differentplan from Adeline Merrill. She came of better stock. But I don't seewhat George Ramsey is thinking of, for my part. "

"Lily is very pretty and has a very good disposition, " said Maria. "Ithink she will make him a good wife. "

Aunt Maria sniffed. "Now, Maria Edgham, " said she, "what's the use. You know it's sour grapes he's getting. You know he wanted somebodyelse. "

"Whom?" asked Maria, innocently, sipping her chocolate. 

"You know he wanted you, Maria Edgham. "

"He got over it pretty quickly then, " said Maria. 

"Maybe he hasn't got over it. Lily Merrill is just one of the kind ofgirls who lead a man on when they don't know they're being led. He isproud, too; he comes of a family that have always held their headshigh. He wanted you. "

"Nonsense!"

"You can't tell me. I know. "

"Aunt Maria, " said Maria, with sudden earnestness, "if you ever tellsuch a thing as that out, I don't know what I shall do. "

"I ain't going to have folks think you're slighted, " said Aunt Maria. She had made up her mind, in fact, to tell Eunice after supper. 

"Slighted!" said Maria, angrily. "There is no question of slight. Doyou think I was in love with George Ramsey?"

"No, I don't, for if you had been you would have had him instead ofletting a little dolly-pinky, rosy-like Lily Merrill get him. I thinkhe was a good match, and I don't know what possessed you, but I don'tthink you wanted him. "

"If you talk about it you will make people think so, " said Maria, passionately; "and if they do I will go away from Amity and nevercome back as long as I live. "

Aunt Maria looked with sharp, gleaming eyes at her niece. "MariaEdgham, you've got something on your mind, " said she. 

"I have not. "

"Yes, you have, and I want to know what it is. "

"My mind is my own, " said Maria, indignantly, even cruelly. Then sherose from the table and ran up-stairs to her own room. 

"You have gone off without touching the lemon-cake, " her aunt calledafter her, but Maria made no response. 

Lemon-cake was an outpost which she could not then take. She hadreached her limit, for the time being. She sat down beside her windowin the dark room, lighted only by the gleam from the Merrill houseacross the yard and an electric light on the street corner. Therewere curious lights and shadows over the walls; strange flickeringsand wavings as of intangible creatures, unspoken thoughts. Mariarested her elbows on the window-sill, and rested her chin in herhands, and gazed out. Presently, with a quiver of despair, she sawthe door of the Merrill house open and Lily come flitting across theyard. She thought, with a shudder, that she was coming to make a fewmore confidences before George Ramsey arrived. She heard a timidlittle knock on the side door, then her aunt's harsh anduncompromising, "No, Maria ain't at home, " said she, lying with theutter unrestraint of one who believes in fire and brimstone, and yetlies. She even repeated it, and emphasized and particularized herlie, seemingly with a grim enjoyment of sin, now that she had takenhold of it. 

"Maria went out right after supper, " said she. Then, evidently inresponse to Lily's low inquiry of where she had gone and when shewould be home, she said: "She went to the post-office. She wasexpecting a letter from a gentleman in Edgham, I guess, and Ishouldn't wonder if she stopped in at the Monroes' and played cards. They've been teasing her to. I shouldn't be surprised if she wasn'thome till ten o'clock. "

Maria heard her aunt with wonder which savored of horror, but sheheard the door close and saw Lily flit back across the yard with afeeling of immeasurable relief. Then she heard her aunt's voice ather door, opened a narrow crack. 

"Are you warm enough in here?" asked Aunt Maria. 

"Yes, plenty warm enough. "

"You'd better not light a lamp, " said Aunt Maria, coolly; "I justtold that Merrill girl that you had gone out. "

"But I hadn't, " said Maria. 

"I knew it; but there are times when a lie ain't a lie, it's only thetruth upside-down. I knew that you didn't want that doll-faced thingover here again. She had better stay at home and wait for her newbeau. She was all prinked up fit to kill. I told her you had goneout, and I meant to, but you'd better not light your lamp for alittle while. It won't matter after a little while. I suppose thebeau will come, and she won't pay any attention to it. But if youlight it right away she'll think you've got back and come tearingover here again. "

"All right, " said Maria. "I'll sit here a little while, and then I'lllight my lamp. I've got some work to do. "

"I'm going into the other side, after I've finished the dishes, " saidAunt Maria. 

"You won't--"

"No, I won't. Let George Ramsey chew his sour grapes if he wants to. I sha'n't say anything about it. Anybody with any sense can't helpknowing a man of sense would have rather had you than Lily Merrill. Iain't afraid of anybody thinking you're slighted. " There wasindignant and acrid loyalty in Aunt Maria's tone. She closed thedoor, as was her wont, with a little slam and went down-stairs. AuntMaria walked very heavily. Her steps jarred the house. 

Maria continued sitting at her window. Presently a new light, a rosylight of a lamp under a pink shade, flashed in her eyes. The parlorin the Merrill house was lighted. Maria saw Lily draw down thecurtain, upon which directly appeared the shadows of growing plantsbehind it in a delicate grace of tracery. Presently Maria saw a horseand sleigh drive into the Merrill yard. She saw Mrs. Merrill open theside-door, and Dr. Ellridge enter. Then she watched longer, andpresently a dark shadow of a man passed down the street, of which shecould see a short stretch from her window, and she saw him go to thefront door of the Merrill house. Maria knew that was George Ramsey. She laughed a little, hysterical laugh as she sat there in the dark. It was ridiculous, the two pairs of lovers in the two rooms! Thesecond-hand, warmed-over, renovated love and the new. After Marialaughed she sobbed. Then she checked her sobs and sat quite still andfought, and presently a strange thing happened, which is not possibleto all, but is possible to some. With an effort of the will whichshocked her house of life, and her very soul, and left marks whichshe would bear to all eternity, she put this unlawful love for thelover of another out of her heart. She closed all her doors andwindows of thought and sense upon him, and the love was gone, and inits place was an awful emptiness which yet filled her with triumph. 

"I do not love him at all now, " she said, quite aloud; and it wastrue that she did not. She rose, pulled down her curtains, lightedher lamp, and went to work. 

Chapter XXVI

Maria, after that, went on her way as before. She saw, without theslightest qualm, incredible as it may seem, George Ramsey devoted toLily. She even entered without any shrinking into Lily's plans forher trousseau, and repeatedly went shopping with her. She beganembroidering a bureau-scarf and table-cover for Lily's room in theRamsey house. It had been settled that the young couple were to havethe large front chamber, and Mrs. Merrill's present to Lily was a setof furniture for it. Mrs. Ramsey's old-fashioned walnut set wasstowed away. Maria even went with Mrs. Merrill to purchase thefurniture. Mrs. Merrill had an idea, which could not be subdued, thatMaria would have liked George Ramsey for herself, and she took acovert delight in pressing Maria into this service, and descantingupon the pleasant life in store for her daughter. Maria understoodwith a sort of scorn Mrs. Merrill's thought; but she said to herselfthat if it gave her pleasure, let her think so. She had a characterwhich could leave people to their mean and malicious delights forvery contempt. 

"Well, I guess Lily's envied by a good many girls in Amity, " saidMrs. Merrill, almost undisguisedly, when she and Maria had settledupon a charming set of furniture. 

"I dare say, " replied Maria. "Mr. Ramsey seems a very good young man. "

"He's the salt of the earth, " said Mrs. Merrill. She gave a glance ofthwarted malice at Maria's pretty face as they were seated side byside in the trolley-car on their way home that day. Her farthestimagination could discern no traces of chagrin, and Maria lookedunusually well that day in a new suit. However, she consoled herselfby thinking that Maria was undoubtedly like her aunt, who would diebefore she let on that she was hit, and that the girl, under her calmand smiling face, was stung with envy and slighted affection. 

Lily asked Maria to be her maid of honor. She planned to be marriedin church, but George Ramsey unexpectedly vetoed the church wedding. He wished a simple wedding at Lily's house. He even demurred at thebridal-gown and veil, but Lily had her way about that. Mariaconsented with no hesitation to be her maid of honor, although sherefused to allow Mrs. Merrill to purchase her dress. She purchasedsome white cloth, and had it cut and fitted, and she herself made it, embroidering it with white silk, sitting up far into the night afterschool. But, after all, she was destined not to wear the dress toLily's wedding and not to be her maid of honor. 

The wedding was to be the first week of Maria's spring vacation, andshe unexpectedly received word from home that her father was notwell, and that she had better go home as soon as her school wasfinished. Her father himself wrote. He wrote guardedly, evidentlywithout Ida's knowledge. He said that, unless her heart wasparticularly set upon attending the wedding, he wished she would comehome; that her vacation was short, at the best, that he had not seenher for a long time, and that he did not feel quite himself somedays. Maria read between the lines, and so did her aunt Maria, towhom she read the letter. 

"Your father's sicker than he lets on, " Aunt Maria said, bluntly. "You'd better go. You don't care anything particular about going tothat Merrill girl's wedding. She can get Fanny Ellwell for her maidof honor. That dress Fanny wore at Eva Granger's wedding will do forher to wear. Your dress will come in handy next summer. You hadbetter go home. "

Maria sat soberly looking at the letter. "I am afraid father is worsethan he says, " she said. 

"I know he is. Harry Edgham wasn't ever very strong, and I'll warranthis wife has made him go out when he didn't feel equal to it, and shehas had stacks of company, and he must have had to strain every nerveto meet expenses, poor man! You'd better go, Maria. "

"Of course, I am going, " replied Maria. 

That evening she went over and told Lily that she could not be hermaid of honor, that her father was sick, and she would be obliged togo home as soon as school closed. George Ramsey was calling, andLily's face had a lovely pink radiance. One could almost seem to seethe kisses of love upon it. George acted a little perturbed at sightof Maria. He remained silent during Lily's torrent of regrets andremonstrances, but he followed Maria to the door and said to her howsorry he was that her father was ill. 

"I hope it is nothing serious, " he said. 

"Thank you, " said Maria. "I hope not, but I don't think my father isvery strong, and I feel that I ought to go. "

"Of course, " said George. "We shall be sorry to miss you, but, ifyour father is ill, you ought to go. "

"Do you think one day would make any difference?" said Lily, pleadingly, putting up her lovely face at Maria. 

"It would mean three days, you know, dear, " Maria said. 

"Of course it would, " said George; "and Miss Edgham is entirelyright, Lily. "

"I don't want Fanny Ellwell one bit for maid of honor, " Lily said, poutingly. 

Maria did not pay any attention. She was thinking anxiously of herfather. She realized that he must be very ill or he would not havewritten her as he had done. It was not like Harry Edgham to depriveany one of any prospective pleasure, and he had no reason to thinkthat being maid of honor at this wedding was anything but a pleasureto Maria. She felt that the illness must be something serious. Herschool was to close in three days, and she was almost too impatientto wait. 

"Ida Edgham ought to be ashamed of herself for not writing andletting you know that your father was sick before, " said Aunt Maria. "She and Lily Merrill are about of a piece. "

"Maybe father didn't want her to, " said Maria. "Father knew my schooldidn't close until next Thursday. If I thought he was very ill Iwould try to get a substitute and start off before. "

"But I know your father wouldn't have written for you to come unlesshe wasn't well and wanted to see you, " said Aunt Maria. "I shouldn'tbe a mite surprised, too, if he suspected that Ida would write younot to come, and thought he'd get ahead of her. "

Aunt Maria was right. In the next mail came a letter from Ida, sayingthat she supposed Maria would not think she could come home for sucha short vacation, especially a she had to stay a little longer inAmity for the wedding, and how sorry they all were, and how theyshould look forward to the long summer vacation. 

"She doesn't say a word about father's being ill, " said Maria. 

"Of course she doesn't! She knew perfectly well that if she did youwould go home whether or no; or maybe she hasn't got eyes foranything aside from herself to see that he is sick. "

Maria grew so uneasy about her father that she engaged a substituteand went home two days before her vacation actually commenced. Shesent a telegram, saying that she was coming, and on what train sheshould arrive. Evelyn met her at the station in Edgham. She hadgrown, and was nearly as tall as Maria, although only a child. Shewas fairly dancing with pleasurable expectation on the platform, withthe uncertain grace of a butterfly over a rose, when Maria caughtsight of her. Evelyn was a remarkably beautiful little girl. She hadher mother's color and dimples, with none of her hardness. Herforehead, for some odd reason, was high and serious, like Maria'sown, and Maria's own mother's. Her dark hair was tied with a crispwhite bow, and she was charmingly dressed in red from head to foot--ared frock, red coat, and red hat. Ida could at least plead, inextenuation of her faults of life, that she had done her very best toclothe those around her with beauty and grace. When Maria got off thecar, Evelyn made one leap towards her, and her slender, red-clad armswent around her neck. She hugged and kissed her with a passionatefervor odd to see in a child. Her charming face was all convulsedwith emotion. 

"Oh, sister!" she said. "Oh, sister!"

Maria kissed her fondly. "Sister's darling, " she said. Then she puther gently away. "Sister has to get out her trunk-check and see togetting a carriage, " she said. 

"Mamma has gone to New York, " said Evelyn, "and papa has not got homeyet. He comes on the next train. He told me to come and meet you. "

Maria, after she had seen to her baggage and was seated in the liverycarriage with Evelyn, asked how her father was. "Is father ill, dear?" she said. 

Evelyn looked at her with surprise. "Why, no, sister, I don't thinkso, " she replied. "Mamma hasn't said anything about it, and I haven'theard papa say anything, either. "

"Does he go to New York every day?"

"Yes, of course, " said Evelyn. The little girl had kept looking ather sister with loving, adoring eyes. Now she suddenly cuddled upclose to her and thrust her arm through Maria's. "Oh, sister!" shesaid, half sobbingly again. 

"There, don't cry, sister's own precious, " Maria said, kissing thelittle, glowing face on her shoulder. She realized all at once howhard the separation had been from her sister. "Are you glad to haveme home?" she asked. 

For answer Evelyn only clung the closer. There was a strange passionin the look of her big eyes as she glanced up at her sister. Mariawas too young herself to realize it, but the child had a dangeroustemperament. She had inherited none of her mother's hardphlegmaticism. She was glowing and tingling with emotion and life andfeeling in every nerve and vein. As she clung to her sister shetrembled all over her lithe little body with the violence of heraffection for her and her delight at meeting her again. Evelyn hadmade a sort of heroine of her older sister. Her imagination hadglorified her, and now the sight of her did not disappoint her in theleast. Evelyn thought Maria, in her brown travelling-gown and big, brown-feathered hat, perfectly beautiful. She was proud of her with apride which reached ecstasy; she loved her with a love which reachedecstasy. 

"So father goes to New York every day?" said Maria again. 

"Yes, " said Evelyn. Then she repeated her ecstatic "Oh, sister!"

To Maria herself the affection of the little girl was inexpressiblygrateful. She said to herself that she had something, after all. Shethought of Lily Merrill, and reflected how much more she loved Evelynthan she had loved George Ramsey, how much more precious a little, innocent, beautiful girl was than a man. She felt somewhat reassuredabout her father's health. It did not seem to her that he could bevery ill if he went to New York every day. 

"Mamma has gone to the matinee, " said Evelyn, nestling luxuriously, like a kitten, against Maria. "She said she would bring me somecandy. Mamma wore her new blue velvet gown, and she looked lovely, but"--Evelyn hesitated a second, then she whispered with her lipsclose to Maria's ear--"I love you best. "

"Evelyn, darling, you must not say such things, " said Maria, severely. "Of course, you love your own mother best. "

"No, I don't, " persisted Evelyn. "Maybe it's wicked, but I don't. Ilove papa as well as I do you, but I don't love mamma so well. Mammagets me pretty things to wear, and she smiles at me, but I don't loveher so much. I can't help it. "

"That is a naughty little girl, " said Maria. 

"I can't help it, " said Evelyn. "Mamma can't love anybody as hard asI can. I can love anybody so hard it makes me shake all over, and Ifeel ill, but mamma can't. I love you so, Maria, that I don't feelwell. "

"Nonsense!" said Maria, but she kissed Evelyn again. 

"I don't--honest, " said Evelyn. Then she added, after a second'spause, "If I tell you something, won't you tell mamma--honest?"

"I can't promise if I don't know what it is, " said Maria, with herschool-teacher manner. 

"It isn't any harm, but mamma wouldn't understand. She never felt so, and she wouldn't understand. You won't tell her, will you, sister?"

"No, I guess not, " said Maria. 

"Promise. "

"Well, I won't tell her. "

Evelyn looked up in her sister's face with her wonderful dark eyes, arose flush spread over her face. "Well, I am in love, " she whispered. 

Maria laughed, although she tried not to. "Well, with whom, dear?"she asked. 

"With a boy. Do you think it is wrong, sister?"

"No, I don't think it is very wrong, " replied Maria, trying torestrain her smile. 

"His first name is pretty, but his last isn't so very, " Evelyn said, regretfully. "His first name is Ernest. Don't you think that is apretty name?"

"Very pretty. "

"But his last name is only Jenks, " said Evelyn, with a mortified air. "That is horrid, isn't it?"

"Nobody can help his name, " said Maria, consolingly. 

"Of course he can't. Poor Ernest isn't to blame because his mothermarried a man named Jenks; but I wish she hadn't. If we ever getmarried, I don't want to be called Mrs. Jenks. Don't people everchange their names, sister?"

"Sometimes, I believe. "

"Well, I shall not marry him unless he changes his name. But he issuch a pretty boy. He looks across the school-room at me, and once, when I met him in the vestibule, and there was nobody else there, heasked me to kiss him, and I did. "

"I don't think you ought to kiss boys, " said Maria. 

"I would rather kiss him than another girl, " said Evelyn, looking upat her sister with the most limpid passion, that of a child who hasnot the faintest conception of what passion means. 

"Well, sister would rather you did not, " said Maria. 

"I won't if you don't want me to, " said Evelyn, meekly. "That wasquite a long time ago. It is not very likely I shall meet himanywhere where we could kiss each other, anyway. Of course, I don'treally love him as much as I do you and papa. I would rather he diedthan you or papa; but I am in love with him--you know what I mean, sister?"

"I wouldn't think any more about it, dear, " said Maria. 

"I like to think about him, " said Evelyn, simply. "I like to sitwhole hours and think about him, and make sort of stories about us, you know--how me meet somewhere, and he tells me how much he lovesme, and how we kiss each other again. It makes me happy. I go tosleep so. Do you think it is wrong, sister?"

Maria remembered her own childhood. "Perhaps it isn't wrong, exactly, dear, " she said, "but I wouldn't, if I were you. I think it is betternot. "

"Well, I will try not to, " said Evelyn, with a sigh. "He told AmyJones I was the prettiest girl in school. Of course we couldn't bemarried for a long time, and I wouldn't be Mrs. Jenks. But, nowyou've come home, maybe I sha'n't want to think so much about him. "

Maria found new maids when she reached home. Ida did not keep herdomestics very long. However, nobody could say that was her fault inthis age when man-servants and maid-servants buzz angrily, like bees, over household tasks and are constantly hungering for new fields. 

"We have had two cooks and two new second-girls since you went away, "Evelyn said, when they stood waiting for the front door to be opened, and the man with Maria's trunk stood behind them. "The lastsecond-girl we had stole"--Evelyn said the last in a horrifiedwhisper--"and the last cook couldn't cook. The cook we have now isnamed Agnes, and the second-girl is Irene. Agnes lets me go out inthe kitchen and make candy, and she always makes a little cake forme; but I don't like Irene. She says things under her breath when shethinks nobody will hear, and she makes up my bed so it is allwrinkly. I shouldn't be surprised if she stole, too. "

Then the door opened and a white-capped maid, with a rather prettyface, evidently of the same class as Gladys Mann, appeared. 

"This is my sister, Miss Maria, Irene, " said Evelyn. 

The maid nodded and said something inarticulate. 

Maria said "How do you do?" to her, and asked her to tell the manwhere to carry the trunk. 

When the trunk was in Maria's old room, and Maria had smoothed herhair and washed her face and hands, she and Evelyn sat down in theparlor and waited. The parlor looked to Maria, after poor AuntMaria's sparse old furnishings, more luxurious than she hadremembered it. In fact, it had been improved. There were somesplendid palms in the bay-window, and some new articles of furniture. The windows, also, had been enlarged, and were hung with new curtainsof filmy lace, with thin, red silk over them. The whole room seemedfull of rosy light. 

"I wish you would ask Irene to fix the hearth fire, " Evelyn had saidto Maria when they entered the room, which did seem somewhat chilly. 

Maria asked the girl to do so, and when she had gone and the fire wasblazing Evelyn said:

"I didn't like to ask her, sister. She doesn't realize that I am nota baby, and she does not like it. So I never ask her to do anythingexcept when mamma is here. Irene is afraid of mamma. "

Maria laughed and looked at the clock. "How long will it be beforefather comes, do you think, dear?" she asked. 

"Papa comes home lately at five o'clock. I guess he will be here verysoon now; but mamma won't be home before half-past seven. She hasgone with the Voorhees to the matinee. Do you know the Voorhees, sister?"

"No, dear. "

"I guess they came to Edgham after you went away. They bought thatbig house on the hill near the church. They are very rich. There areMr. Voorhees and Mrs. Voorhees and their little boy. He doesn't wearlong stockings in the coldest weather; his legs are quite bare from alittle above his shoes to his knees. I should think he would be cold, but mamma says it is very stylish. He is a pretty little boy, but Idon't like him; he looks too much like Mr. Voorhees, and I don't likehim. He always acts as if he were laughing at something inside, andyou don't know what it is. Mrs. Voorhees is very handsome, not quiteso handsome as mamma, but very handsome, and she wears beautifulclothes and jewels. They often ask mamma to go to the theatre withthem, and they are here quite a good deal. They have dinner-partiesand receptions, and mamma goes. We had a dinner-party here last week. "

"Doesn't father go to the theatre with them?" asked Maria. 

"No, he never goes. I don't know whether they ask him or not. If theydo, he doesn't go. I guess he would rather stay at home. Then I don'tbelieve papa would want to leave me alone until the late train, foroften the cook and Irene go out in the evening. "

Maria looked anxiously at her little sister, who was sitting as closeto her as she could get in the divan before the fire. "Does papa lookwell?" she asked. 

"Why, yes, I guess so. He looks just the way he always has. I haven'theard him say he wasn't well, nor mamma, and he hasn't had thedoctor, and I haven't seen him take any medicine. I guess he's well. "

Maria looked at the clock, a fine French affair, which had been oneof Ida's wedding gifts, standing swinging its pendulum on the shelfbetween a Tiffany vase and a bronze. "Father must be home soon now, if he comes on that five-clock train, " she said. 

"Yes, I guess he will. "

In fact, it was a very few minutes before a carriage stopped in frontof the house and Evelyn called out: "There he is! Papa has come!"

Maria did not dare look out of the window. She arose with tremblingknees and went out into the hall as the front door opened. She saw atthe first glance that her father had changed--that he did not lookwell. And yet it was difficult to say why he did not look well. Hehad not lost flesh, at least not perceptibly; he was not very pale, but on his face was the expression of one who is looking his last atthe things of this world. The expression was at once stern and sadand patient. When he saw Maria, however, the look disappeared for thetime. His face, which had not yet lost its boyish outlines, fairlyquivered between smiles and tears. He caught Maria in his arms. 

"Father's blessed child!" he whispered in her ear. 

"Oh, father, " half sobbed Maria, "why didn't you send for me before?Why didn't you tell me?"

"Hush, darling!" Harry said, with a glance at Evelyn, who stoodlooking on with a puzzled, troubled expression on her little face. Harry took off his overcoat, and they all went into the parlor. "Thatfire looks good, " said Harry, drawing close to it. 

"I got Maria to ask Irene to make it, " Evelyn said, in her childishvoice. 

"That was a good little girl, " said Harry. He sat down on the divan, with a daughter on each side of him. Maria nestled close to herfather. With an effort she kept her quivering face straight. Shedared not look in his face again. A knell seemed ringing in her earsfrom her own conviction, a voice of her inner consciousness, whichkept reiterating, "Father is going to die, father is going to die. "Maria knew little of illness, but she felt that she could not mistakethat expression. But her father talked quite gayly, asking her abouther school and Aunt Maria and Uncle Henry and his wife. Maria repliedmechanically. Finally she mustered courage to say:

"How are you feeling, father? Are you well?"

"I am about the same as when you went away, dear, " Harry replied, andthat expression of stern, almost ineffable patience deepened on hisface. He smiled directly, however, and asked Evelyn what train hermother had taken. 

"She won't be home until the seven-thirty train, " said Harry, "andthere is no use in our waiting dinner. You must be hungry, Maria. Evelyn, darling, speak to Irene. I hear her in the dining-room. "

Evelyn obeyed, and Harry gave his orders that dinner should be servedas soon as possible. The girl smiled at him with a coquettish air. 

"Irene is pleasanter to papa than to anybody else, " Evelyn observed, meditatively, when Irene had gone out. "I guess girls are apt to bepleasanter to gentlemen than to little girls. "

Harry laughed and kissed the child's high forehead. "Little girls arejust as well off if they don't study out other people's peculiaritiestoo much, " he said. 

"They are very interesting, " said Evelyn, with an odd look at him, yet an entirely innocent look. 

Maria was secretly glad that this first evening She was not there, that she could dine alone with her father and Evelyn. It was a dropof comfort, and yet the awful knell never ceased ringing in herears--"Father is going to die, father is going to die. " Maria made aneffort to eat, because her father watched her anxiously. 

"You are not as stout as you were when you went away, precious, " hesaid. 

"I am perfectly well, " said Maria. 

"Well, I must say you do look well, " said Harry, looking admiringlyat her. He admired his little Evelyn, but no other face in the worldupon which he was soon to close his eyes forever was quite sobeautiful to him as Maria's. "You look very much as your own motherused to do, " he said. 

"Was Maria's mamma prettier than my mamma?" asked Evelyn, calmly, without the least jealousy. She looked scrutinizingly at Maria, thenat her father. "I think Maria is a good deal prettier than mamma, andI suppose, of course, her mamma must have been better-looking thanmine, " said she, answering her own question, to Harry's relief. Butshe straightway followed one embarrassing question with another. "Didyou love Maria's mamma better than you do my mamma?" she asked. 

Maria came to her father's relief. "That is not a question for littlegirls to ask, dear, " said she. 

"I don't see why, " said Evelyn. "Little girls ought to know things. Isupposed that was why I was a little girl, in order to learn to knoweverything. I should have been born grown up if it hadn't been forthat. "

"But you must not ask such questions, precious, " said Maria. "Whenyou are grown up you will see why. "

Harry insisted upon Evelyn's going to bed directly after dinner, although she pleaded hard to be allowed to sit up until her motherreturned. Harry wished for at least a few moments alone with Maria. So Evelyn went off up-stairs, after teary kisses and good-nights, andMaria was left alone with her father in the parlor. 

"You are not well, father?" Maria said, immediately after Evelyn hadclosed the door. 

"No, dear, " replied Harry, simply. 

Maria retained her self-composure very much as her mother might havedone. A quick sense of the necessity of aiding her father, ofsupporting him spiritually, came over her. 

"What doctor have you seen, father?" she asked. 

"The doctor here and three specialists in New York. "

"And they all agreed?"

"Yes, dear. "

Maria looked interrogatively at her father. Her face was very whiteand shocked, but it did not quiver. Harry answered the look. 

"I may have to give up almost any day now, " he said, with an oddsigh, half of misery, half of relief. 

"Does Ida know?" asked Maria. 

