FROM A BENCH IN OUR SQUARE

BY

Samuel Hopkins Adams

1922

_Contents_

_A Patroness of Art_

_The House of Silvery Voices_

_Home-Seekers' Goal_

_The Guardian of God's Acre_

_For Mayme, Read Mary_

_Barbran_

_Plooie of Our Square_

_Triumph_

FROM A BENCH IN OUR SQUARE

A PATRONESS OF ART

I

Peter (flourish-in-red) Quick (flourish-in-green) Banta (period-in-blue)is the style whereby he is known to Our Square. 

Summertimes he is a prop and ornament of Coney, that isle of the blest, whose sands he models into gracious forms and noble sentiments, inanticipation of the casual dime or the munificent quarter, wherewith, ifyou have low, Philistine tastes or a kind heart, you have perhapsaforetime rewarded him. In the off-season the thwarted passion of colorpossesses him; and upon the flagstones before Thornsen's ÉliteRestaurant, which constitutes his canvas, he will limn you a full-riggedship in two colors, a portrait of the heavyweight champion in three, or, if financially encouraged, the Statue of Liberty in four. These be, however, concessions to popular taste. His own predilection is forchaste floral designs of a symbolic character borne out and expounded byappropriate legends. Peter Quick Banta is a devotee of his art. 

Giving full run to his loftier aspirations, he was engaged, one Aprilday, upon a carefully represented lilac with a butterfly about to lighton it, when he became cognizant of a ragged rogue of an urchin regardinghim with a grin. Peter Quick Banta misinterpreted this sign of interest. 

"What d'ye think of _that_?" he said triumphantly, as he sketched in aset of side-whiskers (presumably intended for antennae) upon thebutterfly. 

"Rotten, " was the prompt response. 

"_What_!" said the astounded artist, rising from his knees. 

"Punk. "

Peter Quick Banta applied the higher criticism to the urchin's nearestear. It was now that connoisseur's turn to be affronted. Picking himselfout of the gutter, he placed his thumb to his nose, and wiggled hisfinger in active and reprehensible symbolism, whilst enlarging upon hisoriginal critique, in a series of shrill roars:

"Rotten! Punk! No good! Swash! Flubdub! Sacré tas de--de--piffle!"Already his vocabulary was rich and plenteous, though, in those days, tainted by his French origin. 

He then, I regret to say, spat upon the purple whiskers of the butterflyand took refuge in flight. The long stride of Peter Quick Banta soonovertook him. Silently struggling he was haled back to the profanedtemple of Art. 

"Now, young feller, " said Peter Quick Banta. "Maybe you think you coulddo it better. " The world-old retort of the creative artist tohis critic!

"Any fool could, " retorted the boy, which, in various forms, is almostas time-honored as the challenge. 

Suspecting that only tactful intervention would forestall possiblemurder, I sauntered over from my bench. But the decorator of sidewalkshad himself under control. 

"Try it, " he said grimly. 

The boy avidly seized the crayons extended to him. 

"You want me to draw a picture? There?"

"If you don't, I'll break every bone in your body. "

The threat left its object quite unmoved. He pointed a crayon at PeterQuick Banta's creation. 

"What is that? A bool-rush?"

"It's a laylock; that's what it is. "

"And the little bird that goes to light--"

"That ain't a bird and you know it. " Peter Quick Banta breathed hard. "That's a butterfly. "

"I see. But the lie-lawc, it drop--so!" The gesture was inimitable. "Andthe butterfly, she do not come down, plop! She float--so!" The grimyhands fluttered and sank. 

"They do, do they? Well, you put it down on the sidewalk. "

From that moment the outside world ceased to exist for the urchin. Hefell to with concentrated fervor, while Peter Quick Banta and I divertedthe traffic. Only once did he speak:

"Yellow, " he said, reaching, but not looking up. 

Silently the elder artist put the desired crayon in his hand. When thelast touches were done, the boy looked up at us, not boastfully, butwith supreme confidence. 

"There!" said he. 

It was crude. It was ill-proportioned. The colors were raw. Thearrangements were false. 

_But_--the lilac bloomed. _And_--the butterfly hovered. The artist hadspoken through his ordained medium and the presentment of life stoodforth. I hardly dared look at Peter Quick Banta. But beneath his uncouthexterior there lay a great and magnanimous soul. 

"Son, " said he, "you're a wonder. Wanta keep them crayons?"

Unable to speak for the moment, the boy took off his ragged cap in oneof the most gracious gestures I have ever witnessed, raising dog-likeeyes of gratitude to his benefactor. Tactfully, Peter Quick Bantaproceeded to expound for my benefit the technique of the drawing, givingthe youngster time to recover before the inevitable questioning began. 

"Where did you learn that?"

"Nowhere. Had a few drawing lessons at No. 19. "

"Would you like to work for me?"

"How?"

Peter Quick Banta pointed to the sidewalk. 

"That?" The boy laughed happily. "That ain't work. That's fun. "

So the partnership was begun, the boy, whose name was Julien Tennier(soon simplified into Tenney for local use), sharing Peter Quick Banta'sroomy garret. Success, modest but unfailing, attended it from the firstappearance of the junior member of the firm at Coney Island, where, asthe local cognoscenti still maintain, he revolutionized the art andpractice of the "sand-dabs. " Out of the joint takings grew a bankaccount. Eventually Peter Quick Banta came to me about the boy'seducation. 

"He's a swell, " said Peter Quick Banta. "Look at that face! I don't careif he did crawl outa the gutter. I'm an artist and I reco'nizearistocracy when I see it. And I want him brung up accordin'. "

So I inducted the youngster into such modest groves of learning as anold, half-shelved pedagogue has access to, and when the Bonnie Lassiecame to Our Square to make herself and us famous with her tiny bronzes(this was before she had captured, reformed, and married Cyrus theGaunt), I took him to her and he fell boyishly and violently in lovewith her beauty and her genius alike, all of which was good for hisdeveloping soul. She arranged for his art training. 

"But you know, Dominie, " she used to say, wagging her head like aprofound and thoughtful bird; "this is all very foolish and shortsightedon my part. Five years from now that gutter-godling of yours will bedoing work that will make people forget poor little me and my poorlittle figurines. "

To which I replied that even if it were true, instead of the veriestnonsense, about Julien Tenney or any one else ever eclipsing her, shewould help him just the same!

But five years from then Julien had gone over to the Philistines. 

II

Justly catalogued, Roberta Holland belonged to the idle rich. She wouldhave objected to the latter classification, averring that, with therising cost of furs and automobile upkeep, she had barely enough to keepher head above the high tide of Fifth Avenue prices. As to idleness, shescorned the charge. Had she not, throughout the war, performedprodigious feats of committee work, all of it meritorious and some of ituseful? She had. It had left her with a dangerous and destructiveappetite for doing good to people. Aside from this, Miss Roberta was adistracting young person. Few looked at her once without wanting to lookagain, and not a few looked again to their undoing. 

Being-done-good-to is, I understand, much in vogue in the purlieus ofFifth Avenue where it is practiced with skill and persistence by a largeand needy cult of grateful recipients. Our Square doesn't take to it. Asrecipients we are, I fear, grudgingly grateful. So when Miss Hollandtransferred her enthusiasms and activities to our far-away corner of theworld she met with a lack of response which might have discouraged onewith a less new and superior sense of duty to the lower orders. She cameto us through the Bonnie Lassie, guardian of the gateway from the upperstrata to our humbler domain, who--Pagan that she is!--indiscriminatelyaccepts all things beautiful simply for their beauty. Having arrived, Miss Holland proceeded to organize us with all the energy ofhigh-blooded sweet-and-twenty and all the imperiousness of confidentwealth and beauty. She organized an evening sewing-circle for womenwhose eyelids would not stay open after their long day's work. Sheformed cultural improvement classes for such as Leon Coventry, theprinter, who knows half the literatures of the world, and MacLachan, thetailor, to whom Carlyle is by way of being light reading. She deliveredsome edifying exhortations upon the subject of Americanism to PolyglotElsa, of the Élite Restaurant (who had taken upon her sturdy youngshoulders the support of an old mother and a paralytic sister, so thather two brothers might enlist for the war--a detail of patriotism whichthe dispenser of platitudes might have learned by judicious inquiry). And so forth and so on. Miss Roberta Holland meant well, but she hadmany things to learn and no master to teach her. 

Yet when the flu epidemic returned upon us, she stood by, efficient, deft, and gallant, though still imperious, until the day when sheclashed her lath-and-tinsel sword of theory against the tempered steelof the Little Red Doctor's experience. Said the Little Red Doctor (whowas pressed for time at the moment): "Take orders. Or get out. Which?"

She straightened like a soldier. "Tell me what you want done. "

At the end of the onset, when he gave her her release from volunteerservice, she turned shining eyes upon him. "I've never been so treatedin my life! You're a bully and a brute. "

"You're a brick, " retorted the Little Red Doctor. "I'll send for younext time Our Square needs help. "

"I'll come, " said she, and they shook hands solemnly. 

Thereafter Our Square felt a little more lenient toward herministrations, and even those of us who least approved her activitiesfelt the stir of radiance and color which she brought with her. 

On a day when the local philanthropy market was slack, and Miss Holland, seated in the Bonnie Lassie's front window, was maturing some new andbenign outrage upon our sensibilities, she called out to the sculptressat work on a group:

"There's a queer man making queer marks on your sidewalk. "

"That's Peter Quick Banta. He's a fellow artist. "

"And another man, young, with a big, maney head like an amiable lion;quite a beautiful lion. He's making more marks. "

"Let him make all he wants. "

"They're waving their arms at each other. At least the queer man is. Ithink they're going to fight. "

"They won't. It's only an academic discussion on technique. "

"Who is the young one?"

"He's the ruin of what might have been a big artist. "

"No! Is he? What did it? Drink?"

"Does he look it?"

The window-gazer peered more intently at the debaters below. "It's apeculiar face. Awfully interesting, though. He's quite poorly dressed. Does he need money? Is that what's wrong?"

"That's it, Bobbie, " returned the Bonnie Lassie with a half-smile. "Heneeds the money. "

The rampant philanthropist stirred within Miss Roberta Holland's fatallywell-meaning soul. "Would it be a case where I could help? I'd love toput a real artist back on his feet. Are you sure he's real?"

On the subject of Art, the Bonnie Lassie is never anything but sincereand direct, however much she may play her trickeries with lesserinterests, such as life and love and human fate. 

"No; I'm not. If he were, I doubt whether he'd have let himself go sowrong. "

"Perhaps it isn't too late, " said the amateur missionary hopefully. "Ishe a man to whom one could offer money?"

The Bonnie Lassie's smile broadened without change in its subtlequality. "Julien Tenney isn't exactly a pauper. He just thinks he can'tafford to do the kind of thing he wants and ought to. "

"What ought he to do?"

"Paint--paint--paint!" said the Bonnie Lassie vehemently. "Five yearsago I believe he had the makings of a great painter in him. And now lookwhat he's doing!"

"Making marks on sidewalks, you mean?"

"Worse. Commercial art. "

"Designs and that sort of thing?"

"Do you ever look at the unearthly beautiful, graceful and gloriouslydressed young super-Americans who appear in the advertisements, ridingin super-cars or wearing super-clothes or brushing super-teeth withsuper-toothbrushes?"

"I suppose so, " said the girl vaguely. 

"He draws those. "

"Is that what you call pot-boiling?"

"One kind. "

"And I suppose it pays just a pittance. "

"Well, " replied the Bonnie Lassie evasively, "he sticks to it, so itmust support him. "

"Then I'm going to help him. "

"'To fulfill his destiny, ' is the accepted phrase, " said the BonnieLassie wickedly. "I'll call him in for you to look over. But you'd bestleave the arrangements for a later meeting. "

Being summoned, Julien Tenney entered the house as one quite at homedespite his smeary garb of the working artist. His presentation to MissHolland was as brief as it was formal, for she took her departureat once. 

"Who is she?" asked Julien, staring after her. 

"Bobbie Holland, a gilded butterfly from uptown. "

"What's she doing here?"

"Good. "

"O Lord!" said he in pained tones. "Has she got a Cause?"

"Naturally. "

"Philanthropist?"

"Worse. "

"There ain't no sich a animile. "

"There is. She's a patron of art. "

"Wow!"

"Yes. She's going to patronize you. "

"Not if I see her first. How do _I_ qualify as a subject?"

"She considered you a wasted life. "

"Where does she get that idea?"

The Bonnie Lassie removed a small, sharp implement from the left eye ofa stoical figurine and pointed it at herself. 

"Do you think that's fair?" demanded the indignant youth. 

The Bonnie Lassie reversed the implement and pointed it at him. "Do youor do you not, " she challenged, "invade our humble precincts in afive-thousand-dollar automobile?"

"It's my only extravagance. "

"Do you or do you not maintain a luxurious apartment in Gramercy Park, when you are not down here posing in your attic as an honestworking-man?"

"Oh, see here, Mrs. Staten, I won't stand for that!" he expostulated. "You know perfectly well I keep my room here because it's the only placeI can work in quietly--"

"And because Peter Quick Banta would break his foolish old heart if youleft him entirely, " supplemented the sculptress. 

Julien flushed and stood looking like an awkward child. "Did you tellall this stuff to Miss Holland?" he asked. 

"Oh, no! She thinks that your pot-boiling is a desperate and barelysufficient expedient to keep the wolf from the door. So she is planningto help you realize your destiny. "

"Which is?" he queried with lifted brows. 

"To be a great painter. "

The other winced. "As you know, I've meant all along, as soon as I'vesaved enough--"

"Oh, yes; _I_ know, " broke in the Bonnie Lassie, who can be quiteruthless where Art is concerned, "and _you_ know; but time flies andhell is paved with good intentions, and if you want to be that kind of apavement artist--well, I think Peter Quick Banta is a better. "

"Do you suppose she'd let me paint her?" he asked abruptly. 

If statuettes could blink, the one upon which the Bonnie Lassie wasbusied would certainly have shrouded its vision against the dazzlingradiance of her smile, for this was coming about as she had planned itfrom the moment when she had caught the flash of startled surprise andwonder in his eyes, as they first rested on Bobbie Holland. Here, shehad guessed, might be the agency to bring Julien Tenney to his artisticsenses; and even so it was now working out. But all she said was--andshe said it with a sort of venomous blandness--"My dear boy, youcan't paint. "

"Can't I! Just because I'm a little out of practice--"

"Two years, isn't it, since you've touched a palette?"

"Give me a chance at such a model as she is! That's all I ask. "

"Do you think her so pretty?" inquired the sculptress disparagingly. 

"Pretty? She's the loveliest thing that--" Catching his hostess's smilehe broke off. "You'll admit it's a well-modeled face, " he saidprofessionally; "and--and--well, unusual. "

"Pooh! 'Dangerous' is the word. Remember it, " warned the Bonnie Lassie. "She's a devastating whirlwind, that child, and she comes down herepartly to get away from the wreckage. Now, if you play your partcleverly--"

"I'm not going to play any part. "

"Then it's all up. How is a patroness of Art going to patronize you, unless you're a poor and struggling young artist, living from hand tomouth by arduous pot-boiling? You won't have to play a part as far asthe pot-boiling goes, " added his monitress viciously. "Only, don't lether know that the rewards of your shame run to high-powered cars andhigh-class apartments. Remember, you're poor but honest. Perhaps she'llgive you money. "

"Perhaps she won't, " retorted the youth explosively. 

"Oh, it will be done tactfully; never fear. I'll bring her around to seeyou and you'll have to work the sittings yourself. "

As a setting for the abode of a struggling beginner, Julien's atticneeded no change. It was a whim of his to keep it bare and simple. Heworked out his pictorial schemes of elegance best in an environmentwhere there was nothing to distract the eye. One could see that MissRoberta Holland, upon her initial visit, approved its stark and cleanlypoverty. (Yes, I was there to see; the Bonnie Lassie had taken me alongto make up that first party. ) Having done the honors, Julien droppedinto the background, and presently was curled up over a drawing-board, sketching eagerly while the Bonnie Lassie and I held the doer of gooddeeds in talk. Now the shrewd and able tribe of advertising managers donot pay to any but a master-draughtsman the prices which "J. T. "--withan arrow transfixing the initials--gets; and Julien was as deft andrapid as he was skillful. Soon appreciating what was in progress, thevisitor graciously sat quite still. At the conclusion she held out herhand for the cardboard. 

To be a patroness of Art does not necessarily imply that one is anadequate critic. Miss Holland contemplated what was a veritable littlegem in black-and-white with cool approbation. 

"Quite clever, " she was pleased to say. "Would you care to sell it?"

"I don't think it would be exactly--" A stern glance from the BonnieLassie cut short the refusal. He swallowed the rest of the sentence. 

"Would ten dollars be too little?" asked the visitor with brightbeneficence. 

"Too much, " he murmured. (The Bonnie Lassie says that with a littlecrayoning and retouching he could have sold it for at least fiftytimes that. )

The patroness delicately dropped a bill on the table. 

"Could you some day find time to let me try you in oils?" he asked. 

"Does that take long?" she said doubtfully. "I'm very busy. "

"You really should try it, Bobbie, " put in the crafty Bonnie Lassie. "Itmight give him the start he needs. "

What arguments she added later is a secret between the two women, butshe had her way. The Bonnie Lassie always does. So the bare studio wasfrom time to time irradiated with Bobbie Holland's youthful lovelinessand laughter. For there was much laughter between those two. Shrewdlyforeseeing that this bird of paradise would return to the bare cage onlyif it were made amusing for her, Julien exerted himself to the utmost tokeep her mind at play, and, as I can vouch who helped train him, thereare few men of his age who can be as absorbing a companion as Julienwhen he chooses to exert his charm. All the time, he was working with apassionate intensity on the portrait; letting everything else go;tossing aside the most remunerative offers; leaving his mail unopened;throwing himself intensely, recklessly, into this one single enterprise. The fact is, he had long been starved for color and was now satiatinghis soul with it. Probably it was largely impersonal with him at first. The Bonnie Lassie, wise of heart that she is, thinks so. But that couldnot last. Men who are not otherwise safeguarded do not long retain aneutral attitude toward such creatures of grace and splendor asBobbie Holland. 

Between them developed a curious relation. It was hardly to be calledfriendship; he was not, to Bobbie's recognition, a habitant of herworld. Nor, certainly, was it anything more. Julien would as soon haverenounced easel and canvas as have taken advantage of her coming to makelove to her. In this waif of our gutters and ward of our sidewalk artistinhered a spirit of the most punctilious and rigid honor, the gift, perhaps, of some forgotten ancestry. More and more, as the intimacygrew, he deserted his uptown haunts and stuck to the attic studio abovethe rooms where, in the dawning days of prosperity, he had installedPeter Quick Banta in the effete and scandalous luxury of two rooms, abath, and a gas stove. Yet the picture advanced slowly which is the moresurprising in that the exotic Bobbie seemed to find plenty of time forsittings now. Between visits she took to going to the MetropolitanMuseum and conscientiously studying pictures and catalogues with a viewto helping her protégé form sound artistic tastes. (When the BonnieLassie heard that, she all but choked. ) As for Julien!

"This is all very well, " he said, one day in the sculptress's studio;"but sooner or later she's going to catch me at it. "

"What then?" asked the Bonnie Lassie, not looking up from her work. 

"She'll go away. "

"Let her go. Your portrait will be finished meantime, won't it?"

"Oh, yes. That'll be finished. "

This time the Bonnie Lassie did look up. Immediately she looked backagain. 

"In any case she'll have to go away some day--won't she?"

"I suppose so, " returned he in a gloomy growl. 

"I warned you at the outset, 'Dangerous, '" she pointed out. 

They let it drop there. As for the effect upon the girl of JulienTenny's brilliant and unsettling personality, I could judge only as Isaw them occasionally together, she lustrous and exotic as a buddingorchid, he in the non-descript motley of his studio garb, serenelyunconscious of any incongruity. 

"Do you think, " I asked the Bonnie Lassie, who was sharing my bench oneafternoon as Julien was taking the patroness of Art over to where hercar waited, "that she is doing him as much good as she thinks she is, orought to?"

"Malice ill becomes one of your age, Dominie, " said the Bonnie Lassiewith dignity. 

"I'm quite serious, " I protested. 

"And very unjust. Bobbie is an adorable little person, when you knowher. "

"Does Julien know her well enough to have discovered a self-evidentfact?"

"Only, " pursued my companion, ignoring the question, "she is bored and alittle spoiled. "

"So she comes down here to escape being bored and to get more spoiled. "

"Julien won't spoil her. "

"He certainly doesn't appear to bore her. "

"She's having the tables turned on her without knowing it. Julien isdoing her a lot of good. Already she's far less beneficent and bountifuland all that sort of stuff. "

"Lassie, " said I, "what, if I may so express myself, is the big idea?"

"Slang is an execrable thing from a professed scholar, " she reproved. "However, the big idea is that Julien is really painting. And it's_mine_, that big idea. "

"Mightn't it be accompanied by a little idea to the effect that theexperience is likely to cost him pretty dear? What will be left whenBobbie Holland goes?"

"Pooh! Don't be an oracular sphinx, " was all that I got for my pains. 

Nor did Miss Bobbie show any immediate symptoms of going. If thepainting seemed at times in danger of stagnation, the same could not besaid of the fellowship between painter and paintee. That nourishedalong, and one day a vagrant wind brought in the dangerous element ofhistorical personalities. The wind, entering at the end of a session, displaced a hanging above the studio door, revealing in bold script uponthe plastering Béranger's famous line:

 "Dans un grenier qu'on est bien á vingt ans!"

"Did you write that there?" asked the girl. 

"Seven long years ago. And meant it, every word. "

"How did you come to know Béranger?"

"I'm French born. "

"'In a garret how good is life at twenty, '" she translated freely. "Iwouldn't have thought"--she turned her softly brilliant regard uponhim--"that life had been so good to you. "

"It has, " was the rejoinder. "But never so good as now. "

"I've often wondered--you seem to know so many things--where you gotyour education?"

"Here and there and everywhere. It's only a patchwork sort of thing. "(Ungrateful young scoundrel, so to describe my two-hours-a-day ofbrain-hammering, and the free run of my library. )

"You're a very puzzling person, " said she And when a woman says that toa man, deep has begun to call to deep. (The Bonnie Lassie, who knowseverything, is my authority for the statement. )

To her went the patroness of Art, on leaving Julien's "grenier" thatday. 

"Cecily, " she said, in the most casual manner she could contrive, "who_is_ Julien Tenney?"

"Nobody. "

"You know what I mean, " pleaded the girl. "_What_ is he?"

"A brand snatched from the pot-boiling, " returned the Bonnie Lassie, quite pleased with her next turn, which was more than her companion was. 

"Please don't be clever. Be nice and tell me--"

"'Be nice, sweet maid, and let who will be clever, '" declaimed theBonnie Lassie, who was feeling perverse that day. "You want me to definehis social status for you and tell you whether you'd better invite himto dinner. You'd better not. He might swallow his knife. "

"You know he wouldn't!" denied the girl in resentful tones. "I've neverknown any one with more instinctive good manners. He seems to go rightnaturally. "

"All due to my influence and training, " bragged the Bonnie Lassie. "Ihelped bring him up. "

"Then you must know something of his antecedents. "

"Ask the Dominie. He says that Julien crawled out of a gutter with themanners of a _preux chevalier_. Anyway, he never swallowed any of _my_knives. Though he's had plenty of opportunity. "

"It's very puzzling, " lamented Bobbie. 

"Why let it prey like a worm i' the bud of your mind? You're not goingto adopt him, perhaps?"

For the moment Bobbie Holland's eyes were dreamy and her tongueunguarded. "I don't know what I'm going to do with him, " said she with agesture as of one who despairingly gives over an insoluble problem. 

"Umph!" said the Bonnie Lassie. 

And continued sculpting. 

III

As Julien had prophesied, it was only a question of time when he wouldbe surprised by his patroness in his true garb and estate. The eventoccurred as he was stepping from his touring-car to get his golf-clubsfrom the hallway of his Gramercy Park apartment at the very moment whenBobbie Holland emerged from the house next door. Both her hands flewinvoluntarily to her cheeks, as she took in and wholly misinterpretedhis costume, which is not to be wondered at when one considers thesimilarity of a golfing outfit to a chauffeur's livery. 

"Oh!" she cried out, as if something had hurt her. 

Julien, for once startled out of his accustomed poise, uncovered andlooked at her apprehensively. 

Her voice quivered a little as she asked, very low, "Do you _have_ to dothat?"

"Why--er--no, " began the puzzled Julien, who failed for the moment toperceive what of tragic portent inhered in a prospective afternoon ofgolf. Her next words enlightened him. 

"I should think you might have let me help before taking a--servant'sposition. "

"It's an honest occupation, " he averred. 

"Do you do this--regularly?" she pursued with an effort. 

"Off and on. There's good money in it. "

"Oh!" she mourned again. Then: "You're doing this so that you can affordto buy paints and canvas and--and things to paint me, " she accused. "Itisn't fair!"

"I'd do worse than this for that, " he declared valiantly. 

Less than a fortnight later she caught him doing worse. She had ceasedto speak to him of his chauffeurdom because it seemed to cause himpainful embarrassment. (It did, and should have!) There had been a bigtheater party, important enough to get itself detailed in the valuablecolumns which the papers devote to such matters, and afterward supper atthe most expensive uptown restaurant, Miss Roberta Holland being one ofthe listed guests. As she took her place at the table, she caught aglimpse of an unmistakable figure disappearing through the waiter'sexit. And Julien Tenney, who had risen from his little supper party offour (stag) hastily but just too late, on catching sight of her, sawthat he was recognized. Flight, instant and permanent, had been hisoriginal intent. Now it would not do. Bolder measures must be devised. He appealed to the head-waiter to help him carry out a joke, and thatfunctionary, developing a sense of humor under the stimulus of atwenty-dollar bill, procured him on the spot an ill-fitting coat and ablack string tie, and gave him certain simple directions. When thepatroness of Art next observed the object of her patronage, he wasperforming the humble but useful duties of an omnibus. 

Miss Holland suddenly lost a perfectly good and hitherto reliableappetite. 

Nor was she the only member of the supper party to develop symptoms ofshock. The gilded and stalwart youth on her left, following her glance, stared at the amateur servitor with protruding eyes, ceased to eat ordrink, and fell into a state of semi-coma, muttering at intervals anexpressive monosyllable. 

"Why not swear out loud, Caspar?" asked Bobbie presently. "It'll do youless harm. "

"D'you see that chap over yonder? The big, fine-looking one fixing theforks?"

"Yes, " said Bobbie faintly. 

"Well, that's--No, by thunder, it can't be!--Yes, by the red-hot hinges, it _is!_"

"Do you think you know him?"

"Know him! I _know_ him? He bunked in with me for two weeks at Grandpré. He was captain of a machine-gun outfit sent down to help us clean outthat little wasp's nest. His name's Tenney, and if ever there was ahellion in a fight! And see--what he's come to! My God!"

"Well, don't cry about it, " advised the girl, serenely, though it washard for her to keep her voice steady. "There's nothing to do about it, is there?"

"Isn't there!" retorted the youth, rising purposefully. "I'm going toget him and find him a job that's fit for him if I have to take him intopartnership. Of all the dash-blanked-dod-blizzened--"

"Caspar! What are you going to do? Don't. You'll embarrass himfrightfully. "

But he was already heading off his prey at the exit. Bobbie saw herpainter's face flame into welcome, then stiffen into dismay. The pairvanished beyond the watcher's ken. On his return the gilded youthbehaved strangely. From time to time he shook his head. From time totime he chuckled. And, while Bobbie was talking to her other neighbor, he shot curious and amused glances at her. He told her nothing. But hisinterest in his supper returned. Bobbie's didn't. 

To discuss the social aspects of menial service with a practitioner ofit who has been admitted to a certain implicit equality is a difficultand delicate matter for a girl brought up in Roberta Holland's school. Several times after the restaurant encounter she essayed it; trying boththe indirect approach and the method of extreme frankness. Neitheranswered. Julien responded to her advances by alternate moods of extremegloom and slyly inexplicable amusement. Bobbie gave it up, concludingthat he was in a very queer mood, anyway. She was right. He was. 

The next episode of their progress took the form of a veritableunmasking which, perversely enough, only fixed the mask tighter uponJulien Tenney. By way of loosening up his wrist for the open season, Peter Quick Banta had taken advantage of an amiable day to sketch out acomposite floral and faunal scheme on the flagging in front ofThornsen's Élite Restaurant, when Miss Holland, in passing, paused toobserve and wonder. At the same moment, Julien hurrying around thecorner, all but ran her down. She nodded toward the decorator ofsidewalks. 

"Isn't he the funny man that you were with the first time I saw you?"

"The very same, " responded Julien with twinkling eyes. 

"What is he doing?"

"He's one of the few remaining examples of the sidewalk or public-viewschool of art. "

"Yes, but what does he do it for?"

"His living. "

"Do people give him money for it? Do you think I might give himsomething?" she asked, looking uncertainly at the artist, who, on handsand knees and with tongue protruding, was putting a green head on a redbird, too absorbed even to notice the onlookers. 

"I think he'd be tickled pink. "

She took a quarter from her purse, hesitated, then slipped it into hercompanion's hand. 

"_You_ give it to him. I think he'd like it better. "

"Oh, no; I don't think he'd like it at all. In fact, I doubt if he'dtake it from me. "

"Why not?"

"Well, you see, " explained Julien blandly, "we're rather intimatelyconnected. " He raised his voice. "Hello, Dad!"

The decorator furled his tongue, lifted his head, changed his crayon, replied, "Hello, Lad, " and continued his work. "What d' you think of_that_?" he added, after a moment, triumphantly pointing a yellow crayonat the green-headed red-bird. 

"Some parrot!" enthused Julien. 

"'T ain't a parrot. It's a nightingale, " retorted the artistindignantly. "You black-and-white fellows never do understand color. "

"It's a corker, anyway, " said Julien. "Dad here's a--an art patron whowants to contribute to the cause. "

The girl, whose face had become flushed and almost frightened, held outher quarter. 

"I--I--don't know, " she began. "I was interested in your picture and Ithought--Mr. Tenney said--"

Peter Quick Banta took the coin with perfect dignity. "Thank you, " saidhe. "There ain't much appreciation of art just at this season. But ifyou'll come down to Coney about June, I'll show you some sand-modelingthat _is_ sand-modeling--'s much as five dollars a day I've takenin there. "

Miss Holland recovered her social poise. 

"I'd like to very much, " she said cheerfully. 

She and Julien walked on in silence. Suddenly he laughed, a littlejarringly. "Well, " he said, "does that help you to place me?"

"I'm not trying to place you, " she answered. 

"Is that quite true?" he mocked. 

"No; it isn't. It's a downright lie, " said Bobbie finding courage toraise her eyes to his. 

"And now, I suppose, I shall be 'my good man' or something like that, toyou. "

"Do you think it likely?"

"You called MacLachan that, you know, " he reminded her. 

"Long ago. When I was--when I didn't understand Our Square. "

"And now, of course, our every feeling and thought is an open book toyour penetrating vision. "

Her lip quivered. "I don't know why you should want to be so hateful tome. "

For a flashing second his eyes answered that appeal with a look thatthrilled and daunted her. "To keep from being something else that I'veno right to be, " he muttered. 

"How many more sittings do you think it will take to finish thepicture?" she asked, striving to get on safer ground. 

"Only one or two, I suppose, " he answered morosely. 