"No, dear, she does not suspect. I thought there was no need ofdistressing her. I wanted to tell you while I was able, because--"Harry hesitated, then he continued: "Father wanted to tell you howsorry he was not to make any better provision for you, " he said, pitifully. "He didn't want you to think it was because he cared anythe less for you. But--soon after I married Ida--well, I realized howhelpless she would be, especially after Evelyn was born, and I had mylife insured for her benefit. A few years after I tried to get asecond policy for your benefit, but it was too late. Father hasn'tbeen well for quite a long time. "

"I hope you don't think I care about any money, " Maria cried, withsudden passion. "I can take care of myself. It is _you_ I think of. "Maria began to weep, then restrained herself, but she lookedaccusingly and distressedly at her father. 

"I had to settle the house on her, too, " said Harry, painfully. "ButI felt sure at the time--she said so--that you would always have yourhome here. "

"That is all right, father, " said Maria. 

"All father can do for his first little girl, the one he loves bestof all, " said Harry, "is to leave her a little sum he has saved andput in the savings-bank here in her name. It is not much, dear. "

"It is more than I want. I don't want anything. All I want is you!"cried Maria. She had an impulse to rush to her father, to cling abouthis neck and weep her very heart out, but she restrained herself. Shesaw how unutterably weary her father looked, and she realized thatany violent emotion, even of love, might be too much for hisstrength. She knew, too, that her father understood her, that shecared none the less because she restrained herself. Maria would neverknow, luckily for her, how painfully and secretly poor Harry hadsaved the little sum which he had placed in the bank to her credit;how he had gone without luncheons, without clothes, without medicineseven how he had possibly hastened the end by his anxiety for herwelfare. 

Suddenly carriage-wheels were heard, and Harry straightened himself. "That is Ida, " he said. Then he rose and opened the front door, letting a gust of frosty outside air enter the house, and presentlyIda came in. She was radiant, the most brilliant color on her hard, dimpled cheeks. The blank dark light of her eyes, and her set smile, were just as Maria remembered them. She was magnificent in her bluevelvet, with her sable furs and large, blue velvet hat, with a bluefeather floating over the black waves of her hair. Maria said toherself that she was certainly a beauty, that she was more beautifulthan ever. She greeted Maria with the most faultless manner; she gaveher her cool red cheek to be kissed, and made the suitable inquiriesas to her journey, her health, and the health of her relatives inAmity. When Harry said something about dinner, she replied that shehad dined with the Voorhees in the Pennsylvania station, since theyhad missed the train and had some time on their hands. She removedher wraps and seated herself before the fire. 

When at last Maria went to her own room, she was both pleased anddisturbed to find Evelyn in her bed. She had wished to be free togive way to her terrible grief. Evelyn, however, waked just enough toexplain that she wanted to sleep with her, and threw one slender armover her, and then sank again into the sound sleep of childhood. Maria lay sobbing quietly, and her sister did not awaken at all. Itmight have been midnight when the door of the room was softly openedand light flared across the ceiling. Maria turned, and Ida stood inthe doorway. She had on a red wrapper, and she held a streamingcandle. Her black hair floated around her beautiful face, which hadnot lost its color or its smile, although what she said mightreasonably have caused it to do so. 

"Your father does not seem quite well, " she said to Maria. "I havesent Irene and the cook for the doctor. If you don't mind, I wish youwould get up and slip on a wrapper and come into my room. " Ida spokesoftly for fear of waking Evelyn, whom she had directly seen inMaria's bed when she opened the door. 

Maria sprang up, got a wrapper, put it on over her night-gown, thrusther feet into slippers, and followed Ida across the hall. Harry layon the bed, seemingly unconscious. 

"I can't seem to rouse him, " said Ida. She spoke quite placidly. 

Maria went close to her father and put her ear to his mouth. "He isbreathing, " she whispered, tremulously. 

Ida smiled. "Oh yes, " she said. "I don't think it anything serious. It may be indigestion. "

Then Maria turned on her. "Indigestion!" she whispered. "Indigestion!He is dying. He has been dying a long time, and you haven't had senseenough to see it. You haven't loved him enough to see it. What madeyou marry my father if you didn't love him?"

Ida looked at Maria, and her face seemed to freeze into a smilingmask. 

"He is dying!" Maria repeated, in a frenzy, yet still in a whisper. 

"Dying? What do you know about it?" Ida asked, with icy emphasis. 

"I know. He has seen three specialists besides the doctor here. "

"And he told you instead of me?"

"He told me because he knew I loved him, " said Maria. She was aswhite as death herself, and she trembled from head to foot withstrange, stiff tremors. Her blue eyes fairly blazed at herstep-mother. 

Suddenly the sick man began to breathe stertorously. Even Ida startedat that. She glanced nervously towards the bed. Little Evelyn, in hernight-gown, her black fleece of hair fluffing around her face like animbus of shadow, came and stood in the doorway. 

"What is the matter with papa?" she whispered, piteously. 

"He is asleep, that is all, and breathing hard, " replied her mother. "Go back to bed. "

"Go back to bed, darling, " said Maria. 

"What is the matter?" asked Evelyn. She burst into a low, frightenedwail. 

"Go back to bed this instant, Evelyn, " said her mother, and the childfled, whimpering. 

Maria stood close to her father. Ida seated herself in a chair besidethe table on which the lamp stood. Neither of them spoke again. Thedying man continued to breathe his deep, rattling breath, the breathof one who is near the goal of life and pants at the finish of therace. The cook, a large Irishwoman, put her face inside the door. 

"The doctor is comin' right away, " said she. Then in the same breathshe muttered, looking at poor Harry, "Oh, me God!" and fled, doubtless to pray for the poor man's soul. 

Then the doctor's carriage-wheels were heard, and he came up-stairs, ushered by Irene, who stood in the doorway, listening and lookingwith a sort of alien expression, as if she herself were immortal, andsneered and wondered at it all. 

Ida greeted the doctor in her usual manner. "Good-evening, doctor, "she said, smiling. "I am sorry to have disturbed you at this hour, but Mr. Edgham has an acute attack of indigestion and I could notrouse him, and I thought it hardly wise to wait until morning. "

The doctor, who was an old man, unshaven and grim-faced, nodded andwent up to the bed. He did not open his medicine-case after he hadlooked at Harry. 

"I suppose you can give him something, doctor?" Ida said. 

"There is nothing that mortal man can do, madam, " said the doctor, surlily. He disliked Ida Edgham, and yet he felt apologetic towardsher that he could do nothing. He in reality felt testily apologetictowards all mankind that he could not avert death at last. 

Ida's brilliant color faded then; she ceased to smile. "I think Ishould have been told, " she said, with a sort of hard indignation. 

The doctor said nothing. He stood holding Harry's hand, his fingerson the pulse. 

"You surely do not mean me to understand that my husband is dying?"said Ida. 

"He cannot last more than a few hours, madam, " replied the doctor, with pitilessness, yet still with the humility of one who has failedin a task. 

"I think we had better have another doctor at once, " said Ida. "Irene, go down street to the telegraph operator and tell him to senda message for Dr. Lameth. "

"He has been consulted, and also Dr. Green and Dr. Anderson, not fourweeks ago, and we all agree, " said the doctor, with a certaindefiance. 

"Go, Irene, " said Ida. 

Irene went out of the room, but neither she nor the cook left thehouse. 

"The madam said to send a telegram, " Irene told the cook, "but thedoctor said it was no use, and I ain't goin' to stir out a step againto-night. I'm afraid. "

The cook, who was weeping beside the kitchen table, hardly seemed tohear. She wept profusely and muttered surreptitiously prayers on herrosary for poor Harry's soul, which passed as day dawned. 

Chapter XXVII

Maria had always attended church, and would have said, had she beenasked, that she believed in religion, that she believed in God; butshe had from the first, when she had thought of such matters at all, a curious sort of scorn, which was half shame, at the familiarphrases used concerning it. When she had heard of such and such a onethat "he was serious, " that he had "experienced conviction, " she hadbeen filled with disgust. The spiritual nature of it all was to hermind treated materially, like an attack of the measles or mumps. Shehad seen people unite with the church of which her mother had been amember, and heard them subscribe to and swear their belief inarticles of faith, which seemed to her monstrous. Religion had neverimpressed her with any beauty, or sense of love. Now, for the firsttime, after her father had died, she seemed all at once to sense thenearness of that which is beyond, and a love and longing for it, which is the most primitive and subtlest instinct of man, filled hervery soul. Her love for her father projected her consciousness of himbeyond this world. In the midst of her grief a strange peace was overher, and a realization of love which she had never had before. Maria, at this period, had she been a Catholic, might have become areligious devotee. She seemed to have visions of the God-man crownedwith thorns, the rays of unutterable and eternal love, and sacredagony for love's sake. She said to herself that she loved God, thather father had gone to him. Moreover, she took a certain delight inthinking that her own mother, with her keen tongue and her heart oftrue gold, had him safe with her. She regarded Ida with a sort ofcovert triumph during those days after the funeral, when the sweet, sickly fragrance of the funeral flowers still permeated the house. Maria did not weep much after the first. She was not one to whomtears came easily after her childhood. She carried about with herwhat seemed like an aching weight and sense of loss, along with thatstrange new conviction of love and being born for ultimate happinesswhich had come to her at the time of her father's death. 

The spring was very early that year. The apple-trees were in blossomat an unusual time. There was a tiny orchard back of the Edghamhouse. Maria used to steal away down there, sit down on the grass, speckled with pink-and-white petals, and look up through the rosyradiance of bloom at the infinite blue light of the sky. It seemed toher for the first time she laid hold on life in the midst of death. She wondered if she could always feel as she did then. She had apremonition that this state, which bordered on ecstasy, would notendure. 

"Maria does not act natural, poor child, " Ida said to Mrs. Voorhees. "She hardly sheds a tear. Sometimes I fear that her father's marryingagain did wean her a little from him. "

"She may have deep feelings, " suggested Mrs. Voorhees. Mrs. Voorheeswas an exuberant blonde, with broad shallows of sentimentalityoverflowing her mind. 

"Perhaps she has, " Ida assented, with a peculiar smile curling herlips. Ida looked handsomer than ever in her mourning attire. Theblack softened her beauty, instead of bringing it into bolder relief, as is sometimes the case. Ida mourned Harry in a curious fashion. Shemourned the more pitifully because of the absence of any mourning atall, in its truest sense. Ida had borne in upon her the propriety ofdeep grief, and she, maintaining that attitude, cramped her very soulbecause of its unnaturalness. She consoled herself greatly because ofwhat she esteemed her devotion to the man who was gone. She said toherself, with a preen of her funereal crest, that she had been such awife to poor Harry as few men ever had possessed. 

"Well, I have the consolation of thinking that I have done my duty, "she said to Mrs. Voorhees. 

"Of course you have, dear, and that is worth everything, " respondedher friend. 

"I did all I could to make his home attractive, " said Ida, "and henever had to wait for a meal. How pretty he thought those newhangings in the parlor were! Poor Harry had an aesthetic sense, and Idid my best to gratify it. It is a consolation. "

"Of course, " said Mrs. Voorhees. 

If Ida had known how Maria regarded those very red silk parlorhangings she would have been incredulous. Maria thought to herselfhow hard her poor father had worked, and how the other hangings, which had been new at the time of Ida's marriage, could not have beenworn out. She wanted to tear down the filmy red things and stuff theminto the kitchen stove. When she found out that her father had savedup nearly a thousand dollars for her, which was deposited to hercredit in the Edgham savings-bank, her heart nearly broke because ofthat. She imagined her father going without things to save thatlittle pittance for her, and she hated the money. She said to herselfthat she would never touch it. And yet she loved her father forsaving it for her with a very anguish of love. 

Ida was manifestly surprised when Henry's will was read and shelearned of Maria's poor little legacy, but she touched her cool redlips to Maria's cheek and told her how glad she was. "It will be alittle nest-egg for you, " she said, "and it will buy your trousseau. And, of course, you will always feel at perfect liberty to come herewhenever you wish to do so. Your room will be kept just as it is. "

Maria thanked her, but she detected an odd ring of insincerity inIda's voice. After she went to bed that night she speculated as towhat it meant. Evelyn was not with her. Ida had insisted that sheshould occupy her own room. 

"You will keep each other awake, " she said. 

Evelyn had grown noticeably thin and pale in a few days. The childhad adored her father. Often, at the table, she would look at hisvacant place, and push away her plate, and sob. Ida had become mildlysevere with her on account of it. 

"My dear child, " she said, "of course we all feel just as you do, butwe control ourselves. It is the duty of those who live to controlthemselves. "

"I want my papa!" sobbed Evelyn convulsively. 

"You had better go away from the table, dear, " said Ida calmly. "Iwill have a plate of dinner kept warm for you, and by-and-by when youfeel like it, you can go down to the kitchen and Agnes will give itto you. "

In fact, poor little Evelyn, who was only a child and needed herfood, did steal down to the kitchen about nine o'clock and got herplate of dinner. But she was more satisfied by Agnes bursting intotears and talking about her "blissed father that was gone, and howthere was niver a man like him, " and actually holding her in hergreat lap while she ate. It was a meal seasoned with tears, but alsosweetened with honest sympathy. Evelyn, when she slipped up the backstairs to her own room after her supper, longed to go into hersister's room and sleep with her, but she did not dare. Her littlebed was close to the wall, against which, on the other side, Maria'sbed stood, and once Evelyn distinctly heard a sob. She sobbed too, but softly, lest her mother hear. Evelyn felt that she and Maria andAgnes were the only ones who really mourned for her father, althoughshe viewed her mother in her mourning robes with a sort of awe, and afeeling that she must believe in a grief on her part far beyond hersand Maria's. Ida had obtained a very handsome mourning wardrobe forboth herself and Evelyn, and had superintended Maria's. Maria paidfor her clothes out of her small earnings, however. Ida had herdress-maker's bill made out separately, and gave it to her. Mariacalculated that she would have just about enough to pay her fare backto Amity without touching that sacred blood-money in thesavings-bank. It had been on that occasion that Ida had made theremark to her about her always considering that house as her home, and had done so with that odd expression which caused Maria tospeculate. Maria decided that night, as she lay awake in bed, thatIda had something on her mind which she was keeping a secret for thepresent. The surmise was quite justified, but Maria had not the leastsuspicion of what it was until three days before her vacation was toend, when Ida received a letter with the Amity post-mark, directed inAunt Maria's precise, cramped handwriting. She spoke about it toMaria, who had brought it herself from the office that evening afterEvelyn had gone to bed. 

"I had a letter from your aunt Maria this morning, " she said, with anassumed indifference. 

"Yes; I noticed the Amity post-mark and Aunt Maria's writing, " saidMaria. 

Ida looked at her step-daughter, and for the first time in her lifeshe hesitated. "I have something to say to you, Maria, " she said, finally, in a nervous voice, so different from her usual one thatMaria looked at her in surprise. She waited for her to speak further. 

"The Voorhees are going abroad, " she said, abruptly. 

"Are they?"

"Yes, they sail in three weeks--three weeks from next Saturday. "

Maria still waited, and still her step-mother hesitated. At last, however, she spoke out boldly and defiantly. 

"Mrs. Voorhees's sister, Miss Angelica Wyatt, is going with them, "said she. "Mrs. Voorhees is not going to take Paul; she will leavehim with her mother. She says travelling is altogether too hard onchildren. "

"Does she?"

"Yes; and so there are three in the party. Miss Wyatt has herstate-room to herself, and--they have asked me to go. The passagewill not cost me anything. All the expense I shall have will be myboard, and travelling fares abroad. "

Maria looked at her step-mother, who visibly shrank before her, thenlooked at her with defiant eyes. 

"Then you are going?" she said. 

"Yes. I have made up my mind that it is a chance which Providence hasput in my way, and I should be foolish, even wicked, to throw itaway, especially now. I am not well. Your dear father's death hasshattered my nerves. "

Maria looked, with a sarcasm which she could not repress, at herstep-mother's blooming face, and her rounded form. 

"I have consulted Mrs. Voorhees's physician, in New York, " said Idaquickly, for she understood the look. "I consulted him when I went tothe city with Mrs. Voorhees last Monday, and he says I am a nervouswreck, and he will not answer for the consequences unless I have acomplete change of scene. "

"What about Evelyn?" asked Maria, in a dry voice. 

"I wrote to your aunt Maria about her. The letter I got this morningwas in reply to mine. She writes very brusquely--she is evenill-mannered--but she says she is perfectly willing for Evelyn to gothere and board. I will pay four dollars a week--that is a largeprice for a child--and I knew you would love to have her. "

"Yes, I should; I don't turn my back upon my own flesh and blood, "Maria said, abruptly. "I guess I shall be glad to have her, poorlittle thing! with her father dead and her mother forsaking her. "

"I think you must be very much like your aunt Maria, " said Ida, in acool, disagreeable voice. "I would fight against it, if I were you, Maria. It is not interesting, such a way as hers. It is especiallynot interesting to gentlemen. Gentlemen never like girls who speak soquickly and emphatically. They like girls to be gentle. "

"I don't care what gentlemen think, " said Maria, "but I do care formy poor, forsaken little sister. " Maria's voice broke with rage anddistress. 

"You are exceedingly disagreeable, Maria, " said Ida, with the radiantair of one who realizes her own perfect agreeableness. 

Maria's lip curled. She said nothing. 

"Evelyn's wardrobe is in perfect order for the summer, " said Ida. "Ofcourse she can wear her white frocks in warm weather, and she has herblack silk frocks and coat. I have plenty of black sash ribbons forher to wear with her white frocks. You will see to it that she alwayswears a black sash with a white frock, I hope, Maria. I should notlike people in Amity to think I was lacking in respect to yourfather's memory. "

"Yes, I will be sure that Evelyn wears a black sash with a whitefrock, " replied Maria, in a bitter voice. 

She rose abruptly and left the room. Up in her own chamber she threwherself face downward upon her bed, and wept the tears of one who isoppressed and helpless at the sight of wrong and disloyalty to onebeloved. Maria hardly thought of Evelyn in her own personality atall. She thought of her as her dead father's child, whose mother wasgoing away and leaving her within less than three weeks after herfather's death. She lost sight of her own happiness in having thechild with her, in the bitter reflection over the disloyalty to herfather. 

"She never cared at all for father, " she muttered to herself--"neverat all; and now she does not really care because he is gone. She isperfectly delighted to be free, and have money enough to go toEurope, although she tries to hide it. "

Maria felt as if she had caught sight of a stone of shame in theplace where a wife's and mother's heart should have been. She feltsick with disgust, as if she had seen some monster. It never occurredto her that she was possibly unjust to Ida, who was, after all, asshe was made, a being on a very simple and primitive plan, with anacute perception of her own welfare and the means whereby to achieveit. Ida was in reality as innocently self-seeking as a butterfly or ahoney-bee. She had never really seen anybody in the world exceptherself. She had been born humanity blind, and it was possibly nomore her fault than if she had been born with a hump. 

The next day Ida went to New York with Mrs. Voorhees to complete somepreparations for her journey, and to meet Mrs. Voorhees's sister, whowas expected to arrive from the South, where she had been spendingthe winter. That evening the Voorheeses came over and discussed theirpurchases, and Miss Wyatt, the sister, came with them. She wastypically like Mrs. Voorhees, only younger, and with her figure inbetter restraint. She had so far successfully fought down anhereditary tendency to avoirdupois. She had brilliant yellow hair anda brilliant complexion, like her sister, and she was as well, evenbetter, dressed. Ida had purchased that day a steamer-rug, a closelittle hat, and a long coat for the voyage, and the women talked overthe purchases and their plans for travel with undisguised glee. Once, when Ida met Maria's sarcastic eyes, she colored a little andcomplained of a headache, which she had been suffering with all day. 

"Yes, there is no doubt that you are simply a nervous wreck, and youwould break down entirely without the sea-voyage and the change ofscene, " said Mrs. Voorhees, in her smooth, emotionless voice and witha covert glance at Maria. Ida had confided to her the attitude whichshe knew Maria took with reference to her going away. 

"All I regret--all that mars my perfect delight in the prospect ofthe trip--is parting with my darling little Paul, " Mrs. Voorheessaid, with a sigh. 

"That is the way I feel with regard to Evelyn, " said Ida. 

Maria, who was sewing, took another stitch. She did not seem to hear. 

The next day but one Maria and Evelyn started for Amity. Ida did notgo to the station with them. She was not up when they started. Thecurtains in her room were down, and she lay in bed, drawing down thecorners of her mouth with resolution when Maria and Evelyn entered tobid her good-bye. Maria said good-bye first, and bent her cheek toIda's lips; then it was Evelyn's turn. The little girl looked at hermother with fixed, solemn eyes, but there were no tears in them. 

"Mamma is so sorry she cannot even go to the station with her darlinglittle girl, " said Ida, "but she is completely exhausted, and has notslept all night. "

Evelyn continued to look at her, and there came into her face aninnocent, uncomplaining accusation. 

"Mamma cannot tell you how much she feels leaving her precious littledaughter, " whispered Ida, drawing the little figure, which resistedrigidly, towards her. "She would not do it if she were not afraid oflosing her health completely. " Evelyn remained in her attitude ofconstrained affection, bending over her mother. "Mamma will write youvery often, " continued Ida. "Think how nice it will be for you to getletters! And she will bring you some beautiful things when she comesback. " Then Ida's voice broke, and she found her handkerchief underher pillow and put it to her eyes. 

Evelyn, released from her mother's arm, regarded her with thatcuriosity and unconscious accusation which was more pitiful thangrief. The child was getting her first sense, not of loss, for onecannot lose that which one has never had, but of non-possession ofsomething which was her birthright. 

When at last they were on the train, Evelyn surprised her sister byweeping violently. Maria tried to hush her, but she could not. Evelynwept convulsively at intervals all the way to New York. When theywere in the cab, crossing the city, Maria put her arm around hersister and tried to comfort her. 

"What is it, precious?" she whispered. "Do you feel so badly aboutleaving your mother?"

"No, " sobbed the little girl. "I feel so badly because I don't feelbadly. "

Maria understood. She began talking to her of her future home inAmity, and the people whom she would see. All at once Maria reflectedhow Lily would be married to George Ramsey when she returned, thatshe should see George's wife going in and out the door that mighthave been the door of her own home, and she also had a keen pang ofregret for the lack of regret. She no longer loved George Ramsey. Itwas nothing to her that he was married to Lily; but, nevertheless, her emotional nature, the best part of her, had undergone amutilation. Love can be eradicated, but there remains a void and ascar, and sometimes through their whole lives such scars of somepeople burn. 

Chapter XXVIII

Evelyn was happier in Amity, with Maria and her aunt, than she hadever been. It took a little while for her to grow accustomed to thelack of luxury with which she had always been surrounded; then shedid not mind it in the least. Everybody petted her, and she acquireda sense of importance which was not offensive, because she had also asense of the importance of everybody else. She loved everybody. Loveseemed the key-note of her whole nature. It was babyish love as yet, but there were dangerous possibilities which nobody foresaw, exceptHenry Stillman. 

"I don't know what will become of that child when she grows up if shecan't have the man she falls in love with, " he told Eunice one night, after Maria and Evelyn, who had been in for a few moments, had gonehome. 

Eunice, who was not subtle, looked at him wonderingly, and herhusband replied to her unspoken question. 

"That child's going to take everything hard, " he said. 

"I don't see what makes you think so. "

"She is like a harp that's overstrung, " said Henry. 

"How queer you talk!"

"Well, she is; and if she is now, what is she going to be when she'solder? Well, I hope the Lord will deal gently with her. He's givenher too many feelings, and I hope He will see to it that they ain'ttried too hard. " Henry said this last with the half-bitter melancholywhich was growing upon him. 

"I guess she will get along all right, " said Eunice, comfortably. "She's a pretty little girl, and her mother has looked out for herclothes, if she did scoot off and leave her. I wonder how long she'sgoing to stay in foreign parts?"

Henry shook his head. "Do you want to know how long?" he said. 

"Yes. What do you mean, Henry?"

"She's going to stay just as long as she has a good time there. Ifshe has a good time there she'll stay if it's years. "

"You don't mean you think she would go off and leave that darlinglittle girl a whole year?"

"I said years, " replied Henry. 

"Land! I don't believe it. You're dreadful hard on women, Henry. "

"Wait and see, " said Henry. 

Time proved that Henry, with his bitter knowledge of the weakness ofhuman nature, was right. Ida remained abroad. After a year's stay shewrote Maria, from London, that an eminent physician there said thathe would not answer for her life if she returned to the scene whereinshe had suffered so much. She expressed a great deal of misery atleaving her precious Evelyn so long, but she did not feel that it wasright for her to throw her life away. In a postscript to this lettershe informed Maria, as if it were an afterthought, that she had letthe house in Edgham furnished. She said it injured a house to remainunoccupied so long, and she felt that she ought to keep the place upfor her poor father's sake, he had thought so much of it. She addedthat the people who rented it had no children except a grown-updaughter, so that everything would be well cared for. When Maria readthe letter to her aunt the elder woman sniffed. 

"H'm, " said she. "I ain't surprised, not a mite. "

"It keeps us here quartered on you, " said Maria. 

"So far as that goes, I am tickled to death she has rented thehouse, " replied Aunt Maria. "I had made up my mind that you wouldfeel as if you would want to go to Edgham for your summer vacation, anyway, and I thought I would go with you and keep house, though Ican't say that I hankered after it. The older I grow the more I feelas if I was best off in my own home, but I would have gone. So far asI am concerned I am glad she has let the house, but I must say Iain't surprised. You mark my words, Maria Edgham, and you see if whatI say won't come true. "

"What is it?"

"Ida Slome will stay over there, if she has a good time. She's gotmoney enough with poor Harry's life insurance, and now she will haveher house rent. It don't cost her much to keep Evelyn here, and she'sgot enough. I don't mean she's got enough to traipse round withduchesses and earls and that sort, but she's got enough. Those folksshe went with have settled down there, haven't they?"

"Yes, I believe so, " said Maria. "Mr. Voorhees was an Englishman, andI believe he is in some business in London. "

"Well, Ida Slome is going to stay there. I shouldn't be surprised ifEvelyn was grown up before she saw her mother again. "

"I can't quite believe that, " Maria said. 

"When you get to be as old as I am you will believe more, " said heraunt Maria. "You will see that folks' selfishness hides the wholeworld besides. Ida Slome is that kind. "

"I think she is selfish myself, " said Maria, "but I don't believe shecan leave Evelyn as long as that. "

"Wait and see, " said Aunt Maria, in much the same tone that herbrother had used towards his wife. 

Maria Stillman was right. Evelyn remained in Amity. She outgrewMaria's school, and attended the Normal School in Westbridge. Mariaherself outgrew her little Amity school, and obtained a position asteacher in one of the departments of the Normal School, and still Idahad not returned. She wrote often, and in nearly every letter spokeof the probability of her speedy return, and in the same breath ofher precarious health. She could not, however, avoid telling of hersocial triumphs in London. Ida was evidently having an aftermath ofyouth in her splendid maturity. She was evidently flattered andpetted, and was thoroughly enjoying herself. Aunt Maria said sheguessed she would marry again. 

"She's too old, " said Maria. 

"Wait till you're old yourself and you won't be so ready to judge, "said her aunt. "I ain't so sure she won't. "

Evelyn was a young lady, and was to graduate the next year, and stillher mother had not returned. She was the sweetest young creature inthe world at that time. She was such a beauty that people used toturn and stare after her. Evelyn never seemed to notice it, but shewas quite conscious, in a happy, childlike fashion, of her beauty. She resembled her mother to a certain extent, but she had nothing ofIda's hardness. Where her mother froze, she flamed. Two-thirds of theboys in the Normal School were madly in love with her, but Evelyn, inspite of her temperament, was slow in development as to her emotions. She was very childish, although she was full of enthusiasms andnervous energy. Maria had long learned that when Evelyn told her shewas in love, as she frequently did, it did not in the least mean thatshe was, in the ordinary acceptation of the term. Evelyn was veryimaginative. She loved her dreams, and she often raised, as it were, a radiance of rainbows about some boy of her acquaintance, but thebrightness vanished the instant the boy made advances. She had analmost fierce virginity of spirit in spite of her loving heart. Shedid not wish to touch her butterflies of life. She used to walkbetween her aunt and Maria when they were coming out of church, sothat no boy would ask leave to go home with her. She clung to thegirls in her class for protection when she went to any entertainment. Consequently her beautiful face, about which clustered her dark, finehair like mist, aroused no envy. The other girls said that EvelynEdgham was such a beauty and she did not know it. But Evelyn did knowit perfectly, only at that time it filled her with a sort of timidityand shame. It was as if she held some splendid, heavy sword ofvictory which she had not the courage to wield. She loved her sisterbetter than anybody else. She had no very intimate friend of her ownsex with whom she fell in love, after the fashion of most younggirls. That might have happened had it not been for her sister, whomEvelyn thought of always as excelling everybody else in beauty andgoodness and general brilliancy. Maria, when nearing thirty, was, infact, as handsome as she had ever been. Her self-control had keptlines from her face. She was naturally healthy, and she, as well asEvelyn, had by nature a disposition to make the most of herself and aliking for adornment. Aunt Maria often told Eunice that Maria wasfull as good-looking as Evelyn, if she was older, but that was notquite true. Maria had never had Evelyn's actual beauty, herperfection as of a perfect flower; still she was charming, and shehad admirers, whom she always checked, although her aunt became moreand more distressed that she did so. Always at the bottom of Maria'sheart lay her secret. It was not a guilty secret. It was savored moreof the absurd of tragedy than anything else. Sometimes Maria herselffairly laughed at the idea that she was married. All this time shewondered about Wollaston Lee. She thought, with a sick terror, of thepossibility of his falling in love, and wishing to marry, and tryingto secure a divorce, and the horrible publicity, and what peoplewould say and do. She knew that a divorce would be necessary, although the marriage was not in reality a marriage at all. She hadmade herself sufficiently acquainted with the law to be sure that adivorce would be absolutely necessary in order for either herself orWollaston Lee to marry again. For herself, she did not wish to marry, but she did wonder uneasily with regard to him. She was not in theleast jealous; all her old, childish fancy for him had been killed bythat strenuous marriage ceremony, but she dreaded the newspapers andthe notoriety which would inevitably follow any attempt on eitherside to obtain a divorce. She dreamed about it often, and woke interror, having still before her eyes the great, black letters on thefirst pages of city papers. She had never seen Wollaston Lee sinceshe had lived in Amity. She had never even heard anything about himexcept once, when somebody had mentioned his name and spoken ofseeing him at a reception, and that he was a professor in one of theminor colleges. She did not wish ever to repeat that experience. Herheart had seemed to stand still, and she had grown so white that alady beside her asked her hurriedly if she were faint. Maria hadthrown off the faintness by a sheer effort of will, and the color hadreturned to her face, and she had laughingly replied with a denial. Sometimes she thought uneasily of Gladys Mann. The clergyman who, inhis excess of youthful zeal, had performed the ceremony was dead. Shehad seen his obituary notice in a New York paper with a horriblerelief. He had died quite suddenly in one of the pneumonia winters. But Gladys Mann and her possession of the secret troubled her. GladysMann, as she remembered her, had been such a slight, almost abortivecharacter. She asked herself if she could keep such a secret, if shewould have sense enough to do so. Gladys had married, too, a man ofher own sort, who worked fitfully, and spent most of his money incarousing with John Dorsey and her father. Gladys had had a baby afew months after her marriage, and she had had two more since. Thelast time Maria had been in Amity was soon after Gladys's first babywas born. Maria had met her one day carrying the little thing swathedin an old shawl, with a pitiful attempt of finery in a white lacebonnet cocked sidewise on its little head, which waggled overGladys's thin shoulder. Gladys, when she saw Maria, had colored andnodded, and almost run past her without a word. 

It was just before the beginning of Evelyn's last year at school whenMaria received a letter from Gladys's mother. It was a curiouscomposition. Mrs. Mann had never possessed any receptivity foreducation. The very chirography gave evidence of a rude, almostuncivilized mind. Maria got it one night during the last of August. She had gone to the post-office for the last mail, and all the timethere had been over her a premonition of something unwonted of muchimport to her. The very dusty flowers and weeds by the way-sideseemed to cry out to her as she passed them. They seemed no longermere flowers and weeds, but hieroglyphics concerning her future, which she could almost interpret. 

"I wonder what is going to happen?" she thought. "Something is goingto happen. " She was glad that Evelyn was not with her, as usual, buthad gone for a drive with a young friend who had a pony-carriage. Shefelt that she could not have borne her sister's curious glances atthe letter which she was sure would be in the post-office box. It wasthere when she entered the dirty little place. She saw one letterslanted across the dusty glass of the box. It was not a lock box, andshe had to ask the postmaster for the letter. 

"Number twenty-four, please, " she said. 

The postmaster was both bungling and curious. He was a long timefinding the box, then in giving her the letter. Maria felt dizzy. When at last he handed it to her with an inquisitive glance, shealmost ran out of the office. When she was out-doors she glanced atthe post-mark and saw it was Edgham. When she came to a lonely placein the road, when she was walking between stone-walls overgrown withpoison-ivy, and meadowsweet, and hardhack, and golden-rod, she openedthe letter. Just as she opened it she heard the sweet call of a robinin the field on her left, and the low of a cow looking anxiously overher bars. 

The letter was written on soiled paper smelling strongly of tobacco, and it enclosed another smaller, sealed envelop. Maria read:

 "Deer Miss, --I now tak my pen in hand to let you no that Gladys sheis ded. She had a little boy bon, and he and she both died. Gladysshe had been coffin for some time befoar, and jest befor she was tooksick, she give me this letter, and sed for me to send it to you ifennything happened to her. 

 "Excuse hast and a bad pen. Mrs. Mann. "

Maria trembled so that she could hardly stand. She looked hastilyaround; there was no one in sight. She sank down on a large stonewhich had fallen from the stone wall on the left. Then she opened thelittle, sealed letter. It was very short. It contained only one word, one word of the vulgar slang to which poor Gladys had becomehabituated through her miserable life, and yet this one word of slanghad a meaning of faithfulness and honor which dignified it. Mariaread, "Nit. " and she knew that Gladys had died and had not told. 

Chapter XXIX

It is frequently a chain of sequences whose beginnings are lost inobscurity which lead to events. The principal of the Normal School inWestbridge, which Evelyn attended and in which Maria taught, had beena certain Professor Lane. If he had not gone to Boston one morningwhen the weather was unusually sultry for the season, and if an eastwind had not come up, causing him, being thinly clad, to take cold, which cold meant the beginning of a rapid consumption which hurriedhim off to Colorado, and a year later to death; if these east windshad not made it impossible for Wollaston Lee's mother, now widowed, to live with him in the college town where he had been stationed, agreat deal which happened might not have come to pass at all. It was"the wind which bloweth where it listeth, and no man knoweth whenceit cometh and whither it goeth, " which precipitated the small tragedyof a human life. 

The Saturday before the fall term commenced, Evelyn came home fromWestbridge, where she had been for some shopping, and she had a pieceof news. She did not wait to remove her hat, but stood before Mariaand her aunt, who were sewing in the sitting-room, with the rosesnestling against the soft flying tendrils of her black hair. It wasstill so warm that she wore her summer hat. 

"What do you think!" said she. "I have such a piece of news!"

"What is it, dear?" asked Maria. Aunt Maria looked up curiously. 

"Why, Professor Lane has had to give up. He starts for ColoradoMonday. He kept hoping he could stay here, but he went to aspecialist, who told him he could not live six months in thisclimate, so he is starting right off. And we are to have a newprincipal. "

"Who is he?" asked Maria. She felt herself trembling, for no reasonthat she could define. 

"Addie Hemingway says he is a handsome young man. He has been aprofessor in some college, but his mother lives with him, and theclimate didn't agree with her, and so he had resigned and was out ofa position, and they have sent right away for him, and he is coming. In fact, Addie says she thinks he has come, and that he and hismother are at Mrs. Land's boarding-house; but they are going to keephouse. Addie says she has heard he is a young man and very handsome. "

"What is his name?" asked Maria, faintly. 

Evelyn looked at her and laughed. "The funniest thing about it allis, " said she, "that he comes originally from Edgham, and you musthave known him, Maria. I don't remember him at all, but I guess youmust. His name is Lee, and his first name--I can't remember his firstname. Did you know a young man about your age in Edgham named Lee?"

"Wollaston?" asked Maria. She hardly knew her own voice. 

"Yes; that is it--Wollaston. It is an odd name. How queer it willseem to have a handsome young man for principal instead of poor oldProfessor Lane. I am sorry, for my part; I liked Professor Lane. Iwent to the book-store in Westbridge and bought a book for him toread on the journey, and left it at the door. I sent in myremembrances, and told the girl how sorry I was that Professor Lanewas not well. "

"That was a good girl, " said Maria. "I am glad you did. " She was aswhite as death, but she continued sewing steadily. 

Evelyn went to the looking-glass and removed her hat, and readjustedher flying hair around her glowing face. She did not notice hersister's pallor and expression of shock, almost of horror, but AuntMaria did. Finally she spoke. 

"What on earth ails you, Maria Edgham?" she said, harshly. When AuntMaria was anxious, she was always harsh, and seemed to regard theobject of her solicitude as a culprit. 

Evelyn turned abruptly and saw her sister's face, then she ran to herand threw her arms around her neck and pulled her head against hershoulder. "What is it? What is it?" she cried, in her sobbing, emotional voice, which any stress aroused. 

Maria raised her head and pushed Evelyn gently away. "Nothingwhatever is the matter, dear, " she said, firmly, and took up her workagain. 

"Folks don't turn as white as sheets if nothing is the matter, " saidAunt Maria, still in her harsh, accusing voice. "I want to know whatis the matter. Did your dinner hurt you? You ate that lemon-pie. "

"I feel perfectly well, Aunt Maria, " replied Maria, making one of hertremendous efforts of will, which actually sent the color back to herface. She smiled as she spoke. 

"You do look better, " said Aunt Maria doubtfully. 

"Yes, you do, " said Evelyn. 

"Maybe it was the light, " said Aunt Maria in a reassured tone. 

"There isn't much light to see to sew by, I know that, " Maria said inan off-hand tone. "I believe I will take a little run down to thepost-office for the night mail. Evelyn, you can help Aunt Maria getsupper, can't you, dear?"

"Of course I can, " said Evelyn. "But are you sure you are well enoughto go alone?"

"Nonsense!" said Maria, rising and folding her work. 

"Do you think anything is the matter with sister?" Evelyn asked AuntMaria after Maria had gone. 

"Don't ask me, " replied Aunt Maria curtly. 

"Aunt Maria!"

"Well?"

"Professor Lane isn't married. You don't suppose sister--"

"What a little goose you are, Evelyn Edgham!" cried Aunt Maria, almost fiercely turning upon her. "Do you suppose if Maria Edgham hadwanted any man she couldn't have got him?"

"I suppose she could, " said Evelyn meekly. "And I know Professor Laneis so much older, but he always seemed to like sister, and I didn'tknow but she felt badly because he was so ill. "

"Stuff!" said Aunt Maria. "Come, you had better set the table. I havegot to make some biscuits for supper. They won't be any more thandone by the time Maria gets back. "

"Did you think she looked so very pale?" asked Evelyn, following heraunt out of the room. 

"No, I didn't think she looked pale at all when I came to look ather, " said Aunt Maria, sharply. "She looked just as she always does. It was the light. "

Aunt Maria unhesitatingly lied. She knew that her niece had beenpale, and she believed that it was on account of Professor Lane. Shethought to herself what fools girls were. There Maria had thrown awaysuch a chance as George Ramsey, and was very likely breaking herheart in secret over this consumptive, old enough to be her father. 

Evelyn also believed, in her heart of hearts, that her sister was inlove with Professor Lane, but she took a more sentimental view of thematter. She was of the firm opinion that love has no age, and thenProfessor Lane had never seemed exactly old to her, and he was a veryhandsome man. She thought of poor Maria with the tenderest pity andsympathy. It almost seemed to her that she herself was in love withProfessor Lane, and that his going so far away to recover his healthwas a cruel blow to her. She thought of poor Maria walking to thepost-office and brooding over her trouble, and her tender heart achedso hard that it might have been Maria's own. 

But Maria, walking to the post-office, realized not so much an achein her heart as utter horror and terror. She asked herself how couldshe possibly continue teaching in that school if Wollaston Lee wereprincipal; how could she endure the daily contact with him whichwould be inevitable. She wondered if he could possibly have knownthat she was teaching in that school when he accepted the position. Such a deadly fear was over her that her class-room and the greatpile of school buildings seemed to her fancy as horrible as a cage ofwild beasts. She felt such a loathing of the man who was legally, although not really, her husband, that the loathing itself filled herwith shame and disgust at herself. She told herself that it washorrible, horrible, that she could not endure it, that it wasimpossible. She was in a fairly desperate mood. She had a suddenimpulse to run away and leave everybody and everything, even Evelynand her aunt, whom she loved so well. She felt pitiless towardseverybody except herself. She took out her pocket-book and countedthe money which it contained. There were fifteen dollars and someloose change. The railroad station was on a road parallel to the oneon which she was walking. An express train flashed by as she stoodthere. Suddenly Maria became possessed of one of those impulses whichcome to everybody, but to which comparatively few yield in lifetimes. The girl gathered up her skirts and broke into a run for the railroadstation. She knew that there was an accommodation train due soonafter the express. She reached the dusty platform, in fact, just asthe train came in. There were no other passengers from Amity except awoman whom she did not know, dragging a stout child by the arm. Thechild was enveloped in clothing to such an extent that it couldscarcely walk. It stumbled over its voluminous white coat. Nobodycould have told its sex. It cast a look of stupid discomfort atMaria, then its rasped little face opened for a wail. "Shet up!" saidthe mother, and she dragged more forcibly at the podgy little arm, and the child broke into a lop-sided run towards the cars. 

Maria had no time to get a ticket. She only had time for that oneglance at the helpless, miserable child, before she climbed up thesteep car-steps. She found an empty seat, and shrugged close to thewindow. She did not think very much of what she was doing. Shethought more of the absurdly uncomfortable child, over-swathed inclothing, and over-disciplined with mother-love, she could not havetold why. She wondered what it would be like to have an ugly, uninteresting, viciously expostulating little one dragging at herhand. The mother, although stout and mature-looking, was not mucholder than she. It seemed to her that the being fond of such a child, and being happy under such circumstances, would involve as much of avital change in herself as death itself. And yet she wondered if sucha change were possible with all women, herself included. She gazedabsently at the pale landscape past which the train was flying. Theconductor had to touch her arm before he could arouse her attention, when he asked for her ticket. Then she looked at him vacantly, and hehad to repeat his "Ticket, please. "

Maria opened her pocket-book and said, mechanically, the name of thefirst station which came into her head, "Ridgewood. " Ridgewood was asmall city about fifteen miles distant. She had sometimes been thereshopping. She gave the conductor a five-dollar bill, and he wentaway, murmuring something about the change. When he returned with therebate-slip and the change, he had to touch her shoulder again toarrest her attention. 

"Change, miss, " said the conductor, and "you can get ten cents backon this at the station. "

Maria took the change and the slip and put them in her pocket-book, and the conductor passed on with a quick, almost imperceptiblebackward glance at her. Maria sat very still. The child who had goton at Amity began to wail again, and its outcries filled the wholecar. To Maria it seemed like the natural outburst of an atmosphereovercharged with woe, and the impotent rage and regret of the wholerace, as a cloud is charged with electricity. She felt that sheherself would like to burst into a wild wail, and struggle andwrestle against fate with futile members, as the child fought againstits mother with its fat legs in shoes too large, and its bemittenedhands. However, she began to get a certain comfort from the rapidmotion. She continued to stare out of the window at the landscape, which fast disappeared under the gathering shadows. The car lampswere lit. Maria still looked, however, out of the window; the lightsin the house windows, and red and green signal-lights, gave her achildish interest. She forgot entirely about herself. She turned herback upon herself and her complex situation of life with infiniterelief. She did not wonder what she would do when she reachedRidgewood. She did not think any more of herself. It was as if shehad come into a room of life without any looking-glasses, and she wasno longer visible to her own consciousness. She did not look at theother passengers. All that was evident to her of the existence of anyin the car besides herself was the unceasing wail of the child, andits mother's half-soothing, half-scolding voice. She did not see thepassengers who boarded the train at the next station beyond Amity, and that Wollaston Lee was one of them. Indeed, she might not atonce have recognized him, although the man retained in a markeddegree the features of the boy. Wollaston had grown both tall andbroad-shouldered, and had a mustache. He was a handsome fellow, welldressed, and with an easy carriage, and he had an expression ofintelligent good-humor which made more than one woman in the car lookat him. Although Maria did not see him, he saw her at once, andrecognized her, and his handsome face paled. The ridiculouscomplexity of his position towards her had not tended to make himvery happy. He had kept the secret as well as Maria; for him, as forher, a secret was a heavy burden, almost amounting to guilt. Hecontinued to glance furtively at her from time to time. He thoughtthat she was very pretty, and also that there was something amisswith her. He, as well as the girl, had entirely gotten over hisboyish romance, but the impulse to honorable dealing and duty towardsher had not in the least weakened. 

When the train stopped at Ridgewood he rose. Maria did not stir. Wollaston stopped, and saw the conductor touch Maria, and heard himsay, "This is your station, lady. "

Maria rose mechanically and followed the conductor through the car. When she had descended the steps Wollaston, who had gotten off justin advance, stood aside and waited. He felt uneasy without justknowing why. It seemed to him that there was something strange aboutthe girl's bearing. He thought so the more when she stood motionlesson the platform and remained there a moment or more after the trainhad moved out; then she went towards a bench outside the station andsat down. Wollaston made up his mind that there was somethingstrange, and that he must speak to her. 

He approached her, and he could hear his heart beat. He stood infront of her, and raised his hat. Maria did not look up. Her eyesseemed fixed on a fringe of wood across the track in which somekatydids were calling, late as it was. That wood, with its persistentvoices of unseen things, served to turn her thought from herself, just as the cry of the child had done. 

"Miss Edgham, " said Wollaston, in a strained voice. It suddenlyoccurred to him that that was not the girl's name at all, that shewas in reality Mrs. Lee, not Miss Edgham. 

Maria did not seem to see him until he had repeated her name again. Then she gave a sudden start and looked up. An electric light on theplatform made his face quite plain. She knew him at once. She did notmake a sound, but rose with a sudden stealthy motion like that of awild, hunted thing who leaves its covert for farther flight. ButWollaston laid his hand on her shoulder and forced her gently back toher seat. There was no one besides themselves on the platform. Theywere quite alone. 

"Don't be afraid, " he said. But Maria, looking up at him, fairlychattered with terror. Her lips were open, she made inarticulatenoises like a frightened little monkey. Her eyes dilated. This seemedto her incredibly monstrous, that in fleeing she should have come tothat from which she fled. All at once the species of mental coma inwhich she had been cleared away, and she saw herself and the horriblesituation in which her flight had placed her. The man looked down ather with the utmost kindness, concern, and pity. 

"Don't be afraid, " he said again; but Maria continued to look at himwith that cowering, hunted look. 

"Where are you going?" asked Wollaston, and suddenly his voice becamemasterful. He realized that there was something strange, undoubtedly, about all this. 

"I don't know, " Maria said, dully. 

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't. "

Maria raised her head and looked down the track. "I am going on thetrain, " said she, with another wild impulse. 

"What train?"

"The next train. "

"The next train to where?"

"The next train to Springfield, " said Maria, mentioning the firstcity which came into her mind. 

"What are you going to Springfield for so late? Have you friendsthere?"

"No, " said Maria, in a hopeless voice. 

Wollaston sat down beside her. He took one of her little, cold hands, and held it in spite of a feeble struggle on her part to draw itaway. "Now, see here, Maria, " he said, "I know there is somethingwrong. What is it?"

His tone was compelling. Maria looked straight ahead at the gloomyfringe of woods, and answered, in a lifeless voice, "I heard you werecoming. "

"And that is the reason you were going away?"

"Yes. "

"See here, Maria, " said Wollaston, eagerly, "upon my honor I did notknow myself until this very afternoon that you were one of theteachers in the Westbridge Academy. If I had known I would haverefused the position, although my mother was very anxious for me toaccept it. I would refuse it now if it were not too late, but Ipromise you to resign very soon if you wish it. "

"I don't care, " said Maria, still in the same lifeless tone. "I amgoing away. "

"Going where?"

"To Springfield. I don't know. Anywhere. "

Wollaston leaned over her and spoke in a whisper. "Maria, do you wantme to take steps to have it annulled?" he asked. "It could be veryeasily done. There was, after all, no marriage. It is simply aquestion of legality. No moral question is involved. "

A burning blush spread over Maria's face. She snatched her hand awayfrom his. "Do you think I could bear it?" she whispered back, fiercely. 

"Bear what?" asked the young man, in a puzzled tone. 

"The publicity, the--newspapers. Nobody has known, not one of myrelatives. Do you think I could bear it?"

"I will keep the secret as long as you desire, " said Wollaston. "Ionly wish to act honorably and for your happiness. "

"There is only one reason which could induce me to give my consent tothe terrible publicity, " said Maria. 

"What is that?"

"If--you wished to marry anybody else. "

"I do not, " said Wollaston, with a half-bitter laugh. "You can haveyour mind easy on that score. I have not thought of such a thing aspossible for me. "

Maria cast a look of quick interest at him. Suddenly she saw hispossible view of the matter, that it might be hard for him to foregothe happiness which other young men had. 

"I would not shrink at all, " she said, gently, "if at any time yousaw anybody whom you wished to marry. You need not hesitate. I am notso selfish as that. I do not wish your life spoiled. "

Wollaston laughed pleasantly. "My life is not to be spoiled becauseof any such reason as that, " he said, "and I have not seen anybodywhom I wished to marry. You know I have mother to look out for, andshe makes a pleasant home for me. You need not worry about me, butsometimes I have worried a little about you, poor child. "

"You need not, so far as that is concerned, " cried Maria, almostangrily. A sense of shame and humiliation was over her. She did notlove Wollaston Lee. She felt the same old terror and disgust at him, but it mortified her to have him think that she might wish to marryanybody else. 

"Well, I am glad of that, " said Wollaston. "I suppose you like yourwork. "

"Yes. "

"After all, work is the main thing, " said Wollaston. 

"Yes, " assented Maria, eagerly. 

Wollaston returned suddenly to the original topic. "Were you actuallyrunning away because you heard I was coming?" he said. 

"Yes, I suppose I was, " Maria replied, in a hopeless, defiant sort offashion. 

"Do you actually know anybody in Springfield?"

"No. "

"Have you much money with you?"

"I had fifteen dollars and a few cents before I paid my fare here. "

"Good God!" cried Wollaston. Then he added, after a pause of dismay, almost of terror, during which he looked at the pale little figurebeside him, "Do you realize what might have happened to you?"

"I don't think I realized much of anything except to get away, "replied Maria. 

Wollaston took her hand again and held it firmly. "Now listen to me, Maria, " he said. "On Monday I shall have to begin teaching in theWestbridge Academy. I don't see how I can do anything else. But nowlisten. I give you my word of honor, I will not show by word or deedthat you are anything to me except a young lady who used to live inthe same village with me. I shall have to admit that. "

"I am not anything else to you, " Maria flashed out. 

"Of course not, " Wollaston responded, quietly. "But I give you myword of honor that I will make no claim upon you, that I will resignmy position when you say the word, that I will keep the wretched, absurd secret until you yourself tell me that you wish for--anannulment of the fictitious tie between us. "

Maria sat still. 

"You will not think of running away now, will you?" Wollaston said, and there was a caressing tone in his voice, as if he were addressinga child. 

Maria did not reply at once. 

"Tell me, Maria, " said Wollaston. "You will not think of doing such adesperate thing, which might ruin your whole life, when I havepromised you that there is no reason?"

"No, I will not, " Maria said. 

Wollaston rose and went nearer the electric light and looked at hiswatch. Then he came back. "Now, Maria, listen to me again, " he said. "I have some business in Ridgewood. I would not attend to it to-nightbut I have made an appointment with a man and I don't see my way outof breaking it. It is about a house which I want to rent. Motherdoesn't like the boarding-house at Westbridge, and in fact ourfurniture is on the road and I have no place to store it, and I amafraid there are other parties who want to rent this house, that Ishall lose it if I do not keep the appointment. But I have only alittle way to go, and it will not keep me long. I can be back easilyinside of half an hour. The next train to Amity stops here in aboutthirty-seven minutes. Now I want you to go into the waiting-room, andsit there until I come back. Can I trust you?"

"Yes, " said Maria, with a curious docility. She rose. 

"You had better buy your ticket back to Amity, and when I come intothe station, I think it is better that I should only bow to you, especially if others should happen to be there. Can I trust you tostay there and not get on board any train but the one which goes toAmity?"

"Yes, you can, " said Maria, with the same docility which was born ofutter weariness and the subjection to a stronger will. 

She went into the waiting-room and bought her ticket, then sat downon a settee in the dusty, desolate place and waited. There were twowomen there besides herself, and they conversed very audibly abouttheir family affairs. Maria listened absently to astonishingdisclosures. The man in the ticket-office was busy at the telegraph, whose important tick made an accompaniment to the chatter of thewomen, both middle-aged, and both stout, and both with grievanceswhich they aired with a certain delight. One had bought a damageddress-pattern in Ridgewood, and had gone that afternoon to obtainsatisfaction. "I set there in Yates & Upham's four mortal hours, "said she, in a triumphant tone, "and they kep' comin' and askin' methings, and sayin' would I do this and that, but I jest stuck to whatI said I would do in the first place, and finally they give in. "

"What did you want?" asked the other woman. 

"Well, I wanted my money back that I had paid for the dress, and Iwanted the dressmaker paid for cuttin' it--it was all cut an'fitted--and I wanted my fares back and forth paid, too. "

"You don't mean to say they did all that?" said the other woman, in atone of admiration. 

"Yes, sir, they did. Finally Mr. Upham himself came and talked withme, and he said he would allow me what I asked. I tell you I marchedout of that store, when I'd got my money back, feelin' pretty wellset up. "

"I should think you would have, " said the other woman, in an admiringtone. "You do beat the Dutch!"

Then the women fell to talking about the niece of one of them who hadbeen jilted by her lover. "He treated her as mean as pusley, " onewoman said. "There he'd been keepin' company with poor Aggie threemortal years, comin' regular every Wednesday and Sunday night, andsettin' up with her, and keepin' off other fellers. "

"I think he treated her awful mean, " assented the other woman. "Idon't know what I would have said if it had been my Mamie. "

Maria detected a covert tone of delight in this woman's voice. Sherealized instinctively that the woman had been jealous that hercompanion's niece had been preferred to her daughter, and wassecretly glad that she was jilted. "How does she take it?" she asked. 