Such was Julien's condition of mind after the last sitting that heactually left the precious portrait unguarded by neglecting to lock thedoor of the studio on going out, and the Bonnie Lassie and I, happeningin, beheld it in its fulfillment. A slow flush burned its way upward inthe Bonnie Lassie's face as she studied it. 

"He's done it!" she exclaimed. "Flower and flame! Why did I ever take tosculpture? One can't get that in the metal. "

"He's done it, " I echoed. 

"Of course, technically, it's rather a sloppy picture. "

"It's a glorious picture!" I cried. 

"Naturally that, " returned the exasperating critic. "It always willbe--when you paint with your heart's blood. "

"Do you think your friend Bobbie appreciates the medium in which she'spresented?"

"If she doesn't--which she probably does, " said the Bonnie Lassie, "shewill find out something to her advantage when she sees me to-morrow. I'mgoing home to 'phone her. "

In answer to the summons, Bobbie came. She looked, I thought, as I sawher from my bench, troubled and perplexed and softened, and glowinglylovely. At the door of the Bonnie Lassie's house she was met with thechallenge direct. 

"What have you been doing to my artistic ward?"

"Nothing, " replied Bobbie with unwonted meekness, and to prove itrelated the incidents of the touring-car, the supper at the TaverneSplendide, and the encounter with the paternal colorist. 

"That isn't Julien's father, " said the sculptress. "He's only anadoptive father. But Julien adores him, as he ought to. The real father, so I've heard, was a French gentleman--"

"I don't care who his father was!" cried Bobbie. (The Bonnie Lassie'sface took on the expression of an exclamation point. ) "I can't bear tothink of his having to do servant's work. And I told him so yesterday. "

"Did you look like that while you were telling him?"

"Like what? I suppose so. "

"And what did he do?"

"Do? He didn't do anything. "

"Then, " pronounced the Bonnie Lassie, "he's a stick ofwood--hardwood--with a knot-hole for a heart. "

"He isn't! Well, perhaps he is. He was very horrid at the last. "

"About what?"

"About taking money. "

"I'm a prophetess! And you're a patroness. Born in us, I suppose. You_did_ try to give him money. "

"Just to loan it. Enough so that he could go away to study and paint. Hewouldn't even let me do that; so I--I--I offered to buy the picture ofme, and he said--he said--Cecily, do you think he's sometimes a littlequeer in his head?"

"Not in the head, necessarily. _What_ did he say?"

"He said he'd bought it himself at the highest price ever paid. And hesaid it so obstinately that I saw it was no use, so I just told him thatI hoped I'd see him when I came back--"

"Back from where? Are you going away?"

"Yes; didn't I tell you? On a three months' cruise. "

"Had you told him that?"

"Of course. That's when I tried to get him to take the money. Cecily--"The girl's voice shook a little. "You'll tell him, won't you, that he_must_ keep on painting?"

"Why? Doesn't he intend to?"

"He said he'd painted himself out and he didn't think he'd ever _look_at color again. "

"He will, " said the Bonnie Lassie wisely and comfortably. "Grief is justas driving a taskmaster as lo--as other emotions. "

"Grief!" The girl's color ebbed. "Cecily! You don't think I've hurthim?"

The Bonnie Lassie caught her in a sudden hug. 

"Bobbie, do you know what I'd do in your place?"

"No. What?"

"I'd go right--straight--back to Julien Tenney's studio. " She pausedimpressively. 

"Yes?" said the other faintly. 

"And I'd walk right--straight--up to Julien Tenney--" Another pause, even more impressive. 

"I d-d-don't think I'd--he'd--"

"And I'd say to him: 'Julien, will you marry me?' Like that. "

"Oh!" said Bobbie in outraged amazement. 

"And maybe--" continued the Bonnie Lassie judicially: "maybe I'd kisshim. Yes. I think I would. "

Suddenly all the bright softness of Bobbie's large eyes dissolved intears. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, " she sobbed. 

"You won't be ashamed of _yourself_, " prophesied the other, "if you dojust as I say, quickly and naturally. "

"Oh, naturally, " retorted the girl in an indignant whimper. "I supposeyou think that's natural. Anyway, he probably doesn't care about me atall that way. "

"Roberta, " said the sculptress sternly, "did you _see_ his portrait ofyou?"

"Y-y-yes. "

"And you have the presumption to say that he doesn't care? Why, thatpicture doesn't simply tell his secret. It _yells_ it!"

"I don't care, " said the hard-pressed Bobbie. "It hasn't yelled it tome. _Nobody's_ yelled it to me. And I c-c-can't ask a m-m-man to--to--"

"Perhaps you can't, " allowed her adviser magnanimously. "On secondthought, it won't be necessary. You just go back--after powdering yournose a little--and say that you've come to see the picture once more, orthat it's a fine day, or that competition is the life of trade, orthat--oh, anything! And, if he doesn't do the rest, I'll kill andeat him. "

"But, Cecily--"

"You _would_ be a patroness of Art. Now I've given you something real topatronize. Don't you dare fail me. " Suddenly the speaker gave herselfover to an access of mirth. "Heaven help that young man when he comesto own up. "

"Own up to what?"

"Never mind. "

Having consumed a vain and repetitious half-hour in variations upon herquery, Bobbie gave it up and decided to find out for herself. It wascuriosity and curiosity alone (so she assured herself) that impelled herto return for the last time (she assured herself of that, also) tothe attic. 

A voice raised in vehement protest, echoing through the open door of thestudio, checked her on the landing below as she mounted. 

"And you're actually going to let thirty-five thousand a year slipthrough your fingers, just to pursue a fad?"

To which Julien's equable accents replied:

"That's it, Merrill. I'm going to paint. "

The unseen Merrill left a blessing (of a sort) behind, slammed the doorupon it, and materialized to the vision of the girl on the landing as anenergetic and spruce-looking man of forty-odd, with a harassedexpression. At need, Miss Holland could summon considerable decisivenessto her aid. 

"Would you think me inexcusably rude, " she said softly, "if I asked whoyou are?"

The descending man snatched off his hat, stared, seemed on the point ofwhistling, then, recovering himself, said courteously: "I'm GeorgeMerrill, advertising manager for the Criterion Clothing Company. "

"And Mr. Tenney has been doing drawings for you?"

"He has. For several years. "

"So that, " said the girl, half to herself, "is his pot-boiling. "

"Not a very complimentary term, " commented Mr. Merrill, "for the bestblack-and-white work being done in New York to-day. Between my concernand two others he makes a railroad president's income out of it. "

"Yes, I overheard what you said to him. Thank you so much. "

"In return, may I ask you something?"

"Certainly. "

"Will you not, for his own good, dissuade Mr. Tenney from throwing awayhis career?"

"Why should you suppose me to have any influence with Mr. Tenney?"

Mr. Merrill's face was grave, as befitted the issue, but a twinkleappeared at the corner of his glasses. "I've seen the portrait, " hereplied, and with a bow, went on his way. 

Julien opened the door to her knock. She stepped inside, facing him withbright, inscrutable eyes. 

"Why have you been fooling me about your circumstances?" she demanded. 

"D---n Merrill!" said Julien with fervor. 

"It's true that your 'pot-boiling' brings you a big income?"

"Yes. "

"Then why do you take employment as a chauffeur?"

"I don't. That car belongs to me. "

"And your being a waiter? I don't suppose the Taverne Splendide belongsto you?"

"An impromptu bit of acting, " confessed the abashed Julien. 

"And this attic? Was that hired for the same comedy?"

"No. This is mine, really. "

"I don't understand. Why have you done it all?"

"If you want to know the truth, " he said defiantly, "so that I couldkeep on seeing you. "

"That's a very poor excuse, " she retorted. 

"The best in the world. As a successful commercial artist, what possibleinterest would you have taken in me? You took me for a struggling youngpainter--that was the Bonnie Lassie's fault, for I never lied to youabout it--and after we'd started on that track I didn't--well, I didn'thave the courage to risk losing you by quitting the masquerade. "

"How you must have laughed at me all the time!"

He flushed to his angry eyes. "Do you think that is fair?" he retorted. "Or kind? Or true?"

"I--I don't know, " she faltered. "You let me offer you money. And you'veprobably got as much as I have. "

"I won't have from now on, then. I'm going to paint. I thought, when youtold me you were going away, that I couldn't look at a canvas again. Butnow I know I was wrong. I've got to paint. You'll have left me that, at least. "

"Mr. Merrill thinks you're ruining your career. And if you do, it'll bemy fault. I'll never, never, never, " said the patroness of Artdesolately, "try to do any one good again!"

She turned toward the door. 

"At least, " said Julien in a voice which threatened to get out ofcontrol, "you'll know that it wasn't all masquerade. You'll know whyI'll always keep the picture, even if I never paint another. "

She stole a look at him over her shoulder and, with a thrill, saw thepassion in his eyes and the pride that withheld him from speaking. 

"Suppose, " she said, "I asked you to give it up. "

"You wouldn't, " he retorted quickly. 

"No, I wouldn't. But--but--" Her glance, wandering away from him, fellon the joyous line of Béranger bold above the door. 

"'How good is life in an attic at twenty, '" she murmured. Then, turningto him, she held out her hands. 

"I could find it good, " she said with a soft little falter in her voice, "even at twenty-two. "

Everything passes in review before my bench, sooner or later. The two, going by with transfigured faces, stopped. 

"Let's tell Dominie, " said Julien. 

I waved a jaunty hand. "I know already, " said I, "even if it hadn't beenannounced to a waiting world. "

"Wh-wh-why, " stammered Bobbie with a blush worth a man's waiting alifetime to see, "it--it only just happened. "

"Bless your dear, innocent hearts, both of you! It's been happening forweeks. Come with me. "

I lead them to the sidewalk fronting Thornsen's Élite Restaurant. Therestood Peter Quick Banta, admiring his latest masterpiece of imaginativesymbolism. It represented a love-bird of eagle size holding in itspowerful beak a scroll with a wreath of forget-me-nots on one end and oforange-blossoms on the other, encircling respectively the initials. "J. T. " and "R. H. " Below, in no less than four colors, ran the legend, "Cupid's Token. "

"O Lord! Dad!" cried the horrified Julien, scuffing it out with franticfeet. "How long has this been there?"

"What're you doing? Leave it be!" cried the anguished artist. "It's beenthere since noon. "

"Never mind, " put in Bobbie softly; "it's very pretty and tasteful eventhough it is a little precipitate. But how"--she turned the lovely andpuzzled inquiry of her eyes upon the symbolist--"how did you know?"

"Artistic intuition, " said Peter Quick Banta with profound complacency. "_I'm_ an artist. "

THE HOUSE OF SILVERY VOICES

Wayfarers on the far side of Our Square used to stop before Number 37and wonder. The little house, it seemed, was making music at them. "Kleam, kleam, kleam, kleam, " it would pipe pleasantly. 

"BHONG! BHONG! BHONG!" solemn and churchly, in rebuke of its own levity. 

"Kung-_glang_! Kung-_glang_! Kung-_glang_! Kung-_glang_! Kung-_glang_!"That was a duet in the middle register. 

Then from some far-off aerie would ring the tocsin of an elfinsilversmith, fast, furious, and tiny:

"Ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping!"

We surmised that a retired Swiss bell-ringer had secluded himself in ourremote backwater of the great city to mature fresh combinations ofhis art. 

Before the Voices came, Number 37 was as quiet a house as any in theSquare. Quieter than most, since it was vacant much of the time and theceremonious sign of the Mordaunt Estate, "For Rental to SuitableTenant, " invited inspection. "Suitable" is the catch in thatinnocent-appearing legend. For the Mordaunt Estate, which is no estateat all and never has been, but an ex-butcher of elegant proclivitiesnamed Wagboom, prefers to rent its properties on a basis of prejudicerather than profit, and is quite capable of rejecting an applicant asunsuitable on purely eclectic grounds, such as garlic for breakfast, ora glass eye. 

How the new tenant had contrived to commend himself to Mr. Mordaunt-Wagboom is something of a mystery. Probably it was his namerather than his appearance, which was shiny, not to say seedy. Heencountered the Estate when that incorporated gentleman was engaged inpainting the front door, and, in a deprecating voice, inquired whethertwenty-five dollars a month would be considered. 

"Maybe, " returned the Estate, whereupon the stranger introduced himself, with a stiff little bow, as Mr. Winslow Merivale. 

Mr. Wagboom was favorably impressed with this, as possessingaristocratic implications. 

"The name, " he pronounced, "is satisfactory. The sum is satisfactory. Itis, however, essential that the lessor should measure up in characterand status to the standards of the Mordaunt Estate. " This he had adaptedfrom the prospectus of a correspondence school, which had come to himthrough the mail, very genteelly worded. "Family man?" he added briskly. 

"Yes, sir. "

"How many of you?"

"Two. "

"Wife?"

"No, sir, " said the little man, very low. 

"Son? Daughter? What age?"

"I have never been blessed with a child. "

"Then who--"

"Willy Woolly would share the house with me, sir. "

For the first time the Mordaunt Estate noticed a small, fluffy poodle, with an important expression, seated behind the railing. 

"I don't like dogs, " said the Mordaunt Estate curtly. 

"Willy Woolly"--Mr. Winslow Merivale addressed his companion--"thisgentleman does not like dogs. "

The Mordaunt Estate felt suddenly convicted of social error. The feelingdeepened when Willy Woolly advanced, reckoned him up with an appraisingeye, and, without the slightest loss of dignity, raised himself on hishind legs, offering the gesture of supplication. He did not, however, droop his paws in the accepted canine style; he joined them, finger tipto finger tip, elegantly and piously, after the manner of theMaiden's Prayer. 

The Estate promptly capitulated. 

"Some pup!" he exclaimed. "When did you want to move in?"

"At once, if you please. "

Before the Estate had finished his artistic improvements on the frontdoor, the new tenant had begun the transfer of his simple lares andpenates in a big hand-propelled pushcart. The initial load consisted inthe usual implements of eating, sitting, and sleeping. But the burden ofthe half-dozen succeeding trips was homogeneous. Clocks. Big clocks, little clocks, old clocks, new clocks, fat clocks, lean clocks, solemnclocks, fussy clocks, clocks of red, of green, of brown, of pink, ofwhite, of orange, of blue, clocks that sang, and clocks that rang, clocks that whistled, and blared, and piped, and drummed. One by one, the owner established them in their new domicile, adjusted them, dustedthem, and wound them, and, as they set themselves once more to theirmeticulous busy-ness, that place which had for so long been muffled inquiet and deadened with dust, gave forth the tiny bustle of unrestingmechanism and the pleasant chime of the hours. Number 37 became theHouse of Silvery Voices. 

 * * * * *

Thus came to Our Square, to be one of us, for better or for worse, Mr. Winslow Merivale, promptly rechristened Stepfather Time. The BonnieLassie gave him the name. She said that only a stepfather could bring uphis charges so badly. For his clocks were both independent andirresponsible, though through no fault of their own. When they werewound they went. When they were unwound they rested. Seldom were morethan half of them simultaneously busy, and their differences of opinionas to the hour were radical and irreconcilable. The big, emphaticeight-day, opposite the front door, might proclaim that it was eleven, only to be at once contradicted by the little tinkler on the parlormantel, which announced that it was six, thereby starting up thecathedral case on the stairway and the Grandfather in the dining-room, who held out respectively for eight and two, while all the time it wasreally half-past one. Thence arose in the early days painfulmisunderstandings on the part of Our Square, for we are a simple peopleand deem it the duty of a timepiece to keep time. In particular we werebefooled by Grandfather, the solemn-voiced Ananias of a clock with along-range stroke and a most convincing manner. So that Schepstein, thenote-shaver, on his way to a profitable appointment at 11 A. M. , heardthe hour strike (thirty-five minutes in advance of the best professionalopinion) from the House of Silvery Voices, and was impelled to therecklessness of hiring a passing taxi, thereby reaching his destinationwith half an hour to spare and half a dollar to lack, for which latterhe threatened to sue the Mordaunt Estate's tenant. To the credit side ofthe house's account it must be set down that MacLachan, the tailor, having started one of his disastrous drunks within the precincts of hisHome of Fashion, was on his way to finish it in the gutter via thezigzag route from corner saloon to corner saloon, when the TwelveApostles clock in the basement window lifted up its voice and(presumably through the influence of Peter) thrice denied the hour, which was actually a quarter before midnight. "Losh!" said MacLachan, who invariably reacted in tongue to the stimulus of Scotch whiskey, "they'll a' be closed. Hame an' to bed wi' ye, waster of the pricelesshours!" And back he staggered to sleep it off. 

Then there was the disastrous case of the Little Red Doctor, who set outto attend a highly interesting consultation at 4 P. M. And, hearingGrandfather Ananias strike three, erroneously concluded that he hadspare time to stop in for a peek at Madame Tallafferr's gout (which wasreally vanity in the guise of tight shoes), and reached the hospital, only to find it all over and the patient dead. 

"It's an outrage, " declared the Little Red Doctor fiercely, "that an oldlunatic can move in here from God-knows-where in a pushcart and playmerry hell with a hard-working practitioner's professional duties. Andyou're the one to tell him so, Dominie. You're the diplomat ofthe Square. "

He even inveigled the Bonnie Lassie into backing him up in thispreposterous proposal. She had her own grievance against the House ofSilvery Voices. 

"It isn't the way it plays tricks on time alone, " said she. "There's oneclock in there that's worse than conscience. "

And she brought her indictment against a raucous timepiece which waswont to lead up to its striking with a long, preliminaryclack-and-whirr, alleging that twice, when she had quit her sculpingearly because the clay was obdurate and wouldn't come right, and hadgone for a walk to clear her vision, the clock had accosted her in theseunjustifiable terms:

"Clacketty-whirr-rr-rr! Back-to-yer-worr-rr-rrk! Yerr-rr-rr-rr _wrong!wrong! wrong! wrong!"_

"Wherefore, " said the Bonnie Lassie, "your appellant prays that you be adear, good, stern, forbidding Dominie and go over to Number 37 and askhim what he means by it, anyway, and tell him he's got to stop it. "

Now, the Bonnie Lassie holds the power of the high, the middle, and thelow justice over all Our Square by the divine right of loveliness andkindliness. So that evening I went while the Little Red Doctor, as aself-constituted Committee in Waiting, sat on my bench. Stepfather Timehimself opened the door to me. 

"What might they call you, sir, if I may ask?" he inquired with timidcourtesy. 

"They might call me the Dominie hereabouts. And they do. "

"I have heard of you. " He motioned me to a seat in the bare little room, alive with tickings and clickings. "You have lived long here, sir?"

"Long. "

From some interminable distance a voice of time mocked me with a subtleand solemn mockery: "_Long. Long. Long_. "

My host waited for the clock to finish before he spoke again. As Iafterward discovered, this was his invariable custom. 

"I, too, am an old man, " he murmured. 

"A hardy sixty, I should guess. "

"A long life. Might I ask you a question, sir, ' as to the folk in thisSquare?" He hesitated a moment after I had nodded. "Are they, as onemight say, friendly? Neighborly?"

I was a little taken aback. "We are not an intrusive people. "

"No one, " he said, "has been to see my clocks. "

I began to perceive that this was a sad little man, and to mislike myerrand. "You live here quite alone?" I asked. 

"Oh, no!" said he quickly. "You see, I have Willy Woolly. Pardon me. Ihave not yet presented him. "

At his call the fluffy poodle ambled over to me, sniffed at my extendedhand, and, rearing, set his paws on my knee. 

"He greets you as a friend, " said my new acquaintance in a tone whichindicated that I had been signally honored. "I trust that we shall seeyou here often, Mr. Dominie. Would you like to inspect mycollection now?"

Here was my opening. "The fact is--" I began, and stopped from sheercowardice. The job was too distasteful. To wound that gentle pride inhis possessions which was obviously the life of the singular beingbefore me--I couldn't do it. "The fact is, " I repeated, "I--I have afriend outside waiting for me. The Little Red Doctor--er--Dr. Smith, you know. "

"A physician?" he said eagerly. "Would he come in, do you think? WillyWoolly has been quite feverish to-day. "

"I'll ask him, " I replied, and escaped with that excuse. 

When I broke it to the Little Red Doctor, the mildest thing he said tome was to ask me why I should take him for a dash-binged vet!

Appeals to his curiosity finally overpersuaded him, and now it was myturn to wait on the bench while he invaded the realm of the Voices. Happily for me the weather was amiable; it was nearly two hours beforemy substitute reappeared. He then tried to sneak away without seeing me. Balked in this cowardly endeavor, he put on a vague professionalexpression and observed that it was an obscure case. 

"For a man of sixty, " I began, "Mr. Merivale--"

"_Who_?" interrupted the Little Red Doctor; "I'm speaking of the dog. "

"Have you, then, " I inquired in insinuating accents, "become adash-binged vet?"

"A man can't be a brute, can he!" he retorted angrily. "When thatanimated mop put up his paws and stuck his tongue out like a child--"

"I know, " I said. "You took on a new patient. Probably gratis, " I added, with malice, for this was one of the Little Red Doctor's notoriouslyweak points. 

"Just the same, he's a fool dog. "

"On the contrary, he is a person of commanding intellect and nice socialdiscrimination, " I asserted, recalling Willy Woolly's flatteringacceptance of myself. 

"A faker, " asseverated my friend. "He pretends to see things. "

I sat up straight on my bench. "Things? What kind of things?"

"Things that aren't there, " returned the Little Red Doctor, and fell tomusing. "They couldn't be, " he added presently and argumentatively. 

Receiving no encouragement when I sought further details, I askedwhether he had called the new resident to account for the delinquenciesof his clocks. He shook his head. 

"I didn't have time, " said he doggedly. 

"Time? Why, there's nothing but time in that house. "

The Little Red Doctor chose to take my feeble joke at par. "No time atall. None of the clocks keep it. "

"How does he manage his life, then?"

"Willy Woolly does that for him. Barks him up in the morning. Jogs hiselbow at mealtimes. Tucks him in bed at night, for all I know. "

Thus abortively ended Our Square's protest against Stepfather Time andhis House of Silvery Voices. The Little Red Doctor's obscure suggestionstuck in my mind, and a few nights later I made a second call. Curiosityrather than neighborliness was the inciting cause. Therefore I ought tohave been embarrassed at the quiet warmth of my reception by both of thetenants. Interrupting himself in the work of adjusting a newacquisition's mechanism, Stepfather Time settled me into the mostcomfortable chair and immediately began to talk of clocks. 

Good talk, it was; quaint and flavorous and erudite. But my attentionkept wandering to Willy Woolly, who, after politely kissing my hand, hadsettled down behind his master's chair. Willy Woolly was seeing things. No pretense about it. His mournful eyes yearned hither and thither, following some entity that moved in the room, dimmer than darkness, moreethereal than shadow. His ears quivered. A muffled, measured thumpingsounded, dull and indeterminate like spirit rapping; it took me anappreciable time to identify it as the noise of the poodle's tail, beating the floor. Once he whined, a quick, quivering, eager note. Andstill the amateur of clocks murmured his placid lore. It was rather morethan old nerves could stand. 

"The dog, " I broke in upon the stream of erudition. "Surely, Mr. Merivale--"

"Willy Woolly?" He looked down, and the faithful one withdrew himselffrom his vision long enough to lick the master hand. "Does hedisturb you?"

"Oh, no, " I answered, a little confused. "I only thought--it seemed thathe is uneasy about something. "

"There are finer sensibilities than we poor humans have, " said my hostgravely. 

"Then you have noticed how he watches and follows?"

"He is always like that. Always, since. "

His "since" was one of the strangest syllables that ever came to myears. It implied nothing to follow. It was finality's self. 

"It is"--I sought a word--"interesting and curious, " I concluded lamely, feeling how insufficient the word was. 

"She comes back to him, " said my host simply. 

No need to ask of whom he spoke. The pronoun was as final and definitiveas his "since. " Never have I heard such tenderness as he gave to itsutterance. Nor such desolation as dimmed his voice when he added:

"She never comes back to me. "

That evening he spoke no more of her. Yet I felt that I had beenadmitted to an intimacy. And, as the habit grew upon me thereafter ofdropping in to listen to the remote, restful, unworldly quaintnesses ofhis philosophy, fragments, dropped here and there, built up the outlineof the tragedy which had left him stranded in our little backwater ofquiet. She whom he had cherished since they were boy and girl together, had died in the previous winter. She had formed the whole circle of hisexistence within which he moved, attended by Willy Woolly, happilygathering his troves. Her death had left him not so much alone as alienin the world. He was without companionship except that of Willy Woolly, without interest except that of his timepieces, and without hope exceptthat of rejoining her. Once he emerged from a long spell of musing, tosay in a tone of indescribable conviction:

"I suppose I was the happiest man in the world. "

Any chance incident or remark might turn his thought and speech, unconscious of the transition, from his favorite technicalities back tothe past. Some comment of mine upon a specimen of that dismal songster, the cuckoo clock, which stood on his mantel, had started him into one ofhis learned expositions. 

"The first cuckoo clock, as you are doubtless aware, sir"--he was alwaysscrupulous to assume knowledge on the part of his hearer, no matter howabstruse or technical the subject; it was a phase of his inherentcourtesy--"was intended to represent not the cuckoo, but the blackbird. It had a double pipe for the hours, 'Pit-weep! Pit-weep!' anda single--"

His voice trailed into silence as the mechanical bird of his owncollection popped forth and piped its wooden lay. Willy Woolly patteredover, sat down before it, and, gazing through and beyond the meaninglessface with eyes of adoration whose purport there was no mistaking, whined lovingly. 

"When the cuckoo sounded, " continued the collector without the slightestchange of intonation, "she used to imitate it to puzzle Willy Woolly. Amerry heart! . . . All was so still after it stopped beating. The clocksforgot to strike. "

The poodle, turning his absorbed regard from the Presence that movesbeyond time and its perishing voices, trotted to his master and nuzzledthe frail hand. 

The hand fondled him. "Yes, little dog, " murmured the man. His eyes, sadas those of the animal, quested the dimness. 

"Why does she come to him and not to me? He loved her dearly, didn'tyou, little dog? But not as I did. " There was a quivering note ofjealousy in his voice. "Why is my vision blinded to what he sees?"

"You have said yourself that there are finer sensibilities than ours, " Isuggested. 

He shook his head. "It lies deeper than that. I think he is drawing nearher. He used to have a little bark that he kept for her alone. In thedead of night I have heard him give that bark--since. And I knew thatshe was speaking to him. I think that he will go first. Perhaps he willtell her that I am coming. . . . But I should be very lonely. "

"Willy's a stout young thing, " I asserted, "with years of life beforehim. "

"Perhaps, " he returned doubtfully. A gleam of rare fun lit up his pale, vague eyes. "Can't you see him dodging past Saint Peter through thepearly gates" ("I was brought up a Methodist, " he added in apologeticexplanation), "trotting along the alabaster streets sniffing about forher among all the Shining Ones, listening for her voice amid the soundof the harps, and when he finds her, hallelujahing with that little barkthat was for her alone: 'Here I am, mistress! Here I am! And _he's_coming soon, mistress. Your Old Boy is coming soon. '"

When I retailed that conversation to the Little Red Doctor, he snortedand said that Stepfather Time was one degree crazier than Willy Woollyand that I wasn't much better than a higher moron myself. Well, if I'vegot to be called a fool by my best friends, I'd rather be called it inGreek than in English. It's more euphonious. 

 * * * * *

The pair in Number 37 soon settled down to a routine life. Every morningStepfather Time got out his big pushcart and set forth in search oftreasure, accompanied by Willy Woolly. Sometimes the dog trotted beneaththe cart; sometimes he rode in it. He was always on the job. Never didhe indulge in those divagations so dear to the normal canine heart. Other dogs and their ways interested him not. Cats simply did not existin his circumscribed life. Even to the shining mark of a boy on abicycle he was indifferent, and when a dog has reached that stage onemay safely say of him that he has renounced the world and all itsvanities. Willy Woolly's one concern in life was his master and theirjoint business. 

Soon they became accepted familiars of Our Square. Despite the generalconviction that they were slightly touched, we even became proud ofthem. They lent distinction to the locality by getting written up in aSunday supplement, Willy Woolly being specially photographed therefor, agleam of transient glory, which, however it may have gratified our localpride, left both of the subjects quite indifferent. Stepfather Timemight have paid more heed to it had he not, at the time, been whollypreoccupied in a difficult quest. 

In a basement window, far over on Avenue D, stood an old and batteredtimepiece of which Stepfather Time had heard the voice but never seenthe face. Each of three attempts to investigate with a view tonegotiations had been frustrated by a crabbed and violent-looking manwith a repellent club. Nevertheless, the voice alone had ensnared theconnoisseur; it was, by the test of the pipe which he carried on all hisquests, D in alt, and would thus complete the major chord of a chimewhich he had long been building up. (She had loved, best of all, harmonic combinations of the clock bells. ) Every day he would halt infront of the place and wait to hear it strike, and its owner would peerout from behind it and shake a wasted fist and curse him with strange, hoarse foreign oaths, while Willy Woolly tugged at his trouser leg andurged him to pass on from that unchancy spot. All that he could learnabout the basement dweller was that his name was Lukisch and he owedfor his rent. 

Mr. Lukisch had nothing special against the queer old party who madesheep's eyes at his clock every day. He hated him quite impartially, ashe hated everybody. Mr. Lukisch had a bad heart in more senses than one, and a grudge against the world which he blamed for the badness of hisheart. Also he had definite ideas of reprisal, which were focused by adispossess notice, and directed particularly upon the person andproperty of his landlord. The clock he needed as the instrument of hisvengeance; therefore he would not have sold it at any price to thesheep-eyed old lunatic of the pushcart, who now, on the eve of hiseviction, stood gazing in with wistful contemplation. Presently hepassed on and Mr. Lukisch resumed his tinkering with the clock'sinsides. He was very delicate and careful about it, for these were thefinal touches, preparatory to his leaving the timepiece as a mementowhen he should quietly depart that evening, shortly before nine. Whatmight happen after nine, or, rather, on the stroke of nine, was no worryof his, though it might be and probably would be of the landlord's, provided that heartless extortioner survived it. 

Having completed his operations, Mr. Lukisch sat down in a rickety chairand gazed at the clock, face to face, with contemplative satisfaction. Stepfather Time would have been interested in the contrast between thosetwo physiognomies. The clock's face, benign and bland, would havedeceived him. But, innocent though he was in the ways of evil, the man'sface might have warned him. 

Something within the clock's mechanism clicked and checked and went onagain. The sound, quite unexpected, gave Mr. Lukisch a bad start. Couldsomething have gone wrong with the combination? Suppose a prematurerelease. . . . At that panic thought something within Mr. Lukisch's badheart clicked and checked and did not go on again. The fear in his eyesfaded and was succeeded by an expression of surprise and inquiry. Whether the inquiry was answered, nobody could have guessed from thestill, unwinking regard on the face of the victim of heart failure. 

By and by a crowd gathered on the sidewalk, drawn by that mysteriousinstinct for sensation which attracts the casual and the idle. Two boldspirits entered the door and stood, hesitant, just inside, awed becausethe clock seemed so startlingly alive in that place. Some one sentupstairs for the landlord, who arrived to bemoan the unjust fates whichhad not only mulcted him of two months' rent with nothing to show for itbut a rickety clock, but had also saddled him with a wholly superfluouscorpse. He abused both indiscriminately, but chiefly the clock becauseit gave the effect of being sentient. So fervently did he curse it thatStepfather Time, repassing with Willy Woolly, heard him and entered. 

"And who"--the landlord addressed high Heaven with a gesture at oncepious and pessimistic--"is to pay me fourteen dollars back rent thisdirty beggar owes?"