"She just cries her eyes out, poor child, " her friend answered. "Shesets and cries all day, and I guess she don't sleep much. Her motheris thinkin' of sendin' her to visit her married sister Lizzie down inHartford, and see if that won't divert her mind a little. "

"I should think that would be a very good idea, " said the otherwoman. Maria, listening listlessly, whirled about herself in thecurrent of her own affairs, thought what a cat that woman was, andhow she did not in the least care if she was a cat. 

Wollaston Lee was not gone very long. He bowed and said good-eveningto Maria, then seated himself at a little distance. The two womenlooked at him with sharp curiosity. "It would be the best thing forpoor Aggie if she could get her mind set on another young man, " saidthe woman whose niece had been jilted. 

"That is so, " assented the other woman. 

"There's as good fish in the sea as has ever been caught, as I toldher, " said the first woman, with speculative eyes upon Wollaston Lee. 

It was not long before the train for Amity arrived. Wollaston, withan almost imperceptible gesture, looked at Maria, who immediatelyarose. Wollaston sat behind her on the train. Just before theyreached Amity he came forward and spoke to her in a low voice. "Ihave to go on to Westbridge, " he said. "Will there be a carriage atthe station?"

"There always is, " Maria replied. 

"Don't think of walking up at this hour. It is too late. What--"Wollaston hesitated a second, then he continued, in a whisper, "Whatare you going to tell your aunt?" he said. 

"Nothing, " replied Maria. 

"Can you?"

"I must. I don't see any other way, unless I tell lies. "

Wollaston lifted his hat, with an audible remark about the beauty ofthe evening, and passed through into the next car, which was asmoker. The two women of the station were seated a little in the rearacross the aisle from Maria. She heard one of them say to the other, "I wonder who that girl was he spoke to?" and the other's mutteredanswer that she didn't know. 

Contrary to her expectations, Maria did not find a carriage at theAmity station, and she walked home. It was late, and the villagehouses were dark. The electric lights still burned at wide intervals, lighting up golden boughs of maples until they looked like veritablebranches of precious metal. Maria hurried along. She had a half-mileto walk. She did not feel afraid; a sense of confusion and relief wasover her, with another dawning sense which she did not acknowledge toherself. An enormous load had been lifted from her mind; there was nodoubt about that. A feeling of gratitude and confidence in the youngman who had just left her warmed her through and through. When shereached her aunt's house she saw a light in the sitting-room windows, and immediately she turned into the path the door opened and her auntstood there. 

"Maria Edgham, where have you been?" asked Aunt Maria. 

"I have been to walk, " replied Maria. 

"Been to walk! Do you know what time it is? It is 'most midnight. I've been 'most crazy. I was just goin' in to get Henry up and havehim hunt for you. "

"I am glad you didn't, " said Maria, entering and removing her hat. She smiled at her aunt, who continued to gaze at her with thesharpest curiosity. 

"Where have you been to walk this time of night?" she demanded. 

Maria looked at her aunt, and said, quite gravely, "Aunt Maria, youtrust me, don't you?"

"Of course I do; but I want to know. I have a right to know. "

"Yes, you have, " said Maria, "but I shall never tell you as long as Ilive where I have been to-night. "

"What?"

"I shall never tell you were I have been, only you can rest assuredthat there is no harm--that there has been no harm. "

"You don't mean to ever tell?"

"No. " Maria took a lamp from the sitting-room table, lighted it, andwent up-stairs. 

"You are just like your mother--just as set, " Aunt Maria called afterher, in subdued tones. "Here I've been watchin' till I was 'mostcrazy. "

"I am real sorry, " Maria called back. "Good-night, Aunt Maria. Such athing will never happen again. "

Directly Maria was in her own room she pulled down her window-shades. She did not see a man, who had followed at a long distance all theway from the station, moving rapidly up the street. It was WollastonLee. He had seen, from the window of the smoker, that there was nocarriage waiting, had jumped off the train, entered the station, thenstolen out and followed Maria until he saw her safely in her home. Then the last trolley had gone, and he walked the rest of the way toWestbridge. 

Chapter XXX

The next morning, which was Sunday, Maria could not go to church. Anutter weariness and lassitude, to which she was a stranger, was overher. Evelyn remained at home with her. Evelyn still had the ideafirmly fixed in her mind that Maria was grieving over Professor Lane. It was also firmly fixed in Aunt Maria's mind. Aunt Maria, who hadboth suspicion and imagination, had conceived a reason for Maria'smysterious absence the night before. She knew that Professor Lane wasto take a night train from Westbridge. She jumped at the conclusionthat Maria had gone to Westbridge to see him off, and had missed thetrolley connection. There were two trolley-lines between Amity andWestbridge, and that accounted for her walking to the house. AuntMaria was mortified and angry. She would have been mortified to haveher niece so disturbed over any man who had not proposed marriage toher, but when she reflected upon Professor Lane, his sunken chest, his skinny throat, and his sparse gray hair, although he was yet ahandsome man for his years, she experienced a positive nausea. Shewas glad when Evelyn came down in the morning and said that Maria hadcalled to her, and said she did not want any breakfast and did notfeel able to go to church. 

"Do you think sister is going to be sick, Aunt Maria?" Evelyn said, anxiously. Then her sweet eyes met her aunt's, and both the young andthe old maid blushed at the thought which they simultaneously had. 

"Sick? No, " replied Aunt Maria, crossly. 

"I guess I will stay home with her, anyway, " Evelyn said, timidly. 

"Well, you can do jest as you are a mind to, " said Aunt Maria. "I'mgoin' to meetin'. If folks want to act like fools, I ain't goin' tostay at home and coddle them. "

"Oh, Aunt Maria, I don't think sister acts like a fool, " Evelyn said, in her sweet, distressed voice. "She looks real pale and acts alltired out. "

"I guess she'll survive it, " said Aunt Maria, pouring the coffee. 

"Don't you think I had better make some toast and a cup of tea forher, if she does say she doesn't want any breakfast?"

"Maria Edgham is old enough to know her own mind, and if she says shedon't want any breakfast I'd let her go without till she was hungry, "said Aunt Maria. She adored Maria above any living thing, and just inproportion to the adoration she felt angry with her. It was a greatrelief to her not to see her. 

"Aren't you going up-stairs and see if you think sister is sick?"Evelyn asked, as Aunt Maria was tying her bonnet-strings. 

"No, I ain't, " replied Aunt Maria. "It's all I can do to walk tochurch. I ain't goin' to climb the stairs for nothin'. I ain'tworried a mite about her. "

After Aunt Maria was gone Evelyn made a slice of toast, placed it ona pretty plate, and made also some tea, which she poured into a verydainty cup. Then she carried the toast and tea on a little tray up toMaria's room. 

"Please sit up and drink this tea and eat this toast, sister, " shesaid, pleadingly. 

"Thank you, dear, " said Maria, "but I don't feel as if I could eatanything. "

"It's real nice, " said Evelyn, looking with a childish wistfulnessfrom her sister to the toast. Maria could not withstand the look. Sheraised herself in bed and let Evelyn place the tray on her knees. Then she forced herself to drink the tea and eat the toast. Evelynall the time watched her with that sweet wistfulness of expressionwhich was one of her chief charms. Evelyn, when she looked that way, was irresistible. There was so much anxious love in her tender facethat it made it fairly angelic. Evelyn's dark hair was tumbling abouther face like a child's, in a way which she often wore it when athome when there was no company. It was tied with a white ribbon bow. She wore a black skirt and a little red breakfast-jacket faced withwhite. As her sister gradually despatched the tea and toast, the lookof wistfulness on her face changed to one of radiant delight. Sheclapped her hands. 

"There, " she said, "I knew you would eat your breakfast if I broughtit to you. Wasn't that toast nice?"

"Delicious. "

"I made it my own self. Aunt Maria was cross. Don't you think it isodd that any one who loves anybody should ever be cross?"

"It often happens, " said Maria, laying back on her pillows. 

"Of course, Aunt Maria loves us both, but she loves you especially;but she is often cross with you. I don't understand it. "

"She doesn't love me any better than she does you, dear, " said Maria. 

"Oh yes, she does; but I am not jealous. I am very glad I am not, forI could be terribly jealous. "

"Nonsense, precious!"

"Yes, I could. Sometimes I imagine how jealous I could be, and itfrightens me. "

"You must not imagine such things, dear. "

"I have always imagined things, " said Evelyn. Her face took on a veryserious, almost weird and tragic expression. Maria had as she hadoften had before, a glimpse of dangerous depths of emotion in hersister's character. 

"That is no reason why you should always imagine, " she said, with alittle, weary sigh. 

Directly the look of loving solicitude appeared on Evelyn's face. Shewent close to her sister, and laid her soft, glowing cheek againsthers. 

"I am so sorry, dearest, " she said. "Sorry for whatever troubles you. "

"What makes you think anything troubles me?"

"You seem to me as if something troubled you. "

"Nothing does, " said Maria. She pushed Evelyn gently away and sat up. "I was only tired out, " she said, firmly. "The breakfast has made mefeel better. I will get up now and write some letters. "

"Wouldn't you rather lie still and let me read to you?"

"No, dear, thank you. I will get up now. "

Evelyn remained in the room while her sister brushed her hair anddressed. "I wonder what kind of a man the new principal will be?" shesaid, looking dreamily out of the window. She had, in fact, alreadyhad her dreams about him. As yet she had admitted men to her dreamsonly, but she had her dreams. She did not notice her sister's changeof color. She continued to gaze absently out of the window at theautumn landscape. A golden maple branch swung past the window in acrisp breeze, now and then a leaf flew away like a yellow bird andbecame a part of the golden carpet on the ground. "Addie Hemingwaysays he is very handsome, " she said, meditatively. "Do you rememberhim, sister--that is, do you remember how he looked when he was aboy?"

"As I remember him he was a very good-looking boy, " Maria said. 

"I wonder if he is engaged?" Evelyn said. 

Suddenly her soft cheeks flamed. 

"I don't see what that matters to you, " Maria retorted, in a tonewhich she almost never used towards Evelyn--"to you or any of theother girls. Mr. Lee is coming to teach you, not to become engaged tohis pupils. "

"Of course I know he is, " Evelyn said, humbly. "I didn't mean to besilly, sister. I was only wondering. "

"The less a young girl wonders about a man the better, " Maria said. 

"Well, I won't wonder, only it does seem rather natural to wonder. Didn't you use to wonder when you were a young girl, sister?"

"It does not make it right if I did. "

"I don't think you could do anything wrong, sister, " Evelyn returned, with one of her glances of love and admiration. Suddenly Mariawondered herself what a man would do if he were to receive one ofthose glances. 

Evelyn continued her little chatter. "Of course none of us girls everwondered about Professor Lane, because he was so old, " she said. Thenshe caught herself with an anxious glance at her sister. "But he wasvery handsome, too, " she added, "and I don't know why we shouldn'thave thought about him, and he wasn't so very old. I think Coloradowill cure him. "

"I hope so, " Maria said, absently. She had no more conception of whatwas in Evelyn's mind with regard to herself and Professor Lane thanshe had of the thought of an inhabitant of Mars. Ineffable distancesof surmise and imagination separated the two in the same room. 

Evelyn continued: "Mr. Lee isn't married, anyway, " she said. "Addiesaid so. His mother keeps house for him. Wasn't that a dreadful thingin the paper last night, sister?"

"What?" asked Maria. 

"About that girl's getting another woman's husband to fall in lovewith her, and get a divorce, and then marrying him. I don't see howshe could. I would rather die than marry a man who had been divorced. I would think of the other wife all the time. Don't you think it wasdreadful, sister?"

"Why do you read such things?" asked Maria, and there was a hard ringin her voice. It seemed to her that she was stretched on a very rackof innocence and ignorance. 

"It was all there was in the paper to read, " replied Evelyn, "exceptadvertisements. There were pictures of the girl, and the wife, andthe man, and the two little children. Of course it was worse becausethere were children, but it was dreadful anyway. I would never speakto that girl again, not if she had been my dearest friend. "

"You had better read a library book, if there is nothing better thanthat to read in a paper, " said Maria. 

"There wasn't, except a prize-fight, and I don't care anything aboutprize-fights, and I believe there were races, too, but I don't knowanything about races. "

"I don't see that you know very much about marriage and divorce, "Maria said, adjusting her collar. 

"Are you angry with me, sister? Don't you want me to fasten yourcollar?"

"No, I can fasten it myself, thank you, dear. No, I am not angry withyou, only I do wish you wouldn't read such stuff. Put the paper away, and get a book instead. "

"I will if you want me to, sister, " replied Evelyn. 

Chapter XXXI

The Monday when the fall term of the academy at Westbridge opened wasa very beautiful day. The air was as soft as summer, but with astrange, pungent quality which the summer had lacked. There was aslightly smoky scent which exhilarated. It was a scent of deathcoming from bonfires of dead leaves and drying vegetation, and yet itseemed to presage life. When Maria and Evelyn went out to take thetrolley for Westbridge, Maria wore a cluster of white chrysanthemumspinned to her blouse. The blouse itself was a very pretty one, wornwith a black plaited skirt. It was a soft silk of an old-rose shade, and it was trimmed with creamy lace. Maria had left off her mourning. Evelyn looked with a little surprise at Maria's blouse. 

"Why, you've got on your pink blouse, sister, " she said. 

Maria colored softly, for no ostensible reason. "Yes, " she said. 

"You don't generally wear it to school. "

"I thought as long as it was the first day, " Maria said, in aslightly faltering tone. She bent her head until her rose-wreathedhat almost concealed her face. The sisters stood in front of thehouse waiting for their car. Evelyn made a sudden little run backinto the yard. 

"You hold the car!" she cried. 

"I don't know that they will wait; you must not stop, " Maria calledout. But the car had just stopped when Evelyn returned, and she had alittle cluster of snowberries pinned in the front of her red gown. She looked bewitchingly over them at Maria when they were seated sideby side in the car. 

"I guess I was going to wear flowers as well as some other folks, "she whispered with a soft, dark glance at her sister from under herlong lashes. Maria smiled. 

"You don't need to wear flowers, " she said. 

"Why not as well as you?"

"Oh, you are a flower yourself, " Maria said, looking fondly at her. 

Indeed, the young girl looked like nothing so much as a rose, withher tenderly curved pink cheeks, the sweet arch of her lips, and herglowing radiance of smiles. Maria looked at her critically, then badeher turn that she might fasten a hook on her collar which had becomeunfastened. 

"Now you are all right, " she said. 

Evelyn smiled. "Don't you think these snowberries are pretty withthis red dress?" she asked. 

"Lovely. "

"I wonder what the new principal will be like, " Evelyn said, musingly, after riding awhile in silence. 

"I presume he will be very much like other young men. The main thingto consider is, if he is a good teacher, " Maria said. 

"What makes you cross, sister?" Evelyn whispered plaintively. 

"I am not cross, only I don't want you to be silly. "

"I am not silly. All the girls are wondering, too. I am only likeother girls. You can't expect me to be just like you, Maria. Ofcourse you are older, and you don't wonder, and then, too, you knewhim when he was a boy. Is he light or dark?"

"Light, " Maria replied, looking out of the window. 

"Sometimes light children grow dark as they grow older, " said Evelyn. "I hope he hasn't. I like light men better than dark, don't you, Maria?"

"I don't like one more than another, " said Maria shortly. 

"Of course I know you don't in one way. Don't be so cross, " Evelynsaid in a hurt way. "But almost everybody has an opinion about lightand dark men. "

Maria looked out of the window, and Evelyn said no more, but she felta sorrowful surprise at her sister. Evelyn was so used to beingpetted and admired that the slightest rebuff, especially a rebufffrom Maria, made her incredulous. It really seemed to her that Mariamust be ill to speak so shortly to her. Then she remembered poorProfessor Lane, and how in all probability Maria was thinking abouthim this morning, and that made her irritable, and how she, Evelyn, ought to be very patient. Evelyn was in reality very patient and veryslow to take offence. So she snuggled gently up to her sister, untilher slender, red-clad shoulder touched Maria's, and looked pleasantlyaround through the car, and again wondered privately about the newprincipal. 

They had a short walk after leaving the car to the academy. As theyturned into the academy grounds, which were quite beautiful withtrees and shrubs, a young man was mounting the broad flight ofgranite steps which led to the main entrance. Evelyn touched Mariaagitatedly on the arm. "Oh, Maria, " said she. 

"What?"

"Is that--he?"

"I think so. I saw only his back, but I should think so. I don't seewhat other young man could be going into the building. It wascertainly not the janitor, nor Mr. Hughes" (Mr. Hughes was themusic-teacher) replied Maria calmly, although she was pale. 

"Oh, if that was he, I think he is splendid, " whispered Evelyn. 

Maria said nothing as the two proceeded along the fine gravel walkbetween hydrangeas, and inverted beech-trees, and symmetricallytrimmed firs. 

"He is light, " Evelyn said, meditatively. "I am glad of that. " As shespoke she put her hand to her head and adjusted her hair, then herhat. She threw back her shoulders. She preened herself, innocentlyand unconsciously, like a little bird. Maria did not notice it. Shehad her own thoughts, and she was using all her power of self-controlto conceal her agitation. It seemed to her as she entered thebuilding as if her secret was written upon her face, as if everybodymust read as they ran. But she removed her coat and hat, and took herplace with the other assistants upon the platform in the chapel ofthe academy where the morning exercises were held. She spoke to theother teachers, and took her usual seat. Wollaston was not yet there. The pupils were flocking into the room, which was picturesque with adome-shaped ceiling, and really fine frescoed panels on the walls. Directly opposite the platform was a large oriel-window of stainedglass, the gift of the founder. Rays of gold and green and blue andcrimson light filtered through, over the assembling school. Maria sawEvelyn with her face turned towards the platform eagerly watching. She was not looking at Maria, but was evidently expecting the adventof the new principal. It did not at that time occur to Maria toattribute any serious meaning to the girl's attitude. She merely felta sort of impatience with her, concerning her attitude, when sheherself knew what she knew. 

Suddenly a sort of suppressed stir was evident among those of thepupils who were seated. Maria felt a breeze from an open door, andknew that Wollaston had entered. He spoke first to her, calling herby name, and bidding her good-morning, then to the other teachers. The others were either residents of Westbridge, or boarded there, andhe had evidently been introduced to them before. Then he took hisseat, and waited quietly for the pupils to become seated. It lackedonly a few minutes of the time for opening the school. It was notlong before the seats were filled, and Maria heard Wollaston's voicereading a selection from the Bible. Then she bent her head, and heardhim offering prayer. She felt a sort of incredulity now. It seemedto her inconceivable that the boy whom she had known could beactually conducting the opening exercises of a school with suchimperturbability and self-possession. All at once a great pride ofpossession seized her. She glanced covertly at him between herfingers. The secret which had been her shame suddenly filled her withthe possibility of pride. Wollaston Lee, standing there, seemed toher the very grandest man whom she had ever seen. He was undoubtedlyhandsome, and he had, moreover, power. When he had finished hisprayer, and had begun his short address to the scholars, she glancedat him again, and saw what splendid shoulders he had, how proudly heheld his head, and yet what a boyish ingenuousness went with it all. Maria did not look at Evelyn at all. Had she done so, she would havebeen startled. Evelyn was gazing at the new principal with the utmostunreserve, the unreserve of awakened passion which does not knowitself because of innocence and ignorance. Evelyn, gazing at theyoung man, had never been so unconscious of herself, and at the sametime she had never been so conscious. She felt a life to which shehad been hitherto a stranger tingling through every vein and nerve ofher young body, through every emotion of her young soul. She gazedwith wide-open eyes like a child, the rose flush deepened on hercheeks, her parted lips became moist and deep crimson, pulsesthrobbed in her throat. She smiled involuntarily, a smile of purestdelight and admiration. Love twofold had awakened within heremotional nature. Love of herself, as she might be seen in another'seyes, and love of another. And yet she did not know it was love, andshe felt no shame, and no fright, nothing but rapture. She was in thebroad light of the present, under the direct rays of a firmament oflife and love. Another girl, Addie Hemingway, who was no older thanEvelyn, but shrewd beyond her years, with a taint of coarseness, noticed her, and nudged the girl at her right. "Just look at EvelynEdgham, " she whispered. 

The other girl looked. 

"I suppose she thinks she'll catch him, she's so awful pretty, "whispered Addie maliciously. 

"I don't think she is so very pretty, " whispered back the other girl, who was pretty herself and disposed to assert her own claims toattention. 

"She thinks she is, " whispered back Addie. "Just see how bold shelooks at him. I should think she would be ashamed of herself. "

"So should I, " nodded the other girl. 

But Evelyn had no more conception of the propriety of shame thannature itself. She was pure nature. Presently Wollaston himself, whohad been making his address to his pupils with a vague sense of anupturned expanse of fresh young faces of boys and girls, without anyespecial face arresting his attention, saw Evelyn with a start whichnobody, man or woman, could have helped. She was so beautiful thatshe could no more be passed unnoticed than a star. Wollaston made analmost imperceptible pause in his discourse, then he continued, fixing his eyes upon the oriel-window opposite. He realized himselfas surprised and stirred, but he was not a young man whom a girl'sbeauty can rouse at once to love. He had, moreover, a strong sense ofhonor and duty. He realized Maria was his legal wife. He was, although he had gotten over his boyish romance, which had beenshocked out of him at the time of his absurd marriage, in an attitudeof soul which was ready for love, and love for his wife. He had oftensaid to himself that no other honorable course was possible foreither Maria or himself: that it was decidedly best that they shouldfall in love with each other and make their marriage a reality. Atthe same time, something more than delicacy and shyness restrainedhim from making advances. He was convinced that Maria not onlydisliked but feared him. A great pity for her was in his heart, andalso pride, which shrank from exposing itself to rebuffs. Yet he didnot underestimate himself. He considered that he had as good a chanceas any man of winning her affection and overcoming her presentattitude towards him. He saw no reason why he should not. While hewas not conceited, he knew perfectly well his advantages as topersonal appearance. He also was conscious of the integrity of hispurpose as far as she was concerned. He knew that, whenever sheshould be willing to accept him, he should make her a good husband, and he recognized his readiness and ability to love her should sheseem ready to welcome his love. He, however, was very proud evenwhile conscious of his advantages, and consequently easily wounded. He could not forget Maria's look of horror when she had recognizedhim the Saturday before. A certain resentment towards her because ofit was over him in spite of himself. He said to himself that he hadnot deserved that look, that he had done all that mortal man could doto shield her from a childish tragedy, for which he had not been toblame in any greater degree than she. He said to himself that shemight at least have had confidence in his honor and his generosity. However, pity for her and that readiness to do his duty--to loveher--were uppermost. The quick glance which he had given Maria thatmorning had filled him with pleasure. Maria, in her dull-rose blouse, with her cluster of chrysanthemums, with her fair, emotional faceheld by sheer force of will in a mould of serenity, with her softyellow coils of hair and her still childish figure, was charming. After that one glance at Evelyn, with her astonishing beauty, hethought no more about her. When his address was finished the usualroutine of the school began. 

He did not see Maria again all day. She had her own class-room, andat noon she and Evelyn ate their luncheon together there. Evelyn didnot say a word about the new principal. She was very quiet. She didnot eat as usual. 

"Don't you feel well, dear?" asked Maria. 

"Yes, sister, " replied Evelyn. Then suddenly her lips quivered and atear rolled down the lovely curve of her cheek. 

"Why, Evelyn, precious, what is the matter?" asked Maria. 

"Nothing, " muttered Evelyn. Then suddenly, to her sister's utterastonishment, the young girl sprang up and ran out of the room. 

Maria was sure that she heard a muffled sob. She thought for a secondof following her, then she had some work to do before the afternoonsession, and she also had a respect for others' desires for secrecy, possibly because of her long carrying about of her own secret. Shesat at her table with her forehead frowning uneasily, and wrote, anddid not move to follow Evelyn. 

Evelyn, when she rushed out of the class-room, took instinctively herway towards a little but dense grove in the rear of the academy. Itwas a charming little grove of firs and maples, and there were anumber of benches under the trees for the convenience of the pupils. It was rather singular that there was nobody there. Usually duringthe noon-hour many ate their luncheons under the shadow of the trees. However, the wind had changed, and it was cool. Then, too, thereunions among the old pupils were probably going on to betteradvantage in the academy, and many had their luncheons at a near-byrestaurant. However it happened, Evelyn, running with the tears inher eyes, her heart torn with strange, new emotion which as yet shecould not determine the nature of, whether it was pain or joy, foundthe grove quite deserted. The cold sunlight came through the goldenmaple boughs and lay in patches on the undergrowth of dryinggolden-rod and asters. Under the firs and pines it was gloomy, and apremonition of winter was in the air. Evelyn sat down on a benchunder a pine-tree, and began to weep quite unrestrainedly. She didnot know why. She heard the song of the pine over her head, and itseemed to increase her apparently inconsequent grief. In reality shewept the tears of the world, the same which a new-born child sheds. Her sorrow was the mysterious sorrow of existence itself. She weptbecause of the world, and her life in it, and her going out of it, because of its sorrow, which is sweetened with joy, and its joyembittered with sorrow. But she did not know why she wept. Evelyn wascast on very primitive moulds, and she had been very unrestrained, first by the indifference of her mother, then by the love of herfather and sister and aunt. It was enough for Evelyn that she wishedto weep that she wept. No other reason seemed in the least necessaryto her. In front of where she sat was a large patch of sunlightoverspreading a low growth of fuzzy weeds, which shone like silver, and a bent thicket of dry asters which were still blue althoughwithered. 

All at once Evelyn became aware that this patch of sunlight wasdarkened, and she looked up in a sweet confusion. Her big, dark eyeswere not in the least reddened by her tears; they only glittered withthem. Her lips, slightly swollen, only made her lovelier. 

Directly before her stood the new principal, and he was gazing downat her with a sort of consternation, pity, and embarrassment. Wollaston was in reality wishing himself anywhere else. A woman'stears aroused in him pity and irritation. He wished to pass on, butit seemed too impossible to do so and leave this lovely youngcreature in such distress without a word of inquiry. He thereforepaused, and his slightly cold, blue eyes met Evelyn's brilliant, tearful ones with interrogation. 

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. "Shall I call anyone? Are you ill?"

Evelyn felt hurt and disturbed by his look and tone. New tears welledup in her eyes. She shook her head with a slight pout. Wollastonpassed on. Evelyn raised her head and gazed after him with anindescribable motion, the motion of a timid, wild thing of the woods, which pursues, but whose true instinct is to be pursued. Suddenly sherose, and ran after him, and was by his side. 

"I am ashamed you should have seen--" she said, brokenly. "I wascrying for nothing. "

Wollaston looked down at her and smiled. She also was smiling throughher tears. "Young ladies should not cry for nothing, " he said, with awhimsical, school-master manner. 

"It seems to me that nothing is the most terrible thing in the wholeworld to cry for, " replied Evelyn, with unconscious wisdom, but shestill smiled. Again her eyes met the young man's, and her innocentlyadmiring gaze was full upon his, and that happened which wasinevitable, one of the chain of sequences of life itself. His owneyes responded ardently, and the girl's eyes fell before the man's. At the same time there was no ulterior significance in the man'slook, which was merely in evidence of a passing emotion to which hewas involuntarily subject. He had not the slightest thought of anylove, which his look seemed to express for this little beauty of agirl, whose name he did not even know. But he slackened his pace, andEvelyn walked timidly beside him over the golden net-work of sunlightin the path. Evelyn spoke first. 

"You came from Edgham, Mr. Lee, " she said. 

Wollaston looked at her. "Yes. Do you know anybody there?"