"The man, " said Stepfather Time gently, "is dead. "

"He is. " The landlord confirmed the unwelcome fact with objurgations. "Now must come the po-liss, the coroner, trouble, and expense. And whathave I who run my property honest and respectable got to pay for it?Some rags and a bum clock. "

Willy Woolly sniffed at one protruding foot and growled. Dead or alive, this was not Willy Woolly's kind of man. "Now, now, Willy Woolly!"reproved his master. "Who are we that we should judge him?"

"But I don't _like_ him, " declared Willy Woolly in unequivocal doglanguage. 

"I think from his face that he has suffered much, " said the gentlecollector, wise in human pain. 

"Me; I suppose I don't suffer!" pointed out the landlord vehemently. "Fourteen dollars out. Two months' rent. A bum clock. "

He kicked the shabby case which whizzed and birred and struck five. Thevoice of its bell, measured and mellow and pure, was unquestionably Din alt. 

"My dear sir, " said Stepfather Time urbanely, but quivering underneathhis calm manner with the hot eagerness of the chase, "I will buyyour clock. "

A gust of rough laughter passed through the crowd. The injurious word"nut" floated in the air, and was followed by "Verrichter. " The landlordtook thought and hope. 

"It is a very fine clock, " he declared. 

"It is a bum clock, " Stepfather Time reminded him mildly. 

"Stepnadel, the auctioneer, would pay me much money for it. "

"I will pay you much money for it. "

"How much?"

"Seven dollars. That is one month's rent that he owed. "

"Two months' rent I must have. "

"One, " said Stepfather Time firmly. 

"Two, " said the landlord insistently. 

"Urff! Grr--rr--rr--rrff!" said Willy Woolly in emphatic dissuasion. 

Stepfather Time was scandalized. Expert opinion was quite outside ofWilly Woolly's province. Only once in the course of their years togetherhad he interfered in a purchase. Justice compelled Stepfather Time torecall that the subject of Willy's protests on that occasion hadsubsequently turned out to be far less antique than the worm holes inthe woodwork (artificially blown in with powder) would have led theunsuspecting to suppose. But about the present legacy there could be nosuch question. It was genuine. It was old. It was valuable. It possesseda seraphic note pitched true to the long-desired chord. 

Extracting a ten-dollar note from his wallet, Stepfather Time waved itbeneath the landlord's wrinkled and covetous nose. The landlordcapitulated. Willy Woolly, sniffing at the clock with fur abristle, lifted up his voice and wailed. Perhaps his delicate nose had alreadydetected the faint, unhallowed odor of the chemicals within. Hestubbornly refused to ride back in the cart with the new acquisition, and was accused of being sulky and childish. 

 * * * * *

The relic of the late unlamented Lukisch was temporarily installed in ahigh chair before the open window giving on the areaway of Number 37. There it briefly beamed upon the busy life of Our Square with its blandand hypocritical face, and there, thrice and no more, it sounded thepassing of the hours with its sweet and false voice, biding the strokeof nine. Meantime Willy Woolly settled down to keep watch on it andcould not be moved from that duty. Every time it struck the half hegrowled. At the hour he barked and raged. When Stepfather Time sought todraw him away to dinner he committed the unpardonable sin of dog-dom, hesnarled at his master. Turning this strange manifestation over in histroubled mind, the collector decided that Willy Woolly must be ill, andtherefore that evening went to seek the Little Red Doctor andhis wisdom. 

Together they came across the park space opposite the House of SilveryVoices in time to witness the final scene. 

The new clock struck the half after eight as they reached the turn inthe path. A long, quavering howl, mingled of rage and desperation, answered in Willy Woolly's voice. 

"You hear?" said Stepfather Time anxiously to the Little Red Doctor. "The dog is not himself. "

They saw him rear up against the clock case. He seemed to be trying totear it open with his teeth. 

"Willy!" cried his master in a tone such as, I suppose, the well-lovedcompanion had not heard twice before in his life. "Down, Willy!"

The dog drooped back. But it was not in obedience. For once hedisregarded the master's command. Perhaps he did not even hear it in theabsorption of his dread and rage. Step by step he withdrew, then rushedand launched himself straight at the timepiece. Slight though his bulkwas, the impetus of the charge did the work. The clock reeled, toppled, and fell outward through the window; then--

From the House of Silvery Voices rose a roar that smote the heavens. Aroar and a belch of flame and a spreading, poisonous stench that struckthe two men in the park to earth. When they struggled to their feetagain, the smoke had parted and the House of Silvery Voices gaped open, its front wall stripped bodily away. But within, the sound of the busyindustry of time went on uninterrupted. 

Weaving and wobbling on his feet, Stepfather Time staggered toward thepot calling on the name of Willy Woolly. At the gate he stopped, putforth his hand, and lifted from the railing a wopsy, woolly fragment, nobigger than a sheet of note paper. It was red and warm and wet. 

"He's gone, " said Stepfather Time. 

The Clock of Conscience took up the tale. "Gone. Gone. Gone, " it pealed. 

As the collector would not leave the shattered house, they sent for meto stay the night with him. A strange vigil! For now it was the man whofollowed with intent, unworldly eyes that which I, with my lesservision, could not discern. And the Unseen moved swiftly about thedesolate room, low to the floor, and seemed finally to stop, motionlessbeneath a caressing hand. I thought to hear that dull, measured thumpingof a grateful tail, but it was only the Twelve Apostles getting readyto strike. 

Only once that night did Stepfather Time speak, and then not to me. 

"Tell her, " he said in an assured murmur, "that I shan't be long. "

"Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long, " confirmedGrandfather from his stance on the stairway. 

In that assurance Stepfather Time fell asleep. He did not go out againwith his pushcart, but sat in the rear room while the Mordaunt Estate inperson superintended the job of putting a new front on the house. 

The night after it was finished I received an urgent telephone call tocome there at once. At the entrance I met the Little Red Doctorcoming out. 

"The clocks have stopped, " said he gently. 

So I turned to cross the park with him. 

"I shall certify, " said he, "heart disease. "

"You may certify what you please, " said I. "But what do you believe?"

The Little Red Doctor, who prides himself on being a hard-bittedmaterialist, glared at me as injuriously as if my innocent question hadbeen an insult. 

"I don't believe it!" he averred violently. "Do you take me for asentimental idiot that I should pin silly labels on my old friend, Death?" His expression underwent a curious change. "But I never saw suchjoy on any living face, " he muttered under his breath. 

 * * * * *

The House of Silvery Voices is silent now. But its echo still lives andmakes music in Our Square. For, with the proceeds of Stepfather Time'sclocks, an astounding total, we have built a miniature clock towerfacing Number 37, with a silvery voice of its own, for memory. TheBonnie Lassie designed the tower, and because there is love andunderstanding in all that the Bonnie Lassie sets her wonder-working handto, it is as beautiful as it is simple. Among ourselves we call it theTower of the Two Faithful Hearts. 

The silvery voice within it is the product of a paragon amongtimepieces, a most superior instrument, of unimpeachable constructionand great cost. But it has one invincible peculiarity, the despair ofthe best consulting experts who have been called in to remedy it and, one and all, have failed for reasons which they cannot fathom. Howshould they!

It never keeps time. 

HOME-SEEKERS' GOAL

Long ago I made an important discovery. It comes under the general headof statics and is this: by occupying an invariable bench in Our Square, looking venerable and contemplative and indigenous, as if you had grownup in that selfsame spot, you will draw people to come to you forinformation, and they will frequently give more than they get of it. Such, I am informed, is the method whereby the flytrap orchid achieves asatisfying meal. Not that I seek to claim for myself the colorfulsplendors of the Cypripedium, being only a tired old pedagogue with ataste for the sunlight and for observing the human bubbles that floatand bob on the current in our remote eddy of life. Nevertheless, I canfollow a worthy example, even though the exemplar be only a carnivorousbloom. And, I may confess, on the afternoon of October 1st, I was in areceptive mood for such flies of information as might come to meconcerning two large invading vans which had rumbled into our quietprecincts and, after a pause for inquiry, stopped before the MordauntEstate's newly repaired property at Number 37. 

The Mordaunt Estate in person was painting the front wall. The designwhich he practiced was based less upon any previsioned concept of artthan upon the purchase, at a price, of a rainbow-end job lot of colors. 

The vanners descended, bent on negotiations. Progress was obviouslyunsatisfactory, the artist, after brief and chill consideration, reverting to his toil. Now, tact and discretion are essential inapproaching the Mordaunt Estate, for he is a prickly institution. I wassure that the newcomers had taken the wrong tack with him. 

Discomfiture was in their mien as they withdrew in my direction. I musedupon my bench, with a metaphysical expression which I have found usefulin such cases. They conferred. They approached. They begged my pardon. With an effort which can hardly have failed to be effective, I draggedmyself back to the world of actualities and opened languid eyes uponthem. It is possible that I opened them somewhat wider than the normal, for they fell at once upon the nearer and smaller of the pair, abutterfly of the most vivid and delightful appearance. 

"Is the house with the 'To Let' sign on it really to let, do you know, sir?" she inquired, adding music to color with her voice. 

"So I understand, " said I, rising. 

"And the party with the yellow nose, who is desecrating the front, " putin the butterfly's companion. "Is he a lunatic or a designer ofbarber poles?"

"He is a proud and reserved ex-butcher, named Wagboom, now doing alimited but high-class business in rentals as the Mordaunt Estate. "

"He may be the butcher, but he talks more like the pig. All we could getout of him was a series of grunts when we addressed him by name. "

"Ah, but you used the wrong name. For all business purposes he should beaddressed as the Mordaunt Estate, his duly incorporated title. Wagboomis an irritant to a haughty property-owner's soul. "

"Shall we go back and try a counter-irritant?" asked the young man ofhis companion. 

"With a view to renting?" I inquired. 

"Yes. "

"Do you keep dogs?"

"No, " said the young man. 

"Or clocks by the hundred?"

"Certainly not, " answered the butterfly. 

"Or bombs?"

Upon their combined and emphatic negative they looked at each other witha wild surmise which said plainly: "Are they _all_ crazy down here?"

"If you do, " I explained kindly, "you might have trouble in dealing. Thelatest tenant of Number 37 was a fluffy poodle who pushed one of twohundred clocks into the front area so that it exploded and blew away thefront wall. " And I outlined the history of that canine clairvoyant, Willy Woolly. "The Mordaunt Estate is sensitive about his tenants, anyway. He rents, not on profits, but on prejudice. Perhaps it would bewell for you to flatter him a little; admire his style of housepainting. "

Accepting this counsel with suitable expressions, they returned to thecharge, addressed the proprietor of Number 37 by his official title anddelivered the most gratifying opinions regarding his artistry. 

"That, " said the Mordaunt Estate, wiping his painty hands on his kneeswith brilliant results, as he turned a fat and smiling face to them, "isafter the R. Noovo style. I dunno who R. Noovo was, but he's a bear forcolor. Are you artists?"

"We're house-hunters, " explained the young man. 

"As for tenants, " said the Mordaunt Estate, "I take 'em or leave 'em asI like 'em or don't. I like you folks. You got an eye for a tasty bit ofcolorin'. Eight rooms, bath, and kitchen. By the week in case we don'tsuit each other. Very choice and classy for a young married couple. Eight dollars, in advance. Prices for R. Noovo dwellings has riz. "

"We're not married, " said the young man. 

"Hey? Whaddye mean, not married?" demanded that highly respectableinstitution, the Mordaunt Estate, severely. His expression mollified ashe turned to the butterfly. "Aimin' to be, I s'pose. "

"We only met this morning; so we haven't decided yet, " answered theyoung man. "At least, " he added blandly, as his companion seemed to bestruggling for utterance, "she hasn't informed me of her decision, ifshe has made it. "

Bewilderment spread like a gray mist across the painty features of theMordaunt Estate. "Nothin' doin', " he began, "until--"

"Don't decide hastily, " adjured the young man. "Take this coin. " Heforced a half-dollar into the reluctant hand of the decorator. 

"Nothin' doin' on account, either. Pay as you enter. "

"Only one of us is going to enter. The coin decides. Spin it. Yourcall, " he said to the butterfly. 

"Heads, " cried the butterfly. 

"Tails, " proclaimed the arbiter, as the silver shivered into silence onthe flagging. 

"Then the house is yours, " said the butterfly. "Good luck go with it. "She smiled, gamely covering her disappointment. 

"I don't want it, " returned the young man. 

"Play fair, " she exhorted him. "We both agreed solemnly to stand by thetoss. Didn't we?"

"What did we agree?"

"That the winner should have the choice. "

"Very well. I won, didn't I?"

"You certainly did. "

"And I choose not to take the house, " he declared triumphantly. "It's avery nice house, but"--he shaded his eyes as he directed them upon theproud-pied façade, blinking significantly--"I'd have to wear smokedglasses if I lived in it, and they don't suit my style of beauty. "

"You'd not get it now, young feller, if you was to go down on your kneeswith a thousand dollars in each hand, " asserted the offended Estate. 

"See!" said the young man to the butterfly. "Fate decides for you. "

"But what will you do?" she asked solicitously. 

"Perhaps I can find some other place in the Square. "

She held out her hand. "You've been very nice and helpful, but--I thinknot. Good-bye. "

He regarded the hand blankly. "Not--what?"

"Not here in this Square, if you don't mind. "

"But where else is there?" he asked piteously. "You know yourself thereare countless thousands of homeless drifters floating around on thisteeming island in vans, with no place to land. "

"Try Jersey. Or Brooklyn, " was her hopeful suggestion. 

 "'And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea, '"

he quoted with dramatic intonation, adding helpfully: "Matthew Arnold. Or is it Arnold Bennett? Anyway, think how far away those places are, "he pleaded. "From you!" he concluded. 

A little decided frown crept between her eyebrows. "I've accepted you asa gentleman on trust, " she began, when he broke in:

"Don't do it. It's a fearfully depressing thing to be reminded thatyou're a gentleman on trust and expected to live up to it. Think how itcramps one's style, not to mention limiting one's choice of real estate. A gentleman may stake his future happiness and his hope of a home on thetoss of a coin, but he mustn't presume to want to see the other party tothe gamble again, even if she's the only thing in the whole sweep of hishorizon worth seeing. Is that fair? Where is Eternal Justice, I ask you, when such things--"

"Oh, do stop!" she implored. "I don't think you're sane. "

"No such claim is put forth on behalf of the accused. He confesses tocomplete loss of mental equilibrium since--let me see--since 11. 15 A. M. "

Here the Mordaunt Estate, who had been doing some shrewd thinking on hisown behalf, interposed. 

"I'd rather rent to two than one, " he said insinuatingly. "More reliableand steady with the rent. Settin' aside the young feller's weak eyes, you're a nice-matched pair. Gittin' a license is easy, if you know theropes. I'd even be glad to go with you to--"

"As to not being married, " broke in the butterfly, with the light of agreat resolve in her eye, "this gentleman may speak for himself. I am. "

"Am what?" queried the Estate. 

"Married. "

"Damn!" exploded the young man. "I mean, congratulations and all thatsort of thing. I--I'm really awfully sorry. You'll forgive my makingsuch an ass of myself, won't you?"

To her troubled surprise there was real pain in the eyes which he turnedrather helplessly away from her. Had she kept her own gaze fixed onthem, she would have experienced a second surprise a moment later, at asudden alteration and hardening of their expression. For his gropingregard had fallen upon her left hand, which was gloved. Now, a weddingring may be put on and off at will, but the glove, beneath which it hasbeen once worn, never thereafter quite regains the maidenly smoothnessof the third finger. The butterfly's gloves were not new, yet thereshowed not the faintest trace of a ridge in the significant locality. While admitting to himself that the evidence fell short ofconclusiveness, the young man decided to accept it as a working theoryand to act, win or lose, do or die, upon the hopeful hypothesis that hisdelightful but elusive companion was a li--that is to say, an inventor. He would give that invention the run of its young life!

"We--ell, " the Mordaunt Estate was saying, "that's too bad. Ain't awiddah lady are you?"

"My husband is in France. "

With a prayer that his theory was correct, the young man rushed in wheremany an angel might have feared to tread. "Maybe he'll stay there, "he surmised. 

"What!"

In a musical but unappreciated barytone he hummed the initial line of"The Girl I Left Behind Me. "

 "'The maids of France are fond and free. '

"Besides, " he added, "it's quite unhealthy there at this season. Iwouldn't be surprised"--he halted--"at anything, " he finished darkly. 

Outraged by this ruthless if hypothetical murder of an equallyhypothetical spouse, she groped vainly for adequate words. Before shecould find them--

"I'll wait around--in hopes, " he decided calmly. 

So, that was the attitude this ruffian took with a respectable andostensibly married woman! And she had mistaken him for a gentleman! Shehad even begun to feel a reluctant sort of liking for him; at any rate, an interest in his ambiguous and perplexing personality. Now--how daredhe! She put it to him at once: "How dare you!"

"Flashing eye, stamp of the foot, hands outstretched in gesture ofloathing and repulsion; villain registers shame and remorse, " prescribedthe unimpressed subject of her retort. "As a wife, you are, of course, unapproachable. As a widow, grass-green, crepe-black, or onlyprospective"--he suddenly assumed a posture made familiar through thepublic prints by a widely self-exploited savior of the suffering--"thereis H-O-P-E!" he intoned solemnly, wagging a benignant forefinger at her. 

The butterfly struggled with an agonizing desire to break down intounbridled mirth and confess. Pride restrained her; pride mingled withforeboding as to what this exceedingly progressive and by no meansunattractive young suitor--for he could be relegated to no lessercategory--might do next. She said coolly and crisply:

"I wish nothing more to do with you whatever. "

"Then I needn't quit the Garden of Ed--I mean, Our Square?"

"You may do as you see fit, " she replied loftily. 

"Act the gent, can't chuh?" reproved the Mordaunt Estate. "You're makin'the lady cry. "

"He isn't, " denied the lady, with ferocity. "He couldn't. "

"He'll find no spot to lay his head in Our Square, ma'am, " the politeEstate assured her. 

"If he wants to stay, he'll have to live in his van. "

"Grand little idea! I'll do it. I'll be a van hermit and fast and watchand pray beneath your windows. "

"You may live in your van forever, " retorted the justly incensedbutterfly, "but I'll never speak to you as long as I live in this house. Never, never, _never_!"

She vanished beyond the outrageous decorations of the wall. The MordauntEstate took down the "To Let" sign, and went in search of a helper tounload the van. The deserted and denounced young man crawled into hisown van and lay down with his head on a tantalus and his feet on thecollected works of Thackeray, to consider what had happened to him. Buthis immediate memories were not conducive to sober consideration, shotthrough as they were with the light of deep-gray eyes and the fugitivesmile of lips sensitive to every changeful thought. So he fell todreams. As to the meeting which had brought the now parted twain to OurSquare, it had come about in this wise:

Two miles northwest of Our Square as the sparrow flies, on the brink ofa maelstrom of traffic, two moving-vans which had belied their name byremaining motionless for five impassioned minutes, disputed the right ofway, nose to nose, while the injurious remarks of the respective driversinflamed the air. A girlish but decided voice from within the recessesof the larger van said: "Don't give an inch. "

Deep inside the other vehicle a no less decisive barytone said whatsounded like "Give an ell, " but probably was not, as there was nocorresponding movement of the wheels. 

What the van drivers said is the concern of the censor. What they didupon descending to the sidewalk comes under the head of direct action, and as such was the concern of the authorities which pried them asunderand led them away. Thereupon the inner habitants of the desertedequipages emerged from amid their lares and penates, and met face toface. The effect upon the occupant of the smaller van was electric, notto say paralytic. 

"Oh, glory!" he murmured faintly, with staring eyes. 

"Would you kindly move?" said the girl, in much the same tone that onewould employ toward an obnoxious beetle, supposing that one everaddressed a beetle with freezing dignity. 

The young man directed a suffering look upon his van. "I've done nothingelse for the last three days. Tell me where I can move to and I'll blessyou as a benefactress of the homeless. "

"Anywhere out of my way, " she replied with a severity which the cornersof her sensitive mouth were finding it hard to live up to. 

"Behold me eliminated, deleted, expunged, " he declared humbly. "Butfirst let me explain that when I told my idiot chauffeur to give'em--that is, to hold his ground, I didn't know who you were. "

She wrinkled dainty brows at him. "Well, you don't know who I am now, doyou?"

"I don't have to, " he responded with fervor. "Just on sight you may haveall of this street and as many of the adjoining avenues as you can use. By the way, who _are_ you?" The question was put with an expression ofsweet and innocent simplicity. 

The girl looked at him hard and straight. "I don't think thatintroductions are necessary. "

He sighed outrageously. "They Met but to Part; Laura Jean Libbey;twenty-fourth large edition, " he murmured. "And I was just about topresent myself as Martin Dyke, vagrant, but harmless, and very much atyour service. However, I perceive with pain that it is, indeed, my move. May I help you up to the wheel of your ship? I infer that you intenddriving yourself. "

"I'll have to, if I'm to get anywhere. " A look of dismay overspread herpiquant face. "Oh, dear! I don't in the least understand this machinery. I can't drive this kind of car. "

"Glory be!" exclaimed Mr. Dyke. "I mean, that's too bad, " he amendedgracefully. "Won't you let me take you where you want to go?"

"What'll become of your van, then? Besides, I haven't any idea where Iwant to go. "

"What! Are you, too, like myself, a wandering home-seeker on the face ofan overpopulated earth, Miss?"

The "Miss" surprised her. Why the sudden lapse on the part of thisextraordinary and self-confident young person into the terminology ofthe servant class?

"Yes, I am, " she admitted. 

"A hundred thousand helpless babes in the wood, " he announcedsonorously, "are wandering about, lost and homeless on this melancholyand moving day of October 1st, waiting for the little robins to come andbury them under the brown and withered leaves. Ain't it harrowing, Miss!Personally I should prefer to have the last sad dirge sung over me by aquail on toast, or maybe a Welsh rabbit. What time did you breakfast, Miss? I had a ruined egg at six-fifteen. "

The girl surrendered to helpless and bewildered laughter. "You ask themost personal questions as if they were a matter of course. "

"By way of impressing you with my sprightly and entertainingindividuality, so that you will appreciate the advantages to be derivedfrom my continued acquaintance, and grapple me to your soul with hooksof steel, as Hamlet says. Or was it Harold Bell Wright? Do you care forreading, Miss? I've got a neat little library inside, besides anautomatic piano and a patent ice-box. . . . By the way, Miss, is thatpoliceman doing setting-up exercises or motioning us to move on? _I_think he is. "

"But I can't move on, " she said pathetically. 

"Couldn't you work my van, Miss? It's quite simple. "

She gave it a swift examination. "Yes, " said she. "It's almost like myown car. "

"Then I'll lead, and you follow, Miss. "

"But I can't--I don't know who--I don't _want_ your van. Where shallwe--"

"Go?" he supplied. "To jail, I judge, unless we go somewhere else and doit _now_. Come on! We're off!"

Overborne by his insistence and further influenced by the scowl of theapproaching officer, she took the wheel. At the close of some involvedbut triumphant maneuverings the exchanged vans removed themselves fromthe path of progress, headed eastward to Fourth Avenue and boredowntownward. Piloting a strange machine through rush traffic kept thegirl in the trailer too busy for speculation, until, in the recesses ofa side street, her leader stopped and she followed suit. Mr. Dyke'sengaging and confident face appeared below her. 

"Within, " he stated, pointing to a quaint Gothic doorway, "they dispensethe succulent pig's foot and the innocuous and unconvincingnear-but-not-very-beer. It is also possible to get something to eat anddrink. May I help you down, Miss?"

"No, " said the girl dolefully. "I want to go home. "

"But on your own showing, you haven't any home. "

"I've got to find one. Immediately. "

"You'll need help, Miss. It'll take some finding. "

"I wish you wouldn't call me Miss, " she said with evidences ofpetulance. 

"Have it your own way, Lady. We strive to please, as R. L. Stevensonsays. Or is it R. H. Macy? Anyway, a little bite of luncheon Lady, whilewe discuss the housing problem--"

"Why are you calling me Lady, now?"

He shook a discouraged head. "You seem very hard to please, Sister. I'vetried you with Miss and I've tried you with Lady--"

"Are you a gentleman or are you a--a--"

"Don't say it, Duchess. Don't! Remember what Tennyson says: 'One hastyline may blast a budding hope. ' Or was it Burleson? When you deny to thecompanion of your wanderings the privilege of knowing your name, whatcan he do but fall back for guidance upon that infallible chapter in theGents' Handbook of Classy Behavior, entitled, 'From Introduction'sUncertainties to Friendship's Fascinations'?"

"We haven't even been introduced, " she pointed out. 

"Pardon me. We have. By the greatest of all Masters of Ceremonies, OldMan Chance. Heaven knows what it may lead to, " he added piously. "Now, Miss--or Lady--or Sister, as the case may be; or even Sis (I believethat form is given in the Gents' Handbook), if you will put your lilyhand in mine--"

"Wait. Promise me not to call me any of those awful things duringluncheon, and afterward I may tell you my name. It depends. "

"A test! I'm on. We're off. "

Mr. Martin Dyke proved himself capable of selecting a suitable repastfrom an alien-appearing menu. In the course of eating it they pooledtheir real-estate impressions and information. He revealed that therewas no available spot fit to dwell in on the West Side, or in mid-town. She had explored Park Avenue and the purlieus thereof extensively andwithout success. There remained only the outer darkness to the southwardfor anything which might meet the needs of either. In the event of adiscovery they agreed, on her insistence, to gamble for it by theapproved method of the tossed coin: "The winner has the choice. "

Throughout the luncheon the girl approved her escort's manner andbearing as unexceptionable. No sooner had they entered into the impliedintimacy of the tête-à-tête across a table than a subtle changemanifested itself in his attitude. Gayety was still the keynote of histalk, but the note of the personal and insistent had gone. And, at theend, when he had paid the bill and she asked:

"What's my share, please?"

"Two-ten, " he replied promptly and without protest. 

"My name, " said she, "is Anne Leffingwell. "

"Thank you, " he replied gravely. But the twinkle reappeared in his eyeas he added: "Of course, that was rudimentary about the check. "

Before she had fully digested this remark they were on the sidewalkagain. In the act of escorting her to his van, now under her guidance, he suddenly stopped in front of hers and lost himself in wonderingcontemplation of the group painted on the side in the best style oftea-store art. 

"Suffering Raphael!" he exclaimed at length. "What's the lady in thepink shroud supposed to be saying to the bearded patriarch in thenightie? What's it all about, anyway?"

"The title, " replied Anne Leffingwell, indicating a line ofinsignificant lettering, "is 'Swedish Wedding Feast. '"

"Wedding feast, " he repeated thoughtfully, looking from the picture tohis companion. "Well, " he raised an imaginary glass high, "prosit omen!"

The meaning was not to be mistaken. "Well, really, " she beganindignantly. "If you are going to take advantage--"

"You're not supposed to understand Latin, " interposed Mr. Dyke hastily. He grew flustered and stood, for once, at a loss. For some subtle reasonher heart warmed to his awkwardness as it never would have done to hisover-enterprising adroitness. 

"We must be going on, " she said. 

He gave her a grateful glance. "I was afraid I'd spilled the apple cartand scared Eve clean out of the orchard that time, " he murmured. Havinghelped her to her place at the wheel, he stood bareheaded for a moment, turned away, came back, and asked abruptly:

"Sister of Budge Leffingwell, the Princeton half-back?"

"No. Cousin. "

"I knew Old Man Chance had a happy coincidence up his sleeve somewhere, "he declared with profound and joyous conviction. 

"Are you a friend of Budge's?"

"Friend doesn't half express it! He made the touchdown that won me aclean hundred last season. Outside of that I wouldn't know him fromHenry Ford. You see how Fate binds us together. "

"Will you tell me one thing, please?" pleaded Anne Leffingwelldesperately. "Have you ever been examined for this sort of thing?"

"Not yet. But then, you see, I'm only a beginner. This is my firstattempt. I'll get better as I go on. "

"Will you please crank my car?" requested Anne Leffingwell faintly. 

Not until they reached Our Square did they speak again. 

 * * * * *

All things come to him who, sedulously acting the orchid's part, vegetates and bides his time. To me in the passage of days came AnneLeffingwell, to talk of many things, the conversation invariablytouching at some point upon Mr. Martin Dyke--and lingering there. Shewas solicitous, not to say skeptical, regarding Mr. Dyke's reason. Camealso Martin Dyke to converse intelligently upon labor, free verse, ouija, the football outlook, O. Henry, Crucible Steel, and Mr. Leffingwell. He was both solicitous and skeptical regarding Mr. Leffingwell's existence. Now when two young persons come separately toan old person to discuss each other's affairs, it is a bad sign. Orperhaps a good sign. Just as you choose. 

Adopting the Mordaunt Estate's sardonic suggestion, Martin Dyke hadsettled down to van life in a private alleyway next to Number 37. AnneLeffingwell deemed this criminally extravagant since the rental of a vanmust be prodigious. ("Tell her not to worry; my family own the storageand moving plant, " was one of his many messages that I neglected todeliver. ) On his part he worried over the loneliness and simplicity ofher establishment--one small but neat maid--which he deemed incongruouswith her general effect of luxury and ease of life, and wondered whethershe had split with her family. (She hadn't; "I've always been brought uplike a--a--an artichoke, " she confided to me. "So when father went Westfor six months, I just moved, and I'm going to be a potato and see how Ilike it. Besides, I've got some research work to do. ")

Every morning a taxi called and took her to an uptown library, and everyafternoon she came back to the harlequin-fronted house at Number 37. Dyke's hours were such that he saw her only when she returned early, forhe slept by day in his van, and worked most of the night on electricalexperiments which he was conducting over on the river front, and whichwere to send his name resounding down the halls of fame. (The newspapershave already caught an echo or two. ) On his way back from hisexperiments, he daily stopped at the shop of Eberling the Florist, where, besides chaste and elegant set pieces inscribed "Gates Ajar" and"Gone But Not Forgotten, " one may, if expert and insistent, obtainreally fresh roses. What connection these visits had with the matutinalarrival of deep pink blossoms addressed to nobody, but deliveredregularly at the door of Number 37, I shall not divulge; no, not thougha base attempt was made to incriminate me in the transaction. 

Between the pair who had arrived in Our Square on such friendly andpromising terms, there was now no communication when they met. She wassteadfastly adhering to that "Never. Never. _Never_!" What less, indeed, could be expected of a faithful wife insulted by ardent hopes of herhusband's early demise from a young man whom she had known but fourhours? So it might have gone on to a sterile conclusion but for amanifestation of rebellious artistic tastes on her part. The MordauntEstate stopped at my bench to complain about them one afternoon whenMartin Dyke, having just breakfasted, had strolled over to discuss hisfavorite topic. (She was, at that very moment, knitting her dainty browsover the fifteenth bunch of pink fragrance and deciding regretfully thatthis thing must come to an end even if she had to call in Terrythe Cop. )

"That lady in Number 37, " said the Mordaunt Estate bitterly, "ain't thelady I thought she was. "

Martin Dyke, under the impulse of his persistent obsession, looked uphopefully. "You mean that she isn't really _Mrs. _ Leffingwell?"

"I mean I'm disappointed in her; that's what I mean. She wants the housefront painted over. "

"No!" I protested with polite incredulity. 

"Where's her artistic sense? I thought she admired your work so deeply. "

"She does, too, " confirmed the Estate. "But she says it's liable to bemisunderstood. She says ladies come there and order tea, and men ask thehired girl when the barbers come on duty, and one old bird with whiskerswanted to know if Ashtaroth, the Master of Destiny, told fortunes there. So she wants I should tone it down. I guess, " pursued the MordauntEstate, stricken with gloom over the difficulty of finding the PerfectTenant in an imperfect world, "I'll have to notice her to quit. "

"No; don't do that!" cried the young man. "Here! I'll repaint the wholewall for you free of charge. "

"What do _you_ know about R. Noovo art? Besides, paints cost money. "

"I'll furnish the paint, too, " offered the reckless youth. "I'm crazyabout art. It's the only solace of my declining years. And, " he addedcunningly and with evil intent to flatter and cajole, "I can tone downthat design of yours without affecting its beauty and originalityat all. "

Touched by this ingenuous tribute hardly less than by the appeal to hisfrugality, the Estate accepted the offer. From four to five on thefollowing afternoon, Martin Dyke, appropriately clad in overalls, sat ona plank and painted. On the afternoon following that the lady of thehouse came home at four-thirty and caught him at it. 

"That's going to be ever so much nicer, " she called graciously, notrecognizing him from the view of his industrious-appearing back. 

"Thank you for those few kind words. "

"You!" she exclaimed indignantly as he turned a mild and benevolent beamof the eye upon her. "What are you doing to my house?"

"Art. High art. "

"How did you get up there?"

"Ladder. High ladder. "

"You know that isn't what I mean at all. "

"Oh! Well, I've taken a contract to tone down the Midway aspect of yourhighly respectable residence. One hour per day. "

"If you think that this performance is going to do you any good--" shebegan with withering intonation. 

"It's done that already, " he hastened to assert. "You've recognized myexistence again. "

"Only through trickery. "

"On the contrary, it's no trick at all to improve on the MordauntEstate's art. Now that we've made up again, Miss or Mrs. Leffingwell, asthe case may be--"

"We haven't made up. There's nothing to make up. "

"Amended to 'Now that we're on speaking terms once more. ' Accepted?Thank you. Then let me thank you for those lovely flowers you've beensending me. You can't imagine how they brighten and sweeten my simpleand unlovely van life, with their--"

"Mr. Dyke!" Her eyes were flashing now and her color was deeper than thepink of the roses which she had rejected. "You must know that you had noright to send me flowers and that in returning them--"

"Returning? But, dear lady--or girl, as the case may be [here shestamped a violent foot]--if you feel it your duty to return them, whynot return them to the florist or the sender? Marked though myattentions may have been, does that justify you in assuming that I am, so to speak, the only floral prospect in the park? There's the Dominie, for instance. He's notoriously your admirer, and I've seen him atEberling's quite lately. " (Mendacious young scoundrel!)

For the moment she was beguiled by the plausibility of his manner. 

"How should he know that pink roses are my favorites?" she saiduncertainly. 

"How should _I_, for that matter?" he retorted at once. "Though anyidiot could see at a glance that you're at least half sister to thewhole rose tribe. "

"Now you're beginning again, " she complained. "You see, it's impossibleto treat you as an ordinary acquaintance. "

"But what do you think of me as a painter-man?" inquired the bewilderingyouth. 

Preparatory to entering the house she had taken off her gloves, and nowone pinky-brown hand rested on the door lintel below him. "The questionis, " said she, "wasn't it really you that sent the roses, and don't yourealize that you mustn't?"

"The question is, " he repeated, "whether, being denied the ordinaryavenues of approach to a shrine, one is justified in jumping the fencewith one's votive offerings. Now I hold--"

Her left hand, shifting a little, flashed a gleam of gold into his eagereyes, striking him into silence. When he spoke again, all the vividnesswas gone from his voice. "I beg your pardon, " he said. "Yes; I sent theroses. You shan't be troubled again in that way--or any other way. Doyou mind if I finish this job?"

Victory for the defense! Yet the rosebud face of Anne Leffingwellexpressed concern and doubt rather than gratification. There is such athing as triumph being too complete. 

"I think you're doing it very nicely, " was the demure reply. 

Notwithstanding this encomium, the workman knocked off early to sit onmy bench and indulge in the expression of certain undeniable but vaguetruisms, such as that while there is life there is hope, and it isn'tnecessary to display a marriage license in order to purchase a plaingold band. But his usual buoyant optimism was lacking; he spoke like onewho strives to convince himself. Later on the lady in the case paused tooffer to me some contumelious if impersonal reflections upon love atfirst sight, which she stigmatized as a superstition unworthy of theconsideration of serious minds. But there was a dreamy light in hereyes, and the smile on her lips, while it may not have been expressiveof serious consideration, was not wholly condemnatory. The carnivorousorchid was having a good day and keeping its own counsel as a sensibleorchid expectant of continued patronage should do. 

There was an obviously somber tinge to Mr. Dyke's color scheme on thefollowing afternoon, tending to an over-employment of black, when animpressive and noiseless roadster purred its way to the curb, theredischarging a quite superb specimen of manhood in glorious raiment. Themotorist paused to regard with unfeigned surprise the design of thehouse front. Presently he recovered sufficiently to ask:

"Could you tell me if Miss Leffingwell lives here?"

The painter turned upon his precarious plank so sharply that he was allbut precipitated into the area. "_Who_?" he said. 

"Miss Leffingwell. "

"You don't mean Mrs. Leffingwell?" queried the aerial operator in astrained tone. 

"No; I don't. I mean Miss Anne Leffingwell. "

The painter flourished the implement of his trade to the peril of theimmaculate garments below. "Toora-loo!" he warbled. 

"I beg your pardon, " said the new arrival. 

"I said 'Toora-loo. ' It's a Patagonian expression signifyingsatisfaction and relief; sort of I-thought-so-all-the-time effect. "

"You seem a rather unusual and learned sort of house painter, " reflectedthe stalwart Adonis. "Is that Patagonian art?"

"Symbolism. It represents hope struggling upward from the oppression ofdoubt and despair. That, " he added, splashing in a prodigal streak ofwhooping scarlet, "is resurgent joy surmounting the mistymountain-tops of--"

The opening door below him cut short the disquisition. 

"Reg!" cried the tenant breathlessly. Straight into the big young man'sready arms she dived, and the petrified and stricken occupant of thedizzy plank heard her muffled voice quaver: "Wh--wh--wh--why didn't youcome before?"

To which the young giant responded in gallingly protective tones: "Youlittle idiot!"

The door closed after them. Martin Dyke, amateur house painter, continued blindly to bedeck the face of a ruinous world with radianthues. After interminable hours (as he reckoned the fifteen elapsedminutes) the tenant escorted her visitor to the door and stood watchinghim as the powerful and unassertive motor departed. Dazedly the artistdescended from his plank to face her. 

"Are you going?" he demanded. 

A perfectly justifiable response to this unauthorized query would havebeen that it was no concern of his. But there was that in Martin Dyke'sface which hurt the girl to see. 

"Yes, " she replied. 

"With him?"

"Ye--es. "

"He isn't your husband. "

"No. "

"You haven't any husband. "

She hung her head guiltily. 

"Why did you invent one?"

Instead of replying verbally she raised her arm and pointed across theroadway to a patch of worn green in the park. He followed the indicationwith his eyes. A Keep-Off-the-Grass sign grinned spitefully in his face. 

"I see. The invention was for my special benefit. "

"Safety first, " she murmured. 

"I never really believed it--except when you took me by surprise, " hepursued. "That's why I--I went ahead. "

"You certainly went ahead, " she confirmed. "What are speed laws to you!"

"You're telling me that I haven't played the game according to therules. I know I haven't. One has to make his own rules when Fate is inthe game against him. " He seemed to be reviewing something in his mind. "Fate, " he observed sententiously, "is a cheap thimble-rigger. "

"Fate, " she said, "is the ghost around the corner. "

"A dark green, sixty-horse-power ghost, operated by a matinée hero, amovie close-up, a tailor's model--"

"If you mean Reg, it's just as well for you he isn't here. "

"Pooh!" retorted the vengeful and embittered Dyke. "I could wreck hisloveliness with one flop of my paint-brush. "

"Doubtless, " she agreed with a side glance at the wall, now bleedingfrom every pore. "It's a fearful weapon. Spare my poor Reg. "

"I suppose, " said Dyke, desperate now, but not quite bankrupt of hope, "you'd like me to believe that he's your long-lost brother. "

She lowered her eyes, possibly to hide the mischief in them. "No, " shereturned hesitantly and consciously. "He isn't--exactly my brother. "

He recalled the initials, "R. B. W. , " on the car's door. Hope sank for thethird time without a bubble. "Good-bye, " said Martin Dyke. 

"Surely you're not going to quit your job unfinished, " she protested. 

Dyke said something forcible and dismissive about the job. 

"What will the Mordaunt Estate think?"

Dyke said something violent and destructive about the Mordaunt Estate. 

"Perhaps you'd like to take the house, now that it's vacant. "

Dyke, having expressed a preference for the tomb as a place ofresidence, went on his gloomful way shedding green paint on one side andred on the other. 

Insomnia, my old enemy, having clutched me that night, I went to mywindow and looked abroad over Our Square, as Willy Woolly's memorialclock was striking four (it being actually five-thirty). A shockingsight afflicted my eyes. My bench was occupied by a bum. Hearing themeasured footsteps of Terry the Cop, guardian of our destinies, I lookedfor a swift and painful eviction. Terry, after a glance, passed on. Nothing is worse for insomnia than an unsolved mystery. Slipping into myclothes, I made my way softly to the spot. There in the seat where I waswont to pursue my even tenor as an orchid slumbered Martin Dyke, amateurdesecrator of other men's houses, challenger of the wayward fates, fanatic of a will-o'-the-wisp pursuit, desperate adventurer in theuncharted realms of love; and in his face, turned toward thepolychromatic abominations of the house, so soon to be deserted, was allthe pathos and all the beauty of illusion-haunted youth. 

Ah, youth! Blundering, ridiculous youth! An absurd period, excusableonly on the score of its brevity. A parlous condition! A traitorousguide, froward, inspired of all manner of levity, pursuant of hopelessphantasms, dupe of roseate and pernicious myths (love-at-first-sight, and the like), butt of the High Gods' stinging laughter, deserving ofnothing kinder than mockery from the aged and the wise--which isdoubtless why we old and sage folk thank Heaven daily, uplifting crackedvoices and withered hands, that we are no longer young. A pious andfraudulent litany for which may we be forgiven! My young friend on thebench stirred. A shaft of moonlight, streaming through the bush upon hisface, bewitched him to unguarded speech:

"Dominie, I have been dreaming. "

Fearing to break the spell, I stood silent. 

"A fairy came down to me and touched her lips to mine, so lightly, sosoftly. Did you know there were fairies in Our Square, Dominie?"

"Always. "

"I think her name is Happiness. Is there such a fairy in this world, Dominie?"

"There has been. "

"Then there will always be. I think it was Happiness because she wentaway so quickly. "

"Happiness does. Did you try to hold her?"

"So hard! But I was clumsy and rough. She slipped through my arms. "

"Did she leave nothing?"

"Nothing. "

"Then what is this?" I lifted from the ground at his feet a single petalof pink rose, fragrant, unwithered, and placed it in his hand. 

"The fairy's kiss, " he said dreamily. "That's for farewell. "

The moon, dipped beyond a cloud, dissolved the spell. Youth straightenedup brusquely on its bench, rubbing enchantment from its eyes. 

"Have I been talking in my sleep, Dominie?"

"Possibly. "

"What kind of talk? Nonsense?"

"Nonsense--or wisdom. How should I know?"

"Dominie, is there a perfume in the air? A smell of roses?"

"Look in your hand. "

He opened his fingers slowly and closed them again, tenderly, jealously. "I must go now, " he said vaguely. "May I come back to see yousometimes, Dominie?"

"Perhaps you'll bring Happiness with you, " I said. 

But he only shook his head. On the morrow his van was gone from thealley and the house at Number 37, which had once been the House ofSilvery Voices, was voiceless again. 

 * * * * *

Something of the savor of life went with the vanners out of Our Square. I missed their broad-ranging and casual talk of politics, art, religion, the fourth dimension, and one another. Yet I felt sure that I should seethem both again. There is a spell woven in Our Square--it has held methese sixty years and more, and I wonder at times whether Death himselfcan break it--which draws back the hearts that have once known theplace. It was a long month, though, before the butterfly fluttered back. More radiant than ever she looked, glowing softly in the brave Novembersun, as she approached my bench. But there was something indefinablywistful about her. She said that she had come to satisfy her awakenedappetite for the high art of R. Noovo, as she faced the unaltered andviolent frontage of Number 37. 

"Empty, " said I. 

"Then he didn't take my advice and rent it. The painter-man, I mean. "

"He's gone. "

"Where?"

"I haven't an idea. "

"Doesn't he ever come back?"

"You must not assume, " said I with severity, "that you are the onlydevotee of high art. You may perhaps compare your devotion to that ofanother whom I might mention when you, too, have lost ten pounds andgained ten years--"

"Dominie! Has he?"

"Has he what?"

"G-g-g-gained ten pounds. I mean, lost ten years. "

"I haven't said so. "

"Dominie, you are a cruel old man, " accused the butterfly. 

"And you are a wicked woman. "

"I'm not. I'm only twenty, " was her irrelevant but natural defense. 

"Witness, on your oath, answer; were you at any time in the evening ornight before you departed from this, Our Square, leaving usdesolate--were you, I say, abroad in the park?

"Y-y-yes, your Honor. "

"In the immediate vicinity of this bench?"

"Benches are very alike in the dark. "

"But occupants of them are not. Don't fence with the court. Were youwearing one or more roses of the general hue and device of those nowdisplayed in your cheeks?"

"The honorable court has nothing to do with my face, " said the witnessdefiantly. 

"On the contrary, your face is the _corpus delicti. _ Did you, takingadvantage of the unconscious and hence defenseless condition of myclient, that is, of Mr. Martin Dyke, lean over him and deliberatelyimprint a--"

"No! No! No! No! _No_!" cried the butterfly with great and unconvincingfervor. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing?"

"On the circumstantial evidence of a pink rose petal. But worse iscoming. The charge is unprovoked and willful murder. "

Butterflies are strange creatures. This one seemed far less concernedover the latter than the former accusation. "Of whom?" she inquired. 

"You have killed a budding poet. " Here I violated a sacred if impliedconfidence by relating what the bewitched sleeper on the bench had saidunder the spell of the moon. 

The result was most gratifying. The butterfly assured me withindignation that it was only a cold in her head, which had been annoyingher for days: _that_ was what made her eyes act so, and I was asuspicious and malevolent old gentleman--and--and--and perhaps some dayshe and Mr. Martin Dyke might happen to meet. 

"Is that a message?" I asked. 

"No, " answered the butterfly with a suspicion of panic in her eyes. 

"Then?" I queried. 

"He's so--so awfully go-aheadish, " she complained. 

"I'll drop him a hint, " I offered kindly. 

"It might do some good. I'm afraid of him, " she confessed. 

"And a little bit of yourself?" I suggested. 

The look of scorn which she bent upon me would have witheredincontinently anything less hardy than a butterfly-devouring orchid. Itpassed and thoughtfulness supplanted it. "If you really think that hecould be influenced to be more--well, more conventional--"

"I guarantee nothing; but I'm a pedagogue by profession and have taughtsome hard subjects in my time. "

"Then do you think you could give him a little message, word for word asI give it to you?"

"Senile decay, " I admitted, "may have paralyzed most of my faculties, but as a repeater of messages verbatim, I am faithful as a phonograph. "

"Tell him this, then. " She ticked the message off on her fingers. "Ahalf is not exactly the same as a whole. Don't forget the 'exactly. '"

"Is this an occasion for mathematical axioms?" I demanded. But she hadalready gone, with a parting injunction to be precise. 

When, three days thereafter, I retailed that banality to young Mr. Dyke, it produced a startling though not instantaneous effect. 

"I've got it!" he shouted. 

"Don't scare me off my bench! What is it you've got?"

"The answer. She said he was not exactly her brother. "

"Who?"

"That bully-looking big chap in the roadster who took her away. " Hedelivered this shameless reversal of a passionately asserted opinionwithout a quiver. "Now she says a half isn't exactly the same as awhole. He wasn't exactly her brother, she said; he's her half brother. 'Toora-loora-loo, ' as we say in Patagonia. "

"For Patagonia it sounds reasonable. What next?"

"Next and immediately, " said Mr. Dyke, "I am obtaining an address fromthe Mordaunt Estate, and I am then taking this evening off. "

"Take some advice also, my boy, " said I, mindful of the butterfly'salarms. "Go slow. "

"Slow! Haven't I lost time enough already?"

"Perhaps. But now you've got all there is. Don't force the game. You'vefrightened that poor child so that she never can feel sure what you'regoing to do next. "

"Neither can I, Dominie, " confessed the candid youth. "But you're quiteright. I'll clamp on the brakes. I'll be as cool and conventional as aslice of lemon on an iced clam. 'How well you're looking to-night, MissLeffingwell'--that'll be my nearest approach to unguarded personalities. Trust me, Dominie, and thank you for the tip. "

The memorial and erratic clock of Our Square was just striking seven ofthe following morning, meaning approximately eight-forty, when myastonished eyes again beheld Martin Dyke seated on my bench, beautifullythough inappropriately clad in full evening dress with a pink rose inhis coat lapel, and gazing at Number 37 with a wild, ecstatic glare. 

"What have you been doing here all night?" I asked. 

"Thinking. "

I pointed to the flower. "Where did you get that?"

"A fairy gift. "

"Martin, " said I, "did you abide by my well-meant and inspired advice?"

"Dominie, " replied the youth with a guilty flush, "I did my best. I--Itried to. You mustn't think--Nothing is settled. It's only that--"

"It's only that Age is a fool to advise Youth. Why should I expect youto abide by my silly counsels? Who am I to interfere with the dominantfates! Says the snail to the avalanche: 'Go slow!' and the avalanche--"

"Hey! Hi! You Mordaunt Estate!" broke in young Mr. Dyke, shouting. "Ibeg your pardon, Dominie, I've got to see the Estate for a minute. "

Rushing across the street, he intercepted that institutional gentlemanin the act of dipping a brush into a can in front of Number 37. 

"Don't, for Heaven's sake, touch that front!" implored the improver ofit. 

"Why not?" demanded the Estate. 

"I want to rent it. As it is. From to-day. "

The Mordaunt Estate turned a dull, Wagboomish look of denial upon him. "Nope, " said he. "I've had enough of short rentals. It don't pay. I'mgoing to paint her up and lease her for good. "

"I'll take your lease, " insisted Martin Dyke. 

"For how long a period?" inquired the other, in terms of the Estateagain. 

The light that never was, on sea or land, the look that I had surprisedon the face of illusion-haunted Youth in the moon glow, gleamed inMartin Dyke's eyes. 

"Say a million years, " he answered softly. 

THE GUARDIAN OF GOD'S ACRE

As far as the eye could apprehend him, he was palpably an outlander. Nosuch pink of perfection ever sprung from the simple soil of Our Square. A hard pink it was, suggestive less of the flower than of enameledmetal. He was freshly shaved, freshly pressed, freshly anointed, and, ashe paced gallantly across my vision, I perceived him to be slightlygrizzled at the temples, but nevertheless of a vigorous and grimyouthfulness that was almost daunting. Not until he returned and stoodbefore me with his feet planted a little apart, giving an impression ofpurposeful immovability to his wiry figure, did I note that his eyesbelied the general jauntiness of his personality. They were cold, directeyes, with a filmy appearance, rather like those of a morose andself-centered turtle which had lived in our fountain until the day theRosser twins fell in, when it crawled out and emigrated. 

"Nice day, " said the stranger, shifting a patent-leathered foot out of apuddle. 

"Very, " I agreed. Finical over-accuracy about the weather is likely todiscourage a budding acquaintanceship. 

"Have one?" He extended a gemmed cigarette-case, and when, removing mypipe, I had declined in suitable terms, lighted up, himself. He then satdown upon the dryest portion of the bench not occupied by my person. 

"Whiplash win in the fi'th, " he volunteered presently. 

"Yes?" said I with a polite but spurious show of interest. 

"Under a pull. Spread-eagled his field. "

"Who is Whiplash, may I ask?"

"Oh, Gaw!" said the pink man, appalled. He searched my facesuspiciously. "A hoss, " he stated at length, satisfied of my ignorance. 

After several reflective puffs, the smoke of which insufficiently veiledhis furtive appraisal of myself, he tried again:

"They give O'Dowd a shade, last night. "

"Indeed? Who did?"

"The sporting writers. "

"As a testimonial?" I inquired, adding that a shade, whether of the lampor sun species seemed an unusual sort of gift. 

My interlocutor groaned. He drew from the pocket of his gray-checkcutaway, purple and fine linen, the purple being an ornate andindecipherable monogram, wherewith to wipe his troubled brow. SusanGluck's Orphan, who was playing down-wind, paused to inhale deeply andwith a beatific expression. Restoring the fragrant square to itsrepository, the pink one essayed another conversational skirmish. 

"The Reds copped again yesterday. "

"If you are referring to the raid on Anarchist Headquarters in Avenue C, I should have inferred that the Reds _were_ copped, to use your term. "

Curt and contemptuous laughter was his response. "Don't you ever readthe papers, down here?"

"Certainly, " I retorted with some spirit, for the implied slur upon OurSquare stung me. "In fact, I was reading one of our local publicationswhen you inter--when you arrived. It contains some veryinteresting poetry. "

"Yeh?" said the hard, pink man politely. 

"For example, in this issue I find the following apostrophe. " Iproceeded to read aloud:

 "Farewell, our dear one, we must part, For thou hast gone to heavenly home, While we below with aching heart Must long for thee and ever moan. "

"Swell stuff, " commented the sharer of my bench, with determinedinterest. "Poetry's a little out of my line, but I'm _for_ it. Whowrote that?"

"It is signed 'Loving Father and 3 Sisters. ' But the actual authorshiprests with the long gentleman in black whom you see leaning on the parkfence yonder. His name is Bartholomew Storrs and he is the elegiac ormortuary or memorial laureate of Our Square. "

This was said with intent to mortify the soul of my new acquaintance inrevenge for his previous display of erudition. The bewilderment in hisface told me that I had scored heavily. But he quickly rallied. 

"Do I get you right?" he queried. "Does he write those hymns for otherfolks to sign?"

"He does. "

"What does he do that for?"

"Money. He gets as high as five dollars per stanza. "

"Some salesman!" My hard-faced companion regarded the lank figureoverhanging the fence with new respect. "Looks to me like the originalGloom, " he observed. "What's _his_ grouch?"

"Conscience. "

"He must have a bum one!"

"He has a busy one. He expends a great amount of time and sorrowrepenting of our sins. "

"Whose sins?" asked the other, opening wider his dull and weary eyes. 

"Ours. His neighbors. Everybody in Our Square. "

My interlocutor promptly and fitly put into words the feeling which hadlong lurked within my consciousness, ashamed to express itself against amonument of dismal pity such as Bartholomew Storrs. "He's got a nerve!"he asserted. 

Warming to him for his pithy analysis of character, I enlarged upon mytheme. "He rebukes MacLachan for past drunkenness. He mourns forSchepstein, who occasionally helps out a friend at ten per cent, as ausurer. He once accused old Madame Tallafferr of pride, but he'll neverdo that again. He calls the Little Red Doctor, our local physician, toaccount for profanity, and gets a fresh sample every time. Even againstthe Bonnie Lassie, whose sculptures you can just see in that littlehouse near the corner"--I waved an illustrative hand--"he can quoteScripture, as to graven images. We all revere and respect and hate him. He's coming this way now. "

"Good day, Dominie, " said Bartholomew Storrs, as he passed, in such atone as a very superior angel might employ toward a particularlydamned soul. 

"That frown, " I explained to my companion, after returning thesalutation, "means that I failed to attend church yesterday. "

But the hard, pink man had lost interest in Bartholomew. "Called you'Dominie, ' didn't he?" he remarked. "I thought I had you right. Heard ofyou from a little red-headed ginger-box named Smith. "

"You know the Little Red Doctor?"

"I met him, " he replied evasively. "He told me to look you up. 'You talkto the Dominie, ' he says. "

"About what?"

"I'm coming to that. " He leaned forward to place a muscular andconfidential hand on my knee. "First, I'd like to do you a littlefavor, " he continued in his husky and intimate voice. "If you're lookingfor some quick and easy money, I got a little tip that I'd like to passon to you. "

"Evidently the Little Red Doctor told you that my mind was a totteringruin, which may be quite true; but if it's a matter of investing in thePeruvian Gold, Rubber Tree, and Perpetual Motion Concession, I'mreluctantly compelled--"

"Forget it!" adjured the hard, pink man in a tone which secured mysilence and almost my confidence. "This is a hoss. Seven to one, and asure cop. I _know_ hosses. I've owned 'em. "

"Thank you, but I can't afford such luxuries as betting. "

"You can't afford _not_ to have something down on this if it's only ashoestring. No? Oh--well!"

Again drawing the art-square from his pocket he lifted his pearl-grayderby and dabbed despairingly at his brow. Catching the scent hot andfresh, Susan Gluck's Orphan came dashing up-wind giving tongue, orrather, nose, voluptuously. 

"Mm-m-m! Snmmff!" inhaled the Orphan, wrinkling ecstatic nostrils. "Mister, lemme smell it some more!"

Graciously the dispenser of fragrance waved his balm-laden handkerchief. "Like it, kiddie?" he said. 

"Oh, it's _grand_!" She stretched out her little grimy paws. "Please, Mister, " she entreated, "would you flop it over 'em, just once?"

The pink man tossed it to her. "Take it along and, when you get it allsnuffed up, give it back to the Dominie here for me. "

"Oh, gracious!" said the Orphan, incredulous at this bounty. "Can I haveit till _to-morrah_?"

"Sure! What's the big idea for to-morrow?"

"I'm goin' to a funeral. I want it to cry in, " said the Orphanimportantly. 

"A funeral?" I asked. "In Our Square? Whose?"

"My cousin Minnie. She's goin' to be buried in God's Acre, an' I'minvited 'cause I'm a r'lation. She married a sporting gentleman namedHines an' she died yesterday, " said the precocious Orphan. 

So Minnie Munn, pretty, blithe, life-loving Minnie, whose going had hurtus so, had come back to Our Square, with all her love of life quenched. She had promised that she would come back, in the little, hysterical, defiant note she left under the door. Her father and mother must waitand not worry. There are thousands of homes, I suppose, in which areburied just such letters as Minnie's farewell to her parents;rebellious, passionate, yearning, pitiful. Ah, well! The moth must breakits chrysalis. The flower must rend its bonds toward the light. LittleMinnie was "going on the stage. " A garish and perilous stage it was, whereon Innocence plays a part as sorry as it is brief. And now she wasmaking her exit, without applause. Memory brought back a picture ofMinnie as I had first seen her, a wee thing, blinking and smiling in thearms of her Madonna-faced mother, on a bench in Our Square, and themother (who could not wait for the promised return--she has lain inGod's Acre these three years) crooning to her an unforgettable song, mournfully prophetic:

 "Why did I bring thee, Sweet Into a world of sin?-- Into a world of wonder and doubt With sorrows and snares for the little white feet-- Into a world whence the going out Is as dark as the coming in!"

Old lips readily lend themselves to memory; I suppose I must haverepeated the final lines aloud, for the pink man said, wearilybut politely:

"Very pretty. Something more in the local line?"

"Hardly. " I smiled. Between Bartholomew Storr's elegies and WilliamYoung's "Wish-makers' Town" stretches an infinite chasm. 

"What's this--now--God's Acre the kid was talking about?" was his nextquestion. 

"An old local graveyard. "

"Anything interesting?" he asked carelessly. 

"If you're interested in that sort of thing. Are you an antiquary?"

"Sure!" he replied with such offhand promptitude that I was certain theanswer would have been the same had I asked him if he was a dromedary. 

"Come along, then. I'll take you there. "

To reach that little green space of peace amidst our turmoil of thecrowded, encroaching slums, we must pass the Bonnie Lassie's house, where her tiny figurines, touched with the fire of her love and hergenius, which are perhaps one and the same, stand ever on guard, lookingout over Our Square from her windows. Judging by his appearance andconversation, I should have supposed my companion to be as littleconcerned with art as with, let us say, poetry or local antiquities. Buthe stopped dead in his tracks, before the first window. Fingers thatwere like steel claws buried themselves in my arm. The otherhand pointed. 

"What's that?" he muttered fiercely. 

"That, " to which he was pointing, was a pictorial bronze, the figure ofa girl, upright in a cockleshell boat, made of a rose-petal, her armsoutspread to the breeze that was bearing her out across sunlit ripples. Beneath was the legend: "Far Ports. " The face, eager, laughing, passionate, adventurous, was the face of Minnie Munn. Therein the BonnieLassie had been prophetess as well as poet and sculptress, for she hadfinished the bronze before Minnie left us. 

"That, " I answered the strong, pink man, trying to shake loose his grip, "is a sculpture by Cecily Willard, otherwise Mrs. Cyrus Staten. "

"What'll she take for it?"

"It can't be bought. " I spoke with authority, for the figurines that theBonnie Lassie sets in her window are not for sale, but for us of OurSquare, who love them. 

"Anything can be bought, " he retorted, with his quiet, hoarsepersuasiveness, "at a price. I've got the price, no matter what it is. "

Suddenly I understood my pink and hard acquaintance. I understood thatstale look in his eyes. Tears do not bring that. Nothing brings it butsleepless thoughts beyond the assuagement of tears. Behind such eyes theheart is aching cold and the brain searing hot. Who should know betterthan I, though the kindly years have brought their healing! But here wasa wound, raw and fresh and savage. I put my hand on his shoulder. 

"What was little Minnie to you?" I asked, and answered myself. "You'reHines. You're the man she married. "

"Yes. I'm Chris Hines. "

"You've brought her back to us, " I said stupidly. 

"She made me promise. "

Strange how Our Square binds the heartstrings of those who have oncelived in it! To find it unendurable in life, to yearn back to it in thehour of death! Many have known the experience. So our tiny God's Acre, shrunk to a small fraction of human acreage through pressure of theencroaching tenements, has filled up until now it has space but for fewmore of the returning. Laws have been invoked and high and learnedcourts appealed to for the jealously guarded right to sleep there, asMinnie Munn was so soon to sleep beside her mother. 

I told Hines that I would see the Bonnie Lassie about the statuette, andled him on, through the nagged and echoing passage and the iron gate, tothe white-studded space of graves. The new excavation showed, brownagainst the bright verdure. Above it stood the headstone of the Munns, solemn and proud, the cost of a quarter-year's salary, at the pitifulwage which little, broken Mr. Munn drew from his municipal clerkship. Hines's elegant coat rippled on his chest, above what may have been ashudder, as he looked about him. 

"It's crowded, " he muttered. 

"We lie close, as we lived close, in Our Square. I am glad for herfather's sake that Minnie wished to come back. "

"She said she couldn't rest peaceful anywhere else. She said she hadsome sort of right to be here. "

"The Munns belong to what we call the Inalienables in Our Square, " saidI, and told him of the high court decision which secured to thedescendants of the original "churchyard membership, " and to them alone, the inalienable right to lie in God's Acre, provided, as in the ancientcharter, they had "died in honorable estate. " I added: "BartholomewStorrs, as sexton, has constituted himself watchdog of our graves andcensor of our dead. He carried one case to the Supreme Court in anattempt to keep an unhappy woman from sleeping in that pious company. "

"That sour-faced prohibitionist?" growled Mr. Hines, employing what Isuspect to be the blackest anathema in his lexicon. "Is he the sexton?"

"The same. Our mortuary genius, " I confirmed. 