Evelyn laughed. "I came from there myself, " she said, "and so did mysister, Maria. Maria is one of the teachers, you know. "

Evelyn wondered why Mr. Lee's face changed, not so much color butexpression. 

"Oh, you are Miss Edgham's sister?" he exclaimed. 

"Yes. I am her sister--her half-sister. "

"Let me see; you are in the senior class. "

"Yes, " replied Evelyn. Then she added, "Did you remember my sister?"

"Oh yes, " replied Wollaston. "We used to go to school together. "

"She cannot have altered, " said Evelyn. "She always looks just thesame to me, anyway. "

"She does to me, " said Lee, and there was in inflection in his voicewhich caused Evelyn to give a startled glance at him. But hecontinued, quite naturally, "Your sister looks just as I rememberher, only, of course, a little taller and more dignified. "

"Maria is dignified, " said Evelyn, "but of course she has taughtschool a long time, and a school-teacher has to be dignified. "

"Are you intending to teach school?" asked Lee, and even as he askedthe question he felt amused. The idea of this flower-like thingteaching school, or teaching anything, was absurd. She was one of thepupils of life, not one of the expounders. 

"No, I think not, " said Evelyn. Then she said, "I have never thoughtabout it. " Then an incomprehensible little blush flamed upon hercheeks. Evelyn was thinking that she should be married instead ofdoing anything else, but that the man did not consider. He wassingularly unversed in feminine nature. 

A bell rang from the academy, and Evelyn turned about withreluctance. "There is the bell, " said she. She was secretly proudalthough somewhat abashed at being seen walking back to the academywith the new principal. Addie Hemingway was looking out of a window, and she said to the other girl, the same whom she had addressed inthe chapel:

"See, Evelyn Edgham has got him in tow already. "

That night, when Maria and Evelyn arrived home, Aunt Maria askedEvelyn how she liked the new principal. "Oh, he's perfectlysplendid, " replied Evelyn. Then she blushed vividly. Aunt Marianoticed it and gave a swift glance at Maria, but Maria did not noticeit at all. She was so wrapped in her own dreams that she wasabstracted. After she went to bed that night she lay awake a longtime dreaming, just as she had done when she had been a little girl. Her youth seemed to rush back upon her like a back-flood. She caughtherself dreaming of love-scenes in that same little wood whereWollaston and Evelyn had walked that day. She never thought of Evelynand the possibility of her thinking of Wollaston. But Evelyn, in herlittle, white, maiden bed, was awake and dreaming too. Outside thewind was blowing and the leaves dropping and the eternal starsshining overhead. It seemed as if so much maiden-dreaming in thehouse should make it sound with song, but it was silent and dark tothe night. Only the reflection of the street-lamp made it evident atall to occasional passers. It is well that the consciousness of humanbeings is deaf to such emotions, or all individual dreams would ceasebecause of the multiple din. 

Chapter XXXII

Evelyn, as the weeks went on, did not talk as much as she had beenaccustomed to do. She did not pour her confidences into her sister'sears. She never spoke of the new principal. She studied assiduously, and stood exceedingly well in all her classes. She had never taken somuch pains with her pretty costumes. When her mother sent her aChristmas present of a Paris gown, she danced with delight. There wasto be a Christmas-tree in the academy chapel, and she planned to wearit. Although it was a Paris gown it was simple enough, a pretty, girlish frock of soft white cloth, with touches of red. "I can wearholly in my hair, and it will be perfectly lovely, " Evelyn said. Butshe came down with such a severe cold and sore throat at the verybeginning of the holidays that going to Westbridge was out of thequestion. Evelyn lamented over the necessity of her staying at homelike a child. She even cried. 

"I wouldn't be such a baby, " said Aunt Maria. At times Aunt Mariacould not quite forgive Evelyn for being Ida Slome's child, especially when she showed any weakness. She looked severely now atpoor Evelyn, in her red house-wrapper, weeping in her damp littlehandkerchief. "I should think you were about ten, " she said. 

Evelyn wiped her eyes and sniffed. Her throat was very sore, and hercold was also in her head. Her pretty lips were disfigured withfever-sores. Her eyes were inflamed. 

"You wouldn't want to go looking the way you do, anyhow, " said AuntMaria, pitilessly. 

After Aunt Maria went out of the room, Maria, who was putting somefinishing-touches to the gown which she herself was to wear to theChristmas-tree, went over to her sister and knelt down beside her. "Poor darling, " she said. "Don't you want me to stay at home withyou?"

Evelyn pushed her away gently, with a fresh outburst of tears. "No, "she said. "Don't come so close, Maria, or you will catch it. Everybody says it is contagious. No, I wouldn't have you stay at homefor anything. I am not a pig, if I am disappointed. But Aunt Marianeed not be so cross. "

"Aunt Maria does not mean to be cross, sweetheart, " said Maria, stroking her sister's fluffy, dark head. "Are you sure that you donot want me to stay home with you, dear?"

"Perfectly sure, " replied Evelyn. "I want you to go so you can tellme about it. "

Evelyn had not the slightest idea of jealousy of Maria. While sheadmired her, it really never occurred to her, so naive she was in heradmiration of herself, that anybody could think her more attractivethan she was and fall in love with her, to her neglect. She had notthe least conception of what this Christmas-tree meant to her oldersister: the opportunity of seeing Wollaston Lee, of talking with him, of perhaps some attention on his part. Maria was to return to Amityon the last trolley from Westbridge. It was quite a walk from theacademy. She dreamed of Wollaston's escorting her to thetrolley-line. She dressed herself with unusual care when the daycame. She had a long, trailing gown of a pale-blue cloth and a blueknot for her yellow hair. She also had quite a pretentious blueevening cloak. Christmas afternoon a long box full of pale-yellowroses arrived. There was a card enclosed which Maria caught upquickly and concealed without any one seeing her. Wollaston had senther the roses. Her heart beat so hard and fast that it seemed theothers must hear it. She bent over the roses. "How perfectly lovely!"she said. 

Aunt Maria took up the box and lifted the flowers out carefully. "There isn't any card, " she said. "I wonder who sent them?" All atonce a surmise seized her that Professor Lane, who was said to beregaining his health in Colorado, had sent an order to the Westbridgeflorist for these flowers. Simultaneously the thought came to Evelyn, but Eunice, who was in the room, looked bewildered. When Mariacarried the roses out to put them in water, she turned to hersister-in-law. "Who on earth do you suppose sent them?" she whispered. 

Aunt Maria looked at her, and formed Professor Lane's namenoiselessly with her lips, giving her at the same time a knowing nod. Eunice looked at Evelyn, who also nodded, although with a somewhatdisturbed expression. She still did not feel quite reconciled to theidea of her sister's loving Professor Lane. 

"I didn't know, " said Eunice. 

"Nobody knows; but we sort of surmise, " said Aunt Maria. 

"Why, he's old enough to be her father, " Eunice said. 

"What of that, if he only gets cured of his consumption?" said AuntMaria. She herself felt disgusted, but she had a pleasure inconcealing her disgust from her sister-in-law. "Lots of girls wouldjump at him, " said she. 

"I wouldn't have when I was a girl, " Eunice remarked, in a mildlyreminiscent manner. 

"You don't know what you would have done if you hadn't got mybrother, " said Aunt Maria. 

"I would never have married anybody, " Eunice replied, with a fervent, faithful look. As she spoke, she seemed to see Henry Stillman as hehad been, when a young man and courting her, and she felt as if aking had passed her field of memory to the exclusion of all others. 

"Maybe you wouldn't have, " said her sister-in-law, "but nowadaysgirls have to take what they can get. Men ain't so anxious to marry. When a man had to have all his shirts and dickeys made he washelpless, to say nothing of his pants, but nowadays he can geteverything ready-made, and it doesn't make so much difference to himwhether he gets married or not. He can have a good deal more forhimself, if he's an old bachelor. "

"Maybe you are right, " said Eunice, "but I know when I was a girlMaria's age I wouldn't have let an old man like Professor Lane, withthe consumption, too, tie my shoes. Do you suppose he really sent herthe roses?"

"Who else could have sent them?"

"They must have cost an awful sight of money, " said Eunice, in anawed tone. Then she stopped, for Maria re-entered the room with theroses in a tall vase. She wore some of them pinned to the shoulder ofher blue gown that evening. She knew who had sent them, and it seemedto her that she did not overestimate the significance of the sending. When she started for Westbridge that evening she was radiant. She hadthe roses carefully pinned in tissue-paper to protect them from thecold; her long, blue cloak swept about her in graceful folds, shewore a blue hat with a long, blue feather. 

"Why didn't you wear a head tie?" asked Aunt Maria. "Ain't you afraidyou will spoil that hat if you take it off? The feather will get allmussy. "

"I shall put it in a safe place, " replied Maria, smiling. She blushedas she spoke. She knew perfectly well herself why she wore that hat, because she thought Wollaston might escort her to the trolley, andshe wished to appear at her best in his eyes. Maria no longerdisguised from herself the fact that she loved this man who was herhusband and not her husband. She knew that she was entirely ready torespond to his advances, should he make any, that she would behappier than she had ever been in her whole life if the secret whichhad been the horror of her life should be revealed. She wondered ifit would not be better to have another wedding. That night she hadnot much doubt of Wollaston's love for her. When she entered the car, and saw besides herself several young girls prinked in their best, who were also going to the Christmas-tree, she felt a sort of amusedpride, that all their prinking and preening was in vain. She assumedthat all of them had dressed to attract Wollaston. She could notthink of any other man whom any girl could wish to attract. She satradiant with her long, blue feather sweeping the soft, yellow puff ofher hair. She gave an affect of smiling at everybody, at allcreation. She really felt for the first time that she could remembera sense of perfect acquiescence with the universal scheme of things, therefore she felt perfect content and happiness. She thought howwonderful it was that poor Gladys Mann, lying in her unmarked gravethis Christmas-time, should have been the means, all unwittingly, ofbringing such bliss to herself. She thought how wonderful thatEvelyn's loss should have been the first link in such a sequence. Shethought of Evelyn with a sort of gratitude, as if she had donesomething incalculable for her. She also thought of her as alwayswith the utmost love and pride and tenderness. She reflected withpleasure on the gift which she herself had hung on the tree forEvelyn, and how pleased the child would be. It was a tiny gold broochwith a pearl in the centre. Evelyn was very fond of ornaments. Mariadid not once imagine of the possibility that Evelyn could have anydreams herself with regard to Wollaston. She did not in reality thinkof Evelyn as old enough to have any dreams at all which need beconsidered seriously, and least of all about Wollaston Lee. Shenodded to a young man, younger than herself, who was in Evelyn'sclass at the academy, who sat across the aisle, and he returned thenod eagerly. He was well grown, and handsome, and looked as old asMaria herself. Presently as the car began to fill up, he crossed theaisle, and asked if he might sit beside her. Maria made room at once. She smiled at the young fellow with her smile which belonged inreality to another man, and he took it for himself. Perhaps nothingon earth is so misappropriated as smiles and tears. The seat wasquite narrow. It was necessary to sit rather close, in any event, butpresently Maria felt the boy's broad shoulder press unmistakablyagainst hers. She shrank away with an imperceptible motion. She didnot feel so much angry as amused at the thought that this great boyshould be making love to her, when all her heart was with some oneelse, when she could not even give him a pleasant look which belongedwholly to him. Maria leaned against the window, and gazed out at theflying shadows. "I am glad it is so pleasant, " she said in aperfectly unconcerned voice. 

"Yes, so am I, " the boy replied, but his voice shook with emotion. Maria thought again how ridiculous it was. Then suddenly shereflected that this might not be on her account but Evelyn's. Shethought that the boy might be trying to ingratiate himself with heron her sister's account. She felt at once indignation and a sense ofpity. She was sure that Evelyn had never thought of him. She glancedat the boy's handsome, manly face, which, although manly, wore stillan expression of ingenuousness like a child's. She reflected that ifEvelyn were to marry when she were older, that perhaps this was agood husband for her. The boy came of one of the best families inAmity. She turned towards him smiling. 

"Evelyn was very much disappointed that she could not come to-night, "she said. 

The boy brightened visibly at her tone. 

"She has a very severe cold, " Maria added. 

"I am sorry, " said the boy. Then he said in a low tone whose boldnessand ardor were unmistakable, that it did not make any difference tohim who was there as long as she was. Maria could scarcely believeher ears. She gave the boy a keen, incredulous glance, but he was notdaunted. "I mean it, " he said. 

"Nonsense, " said Maria. She looked out of the window again. She toldherself that it was annoying but too idiotic to concern herself with. She made up her mind that when they changed trolleys she would try tofind a seat with some one else. But when they changed she found theboy again beside her. She was quite angry then, and made no effort todisguise it. She sat quite still, gazing out of the window, shruggedagainst it as closely as she was able to sit, and said nothing. However, her face resumed its happy smile when she thought again ofWollaston, and the boy thought the smile meant for him. He leanedover her tenderly. 

"I wish I could have a picture of you as you look to-night, " he said. 

"Well, I am afraid that you will have to do without it, " Maria saidshortly. Still the boy remained insensible to rebuff. 

"What are you carrying, Miss Edgham?" he asked, looking at her rosesenveloped in tissue paper. 

"Some roses which a friend sent me, " Maria replied. 

Then the boy colored and paled a little. He jumped at once to theconclusion that the friend was a man. "I suppose you are going towear them, " he said pitifully. 

"Yes, I am, " replied Maria. 

The boy in his turn sat as far away as possible in his corner of theseat, and gazed ahead with a gloomy air. 

When they reached the academy grounds he quite deserted Maria, whowalked to the chapel with one of the other teachers, who entered atthe same time. She was a young lady who lived in Westbridge. Mariacaught the pale glimmer of an evening gown under her long, red cloaktrimmed with white fur, and reflected that possibly she also hadadorned herself especially for Wollaston's benefit, and again shefelt that unworthy sense of pride and amusement. The girl herselfechoed her thoughts, for she said soon after Maria had greeted her:

"I saw Mr. Lee and his mother starting. "

"Did you?" returned Maria. 

"Don't you think he is very handsome?" asked the girl in asentimental tone which irritated. 

"No, " said Maria sharply, although she lied. "I don't think he ishandsome at all. He looks intelligent and sensible, but as forhandsome--"

"Oh, don't you think so?" cried the other. Then she caught herselfshort, for Wollaston Lee, with his mother on his arm, came up. Theysaid good-evening, and all four passed in. 

The platform of the chapel was occupied by a great Christmas-tree. The chapel itself was trimmed with evergreens and holly. The momentMaria entered, after she had removed her hat in a room which wasutilized as a dressing-room, and pinned her roses on her shoulder, she became sensible of a peculiar intoxication as of some newhappiness and festivity, of a cup of joy which she had hitherto nottasted. The spicy odor of the evergreens, even the odor ofoyster-stew from a room beyond where supper was to be served, that, and cake, and the sweetness of her own roses, raised her to a senseof elation which she had never before had. She sat with the otherteachers well towards the front. Wollaston was with his mother on theright. Maria saw with a feeling of relief the people with whom theLees had formerly boarded presently enter and sit with them. Shethought that Wollaston would be free to walk to the trolley with herif he so wished. She felt surer and surer that he did so wish. Onceshe caught him looking at her, and when she answered his smile shefelt her own lips stiff, and realized how her heart pounded againsther side. She experienced something like a great pain which was stilla great joy. Suddenly everything seemed unreal to her. When thepresents were distributed, it was still so unreal that she did notfeel as pleased as she would have done with the number for poorlittle Evelyn at home. She hardly knew what she received herself. They were the usual useless and undesirable tokens from her class, and others more desirable from the other lady teachers. WollastonLee's name was often called. Again Maria experienced that unworthysensation of malicious glee that all this was lavished upon him whenhe was in reality hers and beyond the reach of any of these smilinggirls with eyes of covert wistfulness upon the handsome youngprincipal. 

After the festivities were over, Maria adjusted her hat in thedressing-room and fastened her long, blue cloak. She wrapped herroses again in the tissue-paper. They were very precious to her. Theteacher whom she had met on entering the academy was fastening hercloak, and she gazed at Maria with a sort of envious admiration. 

"You look like a princess, all in blue, Miss Edgham, " said she. Herwords were sweet, but her voice rang false. 

"Thank you, " said Maria, and went out swiftly. She feared lest theother teacher attach herself to her, and the other teacher lived onthe road towards the trolley. When Maria went out of the academy, that which she had almost feared to hope for happened. Wollastonstepped beside her, and she heard him ask if he might walk with herto the trolley. 

Maria took his arm. 

"Mother is with the Gleasons, " said Wollaston. His voice trembled. 

Just then the boy who had sat with Maria on the car coming overwalked with a defiant stride to her other side. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Lee, " he said, lifting his hat. "Good-evening, Miss Edgham, " as if that was the first time that evening he had seenher. Then he walked on with her and Wollaston, and nothing was to bedone but accept the situation. The young fellow was fairlybelligerent with jealous rage. He had lost his young head over histeacher, and was doing something for which he would scorn himselflater on. 

Wollaston pressed Maria's hand closely under his arm, and she felther very soul thrill, but they all talked of the tree and thefestivities of the evening, with an apparent disregard of theterrible undercurrent of human emotions which had them all in itsgrasp. Wollaston carried Maria's presents and Evelyn's. When theyreached the trolley-line, and he gave them to her, she managed towhisper a thank you for his beautiful roses, and he pressed her handand said good-night. The boy asked with a mixture of humility anddefiance if he could not carry her parcels (he himself had nothingbut three neckties and a great silk muffler, which he did not valuehighly, as he was well stocked already, and he had thrust them intohis pockets). "No, thank you, " said Maria, "I prefer to carry themmyself. " She was curt, but she was so lit up with rapture that shecould not help smiling at him as she spoke, and he again sat in thesame car-seat. She hardly spoke a word all the way to Amity, but hewalked to her door with her, alighting from the car at the same timeshe did, although he lived half a mile farther on. 

"You will have to walk a half mile, " Maria observed, when he handedher off and let the car go on. 

"I like to walk, " the boy said, fervently. 

Maria had her latch-key. She opened the door hurriedly and ran in. She was half afraid that this irrepressible young man might offer tokiss her. "Good-night, " she said, and almost slammed the door in hisface. 

Aunt Maria had left a light burning low on the hall table. Maria tookit and went up-stairs. She gathered up the skirt of her gown into abag to hold the presents, hers and Evelyn's. 

When she entered her own room and set the lamp on the dresser, shewas aware of a little, nestling movement in the bed, and Evelyn'sdark head and lovely face raised itself from the pillow. 

"I came in here, " said Evelyn, "because I wanted to see you after youcame home. Do you mind?"

"No, darling, of course I don't mind, " replied Maria. 

She displayed Evelyn's presents, and the girl examined them eagerly. Maria thought she seemed disappointed even with her own gift of thebrooch which she had expected would so delight her. 

"Is that all?" Evelyn said. 

"All?" laughed Maria. "Why, you little, greedy thing, what do youexpect?"

To her astonishment Evelyn began suddenly to cry. She sobbed as ifher heart would break, and would not tell her sister why she was sogrieved. Finally, Maria having undressed and got into bed, her sisterclung closely to her, still sobbing. 

"Evelyn, darling, what is it?" whispered Maria. 

"You'll laugh at me. "

"No, I won't, honest, precious. "

"Honest?"

"Yes, honest, dear. "

"Were those all the presents I had?"

"Yes, of course, I brought you all you had, dear. "

Evelyn murmured something inarticulate against Maria's breast. 

"What is it, dear, sister didn't hear?"

"I hung a book on the tree for him, " choked Evelyn, "and I thoughtmaybe--I thought--"

"Thought what?"

"I thought maybe he would--"

"Who would?"

"I thought maybe Mr. Lee would give me something, " sobbed Evelyn. 

Maria lay still. 

Evelyn nestled closer. "Oh, " she whispered, "I love him so! I can'thelp it. I can't. I love him so, sister!"

Chapter XXXIII

There was a second's hush after Evelyn had said that. It seemed toMaria that her heart stood still. A sort of incredulity, as of themonstrous and the super-human seized her. She felt as one who hadsurvived a railroad accident might feel looking down upon his owndismembered body in which life still quivered. She could not seem toactually sense what Evelyn had said, although the words still rang inher ears. Presently, Evelyn spoke again in her smothered, weepingvoice. "Do you think I am so very dreadful, so--immodest, to care somuch about a man who has never said he cared about me?"

"He has never said anything?" asked Maria, and her voice soundedstrange in her own ears. 

"No, never one word that I could make anything of, but he has lookedat me, he has, honest, sister. " Evelyn burst into fresh sobs. 

Then Maria roused herself. She patted the little, soft, dark head. 

"Why, Evelyn, precious, " she said, "you are imagining all this. Youcan't care so much about a man whom you have seen so little. You havelet your mind dwell on it, and you imagine it. You don't care. Youcan't, really. You wait, and by-and-by you will find out that youcare a good deal more for somebody else. "

But then Evelyn raised herself and looked down at her sister in thedark, and there was a ring in her voice which Maria had never beforeheard. "Not care, " she said--"not care! I will stand everything butthat. Maria, don't you dare tell me I don't care!"

"But you don't know him at all, dear. "

"I know him better than anybody else in the whole world, " saidEvelyn, still in the same strained voice. "The very minute I saw himI loved him, and then it seemed as if a great bright light made himplain to me. I do love him, Maria. Don't you ever dare say I don't. That is the only thing that makes me feel that I am not ashamed tolive, the knowing that I do love him. I should be dreadful if Ididn't love him--really love him, I mean, with the love that lasts. Do you suppose that if I only felt about him as some of the othergirls do, that I would have told you? I _do_ love him!"

"What makes you so sure?"

"What makes me so sure? Why, everything. I know there is not anotherman in the whole world for me that can possibly equal him, andthen--I feel as if my whole life were full of him. I can't seem toremember much before he came. When I look back, it is like lookinginto the dark, and I can't imagine the world being at all withouthim. "

"Would you be willing to be very poor, to go without pretty things ifyou--married him, to live in a house like the Ramsey's on the otherside of the river, not to have enough to eat and drink and wear?"

"I would have enough to eat and drink and wear. I would have as muchas a queen if I had him, " cried Evelyn. "What do you think I careabout pretty things, or even food and life itself, when it comes toanything like this? Live in a house like the Ramsey's! I would livein a cave. I would live on the street, and I should never know it wasnot a palace. Maria, you do know that I love him, don't you?"

"Yes, I know that you think you do. "

"No, say I do. "

"Yes, I know you do, " Maria said. 

Then Evelyn lay down again, and wept quietly. 

"Yes, I love him, " she moaned, "but he does not love me. You don'tthink he does, do you? I know you don't. "

Maria said nothing. She was sure that he did not. 

"No, he does not. I see you know it, " Evelyn sobbed, "and all I caredabout going to the Christmas-tree and wearing my new gown was onaccount of him, and I sent a beautiful book. I thought I could dothat. All the girls in the senior class gave him something, and Ihave been saving up every cent, and he never gave me anything, noteven a box of candy or flowers. Do you think he gave any of the othergirls anything, Maria?"

"I don't think so. "

"I can't help hoping he did not. And I don't believe it is so verywicked, because I know that none of the other girls can possibly lovehim as much as I do. But, Maria--"

"Well?"

"I do love him enough not to complain if he really loved some othergirl, and she was good, and would make him happy. I would go down onmy knees to her to love him. I would, Maria, honest. " Evelyn wasalmost hysterical. Maria soothed her, and evaded as well as she wasable her repeated little, piteous questions as to whether she thoughtMr. Lee could ever care for her. "I know I am pretty, " Evelyn saidnaively. "I really think I must be prettier than any other girl inschool. I have heard so, and I really think so myself, but beingpretty means so little when it comes to anything like this with a manlike him. He might love Addie Hemingway instead of me, so far aslooks were concerned, but I don't think Addie would make him veryhappy--do you, Maria?"

"No, dear. I am quite sure he will never think of her. Now try and bequiet and go to sleep. "

"I cannot go to sleep, " moaned Evelyn, but it was not very longbefore she was drawing long, even breaths. Her youth had asserteditself. Then, too, she had got certain comfort from this baring ofher soul before the soothing love of her sister. 

As soon as Maria became sure that Evelyn was soundly asleep shegently unwound the slender, clinging arms and got out of bed, andstole noiselessly into Evelyn's own room, which adjoined hers. Shedid not get into bed, but took a silk comfortable off, and wrapped itaround her, then sat down in a low chair beside the window. It seemedto her that if she could not have a little while to think by herselfthat she should go mad. The utterly inconceivable to her hadhappened, and the utterly inconceivable fairly dazzles the brain whenit comes to pass. Maria felt as if she were outside all hithertoknown tracks of life, almost as if she were in the fourth dimension. The possibility that her own sister might fall in love with the manwhom she had married had never entered her mind before. She hadchecked Evelyn's wonder concerning him, but she had thought no moreof it than of the usual foolish exuberance of a young girl. Now shebelieved that her sister really loved Wollaston. She recalled thefears which she had had with regard to her strenuous nature. She didnot believe it to be a passing fancy of an ordinary young girl. Sherecalled word for word what Evelyn had said, and she believed. Mariasat awhile gazing out of the window at the starlit sky in a sort ofblank of realization, of adjustment. She could not at first formulateany plan of action. She could only, as it were, state the problem. She gazed up at the northern constellations, at the mysterious polarstar, and it seemed to steady her mind and give it power to deal withher petty problem of life by its far-away and everlasting guidinglight. The window was partly open, and the same pungent odor of deathand life in one which had endured all day came in her nostrils. Sheseemed to sense heaven and earth and herself as an atom, but an atomracked with infinite pain between the two. 