"She was a good girl, Min was, " said Mr. Hines firmly, though, it mightappear, a trifle inconsequentially: "I don't care what they say. Anyway, after I met up with her"; in which qualifying afterthought lay a wholesorrowful and veiled history. 

I waited. 

"What did they say about her, down here?" he asked jealously. 

"Oh, there were rumors. They didn't reach her father. "

"No: tell me, " he persisted. "I gotta know. "

Because Mr. Hines had already impressed himself upon me as one with whomstraight talk would serve best, I acceded. 

"Bartholomew Storrs said that her feet took hold on hell. "

Mr. Hines's face remained impassive. Only his hands worked slightly, perhaps kneading an imaginary throat. I perceived him to be a person ofconsiderable and perhaps formidable self-control. 

"Not that she hadn't her friends. The Bonnie Lassie would have stood byher if she had come back, and little Mrs. Morse, and our Dr. Smith, andMacLachan, who thought he had lost his own girl the same way, and--andothers, plenty. "

"And you, Dominie, " said the hard, pink Mr. Hines. 

"My dear sir, old men cannot afford harsh judgments. They are too neartheir own time. "

"Yeh?" said Mr. Hines absently. "I guess that's right. " But his mind wasplainly elsewhere. "When would you say would be the best time to dobusiness with old Funeral-Clothes?" he asked after a thoughtful pause. 

"You want to see Bartholomew Storrs?" I interpreted. 

"Sure. I gotta deliver the death certificate to him if he runs thegraveyard, haven't I?"

"Such is the procedure, I believe. "

"Besides, " he added with a leer, "I want to get some of that weepypoetry of his. "

"Well; he'll sell it to you readily. "

"I'll say he'll sell it to me, " returned Mr. Hines with a grimness whichI failed to comprehend. 

"Now is as good a time as any to catch him in his office. " I pointed toa sign at the farther end of the yard. 

Mr. Hines seemed in no hurry to go. With his elegantly lacquered cane, he picked at the sod, undecidedly. His chill, veiled eyes roved aboutthe open space. He lifted his pearl-gray derby, and, for lack of ahandkerchief, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Although theMay day was cool and brisk with wind, his knuckles glistened when theydescended. I began to suspect that, despite his stony self-command, Mr. Hines's nerves were not all that they should be. 

"Perhaps you'd like me to introduce you to Mr. Storrs, " I hazarded. 

The cold and filmy eyes gleamed with an instant's dim warmth. "Dominie, you're a good guy, " responded Mr. Hines. "If a dead cinch at ten to one, all fruited up for next week, the kind of thing you don't hand on toyour own brother, would be any use to you--No? I'm off again, " heapologized. "Well--let's go. "

We went. At the doorstep of Bartholomew Storrs's office he paused. 

"This sexton-guy, " he said anxiously, "he don't play the ponies, ever, Iwouldn't suppose?"

"No more often than he commits murder or goes to sleep in church, " Ismiled. 

"Yeh?" he answered, disheartened. "I gotta get to him some other way. Onthe poetry--and that's out of my line. "

"I don't quite see what your difficulty is. "

"By what you tell me, it's easier to break into a swell Fifth AvenueClub than into this place. "

"Except for those having the vested right, as your wife has. "

"And this sexton-guy handles the concession for--he's got the say-so, "he corrected himself hastily--"on who goes in and who stays out. Isthat right?"

"Substantially. "

"And he'd rather keep 'em out than let 'em in?"

"Bartholomew, " I explained, "considers that the honor of God's Acre isin his keeping. He has a fierce sort of jealousy about it, as if he hada proprietary interest in the place. "

"I get you!" Mr. Hines's corded throat worked painfully. "You don'tsuppose the old goat would slip Min a blackball?" he gulped. 

"How can he? As an 'Inalienable'--"

"Yeh; I know. But wasn't there something about a clean record? I'll tell_you_, Dominie"--Mr. Hines's husky but assured voice trailed away intoa miserable, thick whisper--"as to what he said--about her feet takinghold on hell--I guess there was a time--I guess about one more slip--Iguess I didn't run across her any too quick. But there never was astraighter, truer girl than Min was with me. I gotta get her planted_right_, Dominie. I gotta do it, " he concluded with patheticearnestness. 

"I see no difficulty, " I assured him. "The charter specifies '_died_ inhonorable estate. ' Matrimony is an honorable estate. How she livedbefore that is between her and a gentler Judge than Bartholomew Storrs. "

"Give her a straight course and a fair judge and I'll back Min to thelimit, " said Mr. Hines so simply and loyally that no suggestion ofirreverence could attach to him. 

Nevertheless, doubt was mingled with determination in his florid face ashe rang the bell. Bartholomew Storrs opened to us, himself. When he sawme, he hastily pocketed a Rhyming Dictionary. I introduced my companion, stating, by way of a favorable opening, that he was interested inmemorial poetry. 

"Very pleased, " said Bartholomew Storrs in his deep, lugubrious tones. "Bereaved husband?"

Mr. Hines nodded. 

"Here's a tasty thing I just completed, " continued the poet, and, extending a benignant hand toward the visitor he intoned nasally:

 "Together we have lived our life Till thou hast gone on high. But I will come to thee, dear Wife, In the sweet bye-and-bye. "

"That style five dollars, " he said. 

"You're on, " barked Mr. Hines. "I'll take it. "

"To be published, I suppose, on the first anniversary of death. Shall Ilook after the insertion in the papers?" queried the obliging poet, whosplit an advertising agent's percentage on memorial notices placedby him. 

"Sure. Got any more? I'd spend a hundred to do this right. "

With a smile of astounded gratification, Bartholomew accepted the rollof bills, fresh and crisp as the visitor himself. To do him justice, Ibelieve that his pleasure was due as much to the recognition of hisgenius as to the stipend it had earned. 

"Perhaps you'd like a special elegy to be read at the grave, " he rumbledeagerly. "When and where did the interment take place?"

The other glared at him in stony surprise. "It ain't taken place. It'sto-morrow. Ain't you on? I'm Hines. "

A frown darkened the sexton's heavy features. He shook a reprehensivehead. "An unfortunate case, " he boomed; "most unfortunate. I will notconceal from you, Mr. Hines, that I have consulted our attorneys uponthis case, and unhappily--unhappily, I say--they hold that there is nobasis for exclusion provided the certificate is in form. You have itwith you?"

Impassive and inscrutable, Mr. Hines tapped his breast-pocket. 

The conscience of a responsible sexton being assuaged, Bartholomew'sexpression mollified into that of the flattered poet. 

"Such being the case, " he pursued, "there can be no objection to thereading of an elegy as part of the service. Who is to officiate?"

"The Reverend Doctor Hackett. "

"He has retired these two years, " said the sexton doubtfully. "He isvery old. His mind sometimes wanders. "

"She wouldn't have any one else, " asserted the hard, pink Mr. Hines. "She was as particular about that as about being buried yonder. " Hejerked his head toward the window. 

"Very well. I will be at the grave. I always am. Trust me to guide thereverend gentleman over any breach in his memory. Excuse me for a momentwhile I look up my elegies. "

"Say, " said Mr. Hines in his hoarse, confidential croak, as thepoet-sexton retired, "this is dead easy. Why, the guy's on the make. Forsale. He'll stand for anything. Passing out this stuff for other folksto sign! He's a crook!"

"Make no such mistake, " I advised. "Bartholomew is as honest a man aslives, in his own belief. "

"Very likely. That's the worst kind, " pronounced the expert Mr. Hines. 

Further commentary was cut off by the return of the sexton-poet. "If youwill kindly give me the death certificate of the late lamented, "said he. 

"What becomes of it after I deliver it?" asked Mr. Hines. 

"Read, attested, and filed officially. "

"Any one else but you see it?"

"Not necessarily. "

"That's all right, then. "

Hardly had Bartholomew Storrs glanced at the document received from Mr. Hines than he lifted a stiffening face. 

"What is this?" he challenged. 

"What's what?"

The official tapped the paper with a gaunt finger. "'Minna Merivale, aged twenty-five, '" he read. 

"That's the name she went by. "

"_Unmarried_" read Bartholomew Storrs in a voice of doom. 

"Well?"

In the sexton's eyes gleamed an unholy savagery of satisfaction. "Takeher away. "

"_What_?"

"Bury her somewhere else. Do not think that you can pollute theground--"

"Bartholomew!" I broke in, stepping hastily in front of Mr. Hines, for Ihad seen all the pink ebb out of his face, leaving it a dreadful sort ofgray; and I had no desire to be witness of a murder, however much Imight deem it justified. 

"I'll handle him, " said Mr. Hines steadily. "Now; you! You got myhundred in your jeans, ain't you!"

"Bribery!" boomed the sexton. He drew out the roll of bills and let itfall from his contaminated fingers. 

"Sure! Bribery, " railed the other. "What'd you think? Ain't it enoughfor what I'm asking?" The two men glared at each other. 

I broke the silence. "Exactly what are you asking, Mr. Hines?"

"File that"--he touched the document--"and forget it. Let Min rest outthere as my wife, like she ought to have been. "

"Why didn't you make her your wife?" thundered the accuser. 

Some invisible thing gripped the corded throat of Mr. Hines. "Couldn't, "he gulped. "There was--another. She wouldn't divorce me. "

"Your sin has found you out, " declared the self-constituted judge of thedead with a dismal sort of relish. 

"Yeh? That's all right. _I'll_ pay for it. But she's paid already. "

"As she lived so she has died, in sin, " the inexorable voice answered. "Let her seek burial elsewhere. "

Mr. Hines leaned forward. His expression and tone were passionless asthose of a statistician proffering a tabulation: his words were fit towring the heart of a stone. 

"She's dead, ain't she?" he argued gently. "She can't hurt any one, canshe? 'Specially if they don't know. "

Bartholomew Storrs made a gesture of repulsion. 

"Well, who'll she hurt?" pursued the other, in his form of pure andabstract reasoning. "Not her mother, I guess. Her mother's waiting forher; that's what Min said when she was--was going. And her father'll beon the other side of her. And that's all. Min never harmed anybody butherself when she was alive. How's she going to do 'em any damage now, just lying there, resting? Be reasonable, man!"

Be pitiful, oh, man! For there was a time not so long past when you, with all your stern probity and your unwinking conscience, needed pity;yes, and pleaded for it when the mind was out of control. Think back, Bartholomew Storrs, to the day when you stood by another grave, close tothat which waits to-day for the weary sleeper--Bartholomew Storrsrested, opened the door and stood by it, grimly waiting. Mr. Hinesturned to me. 

"What is this thing, Dominie; a man or a snake? Will I kill it?"

"Bartholomew, " I began. "When we--"

"Not a word from you, Dominie. My mind is made up. "

"The girl is Isabel Munn's daughter. "

I saw a tremor shake the gaunt frame. 

"When we buried Isabel Munn, you came back in the night to weep at hergrave. "

He thrust out a warding hand toward me. 

"Why did you weep over Isabel Munn's grave, Bartholomew?"

"Speak no evil of the dead, " he cried wildly. 

"It is not in my mind. She was a good and pure woman. What would shehave been if she had listened to you?"

"What do you know? Who betrayed me?"

"You, yourself. When you came down with pneumonia after the burial, Isat with you through a night of delirium. "

Bartholomew Storrs bowed his head. 

"My sin hath found me out, " he groaned. "God knows I loved her, and--andI hadn't the strength not to tell her. I'd have given up everything forher, my hope of heaven, my--my--I 'd have given up my office and goneaway from God's Acre! And that was twenty years ago. I--I don't sleep o'nights yet, for thinking. "

"Well, you ain't the only one, " said the dull voice of Mr. Hines. 

"You're tempting me!" Bartholomew Storrs snarled at him. "You're tryingto make me false to my trust. "

"Just to let her lie by her mother, like her mother would ask you if shecould. "

"Don't say it to me!" He beat his head with his clenched hand. Recovering command of himself, he straightened up, taking a deep breath:"I must be guided by my conscience and my God, " he said professionally, and I noted a more reverent intonation given to the former than to thelatter. A bad sign. 

"Isabel Munn's daughter, Bartholomew, " I reminded him. 

Instead of replying he staggered out of the door. Through the window wesaw him, a moment later, posting down the street, bareheaded andstony-eyed, like one spurred by tormenting thoughts. 

"Will he do it, do you think?" queried the anxious-visaged Mr. Hines. 

I shook my head in doubt. With a man like Bartholomew Storrs, one cannever tell. 

Old memories are restless companions for the old. So I found them thatnight. But there is balm for sleeplessness in the leafy quiet of OurSquare. I went out to my bench, seeking it, and found an occupantalready there. 

"We ain't the only ones that need a jab of dope, Dominie, " said Mr. Hines, hard and pink and hoarsely confidential as when I first saw him. 

"No? Who else?" Though I suspected, of course. 

"Old Gloom. He's over in the Acre. "

"Did you meet him there? What did he say?"

"I ducked him. He never saw me. He was--well, I guess he was praying, "said Mr. Hines shamefacedly. 

"Praying? At the Munn grave?"

"That's it. Groaning and saying, 'A sign, O Lord! Vouchsafe thy servanta sign!' Kept saying it over and over. "

"For guidance to-morrow, " I murmured. "Mr. Hines, I'm not sure that Iknow Bartholomew Storrs's God. Nor can I tell what manner of sign hemight give, or with what meaning. But if I know my God, whom I believeto be the true God, your Minnie is safe with him. "

"Yeh? You're a good guy, Dominie, " said Mr. Hines in his emotionlessvoice. 

I took him home with me to sleep. But we did not sleep. We smoked. 

Minnie Munn's funeral morning dawned clear and fresh. No word came fromBartholomew Storrs. I tried to find him, but without avail. 

"We'll go through with it, " said Mr. Hines quietly. 

How small and insignificant seemed our tiny God's Acre, as the fewmourners crept into it behind Minnie Munn's body; the gravestones likepetty dots upon the teeming earth, dwarfed by the overshadowingtenements, as if death were but an incident in the vast, unhasting, continuous sweep of life, as indeed perhaps it is. Then the grandeur ofthe funeral service, which links death to immortality, was bodied forthin the aged minister's trembling voice, and by it the things which areof life were dwarfed to nothingness. But my uneasy mind refused to bebound by the words; it was concerned with Bartholomew Storrs, standinggrim, haggard, inscrutable, beside the grave, his eyes upturned andwaiting. Too well I knew for what he was waiting; his sign. So, too, didMr. Hines, still hard, still pink, still impeccably tailored, and stillclinging to his elegant lacquered cane, as he supported little, brokenMr. Munn, very pathetic and decorous in full black, even to the gloves. 

The sonorous beauty and simplicity of the rite suddenly checked, faltered. Bartholomew Storrs leaned over anxiously to the minister. Thepoor, gentle, worn-out old brain was groping now in semi-darkness, through which shot a cross-ray of memory. The tremulous voice took onnew confidence, but the marrow of my spine turned icy as I heard thefatally misplaced and confused words that followed:

"If any man know--know just and good cause why this woman--why thiswoman--should not--"

Bartholomew Storrs's gaunt hand shot upward, high in air, outspread inthe gesture of forbiddance. His deep voice rang, overbearing thestumbling accents of the clergyman. 

"A sign! A sign from on High! O God, thou hast spoken through thyservant to forefend a sore offense. Listen, ye people. This woman--"

He stopped as there rose, on the opposite side of the open grave anotherfigure, with hands and voice lifted to heaven in what must surely havebeen the most ingenuous supplication that ever ascended to the throne ofPity and Understanding. All the passion which, through the bitter hours, had been repressed in the self-commanding soul of the hard and pink Mr. Hines, swelled and cried aloud in his plea:

"O God! have a heart!"

Bartholomew Storrs's hand fell. His eyes faltered. His lips trembled. Hestood once more, agonized with doubt. And in that moment the oldminister came to his rightful senses. 

"Peace, my friends, " he commanded with authority. "Let no man disturbthe peace of the dead. "

And, unwaveringly, he went on to the end of the service. 

So little Minnie Munn rests beside the mother who waited for her. Noghosts have risen to protest her presence there. The man who loved hercomes back to Our Square from time to time, at which times there arefresh flowers on Minnie's mound, below the headstone reading: "BelovedWife of Christopher Hines. " But the elegiac verse has never appeared. Imust record also the disappearance of that tiny bronze cockleshell, outward bound for "Far Ports, " from the Bonnie Lassie's window, thoughMr. Hines was wrong in his theory that it could be bought--like all else--"at a price. " By the way, I believe that he has modified that theory. 

As for Bartholomew Storrs, he is prone to take the other side of theSquare when he sees me on my accustomed bench. In repose his face is asgrim as ever, but I have seen him smile at a child. Probably the weightof our collective sins upon his conscience is less irksome, now that hehas a crime of his own to balance them. For forgery and falsification ofan official record is a real crime, which might send him to jail. Buteven that grim and judicial God of his worship ought to welcome him intoheaven on the strength of it. 

I believe that Bartholomew sleeps o' nights now. 

FOR MAYME, READ MARY

I

Mayme Mccartney was a bad little good girl. She inspired (I trust)esteem for her goodness. But it was for her hardy and happy impudence, her bent for ingenious mischief, her broad and catholic disrespect forlaw, conventions, proprieties and persons, and the glint of the devil inher black eyes that we really loved her. Such is the perversity of humannature in Our Square. I am told that it is much the same elsewhere. 

She first came into public notice by giving (unsolicited) a mostscandalous and spirited imitation of old Madame Tallafferr, aforetime ofthe Southern aristocracy, in the act of rebuking her landlord, theinsecticidal Boggs ("Boggs Kills Bugs" in his patent of nobility), foreating peanuts on his own front steps. She then (earnestly solicited bya growing audience) put on impromptu sketches of the Little Red Doctordiagnosing internal complications in a doodle-bug; of MacLachan (drunk)singing "The Cork Leg" and MacLachan (sober) repenting thereof; ofBartholomew Storrs offering samples of his mortuary poesy to a bereavedsecond-cousin; and, having decked out her chin in cotton-batten whiskers(limb of Satan!), of myself proffering sage counsel and piousadmonitions to Our Square at large. Having concluded, she sat down on abench and coughed. And the Little Red Doctor, who, from the shelter of ashrub had observed her presentation of his little idiosyncrasies, drewnearer and looked at her hard. For he disliked the sound of that cough. He suspected that his old friend and opponent, Death, with whom hefought an interminable campaign, was mocking him from ambush. It wasn'tquite fair play, either, for the foe to use the particular weaponindicated by the cough on a mere child. With her lustrous hair loose andfloating, and her small, eager, flushed face, she looked far short ofthe mature and self-reliant seventeen which was the tally of herexperienced years. 

"Hello, " greeted the Little Red Doctor, speaking with the brusqueinformality of one assured of his place as a local celebrity. "I don'tknow you, do I?"

Mayme lifted her eyes. "If you don't, " she drawled, "it ain't for lackof tryin'. Is your hat glued on?"

"Good Lord!" exclaimed the Little Red Doctor indignantly. "Do you thinkI'm trying to flirt with you? Why, you're only a kid. "

"Get up to date, " advised Mayme. "I'm old enough to be your steady. Only, I'm too lucky. "

"That's a bad cough you've got, " said the Little Red Doctor hastily. 

"I've got a better one at home. Like to hear it some day?"

"Bring it over to my office and let's look at the thing, " suggested theLittle Red Doctor, smiling. 

As Mayme McCartney observed that smile with the shrewd judgment of menwhich comes early, in self-protection, to girls of her environment, thesuspicion and impudence died out of her face, which became wistful. 

"D'you think it means anything?" she asked. 

"Any cough means something. I couldn't tell without examination. "

"How much?" inquired the cautious Mayme. 

The Little Red Doctor is a willing liar in a good cause. "No charge forfirst consultation. Come over to my office. "

When the test was finished, the Little Red Doctor looked professionallynon-committal. "Live with your parents?" he asked. 

"No. With my aunt. 'Round in the Avenue. "

"Where do you work?"

"The Emporium, " answered the girl, naming the great and stillfashionable downtown department store, half a mile to the westward. 

"You ought to quit. As soon as possible. "

"And spoil my delicate digestion?"

"Who said anything about your digestion?"

"I did. If I quit workin', I quit eatin'. And that's bad for me. I triedit once. "

"I see, " said the Little Red Doctor, recognizing a condition by no meansunprecedented in local practice. "Couldn't you get a job in somebetter climate?"

"Where, for instance?"

"Well, if you knew any one in California. "

"How's the walkin'?" asked Mayme. 

"It's long, " replied the Little Red Doctor, "seeing" again. "Anyway, you've got to have fresh air. "

"They serve it fresh, every morning, right here in Our Square, " Maymepointed out. 

"Good idea. Get up early and fill your lungs full of it for an hourevery day. " He gave some further instructions. 

Mayme produced a dollar, and delicately placed it on the mantel. 

"Take it away, " said the Little Red Doctor. "Didn't I tell you--"

"Go-wan!" said Mayme. "Whadda you think you are; Bellevue Hospital? Ipay as I go, Doc. "

The Little Red Doctor frowned austerely. 

"What's the matter? Face hurt you?" asked the solicitous Mayme. 

"People don't call me 'Doc, '" began the offended practitioner indignified tones. 

"Oh, that's because they ain't on to you, " she assured him. "I wouldn'tcall you 'Doc' myself if I didn't know you was a good sport back ofyour bluff. "

The Little Red Doctor grinned, looking first at Mayme and then at thedollar. "You aren't such a bad sport yourself, " he admitted. "Well, we'll call this a deal. But if I see you in the Square and give you atip about yourself now and again, that doesn't count. That's on theside. Understand?"

She considered it gravely. "All right, " she agreed at length. "Betweenpals, yes? Shake, Doc. "

So began the quaint friendship between our hard-worked, bluff, knightly-hearted practitioner, and the impish and lovable littlestore-girl. Also another of the innumerable tilts between him and hisold friend, Death. 

"He's got the jump on me, Dominie, " complained the Little Red Doctor tome. "But, at that, we're going to give him a fight. She's clear grit, that youngster is. She's got a philosophy of life, too. I don't knowwhere she got it, or just what it is, but it's there. Oh, she's worthsaving, Dominie. "

"If I hadn't reason to think you safeguarded, my young friend, " said I, "I'd give you solemn warning. "

"Why, she's an infant!" returned the Little Red Doctor scornfully. "Apoor, little, monkey-faced child. Besides--" He stopped and sighed. 

"Yes; I know, " I assented. There was at that time a "Besides" in theLittle Red Doctor's sorrowful heart which bulked too large to admit ofany rivalry. "Nevertheless, " I added, "you needn't be so scornful aboutthe simian type in woman. It's a concentrated peril to mankind. I'veseen trouble caused in this world by kitten faces, by pure, classicfaces, by ox-eyed-Juno faces, by vivid blond faces, by dreamy, poeticfaces, by passionate Southern faces, but for real power of catastrophe, for earthquake and eclipse, for red ruin and the breaking up of laws, commend me to the humanized, feminized monkey face. I'll wager that whenAntony first set eyes on Cleopatra, he said, 'And which cocoa palm didshe fall out of?' Phryne was of the beautified baboon cast of features, and as for Helen of Troy, the best authorities now lean to the beliefthat the face that launched a thousand ships and fired the toplesstowers of Ilium was a reversion to the arboreal. I tell you, man that isborn of woman cannot resist it. Give little Mayme three more years--"

"I wish to God I could, " said the Little Red Doctor. 

"Can't you?" I asked, startled. "Is it as bad as that?"

"It isn't much better. How's your insomnia, Dominie?"

"Insomnia, " said I, "is a scientific quibble for unlaid memories. I takemine out for the early morning air at times, if that's what you mean. "

"It is. Keep an eye on the kid, and do what you can to prevent that busylittle mind of hers from brooding. "

In that way Mayme McCartney and I became early morning friends. Sheadopted for her special own a bench some rods from mine under the lilacnear the fountain. After her walk, taken with her thin shoulders flungback and the chest filling with deep, slow breaths, she would pay me acall or await one from me and we would exchange theories and opinionsand argue about this and other worlds. Seventy against seventeen. Fairexchange, for, if mine were the riper creed, hers was the more vivid andadventurous. Who shall say which was the sounder?

On the morning of the astonishing Trespass, I was late, beingdiscouraged by a light rain. As she approached her bench, she found itoccupied by an individual who appeared to be playing a contributory partin the general lamentation of nature. The interloper was young and quiteexquisite of raiment, which alone would have marked him for anoutlander. His elbows were propped on his knees, his fists supported hischeekbones, his whole figure was in a slump of misery. Scrutinizing himwith surprise, Mayme was shocked to see a glistening drop, detached fromhis drooping countenance, fall to the pavement, followed by another. Atthe same time she heard an unmistakable and melancholic sound. 

The benches in Our Square have seen more life than most. They havecradled weariness of body and spirit; they have assuaged grief and givenrefuge to shaking terror, and been visited by Death. They have shiveredto the passion of cursing men and weeping women. But never before hadany of their ilk heard grown young manhood blubber. Neither had MaymeMcCartney. It inspired her with mingled emotions, the most immediate ofwhich was a desire to laugh. 

Accordingly she laughed. The intruder lifted a woeful face, gave her onevague look, and reverted to his former posture. Mayme stopped laughing. She advanced and put a friendly hand on one of the humped shoulders. 

"Cheer up, Buddy, " she said. "It ain't as bad as you think it is. "

"It's worse, " gulped a choky voice. Then the head lifted again. "Who areyou?" it demanded. 

"I'm your big sister, " said Mayme reassuringly. "Tell a feller aboutit. "

The response was neither polite nor explanatory. "D---n sisters!" saidthe bencher. 

"Oh, tutt-_tutt_ and naughty-naughty!" rebuked Mayme. "Somebody's sisterbeen puttin' somethin' over on poor little Willy?"

"My own sister has. " He was in that state of semi-hysterical exhaustionin which revelation of one's intimate troubles to the first comer seemsnatural. "She's gone and got arrested, " he wailed. 

Mayme's face became grave and practical. 

"That's different, " said she. "What's her lay?"

"Lay? I don't know--"

"What's her line? What's she done to get pinched?"

"Shoplifting. At the special night sale of the Emporium. "

"You're tellin' me! In the silks, huh?"

"What do you know about it? My God! Is it in the papers already?"

"Keep your hair on, Buddy. I work there, and I heard about that pinch. Swell young married lady. Say, " she added, after a thoughtful pause:"has she got somethin' comin'?"

"Something coming? How? What?"

"Don't be dumb. A kid. "

He stared. She was looking at him with unabashed frankness. Those wholive in the close, rough intimacy of the slums do not cherish falseshame about the major facts of life. 

"Suppose she has?" queried the youth sulkily. 

"Why, that'll be all right, you poor boob, " returned the kindly Mayme. "The judge'll let her off with a warning. "

"How do you know?"

"They always do. Those cases are common. Dolan ought to be canned formakin' a pinch of a lady in the fam'ly way. "

"What if they do let her off?" lamented the youth. "It'll be in all thepapers and I'll be ruined. My life's spoiled. I might as well leavethe city. "

"Ah, don't do a mean trick like that to the old town!" besought thesardonic Mayme. "Where do you come in to get hurt?"

He burst into the hectic grievances of the pampered and spoiled child. His family was just getting a foothold in Society (with an almost holyemphasis on the word) and now they were disgraced. All was up. Theirnew, precariously held acquaintances would drop them. In his petulantgrief he did an amazing thing; he produced a bunch of clippings from thelocal society columns, setting forth, in the printed company of theShining Ones, the doings (mostly charitable) of Mrs. Samuel Berthelin, her daughter, Mrs. Harris, and her son, David, referred to glowingly as"the scion of the wealth and position of the late lamented financier. "

Mayme was impressed. Like most shop-girls she was a fervent reader ofsociety news. (If shop-girls did not read this fine flower of Americandemocracy, nobody would, except those who wait eagerly and anxiously fortheir names to appear. ) She perceived--not knowing that the advertisingleverage of the Berthelin Loan Agency had forced those insecure portalsof print for the entry of Mrs. Berthelin and her progeny--that she wasin the presence of the Great. Capacity for awe was not in Mayme'sindependent soul. But she was interested and sympathetic. Here was acareer worth saving!

"Let's go over to the station-house, " said she. "I know some of thecops. "

To the white building with the green lanterns they went. The shopliftingcase, it appeared, had already been bailed out. Furthermore, everythingwould be all right and there was little fear of publicity; the storeitself would see to that. Vastly relieved and refreshed in spirit, DavidBerthelin began to take stock of his companion with growing interest. She was decidedly not pretty. Just as decidedly she was quaint andpiquant and quite new to his jejune but also somewhat bored experience. From the opening passage of their first conversation he deduced, lackingthe insight to discriminate between honest frankness and immodesty, thatshe was a "fly kid. " On that theory he invited her to breakfast withhim. Mayme accepted. They went to Thomson's Élite Restaurant, on thecorner, where David roused mingled awe and misgivings in the breast ofPolyglot Elsa, the cashier, by ordering champagne, and Mayme reassuredher by declining it. 

Thus began an acquaintanceship which swiftly ripened into a queer sortof intimacy, more than a little disturbing to us of Our Square who wereinterested in Mayme. Young Berthelin's over-ornate roadster lingered inour quiet precincts more often than appeared to us suitable or safe, andblack-eyed Mayme, looking demure and a little exalted, was whirled awayto unknown worlds, always returning, however, at respectable hours. Whenthe Little Red Doctor remonstrated with her ostensibly on the score ofher health, she reminded him in one breath that he hadn't been invitedto censor her behavior which was entirely her own affair, and in thenext--with his hand caught between hers and her voice low andcaressing--declared that he was the best little old Doc in the world andthere was nothing to worry about, either as to health or conduct. Indeed, her condition seemed to be improving. I dare say young Mr. Berthelin's expensive food was one of the things she needed. Furthermore, she ceased to be the raggle-taggle, hoydenishly clad Maymeof the cash department, and, having been promoted to saleswoman, quitewent in for dress. On this point she sought the advice of the BonnieLassie. The result went far to justify my prophecy that Mayme's queerlittle face might yet make its share of trouble in an impressionableworld. But the Bonnie Lassie shook her bonnie head privately and saidthat the fine-feathers development was a bad sign, and that if youngBerthelin would obligingly run his seventeen-jeweled roadster off theWilliamsburgh Bridge, with himself in it, much trouble might be savedfor all concerned. 

If little Mayme were headed for trouble, she went to meet it with asmiling face. Never had she seemed so joyous, so filled with the desireof life. This much was to be counted on the credit side, the Little RedDoctor said. On the debit side--well, to me was deputed the unwelcometask of conveying the solemn, and, as it were, official protest andwarning of Our Square. Of course I did it at the worst possible moment. It was early one morning, when Mayme, on her bench, was looking a littlehollow-eyed and disillusioned. I essayed the light and jocular approachto the subject:

"Well, Mayme; how is the ardent swain?"

She turned to me with the old flash in her big, shadowed eyes: "Did yousay swain or swine, Dominie?"

"Ah!" said I. "Has he changed his rôle?"

"He's given himself away, if that's what you mean. "

"I thought that would come. "

"He--he wanted me to take a trip to Boston with him. "

I considered this bit of information, which was not as surprising orunexpected as Mayme appeared to deem it. "Have you told the LittleRed Doctor?"

"Doc'd kill him, " said Mayme simply. 

"What better reason for telling?"

"Oh, the poor kid: he don't know any better. "

"Doesn't he? In any case I trust that you know better, after this, thanto have anything more to do with him. "

"Yep. I've cut him out, " replied Mayme listlessly. "I figured you andDoc were right, Dominie. It's no good, his kind of game. Not for girlslike me. " She looked up at me with limpid eyes, in which there wascourage and determination and suffering. 

"My dear, " I murmured, "I hope it isn't going to be too hard. "

"He's so pretty, " said Mayme McCartney wistfully. 

So he was, now that I came to think of it. With his clear, dark color, his wavy hair, his languishing brown eyes, his almost girlishly gracefulfigure, and his beautiful clothes, he was pretty enough to fascinate anyinexperienced imagination. But I cannot say that he looked pretty when, a few days later, he invaded Our Square in search of a Mayme who hadvanished beyond his ken (she had kept her tenement domicile a secretfrom him), and, addressing me as "you white-whiskered old goat, " accusedme of having come between him and the girl upon whom he had deigned tobestow his lordly favor. Unfortunately for him, the Little Red Doctorchanced along just then and inquired, none too deferentially, what theScion of Wealth and Position was doing in that quarter. 

"What business is it of yours, Red-Head?" countered the offendedvisitor. 

He then listened with distaste, but perforce (for what else could he doin the grasp of a man of twice his power?), to a brilliant andconvincing summary of his character, terminating in a withering sketchof his personal and sartorial appearance. 

"I didn't mean the kid any harm, " argued the Scion suavely. "I--I cameback to apologize. "

"Let me catch you snooping around here again and I'll break every bonein your body, " the Little Red Doctor answered him. 

"I guess this Square's free to everybody. I guess you don't own it, "said the youth, retreating to his car. 

Notwithstanding the unimpeachable exactitude of this surmise, he wasseen no more in that locality. Judge, then, of our dismay, locally, atlearning, not a fortnight later, from a fellow employee of Mayme's, thatshe had been met at closing time by a swell young guy in acherry-colored rattler, who took her away to dine with him. Catechizedupon the point, later on, by a self-appointed committee of twoconsisting of the Little Red Doctor and myself, Mayme said vaguely thatit was all right; we didn't understand. This is, I believe, the usualformula. The last half of it at least, was true. 

About that time we, in common with the rest of the Nation, took thatupon our minds which was even more important than Mayme McCartney's loveaffair. War loomed imminently before us. It was only a question of thefitting time to strike; and Our Square was feverishly reckoning up itsmilitary capacity. The great day of the declaration came. The Nation haddrawn the sword. In the week following, Our Square was invaded. 

She descended upon us from the somber sumptuousness of a giganticlimousine, the majestic, the imposing, the formidable, the authoritativeMrs. S. Berthelin. We knew at once who she was, because she led, by theear, as it were, her hopeful progeny, young David. I do not mean thatshe had an actual auricular grip on him, but the effect upon hiswoe-begone and brow-beaten person was the same. He suggested vividly aspoiled and pretty lapdog being sternly conveyed to a detested bath. Shesuggested a vivified bouquet of artificial flowers. We hastily ralliedour forces to meet her; the Little Red Doctor, the Bonnie Lassie, andmyself. Mrs. Berthelin opened her exordium in a tone of high philippic, not even awaiting the formalities of introduction. But when I insistedupon these, and she learned that the Bonnie Lassie was Mrs. CyrusStaten, she cringed. Despite a desire to keep out of the society columnsquite as genuine as that of Mrs. Berthelin's to get in, the CyrusStatens frequently figure among the Shining Ones, a fact almostpainfully appreciated by our visitor. After that it was easy to get herinto the Bonnie Lassie's house, where her eloquence could not draw acrowd. To get young David there was not quite so easy. He made onewell-timed and almost successful effort to bolt, and even evinced signsof balking on the steps. 

His punishment was awaiting him. No sooner were we all settled in theBonnie Lassie's studio than the mother proceeded to regale us with ahistory and forecast of his career, beginning with his precocious infantlispings and terminating with his projected, though wholly indefinite, marriage into the Highest Social Circles. To do David justice, he squirmed. 

"Have you got him a job as a general in the army yet, ma'am?" inquiredthe Little Red Doctor suavely. 

It was quite lost upon Mrs. Berthelin. She informed us that a commissionas Captain in the Quartermaster's Department was arranged for, and sheexpected to have the young officer assigned to New York so that he couldlive at home in the comfort and luxury suitable to his wealth andcondition. And what she wanted us to understand clearly was that nodesigning little gutter-snipe was to be allowed to compromise David'sfuture. She concluded with an imaginative and most unflattering estimateof Mayme McCartney's character, manners, and morals, in the midst ofwhich I heard a gasp. 

It came from Mayme, standing, wide-eyed and white, in the doorway. Thefront door had been left ajar, and, seeing the Berthelins' monogrammedcar outside, she had come in. The oratress turned and stared. 

"That's a lie, " said Mayme McCartney steadily. "I'm as straight a girlas your own daughter. Ask him. "

She pointed to the stricken David. Pointing may not be ladylike, but itcan be extremely effective. David's head dropped into his hands. 

"Oh, Ma!" he groaned. 

"Don't call me 'Ma, '" snapped the goaded Mrs. Berthelin. "And this isthe girl?" She looked Mayme up and down. Mayme did the same by her anddid it better. 

"I could give you a lorny-yette and beat you at the frozen-stare trick, "said the irrepressible Mayme at the conclusion of the duel which endedin her favor. 

The Little Red Doctor gurgled. I saw the Bonnie Lassie's eyelids quiver, but her face was cold and impassive as she turned to the visitor. 

"Mrs. Berthelin, " said she, "you have made some very damagingstatements, before witnesses, about Miss McCartney's character. Whatproof have you?"

"Why, he wants to _marry_ her!" almost yelled the mother. "She's trappedhim. "

"That's another lie, " said Mayme. 

"He told me himself that he was going to marry you. "

"Did he? Then he's wrong. I wouldn't marry him with a brass ring, "asserted Mayme. 

"You wouldn't mar--You wouldn't _what_?" demanded the mother, outragedand incredulous. 

"You heard me. He knows it, too. I don't like the family--what I've seenof them, " observed Mayme judicially. "Besides, he's yellow. "

David's shamed face emerged into view. "I'm not, " he gulped. "She--shemade me. "

"Captain!" said Mayme with a searing scorn in her voice. "Quartermaster's Department! Safety first! When half the littlefifteen-per tape-snippers in the Emporium are breakin' theirfourteen-inch necks volunteerin' early and often to get where thefightin' is. "

David Berthelin stood on his feet, and his pretty face wore an uglyexpression. 

"Let me out of here, " he growled. 

"David!" said his mother. "Where are you going?"

"To enlist. "

"Davey!" It was a shriek. "You shan't. "

"I will. "

"I won't let you. "

"You can go to--"

"Buddy!" Mayme's voice, magically softened, broke in. "Cut out the roughstuff. You better go home and think it over. Bein' a private is nopink-silk picnic. "

"I'd rather see a son of mine dead than a common soldier!" cried Mrs. Berthelin. 

The Bonnie Lassie, very white, rose. "You must leave this house, " shesaid. "At once. Think yourself fortunate that I cannot bring myself tobetray a guest. Otherwise I should report you to the authorities. "

Young David addressed Mayme in the words and tone of a misunderstood andaggrieved pet. "You think I'm no good. I'll show you, Mayme. Wait till Icome back--if I ever do come back--and you'll be sorry. "

"Hero stuff, " commented the Little Red Doctor. "It'll all have oozed outof his fingertips this time to-morrow. "

"Will you show me a place to enlist?" challenged the boy. "And, " headded with a malicious grin, "will you enlist with me?"

"Sure!" said the Little Red Doctor. "I'll show you. But they won't takeme. " He bestowed a bitter glance on his twisted foot. "Come along. "

They went off together, while Mrs. Berthelin scandalized Our Square byan exhibition of hysterics involving language not at all in accord withthe rich respectability of her apparel and her limousine. 

We waited at the Bonnie Lassie's for the Little Red Doctor's return. Hecame back alone. I thought that I detected a pathetic little gleam ofdisappointment in Mayme's deep eyes. 

"He's done it, " said the Little Red Doctor. And I was sorry for him, somuch was there of tragic envy in his face. 

"Did you give him your blessing?" I asked. 

"I did. He shook hands like a man. There's maybe something in that boy, if it weren't for the old hell-cat of a mother. However, she won't havemuch chance. He's off to-morrow. "

"Will he write?" said Mayme in a curious, strained voice. 

"He will. He'll report to me from time to time. "

"Didn't he--wasn't there any message?"

"Just good-bye and good luck, " answered the Little Red Doctor, censoringruthlessly. 

The Bonnie Lassie went over and put her arms around Mayme McCartney. 

"My dear, " she said softly. "It wouldn't do. It really wouldn't. Heisn't worth it. You're going to forget him. "

"All right. " Suddenly Mayme looked like a very helpless and sorrowfullittle girl. "Only, it--it isn't goin' to be as easy as you think. Hewas so pretty, " said Mayme McCartney wistfully. 

II

Summer was smiting Our Square with white-hot bolts of sun-fire, fromwhich one could scarcely find refuge beneath the scraggly shelter ofparched shrubbery, when one morning the Bonnie Lassie approached mybench with a fell and purposeful smile. 

"Dominie, you're a dear old thing, " she began in her most insinuatingtones. 

"I won't do it, " I said determinedly, foreboding something serious. 

The Bonnie Lassie raised her eyebrows at me, affecting aggrievedinnocence. "Won't do what?" she inquired. 

"Whatever it is that you're trying to wheedle me into. "

The eyebrows resumed their normal arch, and a dimple flickered in thecorner of the soft lips. By this I knew that the case was hopeless. "Oh, but you've already done it, " she said. 

"Help! Tell me the worst and get it over with. "

"It must be lovely to be rich, " said the Bonnie Lassie meditatively. "And so generous!"

"How much is it? What do you want it for? I haven't got that much, " Ihastily remarked. 

"And to keep it an absolute secret from everybody. Even from Maymeherself. "

"Go on. Don't mind me, " I murmured. 

"The Little Red Doctor has found the place. It's in New Mexico. And inthe fall she's going on to the Coast. He's almost willing to guaranteethat a year of it will make her as strong as ever. And the hundreddollars a month you allow her besides her traveling expenses will beplenty. You _are_ a good old thing, Dominie!"

"What you mean is that I'm an old good-thing. How shall I look, " Idemanded bitterly, "when Mayme comes to thank me?"

"No foolisher than you do now, trying to raise unreasonable objectionsto our perfectly good plans, " retorted the Bonnie Lassie. "Besides, shewon't. She knows that your way is to do good by stealth and blush tofind it fame, and she's under pledge to pretend to know nothingabout it. "

"Where did the Little Red Doctor raise it?" I queried. 

"There are times, Dominie, when your mind has real penetrative power. Think it over. "

"The Weeping Scion of Wealth and Position!" I cried. "Did our medicalfriend blackmail him?"

"Not necessarily. He only dropped a hint that Mayme's chance here wasrather poorer than a soldier's going to war, unless something could bedone and the Weeping Scion fairly begged to be allowed to do it. 'Do youthink she'd take it from you?' said the Little Red Doctor, 'after whatyour mother called her?' 'Don't let her know, ' says our ornamental youngweeper. 'Tell her somebody else is doing it. Tell her it's from thatwhite-whiskered old--from the elderly and handsome gentleman with thebenevolent expres--'"

"Yes: I know, " I broke in. "Very good. I'm the goat. Lying, hypocrisy, false pretense, fake charity; it's all one to a sin-seared old reprobatelike me. After it's over I'll go around the corner and steal whatpennies I can find in Blind Simon's cup, just to make me feelcomparatively respectable and decent again. "

It was no easier than I expected it to be, especially when little Mayme, having come to say good-bye, put her lips close to my ear and tried towhisper something, and cried and kissed me instead. 

Our Square was a dimmer and duller place after she left. But her lettershelped. They were so exactly like herself! Even at the first, whenthings seemed to be going ill with her, they were all courage, andquaint humor and determination to get well and come back to Our Square, which was the dearest and best place in the world with the dearest andbest people in it. Homesickness! Poor little, lonely Mayme. She wasreading--she wrote the Bonnie Lassie--all the books that the Dominie hadlisted for her, and she was being tutored by a school-teacher with bluegoggles and a weak heart who lived at the same resort. "Why grow up aBoob, " wrote the philosophic Mayme, "when the lil old world is full ofwise guys just aking to spill their wiseness?"

Contemporaneously the Weeping Scion of Wealth was writing back his viewson life and the emptiness thereof, in better orthography, but withdistinctly less of spirit. 

"It appears, " reported the Little Red Doctor, "that every man in his owncompany has licked our young friend and now the other companies of theregiment are beginning to show interest, and he doesn't like it. Ibelieve he'd desert if it weren't that he's afraid of what Maymewould think. "

"Still on his mind, is she?" I asked. 

The Little Red Doctor produced a letter with a camp postmark from theSouth and read a passage:

"You were right when you guessed that I never wanted anything very muchbefore, without having it handed to me. Perhaps you are right about itsbeing good for me. But it comes hard. The promise goes, of course. I'mgoing to show you and her that I'm not yellow. [So that was stillrankling; salutary, if bitter dose!] But if this war ever finishes, allbets are off and I'm coming back to find her. And don't you forget yourpart of the bargain, to write and let me know how she is getting on. "The Little Red Doctor was able to send progressively encouraging news. When the cold weather came, Mayme moved westward to Southern California, and found herself on the edge of one of the strange, tumultuous, semi-insane moving-picture colonies of that region. Thence issued, presently, stirring tidings. 

"What do you think?" wrote our exile. "They've got my funny littlemonkey mug in the movies. Five per and steady work. The director likesme and says he will give me a real chance one of these days. But, as theDominie would say, this is a hell of a place. [Graceless imp!] I wouldnot say it myself, because I am a perfect lady. You have to be, outhere. That reminds me: I have cut out the Mayme. Every fresh littlefrizzle in the colony with a false front and a pneumatic figure callsherself Mayme or Daisye or Tootsye. Not for me! I am keeping up mylessons and trying to make my head good for something besides carrying aswitch. Tell the Little Red Doctor that it is so long since I coughed Ihave forgotten how. And I love you all so hard that it _hurts_. 

"Your loving

"MARY MCCARTNEY

"P. S. I am going to be Marie Courtenay when I get my name up in thepictures. Put that in the Directory and see how it looks. 

"P. S. 2. How is my soldier boy getting along? Poor kid! I expect he isfinding it a lot different from Broadway with money in your pocket. "

About this time the Weeping Scion was finding things very different, indeed, from Broadway, having been shifted to a specially wet and muddysection of France; and was taking them as he found them. That is to say, he had learned the prime lesson of war. 

"And he's been made corporal, " announced the Little Red Doctor withsatisfaction. 

"That sounds encouraging, " remarked the Bonnie Lassie. "How did ithappen?"

"He went over on one of the 'flu ships, ' and when the epidemic began tomow 'em down there was a kind of panic. From what I can make out, theScion kept his head and his nerve, and made good. A corporal's stripesaren't much, but they're something. "

Better was to come. There was high triumph in the Little Red Doctor'sexpression when he came to my bench with the glad tidings of youngDavid's promotion to a sergeantcy. 

"While it's very gratifying, " I remarked, "it doesn't seem to me anepoch-making event. "

"Doesn't it!" retorted my friend. "That's because of your abysmalmilitary ignorance, Dominie. Let me tell you how it is in our army. Afellow can get himself made a captain by pull, or a major by luck, or acolonel by desk-work, or a general by having a fine martial figure, butto get yourself made a sergeant, by Gosh, you've got to show the_stuff_. You've got to be a _man_. You've got to have--"

"Are you going to tell her?" interrupted the Bonnie Lassie who had beensent for to share the news. 

The Little Red Doctor fell suddenly grave. "She's another matter, " hesaid. "I don't think I shall. "

Matters were going forward with Mayme--beg her pardon, Mary McCartney, too. 

"Better and more of it, " she wrote the Bonnie Lassie. "They rang me inon one of their local Red Cross shows to do a monologue. Was I a hit?Say, I got more flowers than a hearse! You've got to remember, though, that they deliver flowers by the car-load out here. And the local stockcompany has made me an offer. Ingenue parts. There is not the money thatI might get in the pictures, but the chance is better. So MarieCourtenay moves on to the legit. --I mean the spoken drama. Look out forme on Broadway later!"

In the correspondence from Sergeant Berthelin there came a long hiatusfollowed by a curt bit of official information: "Seriously wounded. " TheLittle Red Doctor brought the news to me, with a queer expression onhis face. 

"It doesn't look good, Dominie, " he said. "You know, my old friend, Death, is a shrewd picker. He's got an eye for men. " He mused, rubbinghis tousled, brickish locks with a nervous hand. "I was getting to kindof like that young pup, " he muttered moodily. 

The saying that no news is good news was surely concocted by some onewho never chafed through day after lengthening day for that which doesnot come. But in the end it did come, in the form of a scrawl from theWeeping Scion himself. He was mending, but very slowly, and they said itwould be a long time--months, perhaps--before he could get back to thefront. Meantime, they were still picking odds and ends, chieflymetallic, out of various parts of his system. 

"I'm one of the guys you read about that came over here to collectsouvenirs, " he commented. "Well, I've got all I need of 'em. They canhave the rest. All I want now is to get back and present a few toFritzie before the show is over. "

Thereafter the Little Red Doctor exhibited, but read to us only in smallparts, quite bulky communications from overseas. Some of them, it becameknown, he was forwarding to our little Mary, out in the Far West. Withher answer came the solution. 

"Some of the 'Grass and Asphalt' sketches are wonders; some not so good. I am going to try out 'Doggy' if I can find a poodle with enoughintelligence to support me. But you need not have been so mysterious, Doc, about your 'young amateur writer who seems to have some talent. 'Did you think I would not know it was David? Why, bless your dear, sillyheart, I told him some of those stories myself. But how does he get achance to write them? Is he back on this side? Or is he invalided? Orwhat? Tell me. I want to know about him. You do not have to worry aboutmy--well, my infatuation for him, any more. He was a pretty boy, though, wasn't he? But I have seen too many of that kind in the picture game. I'm spoiled for them. How I would love to smear some of their pretty, smirky faces! They give me a queer feeling in my breakfast. Excuse me: Iforgot I was a lady. But don't say 'pretty' to me any more. I'm through. At that, you were all wrong about Buddy. He was a lot decenter than youthought: only he was brought up wrong. Give him my love as one pal toanother. I hope he don't come back a He-ro. I'm offen he-roes, too. Excuse again!"

Wars and exiles alike come to an end in time. And in time our twowanderers returned, but Mary first, David having been sent into Germanywith the Army of Occupation. Modest announcements in the theatricalcolumns informed an indifferent theater-going world that Miss MarieCourtenay, an actress new to Broadway, was to play the ingenue part inthe latest comedy by a highly popular dramatist. Immediately upon theproduction, the theater-going world ceased to be indifferent to the newactress; in fact, it went into one of its occasional furores about her. Not that she was in any way a great genius, but she had a certainindefinable and winningly individual quality. The critics discussed itgravely and at length, differing argumentatively as to its nature andconstitution. I could have given them a hint. My predictions regardingthe ancestral potencies of the monkey-face were being abundantlyjustified. 

No announcements, even of the most modest description, heralded thearrival of Sergeant Major (if you please!) David Berthelin upon hisnative shores. He came at once to Our Square and tackled the LittleRed Doctor. 

"Where is she?" he asked. 

The Little Red Doctor assumed an air of incredulous surprise. "Have youstill got _that_ bee in your bonnet?" said he. 

"Where is she?" repeated the Weeping Scion. 

Maneuvering for time and counsel, the Little Red Doctor took him to seethe Bonnie Lassie and they sent for me. We beheld a new andreconstituted David. He was no longer pretty. The soft brown eyes wereless soft and more alert, and there were little wrinkles at theircorners. He had broadened a foot or so. That pinky-delicate complexionby which he had, in earlier and easier days, set obvious store, wasbrownish and looked hardened. The Cupid's-bow of his mouth hadstraightened out. High on one cheekbone was a not unsightly scar. Hismanner was unassertive, but eminently self-respecting, and me, whomaforetime he had stigmatized as a "white-whiskered old goat, " he nowaddressed as "Sir. "

"Perhaps _you'll_ tell me where she is, sir, " said he patiently. 

"Leave it to me, " said the Bonnie Lassie, who has an unquenchable thirstfor the dramatic in real life. "And keep next Sunday night open. "

She arranged with Mary McCartney to give a reading on that evening, ather studio, of David's "Doggy" from the "Grass and Asphalt" sketcheswhich he had written in hospital. It was a quaint, pathetic littleconceit, the bewildered philosophy of a waif of the streets, asexpressed to his waif of a dog. For the supporting part we borrowedWilly Woolly from the House of Silvery Voices, and admirably he playedit, barking accurately and with true histrionic fervor in the rightplaces (besides promptly falling in love with the star at the first andonly rehearsal). After the try-out, Mary came over to my bench with acheck for a rather dazzling sum in her hand, and said that now was thetime to settle accounts, but she never could repay--and so forth and soon; all put so sweetly and genuinely that I heartily wished I mightaccept the thanks if not the check. Instead of which I blurted outthe truth. 

"Oh, _Dominie_!" said the girl, with such reproach that my heart sankwithin me. "Do you think that was fair? Don't you know that I nevercould have taken the money?"

"Precisely. And we had to find a way to make you take it. We couldn'thave you dying on the premises, " I argued with a feeble attempt atjocularity. 

"But from _him_!" she said. "After what had happened--And his mother. How could you let me do it!"

"I thought you would have gotten over that feeling by this time, " Iventured. 

"Oh, there's none of the old feeling left, " she answered, so simply thatI knew she believed her own statement. "But to have lived on hismoney--Where is he?" she asked abruptly. 

I told her that also and about Sunday night; the whole thing. The BonnieLassie would have slain me. But I couldn't help it. I was feelingrather abject. 

Sunday night came, and with it Miss Marie Courtenay, escorted by an"ace" covered with decorations, whose name is a household word and whowas only too obviously her adoring slave. Already there had been hintsof their engagement. Had I been that ace, I should have felt no smalldiscomposure at the sight of the girl's face when she first saw thechanged and matured Weeping Scion of three years before. After the firstflash of recognition she had developed on that expressive face of hers alook of wonder and almost pathetic questioning, and, I thought, who knewand loved the child, already something deeper and sweeter. Young David, after greeting the star of the evening, took a modest rear seat asbefitted his rank. But when the Bonnie Lassie announced "Doggy, " it washis face that was the study. 

Of that performance I shall say nothing. It is now famous and familiarto thousands of theater-goers. But if ever mortal man spent twentyminutes in fairyland, it was David, while Mary was playing the work ofhis fancy. At the close, he disappeared. I suppose he did not dare trusthimself to join in the congratulations with which she was overwhelmed. Ifound him, as I rather expected, on the bench where he had sat whenMayme McCartney first found him. And when the crowd had departed fromthe studio, I told the girl. Without even stopping to put on her hat shewent out to him. 

He was sitting with his elbows on his knees and his fists supporting hischeekbones. But this time he was not weeping. He was thinking. Just asof old she put a hand on his humped shoulder. Startled, he looked up, and jumped to his feet. She was holding something out to him. 

"What's that?" he said. 

"A check. For what I owe you. "

"Who told you? The Little Red Doctor promised--"

"He's kept his promise. The Dominie told me. "

"Oh! I suppose, " he said slowly, "I've got to take this. Youwouldn't--no, of course you wouldn't, " he sighed. 

"I've tried to keep strict account, " she said. 

David adopted a matter-of-fact tone. "I can't deny that it'll come inhandy, just now, " he remarked. "At the present price of clothing, andwith my personal exchequer in its depleted state--"

"Why, " she broke in, "has anything happened? Your mother--?"

"Cut off, " said David briefly. 

"She's cut you off? On my account? Oh--"

"No. I've cut her off. Temporarily. She doesn't want me to work. I'mworking. On a newspaper. "

"That's good, " said the girl warmly. "Let's sit down. "

They sat down. Each, however, found it curiously hard to begin again. Mary was aching to thank him, but had a dreadful fear that if she triedto, she would cry. She didn't want to cry. She had a feeling that cryingwould be a highly unstrategic procedure leading to possible alarmingdevelopments. Why didn't David say something? Finally he did make abeginning. 

"Mayme. "

"No: not 'Mayme' any more. "

He flushed to his temples. "I beg your pardon, Miss Courtenay. "

"Nonsense!" she said softly. "Mary. I've discarded the 'Mayme' longago. "

"Mary, " he repeated in a tone of musing content. 

"Buddy. "

He caught his breath. "A few thousand of the best guys in the world, " hesaid, "call a fellow that. And every time they said it, it made my heartache with longing to hear it in your voice. "

"You're a queer Buddy, " returned the girl, not quite steadily. "Did youbring me home a German helmet for a souvenir?"

He shook his head. "I didn't bring home much of anything, except someexperience and the discovery of the fact that when I had to stand on myown feet, I wasn't much. "

"You got your stripes, didn't you?" suggested the girl. 

"That's all I did get, " he returned jealously. "I didn't get any medal, or palms or decorations or crosses of war: I didn't get anything exceptan occasional calling down and a few scratches. If I'd had the luck toget into aviation or some of the fancy branches--" David checkedhimself. "There I go, " he said in self-disgust. "Beefing again. "

It was quite in the old, spoiled-child tone; an echo of indestructiblepersonality, the Weeping Scion of other days; and it went straight toMary's swelling, bewildered, groping heart. She began to laugh and a sobtangled itself in the laughter, and she choked and said:

"Buddy. "

He turned toward her. 

"Don't be dumb, Buddy, " she said, in the words of their unforgottenfirst talk. "You've--you've got me--if you still want me. "

She put out a tremulous hand to him, and it slipped over his shoulderand around his neck, and she was drawn close into his arms. 

"The Little Red Doctor, " remarked David after an interlude, in theshaken tone of one who has had undeserved miracles thrust upon him, "said that to want something more than anything in the world and not getit was good for my soul, besides serving me right. "

"The Little Red Doctor, " retorted Mary McCartney, with the recklessingratitude of a woman in love, "is a dear little red idiot. What doeshe know about _Us!_"

BARBRAN

Immediately upon hearing of my fell design MacLachan, the tailor, paid avisit of protest to my bench. 

"Is it true fact that I hear, Dominie?"

"What do you hear, MacLachan?"

"That ye're to make one of yer silly histories about Barbran?"

"Perfectly true, " said I, passing over the uncomplimentary adjective. 

"'Tis a feckless waste of time. "

"Very likely. "

"'Twill encourage the pair, when a man of yer age and influence in OurSquare should be dissuadin' them. "

"Perhaps they need a friendly word. "

MacLachan frowned. "Ye're determined?"

"Oh, quite!"

"Then I'll give ye a title for yer romance. "

"That's very kind of you. Give it. "

"The Story of Two Young Fools. By an Old One, " said MacLachanwitheringly, and turned to depart. 

"Mac!"

"What?"

"Wait a moment. "

I held him with my glittering eye. Also, in case that should beinadequate, with the crook of my cane firmly fixed upon his ankle. 

"I'll waste na time from the tailorin', " began the Scot disdainfully, but paused as I pointed a loaded finger at his head. "Well?" he said, showing a guilty inclination to flinch. 

"Mac, was _I_ an original accomplice in this affair?"

"Will ye purtend to deny--"

"Did _I_ scheme and plot with Cyrus the Gaunt and young Stacey?"

MacLachan mumbled something about undue influence. 

"Did _I_ get arrested?"

MacLachan grunted. 

"In a cellar?"

MacLachan snorted. 

"With my nose painted green?"

MacLachan groaned. "There was others, " he pleaded. 

"A man of your age and influence in Our Square, " I interrupted sternly, "should have been dissuading them. "

"Arr ye designin' to put all that in yer sil--in yer interestin'account?"

"Every detail. "

MacLachan dislodged my crook from his leg, gave me such a look asmid-Victorian painters strove for in pictures of the Dying Stag, andretired to his Home of Fashion. 

 * * * * *

That men of the sobriety and standing of Cyrus the Gaunt, MacLachan, Leon Coventry, the Little Red Doctor, and Boggs (I do not count youngPhil Stacey, for he was insane at the time, and has been so, withmodifications and glorifications, ever since) should paint their nosesgreen and frequent dubious cellars, calls for explanation. Theexplanation is Barbran. 

Barbran came to us from the immeasurable distances; to wit, WashingtonSquare. 

Let me confess at once that we are a bit supercilious in our attitudetoward the sister Square far to our West, across the Alps of Broadway. Our Square was an established center of the social respectabilities whenthe foot of Fifth Avenue was still frequented by the occasional cowwhose wanderings are responsible for the street-plan of GreenwichVillage. Our Square remains true to the ancient and simple traditions, whereas Washington Square has grown long hair, smeared its fingers withpaint and its lips with free verse, and gone into debt for itsinconsiderable laundry bills. Washington Square we suspect of playing atlife; Our Square has a sufficiently hard time living it. We have littlein common. 

Nevertheless, it must be admitted that there are veritable humans, notwholly submerged in the crowd of self-conscious mummers who crowd theOccidental park-space, and it was at the house of one of these, a womanarchitect with a golden dream of rebuilding Greenwich Village, street bystreet, into something simple and beautiful and, in the larger senseurban, that the Bonnie Lassie, whose artistic deviations often take herfar afield, met Barbran. 

They went for coffee to a queer little burrow decorated with improvingsentiments from the immortal Lewis Carroll which, Barbran told theBonnie Lassie, was making its blue-smocked, bobbed-haired, attractiveand shrewd little proprietress quite rich. Barbran hinted that she wasthinking of improving on the Mole's Hole idea if she could find asuitable location, not so much for the money, of course--her toneimplied a lordly indifference to such considerations--as for the fun ofthe thing. 

The Bonnie Lassie was amused but not impressed. What did impress herabout Barbran was a certain gay yet restful charm; the sort of difficultthing that our indomitable sculptress loves to catch and fix in herwonderful little bronzes. She set about catching Barbran. 

Now the way of a snake with a bird is as nothing for fascinationcompared to the way of the Bonnie Lassie with the doomed person whom shehas marked down as a subject. Barbran hesitated, capitulated, came tothe Bonnie Lassie's house, moused about Our Square in a rapt manner andstayed. She rented a room from the Angel of Death ("Boggs Kills Bugs" isthe remainder of his sign, which is considered to lend tone and localinterest to his whole side of the Square), just over Madame Tallafferr'sapartments, and, in the course of time, stopped at my bench and lookedat me contemplatively. She was a small person with shy, soft eyes. 

"The Bonnie Lassie sent you, " said I. 

She nodded. 

"You've come here to live--Heaven only knows why--but we're glad to seeyou. And you want to know about the people; so the Bonnie Lassie said, 'Ask the Dominie; he landed here from the ark. ' Didn't she?"

Barbran sat down and smiled at me. 

"Having sought information, " I pursued, "on my own account, I learn thatyou are the only daughter of a Western millionaire ranch-owner. How doesit feel to revel in millions?"

"Romantic, " said she. 

"Of course you have designs upon us. "

"Yes. "

"Humanitarian, artistic, or sociological?"

"Oh, nothing long and clever like that. "

"You grow more interesting. Having designs upon us, you doubtless wishmy advice. "

"No, " she answered softly: "I've done it already. "

"Rash and precipitate adventuress! What have you done already?"

"Started my designs. I've rented the basement of Number 26. "

"Are you a rag-picker in disguise?"