"There is the great polar star, " she said to herself, "there are allthe suns and stars, here is the earth, and here am I, Maria Edgham, who am on the earth, but must some day give up my mortal life andbecome a part of it, and part of the material universe and perhapsalso of the spiritual. I am as nothing, and yet this pain in myheart, this love in my heart, makes me shine with my own fire as muchas the star. I could not be unless the earth existed, but it is ofsuch as myself that the earth is made up, and without such as myselfit could not shine in its place in the heavens. "

Maria began to attach a certain importance to her individualexistence even while she realized the pettiness of it, comparativelyspeaking. She was an infinitesimal part, but the whole could not bewithout that part. Suddenly the religious instruction which she haddrank in with her mother's milk took possession of her, but she had abreadth of outlook which would have terrified her mother. Maria saidto herself that she believed in God, but that His need of her was asmuch as her need of Him. She said to herself that without her tinyfaith in Him, her tiny speck of love for Him, He would lack somethingof Himself. Then all at once, in a perfect flood of rapture, something which she had never before known came into her heart: theconsciousness of the love of God for herself, of the need of God forherself, poor little Maria Edgham, whose ways of life had been sountoward and so absurd that she almost seemed to herself something tobe laughed at rather than pitied, much less loved. But all at oncethe knowledge of the love of God was over her. She gazed up again atthe great polar star overlooking with its eternal light the mysteriesof the north, and for the first time in her whole life the primitiveinstinct of worship asserted itself within her. Maria rose, and fellon her knees, and continued to gaze up at the star which seemed toher like an eye of God Himself, and love seemed to pervade her wholebeing. She thought now almost lightly of Wollaston Lee. What was anyearthly love to love like this, which took hold of the beginning andend of things, of the eternal? A resolution which this sense of loveseemed to inspire came over her. It was a resolution almostgrotesque, but it was sacred because her heart of hearts was in it, and she made it because of this love of God for her and her new senseof worship for something beyond the earth and all earthly affectionswhich had taken possession of her. She rose, undressed herself, andwent to bed. She did not say any prayer as usual. She seemed anincarnate prayer which made formulas unnecessary. Why was itessential to say anything when she was? At last she fell asleep, anddid not wake until the dawn light was in the room. She did not wakeas usual to a reunion with herself, but to a reunion with anotherself. She did not feel altogether happy. The resolution of the nightbefore remained, but the ecstasy had vanished. She was not yet anangel, only a poor, human girl with the longings of her kind, whichwould not be entirely stifled as long as her human heart beat. Butshe did what she had planned. Maria had an unusually high forehead. It might have given evidence of intellect, of goodness, but it wasnot beautiful. She had always fluffed her blond hair over it, concealing it with pretty waves. This morning she brushed all herhair as tightly back as possible, and made a hard twist at an uglyangle at the back of her head. By doing this she did not actuallydestroy her beauty, for her regular features and delicate tintsremained, but nobody looking at her would have called her evenpretty. Her delicate features became pronounced and hardened, hernose seemed sharpened and elongated, her lips thinner. This displayof her forehead hardened and made bold all her face and made her lookyears older than she was. Maria looked at herself in the glass with asort of horror. She had always been fond of herself in the glass. Shehad loved that double of herself which had come and gone at herbidding, but now it was different. She was actually afraid of thestern, thin visage which confronted her, which was herself, yet notherself. When she was fully dressed it was worse still. She put on agray gown which had never been becoming. It was not properly fitted. It was short-waisted, and gave her figure a short, chunky appearance. This chunky aspect, with her sharp face and strained back hair, madeher seem fairly hideous to herself. But she remained firm. Herfirmness, in reality, was one cause of the tightening and thinning ofher lips. She hesitated when about to go down-stairs. She had notheard Evelyn go down. She wondered whether she had better wait untilshe went, or go into her room. She finally decided upon the lattercourse. Evelyn was standing in front of her dresser brushing herhair. When Maria entered she threw with a quick motion the wholecurly, fluffy mass over her face, which glowed through it with anintensity of shame. Evelyn, when she awoke that morning, felt as ifshe had revealed some nakedness of her very soul. The girl was fairlyill. She could not believe that she had said what she rememberedherself to have said. 

"Good-morning, dear, " said Maria. 

Evelyn did not notice her changed appearance at all. She continued tobrush away at the mist of hair over her face. "Oh, sister!" shemurmured. 

"Never mind, precious, we won't say anything more about it, " saidMaria, and her voice had maternal inflections. 

"I ought not, " stammered Evelyn, but Maria interrupted her. 

"I have forgotten all about it, dear, " she said. "Now you had betterhurry or you will be late. "

"When I woke up this morning and remembered, I felt as if I shoulddie, " Evelyn said, in a choked voice. 

"Nonsense, " said Maria. "You won't die, and it will all come outright. Don't worry anything about it or think anything more about it. Why don't you wear your red dress to school to-day? It is pleasant. "

"Well, perhaps I had better, " Evelyn said. She threw back her hairthen, but still she did not look at Maria. 

She arranged her hair and removed her little dressing-sack before shelooked at Maria, who had seated herself in a rocking-chair beside thewindow. Aunt Maria always insisted upon getting breakfast without anyassistance. The odor of coffee and baking muffins stole into theroom. Evelyn got her red dress from the closet and put it on, stillavoiding Maria's eyes. But at last she turned towards her. 

"I am all ready to go down, " she said, in a weak little voice; thenshe gave a great start, and stared at Maria. 

Maria bore the stare calmly, and rose. 

"All right, dear, " she replied. 

But Evelyn continued standing before her, staring incredulously. Itwas almost as if she doubted Maria's identity. 

"Why, Maria Edgham!" she said, finally. "What is the matter?"

"What do you mean, dear?"

"What have you done to yourself to make you look so queer? Oh, I seewhat it is! It's your hair. Maria, dear, what have you strained itoff your forehead in that way for? It makes you look--why--"

Then Maria lied. "My hair has been growing farther and farther off myforehead lately, " said she, "and I thought possibly the reason wasbecause I covered it. I thought if I brushed my hair back it would bebetter for it. Then, too, my head has ached some, and it seemed to methe pain in my forehead would be better if I kept it cooler. "

"But, Maria, " said Evelyn, "you don't look so pretty. You don't, dear, honest. I hate to say so, but you don't. "

"Well I am afraid the pretty part of it will have to go, " said Maria, going towards the door. 

"Oh, Maria, please pull your hair over your forehead just a little. "

"No, dear, I have it all fixed for the day, and it must stay as itis. "

Evelyn followed Maria down-stairs. She had a puzzled expression. Maria's hair was diverting her from her own troubles. She could notunderstand why any girl should deliberately make herself homely. Shefelt worried. It even occurred to wonder if anything could be thematter with Maria's mind. 

When the two girls went into the little dining-room, where breakfastwas ready for them, Aunt Maria began to say something about theweather, then she cut herself short when she saw Maria. 

"Maria Edgham, " said she, "what on earth--"

Maria took her place at the table. "Those gems look delicious, " sheobserved. But Aunt Maria was not to be diverted. 

"I don't want to hear anything about gems, " said she. "They are goodenough, I guess. I always could make gems, but what I want to know isif you have gone clean daft. "

"I don't think so, " replied Maria, laughing. 

But Aunt Maria continued to stare at her with an expression of almosthorror. 

"What under the sun have you got your hair done up that way for?"said she. 

Maria repeated what she had told Evelyn. 

"Stuff!" said Aunt Maria. "It will make the hair grow farther backstraining it off your forehead that way, I can tell you that. Youdon't use common-sense, and as for your headache, I guess the hairdidn't make it ache. It's the first I've heard of it. You look like afright, I can tell you that. "

"Well, I can't help it, " said Maria. "I shall have to behave well tomake up. "

"Maria Edgham, you don't mean to say you are going to school lookingas you do now!"

Maria laughed, and buttered a gem. 

"You look old enough to be your own grandmother. You have spoiledyour looks. "

"Looks don't amount to much, " said Maria. 

"Maria Edgham, are you crazy?"

"I hope not. "

"I told sister she didn't look so pretty, " said Evelyn. 

"Look so pretty? She looks like a homely old maid. Your nose looks ayard long and your chin looks peaked and your mouth looks as if youwere as ugly as sin. Your forehead is too high; it always was, andyou ought to thank the Lord that he gave you pretty hair, and enoughof it to cover up your forehead, and now you've gone and strained itback just as tight as you can and made a knot like a tough doughnutat the back of your head. You look like a crazy thing, I can tell youthat. "

Maria said nothing. She ate her breakfast, while Aunt Maria andEvelyn could not eat much and were all the time furtively watchingher. 

Aunt Maria took Evelyn aside before the sisters left for school, andasked her in a whisper if she thought anything was wrong with Maria, if she had noticed anything, but Evelyn said she had not. But she andAunt Maria looked at each other with eyes of frightened surmise. 

When Maria had her hat on she looked, if anything, worse. 

"Good land!" said Aunt Maria, when she saw her. "Well, if you are seton making a spectacle of yourself, I suppose you are. "

After the girls had gone she went into the other side of the houseand told Eunice. "There she has gone and made herself look like aperfect scarecrow, " she said. "I wonder if there is any insanity inher father's family?"

"Did she look so bad?" asked Eunice, with a stare of terror at hersister-in-law. 

"Look so bad! She looked as old and homely as you and I every bit. "

Maria made as much of a sensation on the trolley as she had done athome. The boy who had persecuted her the night before with hisattentions bowed to Evelyn, and glanced at her evidently with norecognition. After a while he came to Evelyn and asked where hersister was that morning. Maria laughed, and he looked at her, then hefairly turned pale, and lifted his hat. He mumbled something andreturned to his seat. Maria was conscious of his astonished andpuzzled gaze at her all the way. When she reached the academy theother teachers--that is, the women--assailed her openly. One evenattempted to loosen by force Maria's tightly strained locks. 

"Why, Miss Edgham, you fairly frighten me, " she said, when Mariaresisted. 

Maria realized the amazement of the pupils when they entered herclass-room, the amazement of incredulity and almost disgust. Everybody seemed amazed and almost disgusted except Wollaston Lee. Hedid, indeed, give one slightly surprised glance at her, then heseemed to notice nothing different in her appearance. The man's senseof duty and honor was so strong that in reality his sense ofexternals was blunted. He had a sort of sublime short-sightedness toeverything that was not of the spirit. He had been convinced thenight previous that Maria was beginning to regard him with favor, andbeing convinced of that made him insensible to any mere outwardchange in her. She looked to him, on the whole, prettier than usualbecause he seemed to see in her love for himself. 

When the noon intermission came he walked into her class-room, andinvited Maria and Evelyn to go with him to a near-by restaurant andlunch. 

"I would ask you to go home with me, " he said, apologetically, toMaria, "but mother has a cold. "

Maria turned pale. She wondered if he had possibly told his mother. Then she remembered how he had promised her not to tell without herpermission, and was reassured. Evelyn blushed and smiled and dimpled, and cast one of her sweet, dark glances at him, which he did notnotice at all. His attention was fixed upon Maria, who hesitated, regarding him with her pale, pinched face. Evelyn took it for grantedthat Mr. Lee's invitation was only on her account, and that Maria wasasked simply as a chaperon, and because, indeed, he could not verywell avoid it. She jumped up and got her hat. 

"It will be perfectly lovely, " she said, and faced them both, hercharming face one glow of delight. 

But Maria did not rise. She looked at the basket of luncheon whichshe had begun to unpack, and replied, coldly, "Thank you, Mr. Lee, but we have our luncheon with us. "

Wollaston looked at her in a puzzled way. 

"But you could have something hot at the restaurant, " he said. Thewords were not much, but in reality he meant, and Maria so understoodhim, "Why, what do you mean, after last night? You know how I feelabout you. Why do you refuse?"

Maria took another sandwich from her basket. "Thank you for askingus, Mr. Lee, " she said, "but we have our luncheon. "

Her tone was fairly hostile. The hostility was not directed towardshim, but towards the weakness in herself. But that he could notunderstand. 

"Very well, " he said, in a hurt manner. "Of course I will not urgeyou, Miss Edgham. " Then he walked out of the room, hollowing his backand holding his head very straight in a way he had had from a boywhen he was offended. 

Evelyn pulled off her hat with a jerk. She looked at Maria with hereyes brilliant with tears. "I think you were mean, sister, " shewhispered, "awful mean; so there!"

"I thought it was better not to go, " Maria replied. Her tone was atonce stern and pitiful. Evelyn noticed only her sternness. She beganto weep softly. 

"There, he wanted me, too, " she said, "and of course he had to askyou, and you knew--I think you might have, sister. "

"I thought it was better not, " repeated Maria. "Now, dear, you hadbetter eat your luncheon. "

"I don't want any luncheon. "

Maria began to eat a sandwich herself. There was an odd meekness anddejectedness in her manner. Presently she laid the half-eatensandwich on the table and took out her handkerchief, and shook allover with helpless and silent sobs. 

Then Evelyn looked at her, her pouting expression relaxed gradually. She looked bewildered. 

"Why, what are you crying for?" she asked, in a low voice. 

Maria did not answer. 

Presently Evelyn rose and went over to her sister, and laid her cheekalongside hers and kissed her. 

"Don't, sister, " she whispered. "I am sorry. I didn't mean to becross. I suppose you were right not to go, only I did want to. "Evelyn snivelled a little. "I know he was hurt, too, " she said. 

Maria raised her head and wiped her eyes. "I did not think it wasbest, " she said yet again. Then she looked at Evelyn and tried tosmile. "Don't worry, precious, " she said. "Everything will come outall right. "

Evelyn gazed wonderingly at her sister's tear-stained face. "I don'tsee what you cried for, and I don't see why you wouldn't go, " shesaid. "The scholars will see you have been crying, and he will see, too. I don't see why you feel badly. I should think I was the one tofeel badly. "

"Everything will come out all right, " repeated Maria. "Don't worry, sister's own darling. "

"Everybody will see that you have been crying, " said Evelyn, who wasin the greatest bewilderment. "What did make you cry, Maria?"

"Nothing, dear. Don't think any more about it, " said Maria rising. She took a tumbler from the lunch-basket. "Go and fill this withwater for me, that is a dear, " she said. "Then I will bathe my eyes. Nobody would know that you have been crying. "

"That is because I am not so fair-skinned, " said Evelyn; "but I don'tsee. "

She went out with the tumbler, shaking her head in a puzzled way. When she returned, Maria had the luncheon all spread out on thetable, and looked quite cheerful in spite of her swollen eyes. Thesisters ate together, and Evelyn was very sweet in spite of herdisappointment. She was in reality very sweet and docile before allher negatives of life, and always would be. Her heart was always inleading-strings of love. She looked affectionately at Maria as theyate the luncheon. 

"I am so sorry I was cross, " she said. "I suppose you thought that itwould look particular if we went out to lunch with Mr. Lee. "

"Yes, I think it might have, " replied Maria. 

"Well, I suppose it would, " said Evelyn with a sigh, "and I know allthe other girls are simply dying for him, but he asked us, afterall. " Evelyn said the last with an indescribable air of sweettriumph. It was quite evident that she regarded the invitation asmeant for herself alone, and that she took ineffable delight in it inspite of the fact that it had been refused. She kept glancing out ofthe window as she ate. Presently she looked at her sister andlaughed. "There he is coming now, " she said, "and he is all alone. Hedidn't take anybody else to luncheon. "

Chapter XXXIV

Wollaston Lee, approaching the academy on his return from hissolitary lunch, was quite conscious of being commanded by the windowsof Maria's class-room. He was so conscious that his stately walkbecame almost a strut. He felt resentment at Maria. He could not helpit. He had not been, in fact, so much in love with her, as in thatattitude of receptivity which invites love. He felt that she ought tobe in love, and he wooed not only the girl but love itself. Thereforeresentment came more readily than if he had actually loved. He hadbeen saying to himself, while he was eating his luncheon whichmortified pride had rendered tasteless, that if it had not been forthe fact of his absurd alliance with Maria she was the last girl inthe world to whom he would have voluntarily turned, now that he wasfully grown, and capable of estimating his own character and hers. Hesaid to himself that she was pretty, attractive, and of undeniablestrength of character, and yet that very strength of character wouldhave repelled him. He was not a man who needed a wife of greatstrength of character, of consistent will. He himself had sufficient. His chances of happiness would have been greater with a wife in whomthe affections and emotions were predominant; there would have beenless danger of friction. Then, too, his wife would necessarily haveto live with his mother, and his mother was very like himself. Hesaid to himself that there would certainly be friction, and yet healso said that he could not abandon his attitude of readiness toreciprocate should Maria wish for his allegiance. 

Now, for the first time, Wollaston had Evelyn in his mind. Of coursehe had noticed her beauty, and admired her. The contrary would nothave been possible, but now he was conscious of a distinct sensationof soothed pride, when he remembered how she had smiled and dimpledat his invitation, and jumped up to get her hat. 

"That pretty little thing wanted to come, anyhow. It is a shame, " hethought. Then insensibly he fell to wondering how he should feel ifit were Evelyn to whom he were bound instead of her sister. It didnot seem possible to him that the younger sister, with her readygratitude and her evident ardor of temperament, could smile upon himat night and frown the next morning as Maria had done. He considered, also, how Evelyn would get on better with his mother. Then heresolutely put the thought out of his mind. 

"It is not Evelyn, but Maria, " he said to himself, and shut his mouthhard. He resumed his attitude of obedience to duty, but one who isdriven by duty alone almost involuntarily balks in spirit. 

Wollaston was conscious of balking, although he would not retreat. When he saw Maria again after the exercises of the day were closed, and he encountered her as she was leaving the academy, she lookeddistinctly homely to him, and yet such was the honor of the man thathe did not in the least realize that the homeliness was an exteriorthing. It seemed to him that he saw her encompassed with thestiffness of her New England antecedents, as with an armor, and thathe got a new and unlovely view of her character. On the contrary, Evelyn's charming, half-smiling, half-piteous face turned towards himseemed to afford glimpses of sweetest affections and womanlygentleness and devotion. Evelyn wished to say that she was sorry thatthey were obliged to refuse his invitation, but she did not dare. Instead, she gave him that little, half-smiling, half-piteous glance, to which he responded with a lighting up of his whole face and liftof his hat. Then Evelyn smiled entirely, and her backward glance athim was wonderfully alluring, yet maidenly, almost childish. Wollaston, on his way home, thought again how different it would beif Evelyn, instead of Maria, were his wife. Then he put it out of hishead resolutely. 

The next morning Maria arranged her hair as usual. She hadcomprehended that something more than mere externals were needful tochange the mind of a man like Wollaston, and she gave up the attempt, it must be acknowledged, with a little pleasure. Feminine vanity wasinherent in Maria. Nobody knew what the making herself hideous theday before had cost her. 

"Oh, I am so glad you have done up your hair the old way, " Evelyncried, when she saw her, and Aunt Maria remarked that she was glad tosee that she had not quite lost her common-sense. 

Maria began herself to think that she had not evinced much sense inher procedure of the day before. She had underestimated the characterof the man whom she had married, and had made herself ridiculous fornothing. The boy who was infatuated with her, when he saw her on thetrolley that morning, made a movement to go forward and speak to her, then he sat still with frequent puzzled glances at her. He wasrepelled if Wollaston was not. This changing of the face of a womanin a day's time filled him with suspicion. He looked hard at Maria'ssoft puff of hair, and reflected that it might be a wig; that anywayhe was not so much in love as he had thought, with a girl who couldlook as Maria had done the day before. 

When Maria reached the academy, the teachers greeted her withenthusiasm. One who was given to exuberance fairly embraced her. 

"Now you are my own beautiful Miss Edgham again, " said she. 

Wollaston, during the opening exercises, only glanced once at her, then he saw no difference. But he did look at Evelyn, and when sheturned her lovely face away before his gaze and a soft blush roseover her round cheeks he felt his pulses quicken. But he did notspeak a word to Maria or Evelyn all day. 

When Evelyn went home that night she was very sober. She would noteat her supper, and Maria was sure that she heard her sobbing in thenight. The next morning the child looked pale and wan, and Aunt Mariaasked harshly if she were sick. Evelyn replied no quickly. When sheand Maria were outside waiting for the trolley, Evelyn said, halfcatching her breath with a sob even then:

"Mr. Lee didn't speak a word to me all day yesterday. I know he didnot like it because we didn't go to lunch with him. "

"Nonsense, dear, " said Maria. Then she added, with an odd, secretivemeaning in her voice: "Don't worry, precious. "

"I can't help it, " said Evelyn. 

When the term was about half finished it became evident to Maria thatshe and Evelyn must call upon Mrs. Lee, Wollaston's mother. She hadput it off as long as she could, although all the other teachers hadcalled, and Aunt Maria had kept urging her to do so. 

"She is going to think it is awful funny if you don't call, " shesaid, "when you used to live in the same place, too. "

In reality, Aunt Maria, now that George Ramsey had married, wasthinking that Wollaston might be a good match for Maria, and shewished to prevent her marriage with Professor Lane should he returnfrom Colorado cured. 

At last Maria felt that she was fairly obliged to go, and oneSaturday afternoon she and Evelyn went to Westbridge for the purpose. Wollaston and his mother lived in an exceedingly pretty house. Mrs. Lee had artistic taste, and the rooms were unusual though simple. Maria looking about, felt a sort of homesick longing. She realizedhow perfectly a home like this would have suited her. As for Evelyn, she looked about with quick, bright glances, and she treated Mrs. Leeas if she were in love with her. She was all the time wondering ifWollaston would possibly come in, and in lieu of him, she played offher innocent graces with no reserve upon his mother. Wollaston didnot come in. He had gone to the city, but when he came home hismother told him of the call. 

"Those Edgham girls who used to live in Edgham, the one who teachesin your school, and her sister, called this afternoon, " said she. 

"Did they?" responded Wollaston. He turned a page of the eveningpaper. It was after dinner, and the mother and son were sitting in atiny room off the parlor, from which it was separated by some easternportieres. There was a fire on the hearth. The two windows, whichwere close together, were filled up with red and white geraniums. There was a red rug, and the walls were lined with books. Outside ithad begun to snow, and the flakes drifted past the windows filledwith red and white blossoms like a silvery veil of the storm. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Lee. Then she added, with a keen although covertglance at her son: "I like the younger sister. "

"She is considered quite a beauty, I believe, " said Wollaston. 

"Quite a beauty; she is a perfect beauty, " said his mother withemphasis. "It seemed to me I never had seen such a perfectlybeautiful, sweet girl. I declare, I actually wanted to take her in myarms. Anybody could live with that girl. As for her sister, I don'tlike her at all. "

Mrs. Lee was very like her son. She had the same square jaw andhandsome face, which had little of the truly feminine in it. Herclear blue eyes surveyed every new person with whom she came incontact in her new dwelling place, with impartial and pitilessscrutiny. When she liked people she said so. When she did not shealso said so, and, as far as she could, let them alone. When shespoke now, she looked as if Maria's face was actually before her. Shedid not frown, but her expression was one of complete hostility andunsparing judgment. 

"Why don't you like her?" asked her son, with his eyes upon his paper. 

"Why don't I like her? She is New England to the backbone, and onewho is New England to the backbone is insufferable. She is stiff andset in her ways. She would go to the stake for a fad, or send hernearest and dearest there. "

"She is a very good teacher, and the pupils like her, " saidWollaston. He kept his voice quite steady. 

"She may be a very good teacher, " said his mother. "I dare say sheis. I can't imagine anybody not learning a task which she set them, but I don't like her. "

"She is pretty--at least, she is called so, " said Wollaston. Then headded, with an impulse of loyalty: "I think myself that she is verypretty. "

"I don't call her at all pretty, " said his mother. "She has a nosewhich looks as if it could pierce fate, and she sets her mouth asthough she was deciding the laws of the universe. It is all very wellin a man, that kind of a face, but I can't call it pretty in a woman. "

Wollaston glanced at his mother, and an expression of covertamusement was on his face as he reflected that his mother herselfanswered her own description of poor Maria, and did not dream of it. In fact, the two, although one was partly of New England heritage, and the other of a wholly different, more southern State, they weretypically alike. They could meet only to love or quarrel; there couldnever be neutrality between them. Wollaston said no more, butcontinued reading his paper. He did not in reality sense one wordwhich he read. He acknowledged to himself that he was very unhappy. He was caught in a labyrinth from which he saw no way of escape intothe open. He realized that love for Maria had become almostimpossible--that is, spontaneous love--even if she should change herattitude towards him. He realized a lurking sense of guilt as to hissentiments towards Evelyn, and he realized also that his mother andMaria could never live together in peace. Once Mrs. Lee took adislike, her very soul fastened upon it as with a grip of iron jaws. Doubtless if she knew that her son was in honor bound to Maria shewould try to make the best of it, but the best of it would be badenough. He wondered while he sat with the paper before his face whatMaria's real attitude towards him was. He could not understand suchapparent inconsistencies in a woman of his mother's type, and he hadbeen almost sure that one night that Maria loved him. 

Chapter XXXV

Maria, after that call, faced her future course more fully than ever. She had disliked Mrs. Lee as much as Mrs. Lee had disliked her. Onlythe fact that she was Wollaston's mother made her endurable to her. 

"Isn't Mrs. Lee perfectly lovely?" said Evelyn, when she and Mariawere on their way home. 

"Yes, " Maria answered, but she did not think so. Mrs. Lee shone forher only with reflected glory. 

"I wonder where Mr. Lee was?" Evelyn murmured, timidly. 

"I don't know, " Maria said with an absent air. "We did not go to callon him. "

"Of course we didn't, " said Evelyn. "Don't be cross, sister. "

"I am not in the least cross, " Maria answered with perfect truth. 

"I didn't know but you were, you spoke so, " said Evelyn. She leanedwearily against her sister, and looked ahead with a hollow, wistfulexpression. 

Evelyn had grown thin and lost much of her color. Aunt Maria andEunice talked about it when they were alone. 

"I wonder if there is any consumption in her mother's family?" AuntMaria said. 

"I wonder, " said Eunice. "I don't like the way she looks. "

"Well, don't say anything about it to Maria, for she will worryherself sick, " said Aunt Maria. "She sets her eyes by Evelyn. "

"Don't you think she notices?"

"No, she hasn't said a word about it. "

But Aunt Maria was wrong. Maria had noticed. That afternoon, returning from Westbridge, she looked anxiously down at her sister. 

"Don't you feel well, dear?" she asked. 

"Perfectly well, " Evelyn replied languidly, "only I am a littletired. "

"Perhaps it is the spring weather, " said Maria. 

Evelyn nodded. It was the beginning of the spring term, and springcame like a flood that year. The trees fairly seemed to burst forthin green-and-rosy flames, and the shrubs in the door-yards bloomed soboldly that they shocked rather than pleased. 

"I like the spring to come slowly, so one does not feel choked withit, " Evelyn said after a little, as she gazed out of the window. "There are actually daisies in that field. They have come too soon. "Evelyn spoke with an absurd petulance which was unusual with her. 

Maria laughed. "Well, dear, we can't help it, " she said. 

"If this world is for people, and not the people for this world, itseems to me we ought to be able to help a little, " said Evelyn withperfectly unconscious heresy. "There it rained too much last week, and this week it is too hot, and the apple blossoms have come toosoon after the cherry blossoms. It is like eating all your candy inone big pill. "

Maria laughed again, but Evelyn sighed wearily. The car was very hotand close. 

"I shall be thankful when we get home, " Evelyn said. 

"Yes, you will feel better when you get home and have some supper, "said Maria. 

"I don't want any supper, " said Evelyn. 

"If you don't eat any supper you cannot study this evening. "

"I must study, " said Evelyn with a feverish light in her eyes. 

"You can't unless you eat. "

"Well, I will drink some milk, " said Evelyn. She was studying veryhard. She was very ambitious, both naturally and because of herfeeling for Wollaston Lee. It seemed to her that she should die ifshe did not stand well in her class. Evelyn had received so littlenotice from Wollaston that she had made up her mind that he did notcare for her, and the conviction was breaking her heart, but she saidto herself that she would graduate with honors that she might havethat much, that she must. 

The graduating with honors would have been easy to the girl, for shehad naturally a quick grasp of knowledge, but her failing health andher almost unconquerable languor made it hard for her to work asusual. However, she persisted. It became evident that she would standfirst among the girls of her class, and only second to one boy, whohad a large brain and little emotion, and was so rendered almostimpregnable. Ida sent Evelyn a graduating costume from Paris, and thegirl brightened a little after she had tried it on. She could notquite give up all hope of being loved when she saw herself in thatfluffy white robe, and looked over her slender shoulder at hergraceful train, and reflected how she would not only look pretty butacquit herself with credit. She said to herself that if she were aman she should love herself. There was about Evelyn an almost comicalnaivete and truthfulness. 

Ida also sent Maria a gown for the graduating exercises. Hers was apale blue, very pretty, but not as pretty as Evelyn's. The nightafter the gowns came Maria was startled by a sudden rush into herroom when she was almost asleep, and Evelyn nestling into her armsand sobbing out that she was sorry, she was sorry, but she could nothelp it. 

"Can't help what, darling?" said Maria. 

"Can't help being glad that my dress is so much prettier than yours, "wept Evelyn. "I am sorry, sister, but I can't help it, and I am soashamed I had to come in and tell you. "

Maria laughed and kissed her. "Sister is very glad yours is theprettiest, " she said. 