"I'm going to start a coffee cellar. I was thinking of calling it 'TheCoffee Pot. ' What do you think?"

"So you do wish my advice. I will give it to you. Do you see thatplumber's shop next to the corner saloon?" I pointed to the Avenue whoseceaseless stream of humanity flows past Our Square without ever sweepingus into its current. "That was once a tea-shop. It was started by a dearlittle, prim little old maiden lady. The saloon was run by Tough BillManigan. The little old lady had a dainty sign painted and hung it upoutside her place, 'The Teacup. ' Tough Bill took a board and painted asign and hung it up outside _his_ place; 'The Hiccup. ' The dear little, prim little old maiden lady took down her sign and went away. Yet thereare those who say that competition is the life of trade. "

"Is there a moral to your story, Mr. Dominie?"

"Take it or leave it, " said I amiably. 

"I will not call my cellar 'The Coffee Pot' lest a worse thing befallit. "

"You are a sensible young woman, Miss Barbara Ann Waterbury. "

"It is true that my parents named me that, " said she, "but my friendscall me 'Barbran' because I always used to call myself that when I waslittle, and I want to be called Barbran here. "

"That's very friendly of you, " I observed. 

She gave me a swift, suspicious look. "You think I'm a fool, " sheobserved calmly. "But I'm not. I'm going to become a local institution. A local institution can't be called Barbara Ann Waterbury, unless it's acrêche or a drinking-fountain or something like that, can it?"

"It cannot, Barbran. "

"Thank you, Mr. Dominie, " said Barbran gratefully. She then proceeded tosketch out for me her plans for making her Coffee Cellar and herself aLocal Institution, which should lure hopeful seekers for Bohemia fromthe far parts of Harlem and Jersey City, and even such outer realms ofdarkness as New Haven and Cohoes. 

"That's what I intend to do, " said Barbran, "as soon as I get my GreatIdea worked out. "

What the Great Idea was, I was to learn later and from other lips. Infact, from the lips of young Phil Stacey, who appeared, ratherelaborately loitering out from behind the fountain, shortly after my newfriend had departed, a peculiar look upon his extremely plain andfriendly face. Young Mr. Stacey is notable, if for no other reason thanthat he represents a flat artistic failure on the part of the BonnieLassie, who has tried him in bronze, in plaster, and in clay with equallack of success. There is something untransferable in the boy's face;perhaps its outshining character. I know that I never yet have said toany woman who knew him, no matter what her age, condition, orsentimental predilections, "Isn't he a homely cub!" that she didn'treply indignantly: "He's _sweet_!" Now when women--wonderful women likethe Bonnie Lassie and stupid women like Mrs. Rosser, the twins' aunt, and fastidious women like Madame Tallafferr--unite in terming a smilinghuman freckle "_sweet_, " there is nothing more to be said. Adonis may aswell take a back seat and the Apollo Belvedere seek the helpfulresources of a beauty parlor. Said young Phil carelessly:

"Dominie, who's the newcomer?"

"That, " said I, "is Barbran. "

"Barbran, " he repeated with a rising inflection. "It sounds like abreakfast food. "

"As she pronounces it, it sounds like a strain of music, " said I. 

"What's the rest of her name?"

"I am not officially authorized to communicate that. "

"Are you officially authorized to present your friends to her?"

"On what do you base your claim to acquaintanceship, my boy?" I askedausterely. 

"Oh, claim! Well, you see, a couple of days ago, she was on thecross-town car; and I--well, I just happened to notice her, you know. That's all. "

"Yet I am informed on good and sufficient authority that her appearanceis not such as to commend her, visually, if I may so express myself, tothe discriminating eye. "

"Who's the fool--" began Mr. Stacey hotly. 

"Tut-tut, my young friend, " said I. "Certain ladies whom we both esteemcan and will prove, to the satisfaction of the fair-minded, that none ofthe young person's features is exactly what it should be or preciselywhere it ought to be. Nevertheless, the net result is surprising andeven gratifying. "

"She's a peach!" asseverated my companion. 

"Substantially what I was remarking. As for your other hint, you need nointroduction to Barbran. Nobody does. "

"_What_?" Phil Stacey's plain face became ugly; a hostile lightglittered in his eyes. "What do you mean by that?" he growled. 

"Simply that she's about to become a local institution. She's plottingagainst the peace and security of Our Square, to the extent of startinga coffee-house at Number 26. "

"No!" cried Phil joyously. "Good news!"

"As a fad. She's a budding millionairess from the West. "

"No!" growled Phil, his face falling. 

"Bad news; eh? It occurred to me that she might want some decorations, and that you might be the one to do them. " In his leisure hours, myyoung friend, who is an expert accountant by trade (the term "expert"appears to be rather an empty compliment, since his stipend is onlytwenty-five dollars a week), perpetrates impressionistic decorations andscenery for such minor theaters as will endure them. 

"You're a grand old man, Dominie!" said he. "Let's go. "

We went. We found Barbran. We conversed. Half an hour later when I leftthem--without any strenuous protests on the part of either--they weredeeply engrossed in a mutual discussion upon decorations, religion, thehigh cost of living, free verse, two-cent transfers, Charley Chaplin, aviation, ouija, and other equally safe topics. Did I say safe?Dangerous is what I mean. For when a youth who is as homely as youngPhil Stacey and in that particular style of homeliness, and a girl whois as far from homely as Barbran begin, at first sight, to explore eachother's opinions, they are venturing into a dim and haunted region, lighted by will-o'-the-wisps and beset with perils and pitfalls. Usuallythey smile as they go. Phil was smiling as I left them. So was Barbran. I may have smiled myself. 

Anything but a smile was on Phil Stacey's normally cheerful face when, some three days thereafter, he came to my rooms. 

"Dominie, " said he, "I want to tap your library. Have you got any of theworks of Harvey Wheelwright?"

"God forbid!" said I. 

Phil looked surprised. "Is it as bad as that? I didn't suppose there wasanything wrong with the stuff. "

"Don't you imperil your decent young soul with it, " I advised earnestly. "It reeks of poisonous piety. The world he paints is so full ofnauseating virtues that any self-respecting man would rather live inhell. His characters all talk like a Sunday-school picnic out of theRollo books. No such people ever lived or ever could live, because arighteously enraged populace would have killed 'em in early childhood. He's the smuggest fraud and best seller in the United States. Wheelwright? The crudest, shrewdest, most preposterous panderer toweak-minded--"

"Whew! Help! I didn't know what I was starting, " protested my visitor. "As a literary critic you're some Big Bertha, Dominie. I begin tosuspect that you don't care an awful lot about Mr. Wheelwright's styleof composition. Just the same, I've got to read him. All of him. Do youthink I'll find his stuff in the Penny Circulator?"

"My poor, lost boy! Probably not. It is doubtless all out in the handsof eager readers. "

However, Phil contrived to round it up somewhere. The awful andunsuspected results I beheld on my first visit of patronage to Barbran'scellar, the occasion being the formal opening. A large and curious crowdof five persons, including myself and Phil Stacey, were there. Outside, an old English design of a signboard with a wheel on it creakeddespairingly in the wind. Below was a legend: "_At the Sign of theWheel_--_The Wrightery_. " The interior of the cellar was decorated withscenes from the novels of Harvey Wheelwright, triumphant virtue, discomfited villains, benignant blessings, chaste embraces, edifyingdeath-beds, and orange-blossoms. They were unsigned; but well I knewwhose was the shame. Over the fireplace hung a framed letter from theGreat Soul. It began, "Dear Young Friend and Admirer, " and ended, "Yoursfor the Light. Harvey Wheelwright. "

The guests did as well as could be expected. They ate and drankeverything in sight. They then left; that is to say, four of them did. Finally Phil departed, glowering at me. I am a patient soul. No soonerhad the door slammed behind him than I turned to Barbran, who waslooking discouraged. 

"Well, what have you to say in your defense?"

The way Barbran's eyebrows went up constituted in itself a defense fitto move any jury to acquittal. 

"For what?" she asked. 

"For corrupting my young friend Stacey. You made him paint thosepictures. "

"They're very nice, " returned Barbran demurely. "Quite true to thesubject. "

"They're awful. They're an offense to civilization. They're an insult toOur Square. Of all subjects in the world, Harvey Wheelwright! Why, Barbran? Why? Why? Why?"

"Business, " said Barbran. 

"Explain, please, " said I. 

"I got the idea from a friend of mine in Washington Square. She got up alittle cellar café built around Alice. Alice in Wonderland, you know, and the Looking Glass. Though I don't suppose a learned and seriousperson like you would ever have read such nonsense. "

"It happened to be Friday and there wasn't a hippopotamus in the house, "I murmured. 

"Oh, " said Barbran, brightening. "Well, I thought if she could do itwith Alice, I could do it with Harvey Wheelwright. "

"In the name of Hatta and the March Hare, _why_?"

"Because, for every one person who reads Alice nowadays, ten read theauthor of 'Reborn Through Righteousness' and 'Called by the Cause. 'Isn't it so?"

"Mathematically unimpeachable. "

"Therefore I ought to get ten times as many people as the other place. Don't you think so?" she inquired wistfully. 

Who am I to withhold a comforting fallacy from a hopeful soul. "Undoubtedly, " I agreed. "But do you love him?"

"Who?" said Barbran, with a start. The faint pink color ran up hercheeks. 

"Harvey Wheelwright, of course. Whom did you think I meant?"

"He is a very estimable writer, " returned Barbran primly, quite ignoringmy other query. 

"Good-night, Barbran, " said I sadly. "I'm going out to mourn your lostsoul. "

One might reasonably expect to find peace and quiet in the vicinity ofone's own particular bench at 11. 45 P. M. In Our Square. But not at allon this occasion. There sat Phil Stacey. I challenged him at once. 

"What did you do it for?"

To do him justice he did not dodge or pretend to misunderstand. "Pay, "said he. 

"Phil! Did you take money for that stuff?"

"Not exactly. I'm taking it out in trade. I'm going to eat there. "

"You'll starve to death. "

"I haven't got much of an appetite. "

"The inevitable effect of overfeeding on sweets. An uninterrupted dietof Harvey Wheelwright--"

"Don't speak the swine's name, " implored Phil, "or I'll be sick. "

"You've sold your artistic birthright for a mess of pottage, probablyindigestible at that. "

"I don't care, " he averred stoutly. "I don't care for anythingexcept--Dominie, who told you her father was a millionaire?"

"It's well known, " I said vaguely. "He's a cattle king or an emperor ofsheep or the sultan of the piggery or something. A good thing forBarbran, too, if she expects to keep her cellar going. The kind ofpeople who read Har--our unmentionable author, don't frequent Bohemiancoffee cellars. They would regard it as reckless and abandoneddebauchery. Barbran has shot at the wrong mark. "

"The place has got to be a success, " declared Phil between his teeth, his plain face expressing a sort of desperate determination. 

"Otherwise the butterfly will fly back West, " I suggested. The boywinced. 

What man could do to make it a success, Phil Stacey did and heroically. Not only did he eat all his meals there, but he went forth into thehighways and byways and haled in other patrons (whom he privately paidfor) to an extent which threatened to exhaust his means. 

Our Square is conservative, not to say distrustful in its bearing towardinnovations. Thornsen's Élite Restaurant has always sufficed for ourinner cravings. We are, I suppose, too old to change. Nor does HarveyWheelwright exercise an inspirational sway over us. We let the littlemillionairess and her Washington Square importation pretty well alone. She advertised feebly in the "Where to Eat" columns, catching a fewstray outlanders, but for the most part people didn't come. Until thefirst of the month, that is. Then too many came. They brought theirbills with them. 

Evening after evening Barbran and Phil Stacey sat in the cellar almostor quite alone. So far as I could judge from my occasional visits ofpatronage (Barbran furnished excellent sweet cider and cakes for latecomers), they endured the lack of custom with fortitude, not to sayindifference. But in the mornings her soft eyes looked heavy, and once, as she was passing my bench deep in thought, I surprised a look of blankterror on her face. One can understand that even a millionaire'sdaughter might spend sleepless nights brooding over a failure. But thatlook of mortal dread! How well I know it! How often have I seen it, preceding some sordid or brave tragedy of want and wretchedness in OurSquare! What should it mean, though, on Barbran's sunny face? Puzzlingover the question I put it to the Bonnie Lassie. 

"Read me a riddle, O Lady of the Wise Heart. Of what is a child offortune, young, strong, and charming, afraid?"

At the time we were passing the house in which the insecticidal Angel ofDeath takes carefully selected and certified lodgers. 

"I know whom you mean, " said the Bonnie Lassie, pointing up to thelittle dormer window which was Barbran's outlook on life. "Interpret mea signal. What do you see up there?"

"It appears to be a handkerchief pasted to the window, " said I adjustingmy glasses. 

"Upside down, " said the Bonnie Lassie. 

"How can a handkerchief be upside down?" I inquired, in what wasintended to be a tone of sweet reasonableness. 

Contempt was all that it brought me. "Metaphorically, of course! It's asignal of distress. "

"In what distress can Barbran be?"

"In what kind of distress are most people who live next under the roofin Our Square?"

"She's doing that just to get into our atmosphere. She told me soherself. A millionaire's daughter--"

"Do millionaires' daughters wash their own handkerchiefs and paste themon windows to dry? Does any woman in or out of Our Square _ever_ soakher own handkerchiefs in her own washbowl except when she's desperatelysaving pennies? Did you ever wash one single handkerchief in yourrooms, Dominie?"

"Certainly not. It isn't manly. Then you think she isn't amillionairess?"

"Look at her shoes when next you see her, " answered the Bonnie Lassieconclusively. "_I_ think the poor little thing has put her every cent inthe world into her senseless cellar, and she's going under. "

"But, good Heavens!" I exclaimed. "Something has got to be done. "

"It's going to be. "

"Who's going to do it?"

"Me, " returned the Bonnie Lassie, who is least grammatical when mostpurposeful. 

"Then, " said I, "the Fates may as well shut up shop and Providence takea day off; the universe has temporarily changed its management. CanI help?"

The Bonnie Lassie focused her gaze in a peculiar manner upon the exactcenter of my countenance. A sort of fairy grin played about her lips. "Iwonder if--No, " she sighed. "No. I don't think it would do, Dominie. Anyway, I've got six without you. "

"Including Phil Stacey?"

"Of course, " retorted the Bonnie Lassie. "It was he who came to me forhelp. I'm really doing this for him. "

"I thought you were doing it for Barbran. "

"Oh; she's just a transposed Washington Squarer, " answered the tyrant ofOur Square. "Though she's a dear kiddie, too, underneath the nonsense. "

"Do I understand--"

"I don't see, " interrupted the Bonnie Lassie sweetly, "how you could. Ihaven't told you. And the rest are bound to secrecy. But don't be undulyalarmed at anything queer you may see in Our Square within the nextfew days. "

Only by virtue of that warning was I able to command the emotionsaroused by an encounter with Cyrus the Gaunt some evenings later. He washurrying across the park space in the furtive manner of one going to ashameful rendezvous, and upon my hailing him he at first essayed tosheer off. When he saw who it was he came up with a rather swaggeringand nonchalant effect. I may observe here that nobody has a monopoly ofnonchalance in this world. 

"Good-evening, Cyrus, " I said. 

"Good-evening, Dominie. "

"Beautiful weather we're having. "

"Couldn't be finer. "

"Do you think it will hold?"

"The paper says rain to-morrow. "

"Why is the tip of your nose painted green?"

"Is it green?" inquired Cyrus, as if he hadn't given the matter anyspecial consideration, but thought it quite possible. 

"Emerald, " said I. "It looks as if it were mortifying. "

"It would be mortifying, " admitted Cyrus the Gaunt, "if it weren't in agood cause. "

"What cause?" I asked. 

"Come out of there!" said Cyrus the Gaunt, not to me, but to a figurelurking in the shrubbery. 

The Little Red Doctor emerged. I took one look at his most distinctivefeature. 

"You, too!" I said. "What do you mean by it?"

"Ask Cyrus, " returned the Little Red Doctor glumly. 

"It's a cult, " said Cyrus. "The credit of the notion belongs not to me, but to my esteemed better half. A few chosen souls--"

"Here comes another of them, " I conjectured, as a bowed form approached. "Who is it? MacLachan!"

The old Scot appeared to be suffering from a severe cold. Hishandkerchief was pressed to his face. 

"Take it down, Mac, " I ordered. "It's useless. " He did so, and my worstsuspicions were confirmed. 

"He bullied me into it, " declared the tailor, glowering at Cyrus theGaunt. 

"It'll do your nose good, " declared Cyrus jauntily. "Give it a change. Complementary colors, you know. What ho! Our leader. "

Phil Stacey appeared. He appeared serious; that is, as serious as onecan appear when his central feature glows like the starboard light of anincoming steamship. Following him were Leon Coventry, huge and shy, andthe lethal Boggs looking unhappy. 

"Where are you all going?" I demanded. 

"To the Wrightery, " said Phil. 

"Is it a party?"

"It's a gathering. "

"Am I included?"

"If you'll--"

"Not on any account, " I declared firmly. It had just occurred to me whythe Bonnie Lassie had centered her gaze upon my features. "Follow yourindecent noses as far as you like. I stay. "

Still lost in meditation, I may have dozed on my bench, when heavy, measured footsteps aroused me. I looked up to see Terry the Cop, guardian of our peace, arbiter of differences, conservator of ourmorals. I peered at him with anxiety. 

"Terry, " I inquired, "how is your nose?"

"Keen, Dominie, " said Terry. He sniffed the air. "Don't you detect thesmell of illegal alcohol?"

"I can't say I do. "

"It's very plain, " declared the officer wriggling his nasal organ which, I was vastly relieved to observe, retained its original hue. "Wouldn'tyou say, Dominie, it comes from yonder cellar?"

"Barbran's cellar?

"I am informed that a circle of dangerous char-_ack_ters with greennoses gather there and drink cider containing more than two-seventy-fiveper cent of apple juice. I'm about to pull the place. "

"For Heaven's sake, Terry; don't do that! You'll scare--"

"Whisht, Dominie!" interrupted Terry with an elaborate wink. "There'llbe no surprise, except maybe to the Judge in the morning. You betterdrop in at the court. "

Of the round-up I have no details, except that it seemed to be quietlyconducted. The case was called the next day, before Magistrate Wolf ToneHanrahan, known as the "Human Judge. " Besides being human, his Honor is, as may be inferred from his name, somewhat Irish. He heard the evidence, tested the sample, announced his intention of coming around that eveningfor some more, and honorably discharged Barbran. 

"And what about these min?" he inquired, gazing upon the dauntless six. 

"Dangerous suspects, Yeronner, " said Terry the Cop. 

"They look mild as goat's milk to me, " returned the Magistrate, "thoughnow I get me eye on the rid-hidded wan [with a friendly wink at theLittle Red Doctor] I reckonize him as a desprit charackter that'd saveyour life as soon as look at ye. What way are they dang'rous?"

"When apprehended, " replied Terry, looking covertly about to see thatthe reporters were within hearing distance, "their noses werepainted green. "

"Is this true?" asked the Magistrate of the six. 

"It is, your Honor, " they replied. 

"An', why not!" demanded the Human Judge hotly. "'Tis a glorious color!Erin go bragh! Off'cer, ye've exceeded yer jooty. D' ye think this isdowntrodden an' sufferin' Oireland an' yerself the tyrant GineralFrench? Let 'em paint their noses anny color they loike; but green forpreference. I'm tellin' ye, this is the land of freedom an' equality, an' ivery citizen thereof is entitled to life, liberty, and the purshootof happiness, an' a man's nose is his castle, an' don't ye fergit it. Dis-charrrrged! Go an' sin no more. I mane, let the good worruk go awn!"

"Now watch for the evening papers, " said young Phil Stacey exultantly. "The Wrightery will get some free advertising that'll crowd itfor months. "

Alas for youth's golden hopes! The evening papers ignored the carefullyprepared event. One morning paper published a paragraph, attributing thegreen noses to a masquerade party. The conspirators, gathered at thecellar with their war-paints on (in case of reporters), discussed thefiasco in embittered tones. Young Stacey raged against a stupid andcorrupt press. MacLachan expressed the acidulous hope that thereafterCyrus the Gaunt would be content with making a fool of himself withoutimplicating innocent and confiding friends. The Bonnie Lassie was notpresent, but sent word (characteristically) that they must have done itall wrong; men had no sense, anyway. The party then sent out forturpentine and broke up to reassemble no more. Only Phil Stacey, inventor of the great idea, was still faithful to and hopeful of it. Each evening he conscientiously greened himself and went to eatwith Barbran. 

Time justified his faith. One evening there dropped in a plump man whoexhaled a mild and comforting benevolence, like a gentle country parson. He smiled sweetly at Phil, and introduced himself as a reporter for the"Sunday World Magazine"--and where was the rest of the circle? In aflurry of excitement, the pair sent for Cyrus the Gaunt to do thetalking. Cyrus arrived, breathless and a trifle off color (the BonnieLassie had unfortunately got a touch of bronze scenic paint mixed withthe green, so that he smelled like an over-ripe banana), and proceededto exposition. 

"This, " he explained, "is a new cult. It is based on theback-to-the-spring idea. The well-spring of life, you know. The--er--spring of eternal youth, and--and so forth. You understand?"

"I hope to, " said the reporter politely. "Why on the nose?"

"I will explain that, " returned Cyrus, getting his second wind; "butfirst let me get the central idea in your mind. It's a nature movement;a readjustment of art to nature. All nature is green. Look about you. "Here he paused for effect, which was unfortunate. 

"Quite so, " agreed the reporter. "The cable-car, for instance, and thedollar bill, not to mention the croton bug and the polar bear. But, pardon me, I interrupt the flow of your eloquence. "

"You do, " said Cyrus severely. "Inanimate nature I speak of. Allinanimate nature is green. But we poor fellow creatures have gotten awayfrom the universal mother-color. We must get back to it. We must learnto think greenly. But first we must learn to see greenly. How shall weaccomplish this? Put green in our eyes? Impossible, unfortunately. But, our noses--there is the solution. In direct proximity to the eye, thecolor, properly applied, tints one's vision of all things. Green shadowsin a green world, " mooned Cyrus the Gaunt poetically. "As the bardputs it:

 "'Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. '"

"Wait a minute, " said the visitor, and made a note on an envelope-back. 

"Accordingly, Miss Barbran, the daughter and heiress of a millionairecattle owner in Wyoming [here the reporter made his second note], hasestablished this center where we meet to renew and refresh our souls. "

"Good!" said the benevolent reporter. "Fine! Of course it's all bunk--"

"Bunk!" echoed Barbran and Phil, aghast, while Cyrus sat with his lankjaw drooping. 

"You don't see any of your favorite color in my eye, do you?" inquiredthe visitor pleasantly. "Just what you're putting over I don't know. Some kind of new grease paint, perhaps. Don't tell me. It's good enough, anyway. I'll fall for it. It's worth a page story. Of course I'll wantsome photographs of the mural paintings. They're almost painfullybeautiful. . . . What's wrong with our young friend; is he sick?" he added, looking with astonishment at Phil Stacey who was exhibitingsub-nauseous symptoms. 

"He painted 'em, " explained Cyrus, grinning. 

"And he's sorry, " supplemented Barbran. 

"Yes; I wouldn't wonder. Well, I won't give him away, " said the kindlyjournalist. "Now, as to the membership of your circle. . . . "

The Sunday "story" covered a full page. The "millionairess" feature wasplayed up conspicuously and repeatedly, and the illustrations did whatlittle the text failed to do. It was a "josh-story" from beginningto end. 

"I'll kill that pious fraud of a reporter, " declared Phil. 

"Now the place _is_ ruined, " mourned Barbran. 

"Wait and see, " advised the wiser Cyrus. 

Great is the power of publicity. The Wrightery was swamped with customon the Monday evening following publication, and for the rest of thatweek and the succeeding week. 

"I never was good at figures, " said the transported Barbran to PhilStacey at the close of the month, "but as near as I can make out, I've aclear profit of eight dollars and seventy cents. My fortune is made. Andit's all due to you. "

Had the Bonnie Lassie been able to hold her painted retainers in line, the owner's golden prophecy might have been made good. But they hadother matters on hand for their evenings than sitting about in a dimcellar gazing cross-eyed at their own scandalous noses. MacLachan wasthe first defection. He said that he thought he was going crazy and heknew he was going blind. The Little Red Doctor was unreliable owing tothe pressure of professional calls. He complained with some justice thata green nose on a practicing physician tended to impair confidence. ThenLeon Coventry went away, and Boggs discovered (or invented) an importantengagement with a growing family of clothes-moths in a Connecticutcountry house. So there remained only the faithful Phil. One swallowdoes not make a summer; nor does one youth with a vernal proboscisconvince a skeptical public that it is enjoying the fearfulcompanionship of a subversive and revolutionary cult. Patronage ebbedout as fast as it had flooded in. Barbran's eyes were as soft and happyas ever in the evenings, when she and Phil sat in a less and lessinterrupted solitude. But in the mornings palpable fear stalked her. Phil never saw it. He was preoccupied with a dread of his own. 

One evening of howling wind and hammering rain, when all was cosy andhome-like for two in the little firelit Wrightery, she nerved herself upto facing the facts. 

"It's going to be a failure, " she said dismally. 

"Then you're going away?" he asked, trying to keep his voice fromquaking. 

She set her little chin quite firmly. "Not while there's a chance leftof pulling it out. "

"Well; it doesn't matter as far as I'm concerned, " he muttered. "I'mgoing away myself. "

"You?" She sat up very straight and startled. "Where?"

"Kansas City. "

"Oh! What for?"

"Do you remember a fat old grandpa who was here last month and came backto ask about the decorations?"

"Yes. "

"He's built him a new house--he calls it a mansion--and he wants me topaint the music-room. He likes"--Phil gulped a little--"my styleof art. "

"Isn't that great!" said Barbran in the voice of one giving three cheersfor a funeral. "How does he want his music-room decorated?"

Young Phil put his head in his hands. "Scenes from Moody and Sankey, " hesaid in a muffled voice. 

"Good gracious! You aren't going to do it?"

"I am, " retorted the other gloomily. "It's good money. " Almostimmediately he added, "Damn the money!"

"No; no; you mustn't do that. You must go, of course. Would--will ittake long?"

"I'm not coming back. "

"I don't _want_ you not to come back, " said Barbran, in a queer, frightened voice. She put out her hand to him and hastily withdrew it. 

He said desperately: "What's the use? I can't sit here forever lookingat you and--and dreaming of--of impossible things, and eating my heartout with my nose painted green. "

"The poor nose!" murmured Barbran. 

With one of her home-laundered handkerchiefs dipped in turpentine, shegently rubbed it clean. It then looked (as she said later in a feebleattempt to palliate her subsequent conduct) very pink and boyish andpathetic, but somehow faithful and reliable and altogether lovable. 

So she kissed it. Then she tried to run away. The attempt failed. 

It was not Barbran's nose that got kissed next. Nor, for that matter, was it young Phil's. Then he held her off and shut his eyes, for theuntrammeled exercise of his reasoning powers, and again demanded ofBarbran and the fates:

"What's the use?"

"What's the use of what?" returned Barbran tremulously. 

"Of all this? Your father's a millionaire, and I won't--I can't--"

"He isn't!" cried Barbran. "And you can--you will. "

"He isn't?" ejaculated Phil. "What is he?"

"He's a school-teacher, and I haven't got a thing but debts. "

Phil received this untoward news as if a flock of angels, ringing joybells, had just brought him the gladdest tidings in history. After aninterlude he said:

"But, why--"

"Because, " said Barbran, burrowing her nose in his coat: "I thought itwould be an asset. I thought people would consider it romantic and itwould help business. See how much that reporter made of it! Phil!Wh-wh-why are you treating me like a--a--a--dumbbell?"

For he had thrust her away from him at arm's-length again. 

"There's one other thing between us, Barbran. "

"If there is, it's your fault. What is it?"

"Harvey Wheelwright, " he said solemnly. "Do you really like thatsickening slush-slinger?"

She raised to him eyes in which a righteous hate quivered. "I loathehim. I've always loathed him. I despise the very ink he writes with andthe paper it's printed on. "

When I happened in a few minutes later, they were ritually burning the"Dear Friend and Admirer" letter in a slow candle-flame, and HarveyWheelwright, as represented by his unctuously rolling signature, waswrithing in merited torment. Between them they told me theirlittle romance. 

"And he's not going to Kansas City, " said Barbran defiantly. 

"I'm not going anywhere, ever, away from Barbran, " said young Phil. 

"And he's going to paint what he wants to. "

"Pictures of Barbran, " said young Phil. 

"And we're going to burn the Wheel sign in effigy, and wipe off thewalls and _make_ the place a success, " said Barbran. 

"And we're going to be married right away, " said Phil. 

"Next week, " said Barbran. 

"What do you think?" said both. 

Now I know what I ought to have said just as well as MacLachan himself. I should have pointed out the folly and recklessness of marrying ontwenty-five dollars a week and a dowry of debts. I should have preachedprudence and caution and delay, and have pointed out--The wind blew thedoor open: Young Spring was in the park, and the wet odor of littleburgeoning leaves was borne in, wakening unwithered memories in mywithered heart. 

"Bless you, my children!" said I. 

It was actually for this, as holding out encouragement to theirreckless, feckless plans, that Wisdom, in the person of MacLachan, thetailor, reprehended me, rather than for my historical intentionsregarding the pair. 

"What'll they be marryin' on?" demanded Mac Wisdom--that is to say, MacLachan. 

"Spring and youth, " I said. "The fragrance of lilac in the air, the glowof romance in their hearts. What better would you ask?"

"A bit of prudence, " said MacLachan. 

"Prudence!" I retorted scornfully. "The miser of the virtues. It may payits own way through the world. But when did it ever take Happiness alongfor a jaunt?"

I was quite pleased with my little epigram until the Scot countered uponme with his observation about two young fools and an old one. 

Oh, well! Likely enough. Most unwise, and rash and inexcusable, thatheadlong mating; and there will be a reckoning to pay. Babies, probably, and new needs and pressing anxieties, and Love will perhaps flutter atthe window when Want shows his grim face at the door; and Wisdom will bejustified of his forebodings, and yet--and yet--who am I, old and lonelyand uncompanioned, yet once touched with the spheral music and thesacred fire, that I should subscribe to the dour orthodoxies ofMacLachan and that ilk?

Years and years ago a bird flew in at my window, a bird of wonderful andflashing hues, and of lilting melodies. It came; it tarried--and I letthe chill voice of Prudence overbear its music. It left me. But the songendures; the song endures, and all life has been the richer for itsechoes. So let them hold and cherish their happiness, the twoyoung fools. 

As for the old one, would that some good fairy, possessed of the pigmentand secret of perishable youth, might come down and paint hisnose green!

PLOOIE OF OUR SQUARE

Whenever Plooie went shuffling by my bench, I used to think of an oldand melancholy song that my grandfather sang:

 "And his skin was so thin You could almost see his bones As he ran, hobble--hobble--hobble Over the stones. "

Before I could wholly recapture the quaint melody, my efforts wouldinvariably be nullified by the raucous shriek of his trade which hadforever fixed the nickname whereby Our Square knew Plooie:

"Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees à raccommoder!" He would then recapitulatein English, or rather that unreproducible dialect which was hissubstitute for it. "Oombrella for mend? Annie oombrella for mend?"