"Oh, I am so sorry I am so selfish, " sobbed Evelyn. Then she added, in a tiny whisper, "I know now he won't ever think of me, but I can'thelp being glad I shall look nice for him to see, anyway. "

Evelyn was asleep long before her sister. Maria lay awake, with thelittle, frail body in her arms, realizing with horror how very frailand thin it was. Evelyn was of the sort whom emotion can kill. Shewas being consumed like a lamp which needed oil. Love was for thegirl not only a need but a condition of life. Maria was realizing it. At the same time she said to herself that possibly after school wasover and Evelyn could rest she might regain her strength. Thereseemed to be no organic trouble. The local physician had beenconsulted, and said that nothing whatever was the matter, yet hadgone away with a grave face after prescribing a simple tonic. Thefact was that life was flickering low, as it sometimes does, with noostensible reason which science could grasp. Evelyn was beyondscience. She was assailed in that citadel of spirit which overlooksscience from the heights of eternity. No physician but fate itselfcould help her. 

All this time, while Maria was suffering as keenly as her sister, hersuffering left no evidence. She had inherited from her mother atremendous strength of will, which sustained her. She said to herselfthat she had her work to do, that her health must not fail. She saidthat probably Wollaston did not care for her, although she could nothelp thinking that she had the power to make him care, and that shewould be lacking in all that meant her true and best self should shegive way to her unhappiness and let it master her. She thereforemastered it. In those days to Maria, who had a ready imagination, herunhappiness seemed sometimes to assume a material shape like thefabulous dragon. She seemed to be fighting something with tooth andclaw, a monstrous verity; but she fought, and she kept the upperhand. Maria did not lose flesh. She ate as usual, she retained herinterest in her work, and all the time whenever a moment of solitudecame she renewed the conflict. She thought as little as possible ofWollaston; she avoided even looking at him. He thought that he reallywas an object of aversion to her. He began to question theadvisability of his retaining his position another year. He toldhimself that it was hardly fair to Maria to subject her to suchannoyance, that it was much easier for him to obtain another positionthan it was for her. He wanted to ask her with regard to it, but inthe days before commencement she so manifestly shrank from evenlooking at him that he hardly liked to approach her even with aquestion which concerned her own happiness. 

Wollaston in those days used sometimes to glance at Evelyn, andnotice how very thin and delicate she looked, and an anxiety whichwas almost paternal was over him. He used almost to wish that she wasnot so proficient in her studies. One day, meeting her in thevestibule when no one was in sight, he could not resist the impulsewhich led him to pat her little, dark, curly head and say, in a voicebroken with tenderness:

"Don't study too hard, little one. "

Evelyn gave an upward glance at him and ran away. Wollaston stoodstill a moment, dazed. He was not naturally a conceited man. Then, too, he had always regarded himself as so outside the pale that hedoubted the evidence of his own senses. If he had not been tied toEvelyn's sister he would have said to himself, in a rapture, thatthat look of the young girl's meant, could mean, only one thing: thatall her innocent heart was centred upon himself. It would havesavored no more of conceit that the seeing his face in a mirror. Hewould simply have thought it the truth. But now, since he was alwaysforgetting that other women did not know the one woman's secret, andlooked upon him as an unmarried man, and therefore a fit target fortheir innocent wiles, the preening of their dainty dove plumage, hesaid to himself that he must have been mistaken. That Evelyn hadlooked at him as she had done only because she was nervous andoverwrought, and the least thing was sufficient to disturb herequilibrium. 

However, he was very careful not to address Evelyn particularlyagain, but that one little episode had been sufficient for the girlto build another air castle upon. That night when she went home shewas radiant with happiness. Her color had returned, smiles lit herwhole face. Ineffable depths of delight sparkled in her eyes. Itseemed almost a sacrilege to look at the young girl, whose heart wasso plainly evident in her face. Maria looked at her, and felt a chillin her own heart. 

"Something must have happened, " she said to herself. She thought thatEvelyn would tell her, but she did not; she ate her supper with moreappetite than she had shown for many a week. Her gayety in theevening, when some neighbors came in, was so unrestrained andchildlike that it was fairly infectious. They sat out on the frontdoor-step. It had been a warm day, and the evening cool was welcomeand laughter floated out into the street. It was laughter overnothing, but irresistible, induced because of the girl's exuberantmood. She felt that night as if there was no meaning in the worldexcept happiness and fun. George Ramsey, going home about nineo'clock, heard the laughter, and shrugged his shoulders ratherbitterly. Lily had made him such a good wife, according to the tenetsof wifehood, that he had apparently no reason to complain. She wasalways perfectly amiable and affectionate, not violentlyaffectionate, but with the sort of affection which does not rufflelaces nor disarrange hair, and that he had always considered the mostdesirable sort of affection in the long-run. She and his mother goton very well also--that is, apparently. Lily, it was true, always hadher way, but she had it so gently and unobtrusively that one reallydoubted if she were not herself the conceder. She always looked thesame, she dressed daintily, and arranged her fair hair beautifully. George did not own to himself that sameness irritated him when it wassuch charming sameness. However, he did sometimes realize, andsternly put it away from him, a little sting when he happened to meetMaria. He had a feeling as if he had gone from a waxwork show and meta real woman. 

To-night when he heard the peals of laughter from the front door ofthe Stillman house he felt the sting again, and an unwarrantablechildish indignation as if he had been left out of something andslighted. He was conscious of wishing when he reached home that hiswife would greet him with a frown and reproaches; in fact, withsomething new, instead of her sweet, gentle smile of admiration, looking up from her everlasting embroidering, from where she satbeside the sitting-room lamp. George felt furious with her foradmiring him. He sat down moodily and took up the evening paper. Hismother was not there. She had gone to her room early with a headache. 

Finally, Lily remarked that it was a beautiful night, and it was asexactly what might have been expected from her flower-like lips asthe squeaking call for mamma of a talking doll. George almost grunteda response, and rattled his paper loudly. Lily looked at him with alittle surprise, but with unfailing love and admiration. George hadsometimes a feeling that if he were to beat her she would continue toadmire him and think it lovely of him. Lily had, in fact, the soul ofan Oriental woman in the midst of New England. She would have figuredadmirably in a harem. George, being Occidental to his heart's core, felt an exasperation the worse because it was needfully dumb, onaccount of this adoration. He thought less of himself because hiswife thought he could do no wrong. The power of doing wrong is, afterall, a power, and George had a feeling of having lost that power andof being in a negative way wronged. Finally he spoke crossly to Lilyover his newspaper. 

"Why do you stick so to that everlasting fancy-work?" said he. "Whyon earth don't you sometimes run out of an evening? You never go intothe next house nowadays. "

Lily arose directly. 

"We will go over there now if you wish, " said she. She laid down herwork and smoothed her hair with her doll-like gesture, which nevervaried. 

George looked at her surlily and irresolutely. 

"No, I guess we had better not to-night, " he said. 

"I had just as lief, dear. "

George rose, letting his paper slide to the floor. 

"Well, " he said, "they are all out on the front door-step, and Ithink some of the neighbors are there, too. We might run over amoment. It is too hot to stay in the house, anyway. "

But when George and Lily came alongside the Stillman house thelaughter was hushed, and there was a light in Aunt Maria's bedroom, and lights also in the chambers behind the drawn curtains. 

"We are too late, " said George. "They have gone to bed. "

"I think they have, " replied Lily, looking up at the lighted bedroomwindows. Then she added, "I will go over there any evening you wish, dear, " and looked at him with that unfailing devotion whichunreasonably angered him. 

He answered her quite roughly, and was ashamed of himself afterwards. 

"It is a frightfully monotonous life we lead anyhow, " said he, as ifshe, Lily, were responsible for it. 

"Suppose we go away a week somewhere next month, " said Lily. 

"Well, I'll think of it, " said he, striding along by her side. Eventhat suggestion, which was entirely reasonable, angered him, and hefelt furious and ashamed of himself for being so angered. 

Lily was constantly making him ashamed of himself for not being a godand for feeling unreasonable anger when she did nothing to provokeit. Once in a while a man likes to have a reasonable cause forresentment in order to prove himself in the right. 

"Well, I am ready to go whenever you wish to do so, dear, " said Lily. "My wardrobe is in order. "

"Well, we'll see, " George grunted again, as he and Lily retracedtheir steps. 

They sat down again in the sitting-room, and Lily took up herembroidery, and he read a murder case in his paper. 

Meanwhile, Maria, after putting out her lamp, was lying awake in bedthinking that Evelyn would come in and make some confidence to her, but she did not come. Maria felt horribly uneasy. She could notunderstand her sister's sudden change of mood, and yet she did notfor a moment doubt Wollaston. She said to herself that as far as shewas concerned she would brave the publicity if Wollaston lovedEvelyn, but she recalled as exactly as if she had committed them toheart what Evelyn had said with regard to divorce and the horrorwhich she had expressed of a divorced man or woman remarrying. Thenshe further considered how much worse it would be if the divorced manmarried her own sister. That course seemed to her impossible. Sheimagined the horrible details, the surmises, the newspaper articles, and she said to herself that even if she herself were willing to facethe ordeal it would be still more of an ordeal for Wollaston andEvelyn. She said to herself that it was impossible; then she alsosaid to herself, with no bitterness, but with an acquiescence in thelogic of it, that it would be much better for them all if she, Maria, should die. 

Chapter XXXVI

Evelyn's return of appetite and spirits endured only a few days. Thenshe seemed worse than she had been before. In fact, Wollaston, thinking that he had done wrong in yielding for only a second to hisimpulse of tender protection and admiration for the young girl, wenttoo far in the opposite direction. In order to make amends to Maria, himself, and Evelyn, he was actually rude, almost brutal. He scarcelyspoke to Evelyn. On one occasion he even reprimanded her severely ina class for a slight mistake. Evelyn turned pale, and gave him aglance like that of some pretty, little, harmless animal which hasnothing except love and devotion in its heart, and whose verymistakes are those of love and over-anxiety to please. Wollaston wasstruck to the heart by the look, but he did not relax one muscle ofhis stern face. 

"I think Mr. Lee treated you mean, so there, " Addie Hemingway said toEvelyn when they had left the room. 

Evelyn said nothing. Her face continued pale and shocked. It wasinconceivable to her that anybody, least of all Mr. Lee, could havespoken so to her. 

"He's treating you like a child, " Addie Hemingway continued. "Mr. Leehas no right to speak so to seniors. " Addie's words were inthemselves sympathetic, but there was an undertone of delight at theother girl's discomfiture in her voice which she could not eliminate. In reality she was saying to herself that Evelyn Edgham, in spite ofher being so pretty, had had to meet a rebuff, and she exulted in it. 

Evelyn still said nothing. She left Addie abruptly and joined Mariain her class-room. It was the noon-hour. Maria glanced anxiously ather sister as she entered. 

"Why, darling, what is the matter?" she cried. 

"Nothing, " replied Evelyn. An impulse of loyalty seized her. Shewould not repeat, not even to Maria, the unkind words which Mr. Leehad used towards her. 

"But you look so pale, dear, " said Maria. 

"It was warm in there, " said Evelyn, with a quiet, dejected airunusual to her. 

Maria could not get any admission that anything was wrong from her. Evelyn tried to eat her luncheon, making more of an effort thanusual, but she could not. At last she laid her head down on hersister's table and wept with the utter abandon of a child, but shestill would not tell what caused her tears. 

After that Evelyn lost flesh so rapidly that it became alarming. Maria and her aunt wondered if they ought to allow her to go throughthe strain of the graduation exercises, but neither dared sayanything about it to her. Evelyn's whole mind seemed fastened uponher graduation and the acquitting of herself with credit. She studiedassiduously. She often used to go into the spare chamber and gaze ather graduating dress, which was spread out on the bed there coveredwith a sheet. 

"She's so set on that graduation and wearing that dress, " Aunt Mariasaid to Eunice Stillman, her sister-in-law, one day when she wasalone with her in her parlor and heard Evelyn's light step overhead. "She goes in there almost every day and looks at it. "

Eunice sighed. "Well, I wish she looked better, " said she. 

"So do I. It seems to me that she loses every day. "

"Did you ever think--" began Eunice. Then she stopped and hesitated. 

"Think what?"

"If--anything happened to her, that that dress--"

"Oh, for the land sake, stop, Eunice!" cried Aunt Maria, impatiently. "Ain't I had it on my mind the whole time. And that dress looks justas if it was laid out there. "

"Do you think Maria notices?"

"Yes, she's just as worried as I am. But what can we do? Maybe ifEvelyn gets through the graduation she will be better. I shall bethankful when it's over, for my part. "

"How that child's mother could have gone off and left her all thistime I don't see, " Eunice said. "If I were in her place and anythinghappened to her, I should never forgive myself. "

"Trust Ida Slome to forgive herself for most anything, " Aunt Mariareturned, bitterly. "But as far as that goes, I guess the child hashad full as good care here as she would have had with her ma. "

"I guess so, too, " said Eunice; "better--only I should never forgivemyself. "

That was only a week before the graduation day, which was on aWednesday. It was a clear June day, with a sky of blue, veiled hereand there with wing-shaped clouds. It was quite warm. Evelyn dressedherself very early. She was ready long before it was time to take thecar. Evelyn, in her white graduating dress, was fairly angelic. Although she had lost so much flesh, it had not affected her beauty, only made it more touching. Her articulations and bones were sofairy-like and delicate that even with her transparent sleeved andnecked dress there were no unseemly protuberances. Her slenderness, moreover, was not so apparent in her fluffy gown. Above her necklaceof pink corals her lovely face showed. It was full of a gentle anduncomplaining melancholy, yet that day there was a tinge of hope init. The faintest and most appealing smile curved her lips. She lookedat everybody with a sort of wistful challenge. It was as if she said:"After all, am I not pretty, and worthy of being loved? Am I notworthy of being loved, even if I am not, and I have all my books inmy head, too?"

Maria had given her a bouquet of red roses. When Evelyn in her turncame forward to read her essay, holding her red roses, with red rosesof excitement burning on her delicate cheeks, there was a low murmurof admiration. Then it was that Maria, in her blue gown, seated amongthe other teachers, caught the look on Wollaston Lee's face. It wasunmistakable. It was a look of the utmost love and longing andadmiration, the soul of the man, for the minute, was plainly to beread. In a second, the look was gone, but Maria had seen. "He is inlove with her, " she told herself, "only he is so honorable that hechokes the love back. " Maria turned very pale, but she listened withsmiling lips to Evelyn's essay. It was very good, but not much beyondthe usual rate of such productions. Evelyn had nothing creative abouther, although she was even a brilliant scholar. But the charm of thatlittle flutelike voice, coming from that slight, white-clad beauty, made even platitudes seem like something higher than wisdom. 

When Evelyn had finished there was a great round of applause and ashower of flowers. She returned again and again, and bowed, smilingdelightedly. She was flushed with her triumph. She thought that evenMr. Lee must be pleased with her, if he did not love her, and beproud to have such a pupil. 

That evening there was to be a reception for the teachers, and thegraduating-class, at Mr. Lee's house. Evelyn and Maria had planned togo to one of the other teacher's, who lived in Westbridge, havesupper, and go from there to the reception. But when the exerciseswere over, and they had reached the teacher's home, Evelyn's strengthgave way. She had a slight fainting fit. The teacher, an elderlywoman who lived alone, gave her home-made wine and made her take offher dress, put on one of her own wrappers, and lie down and restuntil the last minute, in the hope that she would be able to go tothe reception. But it became evident that the girl was too exhausted. When Maria and the teacher were fastening her dress again, shefainted the second time. The teacher, who was a decisive woman, spoke. 

"There is no sense whatever in this child's leaving this houseto-night, " said she. "Maria, you go to the reception, and I will stayand take care of her. "

"No, " said Maria. "If Evelyn is not able to go, I think we had bettertake the trolley at once for home. " Maria was as decided as the otherteacher. When the white-clad graduates and the teachers weregathering at Wollaston Lee's, she and Evelyn boarded the trolley forAmity. Evelyn still held fast to her bouquet of red roses, and Mariawas laden with baskets and bouquets which had been strewn at hershrine. Evelyn leaned back in her seat, with her head resting againstthe window, and did not speak. All her animation of the morning hadvanished. She looked ghastly. Maria kept glancing furtively at her. She herself looked nearly as pale as Evelyn. She realized that shewas face to face with a great wall of problem. She was as unhappy asEvelyn, but she was stronger to bear unhappiness. She had philosophy, and logic, and her young sister was a creature of pure emotion, andat the same time she was so innocent and ignorant that she wascompletely helpless before it. Evelyn closed her eyes as she leanedagainst the window-frame, and a chill crept over her sister as shethought that she could not look much different if she were dead. Thencame to Maria the conviction that this sister's life meant more thananything else in the world to her. That she could bear the loss ofeverything rather than that, and when she too would not be able toavoid the sense of responsibility for it. If she had not been soheadlong and absurdly impetuous years ago, Evelyn might easily havebeen happy and lived. 

When they reached home, Aunt Maria, who had come on an earlier car, was already in her bedroom and the front-door was fastened and thesitting-room windows were dark. Maria knocked on the door, andpresently she heard footsteps, then Aunt Maria's voice, asking, withan assumption of masculine harshness, who were there. 

"It is only I and Evelyn, " replied Maria. 

Then the door was opened, and Aunt Maria, in her ruffled night-gownand cap, holding a streaming lamp, stood back hastily lest somebodysee her. "Come in and shut the door quick, for goodness sake!" saidshe. "I am all undressed. "

Maria and Evelyn went in, and Maria closed and locked the door. 

"What have you come home for?" asked Aunt Maria. "Why didn't you goto the reception, and stay at Miss Thomas's, the way you said youwere going to, I'd like to know?"

"Evelyn didn't feel very well, and I thought we'd better come home, "replied Maria, with a little note of evasion in her voice. 

Aunt Maria turned and looked sharply at Evelyn, who was leaningagainst the wall. She was faint again, and she looked, in her whitedress with her slender curves, like a bas-relief. "What on earth isthe matter with her?" asked Aunt Maria in her angry voice, which wasstill full of the most loving concern. She caught hold of Evelyn'sslight arm. "You are all tired out, just as I expected, " she said. "Icall the whole thing pure tomfoolery. If girls want to get educated, let them, but when it comes to making such a parade when they are allworn out with education there is no sense in it. Maria, you get herup-stairs to bed. "

Evelyn was too exhausted to make any resistance. She allowed Maria toassist her up-stairs and undress her. When her sister bent over herto kiss her good-night, she said, soothingly, "There now, darling; goto sleep. You will feel better now school is done and you will have achance to rest. "

But Evelyn responded with the weakest and most hopeless little sob. 

"Don't cry, precious, " said Maria. 

"Won't you tell if I tell you something?" said Evelyn, raisingherself on one slender arm. 

"No, dear. "

"Well--he does--care a good deal about me. I know now. I--I met himout in the grove after the exercises were over, and--there was nobodythere, and he--he caught hold of my arms, and, Maria, he looked atme, but--" Evelyn burst into a weak little wail. 

"What is it, dear?"

"Oh, I don't know what it is, but for some reason he thinks he can'ttell me. He did not say so, but he made me know, and--and oh, Maria, he is going away! He is not coming back to Westbridge at all. He isgoing to get another place!"

"Nonsense!"

"Yes, it is so. He said so. Oh, Maria! you will think I am dreadful, and I do love you and Aunt Maria and Uncle Henry and Aunt Eunice, butI can't help minding his going away where I can never see him, morethan anything else in the world. I can't help loving him most. I dofeel so very badly, sister, that I think I shall die. "

"Nonsense, darling. "

"Yes, I shall. And I am not ashamed now. I was ashamed because Ithought so much about a man who did not care anything about me, butnow I am not ashamed. I am just killed. A person is not to blame forbeing killed. I am not ashamed. I am killed. He is going away, and Ishall never see him again. The sight of him was something; I shallnot even have that. You don't know, sister. I don't love him for myown self, but for himself. Just the knowing he is near is something, and I shall not even have that. " Evelyn was too weak to crytumultuously, but she made little, futile moans, and clung to Maria'shand. Maria tried to soothe her, and finally the child, worn out, seemed to be either asleep or in the coma of exhaustion. 

Then Maria went into her own room. She undressed, and sat down besidethe window with a wrapper over her night-gown. Now she had to solveher problem. She began as she might have done with a problem inhigher algebra, this problem of the human heart and its emotions. Shesaid to herself that there were three people. Evelyn, Wollaston andherself, three known quantities, and an unknown quantity ofhappiness, and perhaps life itself, which must be evolved from them. She eliminated herself and her own happiness not with any particularrealization of self-sacrifice. She came of a race of women to whomself-sacrifice was more natural than self-gratification. She wasunhappy, but there was no struggle for happiness to render theunhappiness keener. She thought first of Evelyn. She loved Wollaston. Maria reasoned, of course, that she was very young. This first lovemight not be her only one, but the girl's health might break underthe strain, and she took into consideration, as she had often done, the fairly abnormal strength of Evelyn's emotional nature in a slightand frail young body. Evelyn was easily one who might die because ofa thwarted love. Then Maria thought of Wollaston, and, loving him asshe did, she acknowledged to herself coolly that he was the first tobe considered, his happiness and well being. Even if Evelyn did breakher heart, the man must have the first consideration. She tried tojudge fairly as to whether she or Evelyn would on the whole be thebest for him. She estimated herself, and she estimated Evelyn, andshe estimated the man. Wollaston Lee was a man of a strong nature, she told herself. He was capable of self-restraint, of holding hishead up from his own weaknesses forever. Maria reasoned that if hehad been a weaker man she would have loved him just the same, and inthat case Evelyn would have been the one to be sacrificed. Shethought that a girl like Evelyn would not have been such a good wifefor a weak man as she herself, who was stronger. But Wollaston didnot need any extraneous strength. On the contrary, some one who wasweaker than he might easily strengthen his strength. It seemed to herthat Evelyn was distinctly better for the man than she. Then sheremembered the look which she had seen on his face when Evelyn beganher essay that day. 

"If he does not love her now it is because he is bound to me, " shethought. "He would most certainly love her if it were not for me. "

Again it seemed to Maria distinctly better that she should die, better--that is, for Evelyn and the man. But she had the thought, with no morbid desire for suicide or any bitterness. It simply seemedto her as if her elimination would produce that desirable unknownquantity of happiness. 

Elimination and not suicide seemed to her the only course for her topursue. She sat far into the night thinking it over. She had greatimagination and great daring. Things were possible to her which wouldnot have been possible to many--that is, she considered things aspossibilities which would have seemed to many simply vagaries. Shethought of them seriously, with a belief in their fulfilment. It wasalmost morning, the birds had just begun to sing in scatteringflute-like notes, when she crept into bed. 

She hardly slept at all. She heard the gathering chorus of the birds, in a half doze, until seven o'clock. Then she got up and dressedherself. She peeped cautiously into Evelyn's room. The girl wassleeping, her long, dark lashes curled upon her wan cheeks. Shelooked ghastly, yet still lovely. Maria looked at her, and her mouthcompressed. Then she turned away. She crept noiselessly down thestairs and into the kitchen where Aunt Maria was preparing breakfast. The stove smoked a little and the air was blue. 

"How is she?" asked Aunt Maria, in a hushed voice. 

"She is fast asleep. "

"Better let her sleep just as long as she will, " said Aunt Maria. "These exhibitions are pure tomfoolery. She is just tuckered out. "

"Yes, I think she is, " said Maria. 

Aunt Maria looked keenly at her, and her face paled and lengthened. 

"Maria Edgham, what on earth is the matter with _you?_" she said. "You look as bad as she does. Between both of you I am at my wit'send. "

"Nothing ails me, " said Maria. 

"Nothing ails you? Look at yourself in the glass there. "

Maria stole a look at herself in a glass which hung over thekitchen-table, and she hardly knew her own face, it had gathered sucha strange fixedness of secret purpose. That had altered it more thanher pallor. Maria tried to smile and say again that nothing ailedher, but she could not. Suddenly a tremendous pity for her aunt cameover her. She had not thought so much about that. But now she lookedat things from her aunt's point of view, and she saw the pain towhich the poor old woman must be put. She saw no way of avoiding thegiving her the pain, but she suffered it herself. She went up to AuntMaria and kissed her. 

Aunt Maria started back, and rubbed her face violently. "What did youdo that for?" said she, in a frightened voice. Then she noticedMaria's dress, which was one which she seldom wore unless she wasgoing out. "What have you got on your brown suit for this morning?"said she. 

"I thought I would go down to the store after breakfast and get someembroidery silk for that centre-piece, " replied Maria. 

As she spoke she seemed to realize what a little thing a lie was, andhow odd it was that she should realize it, who had been brought up tospeak the truth. 

"Your gingham would have been enough sight better to have worn thishot morning, " said Aunt Maria, still with that air of terror andsuspicion. 

"Oh, this dress is light, " replied Maria, going out. 

"Where are you going now?"

"Into the parlor. "

Aunt Maria stood still, listening, until she heard the parlor dooropen. She was still filled with vague suspicion. She did not hearquite as acutely as formerly, and Maria had no difficulty aboutleaving the parlor unheard the second after she entered it, andgetting her hat and coat and a small satchel which she had broughtdown-stairs with her from the hat-tree in the entry. Then she openedthe front door noiselessly and stole out. She went rapidly down thestreet in the direction of the bridge, which she had been accustomedto cross when she taught school in Amity. She met Jessy Ramsey, nowgrown to be as tall as herself, and pretty with a half-starved, pathetic prettiness. Jessy was on her way to work. She went out bythe day, doing washings. She stopped when she met Maria, and gave alittle, shy look--her old little-girl look--at her. Maria alsostopped. "Good-morning, Jessy, " said she. Then she asked how she was, if her cough was better, and where she was going to work. Then, suddenly, to Jessy's utter amazement and rapture, she kissed her. "Inever forget what a good little girl you were, " said she, and wasgone. Jessy stood for a moment staring after her. Then she wiped hereyes and proceed to her scene of labor. 

Maria went to the railroad station. She was just in time for a train. She got on the rear car and sat in the last seat. She looked aboutand did not see anybody whom she knew. She recalled how she had runaway before, and how Wollaston had brought her back. She knew that itwould not happen so again. She was on a through train which did notstop at the station where he had found her. When the train slowed upa little in passing that station, she saw the bench on the platformwhere she had sat, and a curious sensation came over her. She waslike one who has made the leap and realizes that there is nothingmore to dread, and who gets even a certain abnormal pleasure from thesensation. When the conductor came through the car she purchased herticket for New York, and asked when the train was due in the city. When she learned that it was due at an hour so late that it would beimpossible for her to go, as she had planned, to Edgham that night, she did not, even then, for the time being, feel in the leastdismayed. She had plenty of money. Her last quarter's salary was inher little satchel. The train was made up of Pullmans only, and itwas by a good chance that she had secured a seat. She gazed out ofthe large window at the flying landscape, and again that sense ofpleasure in the midst of pain was over her. The motion itself wasexhilarating. She seemed to be speeding past herself and her ownanxieties, which suddenly appeared as petty and evanescent as theflying telegraph-poles along the track. "It has to be over sometime, " she reflected. "Nothing matters. " She felt comforted by arealization of immensity and the continuance of motion. Shecomprehended her own atomic nature in the great scheme of things. Shehad never done so before. Her own interests had always loomed upbefore her like a beam in the eye of God. Now she saw that they wereinfinitesimal, and the knowledge soothed her. She leaned her headback and dozed a little. She was awakened by the porter thrusting amenu into her hands. She ordered something. It was not servedpromptly, and she had no appetite. There was some tea which tasted ofsoap. 

Chapter XXXVII

There were very few people in this car, for the reason that there hadrecently been a terrible rear-end collision on the road, and peoplehad flocked into the forward cars. There were three young girls whofilled the car with chatter, and irritated Maria unreasonably. Theywere very pretty and well dressed, and with no reserve. They were asinconsequently confidential about their own affairs as so manysparrows, but more intelligible. One by one the men left and wentinto the smoker, before this onslaught of harsh trebles shriekingabove the roar of the train, obtruding their little, bird-likeaffairs, their miniature hoppings upon the stage of life, upon all inthe car. 

Finally, there were none left in the car except Maria, these younggirls, an old lady, who accosted the conductors whenever they enteredand asked when the train was due in New York (a tremulous, vibratoryold lady in antiquated frills and an agitatedly sidewise bonnet, andloose black silk gloves), and across the aisle a tiny, deformedwoman, a dwarf, in fact, with her maid. This little woman was richlydressed, and she had a fine face. She was old enough to be Maria'smother. Her eyes were dark and keen, her forehead domelike, and hersquare, resigned chin was sunken in the laces at her throat. Her maidwas older than she, and waited upon her with a faithful solicitude. The little woman had some tea, which the maid produced from a smallsilver caddy in a travelling-bag, and the porter, with an obsequiousair, brought boiling water in two squat, plated tea-pots. It was thetea which served to introduce Maria. She had just pushed aside, withan air half of indifference, half of disgust, her own luke-warmconcoction flavored with soap, when the maid, at her mistress'sorder, touched the bell. When the porter appeared, Maria heard thedwarf ask for another pot of boiling water, and presently the maidstood beside her with a cup of fragrant tea. 

"Miss Blair wishes me to ask if you will not drink this instead ofthe other, which she fears is not quite satisfactory, " the maid said, in an odd, acquired tone and manner of ladyism, as if she wererepeating a lesson, yet there seemed nothing artificial about it. Sheregarded Maria with a respectful air. Maria looked across at thedwarf woman, who was looking at her with kindly eyes which yet seemedaloof, and a half-sardonic, half-pleasant smile. 

Maria thanked her and took the tea, which was excellent, andrefreshed her. The maid returned to her seat, facing her mistress. They had finished their luncheon. She leaned back in her chair with ablank expression of face. The dwarf looked out of the window, andthat same half-pleasant, half-sardonic smile remained upon her face. It was as if she regarded all nature with amused acquiescence andsarcasm, at its inability to harm her, although it had made theendeavor. 

Maria glanced at her very rich black attire, and a great pearl crosswhich gleamed at her throat, and she wondered a little about her. Then she turned again to the flying landscape, and again that senseof unnatural peace came over her. She did not think of Evelyn andWollaston, or her aunts and uncle, whom she was leaving, except withthe merest glance of thought. It was as if she were already inanother world. 

The train sped on, and the girls continued their chatter, and theirhigh-shrieking trebles arose triumphant above all the clatter. It wasAmerican girlhood rampant on the shield of their native land. Stillthere was something about the foolish young faces and the inanechatter and laughter which was sweet and even appealing. They becameattractive from their audaciousness and their ignorance that theywere troublesome. Their confidence in the admiration of all who sawand heard almost compelled it. Their postures, their crossing theirfeet with lavish displays of lingerie and dainty feet and hose, waspossibly the very boldness of innocence, although Maria now and thenglanced at them and thought of Evelyn, and was thankful that she wasnot like them. 

The little dwarf also glanced now and then at them with her pleasantand sardonic smile and with an unruffled patience. She seemed eitherto look up from the depths of, or down from the heights of, herdeformity upon them, and to hardly sense them at all. None of the menreturned until a large city was reached, where some of them were toget off. Then they lounged into the car, were brushed, took theirsatchels, and when the train reached the station swung out, with theunfailing trebles still in their ears. 

Before the train reached New York, all the many appurtenances hadvanished from the car. The chattering girls also had alighted at astation, with a renewed din like a flock of birds, and there werethen left in the rear car only Maria, the dwarf woman, and her maid. 

It was not until the train was lighted, and she could no longer seeanything from the window except signal-lights and lighted windows oftowns through which they whirled, that Maria's unnatural mooddisappeared. Suddenly she glanced around the lighted car, and terrorseized her. She was no longer a very young girl; she had muchstrength of character, but she was unused to the world. For the firsttime she seemed to feel the cold waters of it touch her very heart. She thought of the great and terrible city into which she was tolaunch herself late at night. She considered that she knew absolutelynothing about the hotels. She even remembered, vaguely, having heardthat no unattended woman was admitted to one, and then she had nobaggage except her little satchel. She glanced at herself in thelittle glass beside her seat, and her pretty face all at onceoccurred to her as being a great danger rather than an advantage. Nowshe wished for her aunt Maria's face instead of her own. She imaginedthat Aunt Maria might have no difficulty even under the same adversecircumstances. She looked years younger than she was. She thought fora moment of going into the lavatory and rearranging her hair, with aview to making herself look plain and old, as she had done before, but she recalled the enormous change it had made in her appearance, and she was afraid to do that lest it should seem a suspiciouscircumstance to the conductors and her fellow-passengers. She glancedacross the aisle at the dwarf woman, and their eyes met, and suddenlya curious sort of feeling of kinship came over the girl. Here wasanother woman outside the pale of ordinary life by physicalconditions, as she herself was by spiritual ones. The dwarf's eyeslooked fairly angelic and heavenly to her. She saw her speak in awhisper to her maid, and the woman immediately arose and came to her. 

"Miss Blair wishes me to ask if you will be so kind as to go andspeak to her; she has something which she wishes to say to you, " shesaid, in the same parrot-like fashion. 

Maria arose at once, and crossed the aisle and seated herself in thechair which the maid vacated. The maid took Maria's at a nod from hermistress. 

The little woman looked at Maria for a moment with her keen, kindeyes and her peculiar smile deepened. Then she spoke. "What is thematter?" she asked. 

Maria hesitated. 

The dwarf looked across at her maid. "She will not understandanything you say, " she remarked. "She is well trained. She can hearwithout hearing--that is her great accomplishment. "

Still Maria said nothing. 

"You got on at Amity, " said the dwarf. "Is that where you live?"

"Yes. "

"What is your name?"

Maria closed her mouth firmly. 

The dwarf laughed. "Oh, very well, " said she. "If you do not chooseto tell it, I can. Your name is Ackley--Elizabeth Ackley. I am gladto meet you, Miss Ackley. "

Maria paled a little, but she said nothing to disapprove thisextraordinary statement. 

"My name is Blair--Miss Rosa Blair, " said the dwarf. "I am a rose, but I happened to bloom outside the pale. " She laughed gayly, butMaria's eyes upon her were pitiful. "You are also outside the pale insome way, " said Miss Blair. "I always know such people when I meetthem. There is an affinity between them and myself. The moment I sawyou I said to myself: she also is outside the pale, she also hasescaped from the garden of life. Well, never mind, child; it is notso very bad outside when one becomes accustomed to it. I am. Perhapsyou have not had time; but you will have. What is the matter?"

"I am running away, " replied Maria then. 

"Running away! From what?"

"It is better for me to be away, " said Maria, evading the question. "It would be better if I were dead. "

"But you are not, " said the dwarf, with a quick movement almost ofalarm. 

"No, " said Maria; "and I see no reason why I shall not live to be anold woman. "

"I don't either, " said Miss Blair. "You look healthy. You say, betterif you were dead--better for whom, yourself or others?"

"Others. "

"Oh!" said Miss Blair. She remained quietly regardful of Maria for alittle while, then she spoke again. "Where are you going when youreach New York?" she asked. 

"I was going out to Edgham, but I shall miss the last train, and Ishall have to go to a hotel, " replied Maria, and she looked at thedwarf with an expression of almost childish terror. 

"Don't you know that it may be difficult for a young girl alone? Haveyou any baggage?"

Maria looked at her little satchel, which she had left beside herformer chair. 

"Is that all?" asked Miss Blair. 

"Yes. "

"You must certainly not think of trying to go to a hotel at this timeof night, " said the dwarf. "You must go home with me. I am entirelysafe. Even your mother would trust you with me, if you have one. "

"I have not, nor father, either, " replied Maria. "But I am not afraidto trust you for myself. "

A pleased expression transfigured Miss Blair's face. "You do notdistrust me and you do not shrink from me?" she said. 

"No, " replied Maria, looking at her with indescribable gratitude. 

"Then it is settled, " said the dwarf. "You will come home with me. Iexpect my carriage when we arrive at the station. You will beentirely safe. You need not look as frightened as you did a fewmoments ago again. Come home with me to-night; then we will see whatcan be done. "

Miss Blair turned her face towards the window. Her big chair almostswallowed her tiny figure, the sardonic expression had entirely lefther face, which appeared at once noble and loving. Maria gazed at heras she sat so, with an odd, inverted admiration. It seemedextraordinary to her she should actually admire any one like thisdeformed little creature, but admire her she did. It was as if shesuddenly had become possessed of a sixth sense for an enormity ofbeauty beyond the usual standards. 

Miss Blair glanced at her and saw the look in her eyes, and a look oftriumph came into her own. She bent forward towards Maria. 

"You are sheltering me as well as I am sheltering you, " she said, ina low voice. 

Maria did not know what to say. Miss Blair leaned back again andclosed her eyes, and a look of perfect peace and content was on herface. 

It was not long before the train rolled into the New York tunnel. Miss Blair's maid rose and took down her mistress's travelling cloakof black silk, which she brushed with a little, ivory brush takenfrom her travelling-bag. 

"This young lady is going home with us, Adelaide, " said Miss Blair. 

"Yes, ma'am, " replied the maid, without the slightest surprise. 

She took Maria's coat from the hook where it swung, and brushed italso, and assisted her to put it on before the porter entered the car. 

Maria felt again in a daze, but a great sense of security was overher. She had not the slightest doubt of this strange little creaturewho was befriending her. She felt like one who finds a ledge ofsafety on a precipice where he had feared a sheer descent. She wascontent to rest awhile on the safe footing, even if it were onlytransient. 

When they alighted from the train at the station a man in livery metthem and assisted Miss Blair down the steps with obsequiousness. 

"How do you do, James?" said Miss Blair, then went on to ask the manwhat horses were in the carriage. 

"The bays, Miss Blair, " replied the man, respectfully. 

"I am glad of that, " said his mistress, as she went along theplatform. "I was afraid Alexander might make a mistake and put inthose new grays. I don't like to drive with them at night very well. "Then she said to Maria: "I am very nervous about horses, Miss Ackley. You may wonder at it. You may think I have reached the worst andought to fear nothing, but there are worsts beyond worsts. "

"Yes, " Maria replied, vaguely. She kept close to Miss Blair. Sherealized what an agony of fear she should have felt in that murkystation with the lights burning dimly through the smoke and thestrange sights and outcries all around her. 

Miss Blair's carriage was waiting, and Maria saw, half-comprehendingly, that it was very luxurious indeed. She enteredwith Miss Blair and her maid, then after a little wait for baggagethey drove away. 

When the carriage stopped, the footman assisted Maria out after MissBlair, and she followed her conductress's tiny figure toiling ratherpainfully on the arm of her maid up the steps. She entered the house, and stood for a second fairly bewildered. 

Maria had seen many interiors of moderate luxury, but never anythinglike this. For a second her attention was distracted from everythingexcept the wonderful bizarre splendor in which she found herself. Itwas not Western magnificence, but Oriental; hangings of the richestEastern stuffs, rugs, and dark gleams of bronzes and dull lights ofbrass, and the sheen of silken embroideries. 

When Maria at last recovered herself and turned to Miss Blair, to herastonishment she no longer seemed as deformed as she had been on thetrain. She fitted into this dark, rich, Eastern splendor as amisformed bronze idol might have done. Miss Blair gave a little, shrewd laugh at Maria's gaze, then she spoke to another maid who hadappeared when the door opened. 

"This is my friend Miss Ackley, Louise, " she said. "Take her to thewest room, and call down and have a supper tray sent to her. " Thenshe said to Maria that she must be tired, and would prefer going atonce to her room. "I am tired myself, " said Miss Blair. "Such personsas I do not move about the face of the earth with impunity. There isa wear and tear of the soul and the body when the body is so smallthat it scarcely holds the soul. You will have your supper sent up, and your breakfast in the morning. At ten o'clock I will sendAdelaide to bring you to my room. " She bade Maria good-night, and thegirl followed the maid, stepping into an elevator on one side of thevestibule. She had a vision of Miss Blair's tiny figure with Adelaidemoving slowly upward on the other side. 

Maria reflected that she was glad that she had her toilet articlesand her night-dress at least in her satchel. She felt the maidlooking at her, although her manner was very much like Adelaide's. She wondered what she would have thought if she had not at least hadher simple necessaries for the night when she followed her into aroom which seemed to her fairly wonderful. It was a white room. Thewalls were hung with paper covered with sheafs of white lilies; whitefur rugs--wolf-skins and skins of polar bears--were strewn over thepolished white floor. All the toilet articles were ivory and thefurniture white, with decorations of white lilies and silver. In onecorner stood a bed of silver with white draperies. Beyond, Maria hada glimpse of a bath in white and silver, and a tiny dressing-roomwhich looked like frost-work. When the maid left her for a momentMaria stood and gazed breathless. She realized a sort of delight inexternals which she had never had before. The externals seemed to befarther-reaching. There was something about this white, virgin roomwhich made it seem to her after her terror on the train like heaven. A sense of absolute safety possessed her. It was something to havethat, although she was doing something so tremendous to herself-consciousness that she felt like a criminal, and the ache in herheart for those whom she had left never ceased. The maid brought in atray covered with dainty dishes of white and silver and a littleflask of white wine. Then, after Maria had refused furtherassistance, she left her. Maria ate her supper. She was in realityhalf famished. Then she went to bed. Nestling in her white bed, looking out of a lace-curtained window opposite through which camethe glimpse of a long line of city lights, Maria felt more than everas if she were in another world. She felt as if she were gazing ather past, at even her loves of life, through the wrong end of atelescope. 

The night was very warm but the room was deliciously cool. A breathof sweet coolness came from one of the walls. Maria, contrary to herwont, fell asleep almost immediately. She was exhausted, and anunusual peace seemed to soothe her very soul. She felt as if she hadreally died and gotten safe to Heaven. She said her prayers, then shewas asleep. She awoke rather late the next morning, and took herbath, and then her breakfast was brought. When that was finished andshe was dressed, it was ten o'clock, and the maid Adelaide came totake her to her hostess. Maria went down one elevator and up another, the one in which she had seen Miss Blair ascend the night before. Then she entered a strange room, in the midst of which sat MissBlair. To Maria's utter amazement, she no longer seemed in the leastdeformed, she no longer seemed a dwarf. She was in perfect harmonywith the room, which was low-ceiled, full of strange curves and lowfurniture with curved backs. It was all Eastern, as was the firstfloor of the house. Maria understood with a sort of intuition thatthis was necessary. The walls were covered with Eastern hangings, tables of lacquer stood about filled with squat bronzes and gemlikeivory carvings. The hangings were all embroidered in short curveeffects. Maria realized that her hostess, in this room, made more ofa harmony than she herself. She felt herself large, coarse, andcommon where she should have been tiny, bizarre, and, according tothe usual standard, misformed. Miss Blair had planned for herself aroom wherein everything was misformed, and in which she herself wasin keeping. It had been partly the case on the first floor of thehouse. Here it was wholly. Maria sat down in one of the squat, curved-back chairs, and Miss Blair, who was opposite, looked at her, then laughed with the open delight of a child. 

"What a pity I cannot make the whole earth over to suit me, " shesaid, "instead of only this one room! Now I look entirely perfect toyou, do I not?"

"Yes, " Maria replied, looking at her with wonder. 

"It is my vanity room, " said Miss Blair, and she laughed as if shewere laughing at herself. Then she added, with a little pathos, "Youyourself, if you had been in my place, would have wanted one littlecorner in which you could be perfect. "

"Yes, I should, " said Maria. As she spoke she settled herself downlower in her chair. 

"Yes, you do look entirely too tall and straight in here, " said MissBlair, and laughed again, with genuine glee. "Beauty is only a matterof comparison, you know, " said she. "If one is ugly and misshapen, all she has to do is to surround herself with things ugly andmisshapen, and she gets the effect of perfect harmony, which is thehighest beauty in the world. Here I am in harmony after I have beenout of tune. It is a comfort. But, after all, being out of tune isnot the worst thing in the world. It might be worse. I would not makethe world over to suit me, but myself to suit the world, if I could. After all, the world is right and I am wrong, but in here I seem tobe right. Now, child, tell me about yourself. "

Maria told her. She left nothing untold. She told her about herfather and mother, her step-mother, and Evelyn, and her marriage, andhow she had planned to go to Edgham, get the little sum which herfather had deposited in the savings-bank for her, and then vanish. 

"How?" asked Miss Blair. 

Maria confessed that she did not know. 

"Of course your mere disappearance is not going to right things, youknow, " said Miss Blair. "That matrimonial tangle can only bestraightened by your death, or the appearance of it. I do not supposeyou meditate the stereotyped hat on the bank, and that sort of thing. "

"I don't know exactly what to do, " said Maria. 

"You are quite right in avoiding a divorce, " said Miss Blair, "especially when your own sister is concerned. People would neverbelieve the whole truth, but only part of it. The young man would beruined, too. The only way is to have your death-notice appear in thepaper. "

"How?"

"Everything is easy, if one has money, " said Miss Blair, "and I havereally a good deal. " She looked thoughtfully at Maria. "Did youreally care for that young man?" she asked. 

Maria paled. "I thought so, " she said. 

"Then you did. "

"It does not make any difference if I did, " said Maria, with a littleindignation. She felt as if she were being probed to herheart-strings. 

"No, of course it does not, " Miss Blair agreed directly. "If he andyour sister have fallen in love, as you say, you have done obviouslythe only thing to do. We will have the notice in the papers. I don'tknow quite how I shall arrange it; but I have a fertile brain. "

Maria looked hesitatingly at her. "But it will not be telling thetruth, " she said. 

"But what did you plan to do, if you told the truth when you cameaway?" asked Miss Blair with a little impatience. 

"I did not really plan anything, " replied Maria helplessly. "I onlythought I would go. "

"You are inconsequential, " said Miss Blair. "You cannot start upon atrain of sequences in this world unless you go on to the bitter end. Besides, after all, why do you object to lying? I suppose you werebrought up to tell the truth, and so was I, and I really think Ivenerate the truth more than anything else, but sometimes a lie isthe highest truth. See here. You are willing to bear all thepunishment, even fire and brimstone, and so on, if your sister andthis man whom you love, are happy, aren't you?"

"Of course, " replied Maria. 

"Well, if you tell a lie which can hurt only yourself, and blessothers, and are willing to bear the punishment for it, you aretelling the truth like the angels. Don't you worry, my dear. But youmust not go to Edgham for that money. I have enough for us both. "

"I have nearly all my last term's salary, except the sum I paid formy fare here, " Maria said, proudly. 

"Well, dear, you shall spend it, and then you shall have some ofmine. "

"I don't want any money, except what I earn, " Maria said. 

"You may read to me, and earn it, " Miss Blair said easily. "Don'tfret about such a petty thing. Now, will you please touch that bell, dear. I must go and arrange about our passage. "

"Our passage?" repeated Maria dully. 

"Yes; to-day is Thursday. We can catch a Saturday steamer. We can buyanything which you need ready-made in the way of wearing-apparel, andget the rest on the other side. "

Maria gasped. She was very white, and her eyes were dilated. Shestared at Miss Rosa Blair, who returned her stare with curiousfixedness. Maria seemed to see depths within depths of meaning in hergreat dark eyes. A dimness swept over her own vision. 

"Touch the bell, please, dear, " said Miss Blair. 

Maria obeyed. She touched the bell. She was swept off her feet. Shehad encountered a will stronger than any which she had ever known, awill which might have been strengthened by the tininess of the bodyin which its wings were bent, but always beating for flight. And shehad encountered this will at a moment when her own was weakened andher mind dazed by the unprecedented circumstances in which she wasplaced. 

Chapter XXXVIII

Three days later, when they were on the outward-bound steamer, MissRosa Blair crossed the corridor between her state-room, which sheoccupied with her maid, to Maria's, and stood a moment looking downat the girl lying in her berth. Maria was in that state of liabilityto illness which keeps one in a berth, although she was not actuallysea-sick. 

"My dear, " said Miss Blair. "I think I may as well tell you now. Inthe night's paper before we left, I saw the death-notice of a certainMaria Edgham, of Edgham, New Jersey. There were some particularswhich served to establish the fact of the death. You will not beinterested in the particulars?"

Maria turned her pale face towards the port-hole, against whichdashed a green wave topped with foam. "No, " said she. 

"I thought you would not, " said Miss Blair. "Then there is somethingelse. "

Maria waited quiescent. 

"Your name is on the ship's list of passengers as Miss ElizabethBlair. You are my adopted daughter. "

Maria started. 

"Adelaide does not remember that you were called Miss Ackley, " saidMiss Blair. "She will never remember that you were anything except myadopted daughter. She is a model maid. As for the others, Louise is amodel, too, and so is the coachman. The footman is discharged. Whenwe return, nobody in my house will have ever known you except asElizabeth Blair. " Miss Blair went out of the state-room walkingeasily with the motion of the ship. She was a good sailor. 

The next afternoon Maria was able to sit out on deck. She leaned backin her steamer-chair, and wept silently. Miss Blair stood at a littledistance near the rail, talking to an elderly gentleman whom she hadmet years ago. "She is my adopted daughter Elizabeth, " said MissBlair. "She has been a little ill, but she is much better. She isfeeling sad over the death of a friend, poor child. "

It was a year before Maria and Miss Blair returned to the UnitedStates. Maria looked older, although she was fully as handsome as shehad ever been. Her features had simply acquired an expression ofdecision and of finish, which they had not before had. She alsolooked more sophisticated. It had been on her mind that she mightpossibly meet her step-mother abroad, but she had not done so; andone day Miss Blair had shown her a London newspaper in which was thenotice of Ida's marriage to a Scotchman. "We need not go toScotland, " said Miss Blair. 

The day after they landed was very warm. They had gone straight toMiss Blair's New York house; later they were to go to the sea-shore. The next morning Maria went into Miss Blair's vanity room, as shecalled it, and a strange look was on her face. "I have made up mymind, " said she. 

"Well?" Miss Blair said, interrogatively. 

"I cannot let him commit bigamy. I cannot let my sister marry--myhusband. I cannot break the laws in such a fashion, nor allow them todo so. "

"You break no moral law. "

"I am not so sure. I don't know where the dividing-line between themoral and the legal comes. "

"Then--?"

"I am going to take the train to Amity this noon. "

Miss Blair turned slightly pale, but she regarded Mariaunflinchingly. "Very well, " said she. "I have always told you that Iwould not oppose you in any resolution which you might make in thematter. "

"It is not because I love him, " said Maria. "I do love him; I think Ialways shall. But it is not because of that. "

"I know that. What do you propose doing after you have disclosedyourself?"

"Tell the truth. "

"And then what?"

"I shall talk the matter over with Wollaston and Evelyn, and I thinkthey can be made to see that a quiet divorce will straighten it allout. "

"Not as far as the man's career is concerned, if he marries yoursister, and not so far as your sister is concerned. People are proneto believe the worst, as the sparks fly upward. "

"Then they will, " Maria said, obstinately. "I have made up my mind Idare not undertake the responsibility. "

"What will you do afterwards, come back to me?" Miss Blair said, wistfully. "You will come back, will you not, dear?"

"If you wish, " Maria said, with a quick, loving glance at her. 

"If I wish!" repeated Miss Blair. "Well, go if you must. "

Maria did not reach Amity until long after dark. Behind her on thetrain were two women who got on at the station before Amity. She didnot know them, and they did not know her, but they presently begantalking about her. "I saw Miss Maria Stillman at the Ordination inWestbridge, Wednesday, " said one to the other. This woman had acuriously cool, long-reaching breath when she spoke. Maria felt itlike a fan on the back of her neck. 

The other woman, who was fat, responded with a wheezy voice. "It wasqueer about that niece of hers, who taught school in Westbridge, running away and dying so dreadful sudden, wasn't it?" said she. 

"Dreadful queer. I guess her aunt and sister felt pretty bad aboutit, and I s'pose they do now; but it's a year ago, and they've leftoff their mourning. "

"Of course, " said the other woman. "They would leave it off onaccount of--"

Maria did not hear what followed, for a thundering freight-trainpassed them and drowned the words. After the train passed, the fatwoman was saying, with her wheezy voice, "Mr. Lee's mother's deathwas dreadful sudden, wasn't it?"

"Dreadful. "

"I wonder if he likes living in Amity as well as Westbridge?"

"I shouldn't think he would, it isn't as convenient to the academy. "

"Well, maybe he will go back to Westbridge after a while, " said theother woman, and again her breath fanned Maria's neck. 

She wondered what it meant. A surmise came to her, then she dismissedit. She was careful to keep her back turned to the women when thetrain pulled into Amity. She had no baggage except a suit-case. Shegot off the train, and disappeared in the familiar darkness. All atonce it seemed to her as if she had returned from the unreal to thereal, from fairy-land to the actual world. The year past seemed likea dream to her. She could not believe it. It was like that fact whichis stranger than fiction, and therefore almost impossible even towrite, much less to live. Miss Rosa Blair, and her travellings inEurope, and her house in New York, seemed to her like an ArabianNight's creation. She walked along the street towards her aunt'shouse, and realized her old self and her old perplexities. When shedrew near the house she saw a light in the parlor windows and also inAunt Maria's bedroom. Aunt Maria had evidently gone to her room forthe night. Uncle Henry's side of the house was entirely dark. 

Maria stole softly into the yard, and paused in front of the parlorwindows. The shades were not drawn. There sat Evelyn at work on someembroidery, while opposite to her sat Wollaston Lee, reading aloud. In Evelyn's lap, evidently hampering her with her work, was abeautiful yellow cat, which she paused now and then to stroke. Mariafelt her heart almost stand still. There was something about it whichrenewed her vague surmise on the train. It was only a very fewminutes before Wollaston laid down the paper which he had beenreading, and said something to Evelyn, who began to fold her workwith the sweet docility which Maria remembered. Wollaston rose andwent over to Evelyn and kissed her as she stood up and let the yellowcat leap to the floor. Evelyn looked to Maria more beautiful than shehad ever seen her. Maria stood farther back in the shadow. Then sheheard the front door opened, and the cat was gently put out. Then sheheard the key turn in the lock, and a bolt slide. Maria stoodperfectly still. A light from a lamp which was being carried by someone, flitted like a will-o'-the-wisp over the yard, and the parlorwindows became dark. Then a broad light shone out from the frontchamber windows through the drawn white shade, and lay in a square onthe grass of the yard. The cat which had been put out rubbed againstMaria's feet. She caught up the little animal and kissed it. Then sheput it down gently, and hurried back to the station. She thought ofRosa Blair, and an intense longing came over her. She seemed tosuddenly sense the highest quality of love: that which realizes theneed of another, rather than one's own. The poor little dwarf seemedthe very child of her heart. She looked up at the stars shiningthrough the plumy foliage of the trees, and thought how many of themmight owe their glory to the radiance of unknown suns, and it seemedto her that her own soul lighted her path by its reflection of thelove of God. She thought that it might be so with all souls whichwere faced towards God, and that which is above and beyond, and itwas worth more than anything else in the whole world. 

She questioned no longer the right or wrong of what she had done, asshe hurried on and reached the little Amity station in time for thelast train. 

THE END