So he would pass on his way, shattering the peaceful air at half-minuteintervals with his bilingual disharmonies. He was pallid, meagerlybuilt, stoop-shouldered, bristly-haired, pock-marked, and stiff-gaited, with a face which would have been totally insignificant but for anobstinate chin and a pair of velvet-black, pathetically questioningeyes; and he was incurably an outlander. For five years he had livedamong us, occupying a cubbyhole in Schepstein's basement full of ribs, handles, crooks, patches, and springs, without appreciably improving hisspeech or his position. It was said that his name was Garin--nobodyreally knew or cared--and it was assumed from his speech that hewas French. 

Few umbrellas came his way. Those of us affluent enough to maintain suchnon-essentials patch them ourselves until they are beyond reclamation. Why Plooie did not starve is one of the mysteries of Our Square, thoughby no means the only one of its kind. I have a notion that the BonnieLassie, to whom any variety of want or helplessness is its ownsufficient recommendation, drummed up trade for him among her uptownfriends. Something certainly enlisted his gratitude, for he invariablytook off his frowsy cap when he passed her house, whether or not she wasthere to see, and he once unbosomed himself to me to the extent ofdeclaring that she was a kind lady. This is the only commentary I everheard him make upon any one in Our Square, which in turn completelyignored him until the development of his love affair stimulated ourcondescending and contemptuous interest. 

The object of Plooie's addresses was a little Swiss of unknownderivation and obscure history. She appeared to be as detached from thesurrounding world as the umbrella-mender himself. An insignificant bitof a thing she was, anaemic and subdued, with a sad little face, softhazel eyes slightly crossed, and the deprecating manner of those whoscrub other people's doorsteps at fifteen cents an hour. 

For a year their courtship, if such it might be termed, ran anuneventful course. I had almost said unromantic. But who shall tellwhere is fancy bred or wherein romance consists? Whenever Plooie saw thedrabbled little worker busy on a doorstep, he would cross over and openthe conversation according to an invariable formula. 

"Annie oombrella for mend? Annie oombrella?" Thereby the little Swissbecame known as, and ever will be called locally, "Annie Oombrella. "Like most close-knit, centripetal communities, we have a fatal penchantfor nicknames in Our Square. 

She would look up and smile wanly, and shake her head. Where, indeed, should the like of her get an umbrella to be mended!

Then would he say--I shall not attempt to torture the good Englishalphabet into a reproduction of his singular phonetics: "It makes fineto-day, it do!"

And she would reply "Yes, a fine day"; and look as if the sun were alittle warmer upon her pale skin because of Plooie's greeting, as, perhaps, indeed, it was. 

After that he would nod solemnly, or, if feeling especially loquacious, venture some prophecy concerning the morrow, before resuming hisunproductive rounds and his lugubrious yawp. One day he discovered thatshe spoke French. From that time the relationship advanced rapidly. OnChristmas he gave her a pair of red woolen gloves. On New Year's he tookher walking among the tombstones in God's Acre, which is a serious andsentimental, not to say determinative, social step. Twice in thefollowing week he carried her bucket from house to house. And in theglowing dusk of a crisp winter afternoon they sat together hand in hand, on a bench back of my habitual seat, and looked in each other's eyes, and spoke, infrequently, in their own language, forgetful of the rest ofthe world, including myself, who was, perhaps, supposed not tounderstand. But even without hearing their words, I could have guessed. It was very simple and direct, and rather touching. Plooie said:

"If one marries themselves?"

And she replied: "I believe it well. "

They kissed solemnly, and their faces, in the gleam of the electriclight which at that moment spluttered into ill-timed and tactlessactivity, were transfigured so that I marveled at the dim splendorof them. 

But the Bonnie Lassie was scandalized. On general principles shemistrusts that any marriage is really made in heaven unless she acts asearthly agent of it. What had those two poverty-stricken littlecreatures to marry on? She put the question rhetorically to Our Squarein general and to the two people most concerned in particular. Courts oflaw might have rejected their replies as irrelevant. Humanly, however, they were convincing enough. 

Said Plooie: "Who will have a care of that little one if I have not?"

Said Annie Oombrella: "He is so lonely!"

So those two unfortunates united their misfortunes, and lo! happinesscame of it. Luckily that is all that did come of it. What dispositionthe pair would have made of children, had any arrived, it is difficultto conjecture. Only by miraculous compression of ribs, handles, andfabrics was space contrived in the basement cubbyhole for AnnieOombrella to squeeze in. However, she set up housekeeping cheerily as abird, with an odd lot of pots and pans which Schepstein had picked up atan auction and resold to them at not more than two hundred per centprofit, plus a kerosene stove, the magnificent wedding gift of theBonnie Lassie and her husband, Cyrus the Gaunt. Twice a week they hadmeat. They were rising in the social scale. 

Habitude is the real secret of tolerance. As we became accustomed toPlooie, Our Square ceased to resent his invincible outlandishness; weendured him with equanimity, although it would be exaggeration to saythat we accepted him, and we certainly did not patronize himprofessionally. Nevertheless, in a minor degree, he nourished. AnnieOombrella must have lavished care upon him. His pinched-in shouldersbroadened perceptibly. His gait, still a halting shuffle, grewnoticeably brisker. There was even a heartier note in his lamentabletrade cry:

"Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees à raccommoder!"

As for Annie Oombrella, having some one to look after quite transformedher. She grew plump and chirpy, and bustling as a blithe little sparrow, though perhaps duck would be a happier comparison, for she was dabblingand splashing in water all the day long, making the stairs and porchesof her curatorship fairly glisten with cleanliness. Her rates went up totwenty cents an hour. There were rumors that she had started a savingsaccount. Life stretched out before the little couple, smooth andpeaceful and sunny with companionship. 

Then came the war. 

The calamitous quality of a great world tragedy is that it brings to somany helpless little folk bitter and ignoble tragedies of shame andhumiliation and misunderstanding. With a few racial exceptions, OurSquare was vehemently pro-Ally. In spirit we fought with valiant Franceand prayed for heroic Belgium. What a Godspeed we gave to the few sonsof Gaul who, in those early days, left us to fight the good fight! Howsourly we looked upon Plooie continuing his peaceful rounds. Whencearose the rumor, I cannot say, but it was noised about just at that timeof wrath and tension that Plooie was born in Liège. Liège, that city offire and slaughter and heroism, upon which the eyes and hopes of theworld were turned in wonder and admiration. Somebody had seen the entryon the marriage register! The Bonnie Lassie told me of it, pausing at mybench with a little furrow between her bright eyes. 

"Dominie, you know Emile Garin pretty well?"

"Not at all, " I replied, failing to identify the rickety Plooie by hisrightful name. 

"Of course you do! Never a morning but he stops at your bench and asksif you have an umbrella to mend. "

"I never have. What of him?"

"Have you any influence with him?"

"Not compared with yours. "

The Bonnie Lassie made a little gesture of despair. "I can't find him. And Annie Oombrella won't tell me where he is. She only cries. "

"That's bad. You think he--he is--"

"Why don't you say it outright, Dominie? _You_ think he's hiding. "

"Really!" I expostulated. "You come to me with accusations against thepoor fellow and then undertake to make me responsible for them. "

"I don't believe it's true at all, " averred the Bonnie Lassie loyally. "I don't believe Plooie is a coward. There's some reason why he doesn'tgo over and help! I want to know what it is. "

Perceiving that I was expected to provide excuses for the erring one, Idid my best. "Over age, " I suggested. 

"He's only thirty-two. "

"Bless me! He looks sixty. Well--physical infirmity. "

"He can carry a load all day. "

"He won't leave Annie Oombrella, then. Or perhaps she won't let him. "

"When I asked her, she cried harder than ever and said that her motherwas French and she would go and fight herself, if they'd have her. "

"Then I give it up. What does your Olympian wisdom make of it?"

"I don't know. But I'm afraid the Garins are going to have trouble. "

Within a few days Plooie reappeared and his strident falsetto appeal fortrade rang shrill in the space of Our Square. Trouble developed at once. Small boys booed at him, called him "yellow, " and advised him to gocarefully, there was a German behind the next tree. Henri Dumain, ourlittle old French David who fought the tragic duel of tooth and clawwith his German Jonathan in Thornsen's Élite Restaurant, stung him withthat most insulting word in any known tongue--"Lâche!"--and threatenedhim with uplifted cane; and poor Plooie slunk away. But I think it wasthe fact that he who stayed at home when others went forward had set apicture of Albert of Belgium in the window of his cubbyhole that mostexasperated us against him. Tactless, to say the least! His call grewquavery and furtive. Annie Oombrella ceased to sing at work. Matterslooked ill for the Garins. 

The evil came to a head the week after David and Jonathan broke off allrelations. Perhaps that tragedy of shattered friendship (afterwardrejoined through the agency of the great peacemaker, Death) had got onour nerves. Ordinarily, had Plooie chased a small boy who had tipped abarrel down his basement steps, nothing would have come of it. But thechase took him into the midst of a group of the younger and moreboisterous element, returning from a business meeting of the Gentlemen'sSons of Avenue B, and before he could turn, they had surrounded him. 

"Here's our little 'ee-ro!" "Looka the Frenchy that won't fight!""Safety first, hey, Plooie?" "Charge umbrellas--backward, march!"

Plooie did his best to break for a run through, which was the worstthing he could have tried. They collared him. By that contact he becametheir captive, their prey. What to do with him? To loose a prisoner, once in the hand, is an unthinkable anti-climax. Somebody developed aninspirational thought: "Ride him on a rail!"

Near by, a house front under repair supplied a scantling. Plooie washustled upon it. He fell off. They jammed him back again. He clung, wide-eyed, white-faced, and silent. The mob, for it was that now, borehim with jeers and jokes and ribaldry along the edge of the park. 

When they came within my ken he was riding high, and the mob was beingaugmented momentarily from every quarter. I looked about for Terry theCop. But Terry was elsewhere. It is not beyond the bounds of reasonableprobability that he had absented himself on purpose. "God hates acoward" is a tenet of Terry's creed. I confess to a certain sympathywith it myself. After all, a harsh lesson might not be amiss for Plooie, the recusant. Composing my soul to a non-intervention policy, I leanedback on my bench, when a pitiful sight ruined my neutrality. 

Along the outer edge of the compact mob trotted little Annie Oombrella. From time to time she dashed herself blindly against that human wall, which repulsed her not too roughly and with indulgent laughter. Theirconcern was not with her. It was with the coward; their prisoner, delivered by fate to the stern decrees of mob justice. I could hear hisvoice now, calling out to her in their own language across thesupervening heads:

"Do not have fear, my little one. They do me no harm. Go you home, little cat. Soon I come also. Do not fear. "

From his forehead ran a little stream of blood. But there was that inhis face which told me that if he was fearful it was only for her. Hisvoice, steady and piercing, overrode the clamor of the crowd. I began toentertain doubts as to his essential cowardice. 

Annie Oombrella, dumb with misery and terror, only dashed herself themore hopelessly against the barrier of bodies. 

Even the delight of rail-riding a victim becomes monotonous in time. Themany-headed sought further measures of correction and reprobation. 

"Le's tar-and-feather him. "

"White feathers!"

"Where'll we gettum?"

"Satkins's kosher shop on the Av'noo. "

"Where's yer tar?"

This was a poser; Satkins was saved from a raid. A more practicalexpedient now evolved from the collective brain. 

"Duck'm in the fountain!"

"_Drown_ him in the fountain!" amended an enthusiast. 

Whooping with delight, the mob turned toward the gate. This was becomingdangerous. That there was no real intent to drown the unfortunateumbrella-mender I was well satisfied. But mob intent is subject to mobimpulse. If they once got him into the water, the temptation of theplayful to push his head under just once more might be too strong. Plainly the time was ripe for intervention. 

Owing to some enthusiastically concerted but ill-directed engineering, the scantling with its human burden had jammed crosswise of the posts. Now, if ever, was the opportunity for eloquence of dissuasion. 

For the heroic rôle of Horatius at the Bridge I am ill-fitted both bytemperament and the fullness of years. Nevertheless, I advanced into theimminent deadly breach and raised the appeal to reason. 

The result was unsatisfactory. Some hooted. Others laughed. 

"Never mind the Dominie, " yelled Inky Mike, laying hold of the rail byan end and hauling it around. "He don't mean nothin'. "

Old bones are no match for young barbarism. The rush through the gatebrushed me aside like a feather. I saw the tragi-comic parade go by, asI leaned against a supporting tree: the advance guard of clamorousurchins, the rail-bearers, the white-faced figure of Plooie, joltedaloft, bleeding but calm, self-forgetful, and still calling outreassurances to his wife; the jostling rabble, and upon the edge of it afrantic woman, clawing, sobbing, imploring. On they swept. I listenedfor the splash. 

It did not come. 

A lion had risen in the path. To be more accurate, a lioness. To myunsuccessful rôle of Horatius, a Horatia better fitted for the fray hadsucceeded, in the austere and superb person of Madame Rachel PinckneyPemberton Tallafferr, aforetime of the sovereign State of Virginia. 

Where all my eloquence had failed, she checked that joyouslyanticipative rabble by the simple query, set in the chillest and mostperemptory of aristocratic tones, as to what they were doing. 

I like to think--the Bonnie Lassie says that I am flattering myselfthereby--that it was the momentary halt caused by my abortive effort tohold the gate, which gave time for a greater than my humble self tointervene. 

Madame Tallafferr, in the glory of black silk, the Pinckney lace, thePemberton diamond, and accompanied by that fat relic of slavery, BlackSally, had been taking the air genteelly on a bench when the disturbancegrated upon her sensitive ear. 

"What is that rabble about, Sally?" she inquired. 

The aged negress reconnoitered. "Reckon dey's ridin' a gentmun on arail, " she reported. 

"A _gentleman_, Sally? Impossible. No gentleman would endure such anaffront. Look again. "

"Yessum. It's dat po' white trash dey call Plooie. Mainded yo' umbrellaoncet. "

"My umbrella-mender!" (The mere fact that the victim had once tinkeredfor her a decrepit parasol entitled him in her feudal mind to the highprotection of the Tallafferr tradition. ) "Tell them to desist at once. "

Apologetically but shrewdly Sally opined that the neighborhood of theadvancing mob was "no place foh a niggah. "

With perfect faith in the powers of her superior she added: "You desist'em, mist'ess. "

Sally's confidence in her mistress was equaled or perhaps even excelledby her mistress's confidence in herself. 

Leaning upon her cane and attended by the faithful though terrifiedservitor, Madame Tallafferr rustled forward. She took her stand upon thebrink of the fountain in almost the exact spot where she had disarmedMacLachan, the tailor, drunk, songful, and suicidal, two years before. Since that feat an almost mythologic awe had attached itself toher locally. 

She waited, small and thin, hawk-eyed, imperious, and tempered likesteel. The ring of tempered steel, too, was in her voice when, at theproper moment, she raised it. 

"What are you doing?"

The clamor of the mob died down. The sight of Horatia (I beg her pardonhumbly, Madame Tallafferr) in the path smote them with misgivings. As inMacaulay's immortal, if somewhat jingly epic, "those behind cried'Forward' and those before cried 'Back'!" That single hale and fiery oldlady held them. No more could those two hundred ruffians have defied thechallenge of her contemptuous eyes than they could have advanced intothe flaming doors of a furnace. 

A cautious voice from the rear inquired: "Who's the dame?"

"She's a witch, " conjectured some one. 

"It's the Duchess, " said another, giving her the local title ofveneration. 

"It's the lady that shot the tailor, " proclaimed an awe-strickenbystander. (Legend takes strange twists in Our Square as elsewhere. )Some outlander, ignorant of our traditions, prescribed in amalevolent squeak:

"T'row 'er in the drink. "

"Who spoke?" said Madame Tallafferr, crisp and clear. 

Silence. Then the sound of objurgations as the advocate franticallyresisted well-meant efforts to thrust him into undesirable prominence. Finally a miniature eruption outward from the mob's edge, followed by aglimpse of a shadowy figure departing at full speed. The Duchess leveleda bony finger at Inky Mike, the nearest figure personally known to her, who began a series of contortions suggestive of a desire to crawl intohis own pocket. 

"Michael, " said the Duchess. 

"Yessum, " said Inky Mike, whose name happens to be Moe Sapperstein. 

"What are you doing to that unfortunate person?"

"J-j-just a little j-j-joke, " replied the other in what was doubtlessintended for a light-hearted and care-free tone. 

"Let him down. " Inky Mike hesitated. "At once!" snapped the Duchess andstamped her foot. 

"Yessum, " said Inky Mike meekly. 

Loosing his hold on the scantling, he retreated upon the feet of thosebehind. They let go also. Plooie slid forward to the ground. MadameTallafferr's bony finger (backed by the sparkle of an authoritativediamond) swept slowly around a half-circle, with very much the easy andsignificant motion of a machine gun and something of the effect. Asubtle suggestion of limpness manifested itself in the mass before her. Addressing them, she raised her voice not a whit. She had no need to. 

"Go about your business, " she said. "Rabble!" she added in precisely thetone which one might expect of a well-bred but particularlydeadly snake. 

The mob wilted to a purposeless and abashed crowd. The crowddisintegrated into individuals. The individuals asked themselves whatthey were doing there, and, finding no sufficient answer, slunk away. Plooie was triumphantly escorted by Madame Tallafferr and Black Sally, and (less triumphantly) by my limping self, to the nearest haven, whichchanced to be the Bonnie Lassie's house. Annie Oombrella pattered alongbeside him, fumbling his hand and trying not to cry. 

But when the Bonnie Lassie saw the melancholy wreck, _she_ cried, asmuch from fury as from pity, and said that men were brutes and bulliesand cowards and imbeciles--and why hadn't her Cyrus been at home to stopit? Whereto Madame Tallafferr complacently responded that Mr. CyrusStaten had not been needed: the _canaille_ would always respect a propershow of authority from its superiors; and so went home, rustling andsparkling. 

After all, Plooie was not much hurt. Perhaps more frightened thananything else. Panic was, in fact, the reason generally ascribed in OurSquare for his quiet departure, with his Annie, of course, on thefollowing Sunday. Only the Bonnie Lassie dissented. But as the BonnieLassie reasons with her heart instead of her head, we accept hertheories with habitual and smiling indulgence rather than respect--untilthe facts bear them out. She had, it appeared, called on the Plooies toinquire as to their proposed course, and had rather more than hintedthat if the head of the house wished to respond to his country's call, Our Square would look after Annie Oombrella. To this he returned only astubborn and somber silence. The Bonnie Lassie said afterward that heseemed ashamed. She added that he had left good-bye for me and hoped theDominie would not think too hard of him. Recalling that I had rathermarkedly failed to acknowledge his salute on the morning before hisdeparture, I felt a qualm of misgiving. After all, judging yourneighbor's soul is a kittle business. There is such an insufficiencyof data. 

So Schepstein lost a renter. The basement cubbyhole remained vacant, with only the picture of Albert of the Kingdom of Sorrows in the windowas a memento. Nothing further was seen or heard of Plooie. ButSchepstein, wandering far afield in search of tenement sales a full yearafter, encountered Annie Oombrella washing down the steps of an officefar over in Lewis Street, nearly to the river. All the plumpness whichshe had taken on in the happy days was gone. She looked wistfuland haggard. 

Schepstein, doing the polite (which, as he accurately states, costsnothing and might get you something some time), asked after Plooie. Where was he? Annie Oombrella shook her head. 

"Left you, has he?" asked Schepstein, astonished at this evidence ofiniquity. 

"Yes, " said Annie Oombrella. But there was a ring in her voice thatSchepstein failed to understand. It sounded almost like defiance. Hereyes were deep-hollowed and sorrowful, but they met his as squarely asthey could, considering their cast. Schepstein was quite shocked toobserve that there was no shame in them. I suppose the shock temporarilyunbalanced his principles, for, having caught sight of one of her shoes, he offered to lend her three dollars, indefinitely and without interest, on her bare note-of-hand. (When he saw the other shoe, he made it five. )She looked at the money anxiously, but shook her head. 

"Well, if you ever need a home, the basement's vacant and there ain't abetter basement in Our Square. "

Annie Oombrella began to cry quietly, and Schepstein went on about hisbusiness. 

Through the ensuing years many women cried quietly or vehemently, according to their natures, and many men went away from places that hadknown them, to be no more known of those places; and the little Kingdomof Sorrows, shattered, blood-soaked, and unconquerable, stood fast, abulwark between the ravager of the world and his victory until theresped across the death-haunted seas the army that was to turn the scales. Our Square gave to that sacrifice what it can never recover: witness thesimple memorials in Our Square. 

Many people see ghosts; Our Square is well haunted, as befits itsancient and diminished glories. Few hear ghosts. This is as it ought tobe. In their very nature, ghosts should be seen, not heard. Yet, in theyear of grace, 1919, under a blazing September sun, with a cicada, vagrant from heaven knows whence, frying his sizzling sausages in ourlilac bush, and other equally insistent sounds of reality filling theair, my ears were smitten with a voice from the realm of wraiths. 

"Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees, " it cried on a faint and cluttering note. "Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees à raccommoder. "

Over in the far corner of the park an apparition moved into my visualrange. It looked like Plooie. It moved like Plooie. It was loaded likePlooie. It opened a mouth like Plooie's and emitted again the familiarthough diminished falsetto shriek. No doubt of it now; it _was_ Plooie. He had come back to us who never thought to see him again, who neverwished to see him again, still unpurged of his stigma. 

As he passed me, I acknowledged his greeting, somewhat stiffly, I fear, and walked over to Schepstein's. There in the basement, amid thefamiliar wreckage as of a thousand umbrellas, sat little Annie. 

"Bonjour, Dominie, " said she wistfully. 

"Good-morning, Annie. So you are back. "

"Yes, Dominie. Is there need that one wash the step at your house?"

"There is need that one explain one's self. What have you been doingthese three years?"

"I work. I work hard. "

"And your husband? What has he been doing?" I asked sternly. 

Annie Oombrella's soft face drooped. "Soyez gentil, Dominie, " sheimplored. "Be a kind, good man and ask him not. That make him sotriste--so sad. "

"He doesn't look well, Annie. "

"He have been ver' seeck. Now we come home he is already weller. "

"But do you think it is wise for you to come back here?" I demanded, feeling brutal as I put the question. Annie Oombrella's reply did notmake me feel any less so. She sent a quivering look around thatunspeakably messy, choked-up little hole in the wall that was home toPlooie and her. 

"We have loved each other so much here, " said she. 

Our Square is too poor to be enduringly uncharitable, either in deed orthought. War's resentments died out quickly in us. No longer was Plooiein danger of mob violence. By common consent we let him alone; he madehis rounds unmolested, but also unpatronized. But for Annie Oombrella'sprodigies of industry with pail and brush, the little couple inSchepstein's basement would have fared ill. 

Annie earned for both. In the process, happiness came back to her face. 

To the fat Rosser twin accrues the credit of a pleasurable discoveryabout Plooie. This was that, if you sneaked softly up behind him andshouted: "Hey, Plooie! What was _you_ doing in the war?" his jaw woulddrop and his whole rackety body begin to quiver, and he would heave hisburden to his shoulder and break into a spavined gallop, muttering andsobbing like one demented. As the juvenile sense of humor is highlydeveloped in Our Square, Plooie got a good deal of exercise, firstand last. 

Eventually he foiled them by coming out only in school hours. Thisdidn't help his trade. But then his trade had dwindled to the vanishingpoint anyway. Even Madame Tallafferr had dropped him. She preferred notto deal with a poltroon, as she put it. 

On the day of the great exodus, Plooie put in some extra hours. He wasin no danger from his youthful persecutors, because they had all gone upto line Fifth Avenue and help cheer the visiting King of the Belgians. So had such of the rest of Our Square as were not at work. The place waspractically deserted. Nevertheless, Plooie prowled about, uttering hiscracked and lugubrious cry in the forlorn hope of picking up a parapluieto raccommode. I was one of the few left to hear him, because Mendel, the jeweler, had most inconsiderately gone to view royalty, leaving myunrepaired glasses locked in his shop; otherwise I, too, would have beenon the Fifth Avenue curb shouting with the best of them. Do notmisinterpret me. For the divinity that doth hedge a king I care aslittle as one should whose forbears fought in the Revolution. But forthe divinity of high courage and devotion that certifies to the image ofGod within man, I should have been proud to take off my old but stillglossy silk hat to Albert of the Belgians. So I was rather cross, and itwas well for my equanimity that the Bonnie Lassie, who had remained athome for reasons which are peculiarly her own affair and that of Cyrusthe Gaunt, should have come over to my favorite bench to cheer me up. Said the Bonnie Lassie:

"I wonder why Plooie didn't go to see his king. "

"Sense of shame, " I suggested acidly. 

"Yes?" said the Bonnie Lassie in a tone which I mistrusted. 

"It is no use, " I assured her, "for you to favor me with that pityingand contemptuous smile of yours, for I can't see it. Mendel has mynearer range of vision locked in his shop. "

"I was just thinking, " said the Bonnie Lassie in ruminant accents, "hownice it must be to look back on a long life of unspotted correctnesswith not an item in it to be ashamed of. It gives one such a comfortablebasis for sitting in judgment. "

"Her lips drip honey, " I observed, "and the poison of asps is under hertongue. "

"Your quotations are fatally mixed, " retorted my companion. 

From across the park sounded Plooie's patient falsetto:"Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees! Annie Oombrella for mend? Parapluie-ee-ee-" Thecall broke off in a kind of choke. 

"What's happened to Plooie?" I asked. "The youngsters can't have gotback from the parade already, have they?"

"A very tall man has stopped him, " said the Bonnie Lassie. "Plooie hasdropped his kit. . . . He's trying to salute. . . . It must be one of theBelgian officers. . . . Oh, Dominie!"

"Well, what?" I demanded impatiently and cursed the recreant Mendel inmy heart. 

"It can't be . . . You don't think they can be arresting poor Plooie atthis late day for evading service?"

"Serve him right if they did, " said I. 

"I believe they are. The big man has taken him by the arm and is leadinghim along. Poor Plooie! He's all wilted down. It's a shame!" cried theBonnie Lassie, beginning to flame. "It ought not to be allowed. "

"Probably they're taking him away. Do you see an official-lookingautomobile anywhere about?"

"There's a strange car over on the Avenue. Oh, dear! Poor AnnieOombrella! But--but they're not going there. They're going intoSchepstein's basement. "

I could feel the Bonnie Lassie fidgeting on the bench. For a moment Iendured it. Then I said:

"Well, Lassie, why don't you?"

"Why don't I what?"

"Take your usual constitutional, over by the railings. OppositeSchepstein's. "

"That isn't my usual constitutional, and you know it, Dominie, " said theBonnie Lassie with dignity. 

"Isn't it? Well, curiosity killed a cat, you know. "

"How shamelessly you garble! It was--"

"Never mind; the quotation is erroneous, anyway. It should be:_suppressed_ curiosity killed a cat. "

The Bonnie Lassie sniffed. 

"Rather than be dislodged from my precarious perch on this bench, " Ipursued, "through the trembling imparted to it by your clinging to theback to restrain yourself from going to see what is up, I should almostprefer that you would go--and peek. "

"Dominie, " said the Bonnie Lassie, "you are a despicable old man. . . . I'll be back in a minute. "

"Don't stay long, " I pleaded. "Pity the blind. "

Her golden laughter floated back to me. But there was no mirth in hervoice when she returned. 

"It's so dark in there I can hardly see. But the big man is sitting on apile of ribs talking to Plooie, and Annie Oombrella's face is allswollen with crying. I saw it in the window for a minute. "

Pro and con we argued what the probable event might be and how we couldbest meet it. So intent upon our discussion did we become that we didnot note the approach of a stranger until he was within a few paces ofthe bench. With my crippled vision I apprehended him only as very talland straight and wearing a loose cape. The effect upon the Bonnie Lassieof his approach was surprising. I heard her give a little gasp. She gotup from the bench. Her hand fell upon my shoulder. It was trembling. Where, I wondered, had those two met and in what circumstances, that themere sight of the stranger caused such emotion in the unusuallyself-controlled wife of Cyrus Staten. The man spoke quickly in a deepand curiously melancholy voice:

"Madame perhaps does me the honor to remember me?"

"I--I--I--" began the Bonnie Lassie. 

"The Comte de Tournon. At Trouville we met, was it not? Several yearssince?"

"Y-yes. Certainly. At Trouville. "

(Now I happen to know that the Bonnie Lassie has never been atTrouville, which did not assuage my suspicions. )

"You are friends of my--countryman, Emile Garin, are you not?" hepursued in his phraseology of extreme precision, with only the faintecho of an accent. 

"Who?" I said. "Oh, Plooie, you mean. Friends? Well, acquaintances wouldbe more accurate. "

"He tells me that you, Monsieur, befriended him when he had great needof friends. And you, Madame, always. So I have come to thank you. "

"You are interested in Plooie?" I asked. 

"Plooie?" he repeated doubtfully. I explained to him and he laughedgently. "Profoundly interested, " he said. "I have here one of his finestumbrellas which his good wife presented to me. There was also a lady ofwhom he speaks, a _grande dame_, of very great authority. " For all thesadness of the deep voice, I felt that his eyes were twinkling. 

"Madame Tallafferr, " supplied the Bonnie Lassie. "She is away on avisit. "

"I should like to have met that queller of mobs. She ought to beknighted. "

"Knighthood would add nothing to her status, " said I, dryly. "She is aPinckney and a Pemberton besides being a Tallafferr, with two _f_s, two_l_s, and two _r_s. "

"Doubtless. I do not comprehend the details of your American orders ofmerit, " said the big sad-voiced man courteously. "But I should have beenproud to meet her. "

"May I tell her that?" asked the Bonnie Lassie eagerly. 

"By all means--when I am gone. " Again I felt the smile that must be inthe eyes. "But there were others here, not so friendly to the littleGarin. That is true, is it not?"

"Yes, " said the Bonnie Lassie. 

"There is at least a strong suspicion that he is not a deserving case, "I pointed out defensively. 

"Then it is only because he does not explain himself well, " returned theBelgian quickly. 

"He does not explain himself at all, " I corrected. "Nor does AnnieOom--his wife. "

"Ah? That will clarify itself, perhaps, in time. If you will bear withme, I should like to tell you a little story to be passed on to thosewho are not his friends. Will you not be seated, Madame?"

The Bonnie Lassie resumed her place on the bench. Standing before us, the big man began to speak. Many times since have I wished that I mighthave taken down what he said verbatim; so gracious it was, so simple, sostraightly the expression of a great and generous personality. 

"Emile Garin, " he said, "was a son of Belgium. He was poor and hispeople were little folk of nothing-at-all. Moreover, they were dead. Sohe came to your great country to make his living. When our enemiesinvaded my country and the call went out to all sons of Belgium, thelittle Garin was ashamed because he knew that he was physically unfitfor military service. But he tried. He tried everywhere. In the morningsthey must sweep him away from our Consul-General's doorsteps herebecause otherwise he would not--You spoke, Monsieur?"

"Nothing. I only said, 'God forgive us!'"

"Amen, " said the narrator gravely. "Everywhere they rejected him asunfit. So he became morbid. He hid himself away. Is it not so?"

"That is why they left Our Square so mysteriously, " confirmed the BonnieLassie. 

"After that he hung about the docks. He saw his chance and crawled intothe hold of a vessel as a stowaway. He starved. It did not matter. Hewas kicked. It did not matter. He was arrested. It did not matter. Nothing mattered except that he should reach Belgium. And he did reachmy country at the darkest hour, the time when Belgium needed every man, no matter who he was. But he could not be a soldier, the little Garin, because he was unable to march. He had weak legs. "

At this point the eternal feminine asserted itself in the Bonnie Lassie. "I _told_ you there was something, " she murmured triumphantly. 

"Hush!" said I. 

"I am glad to find that he had one true defender here, " pursued thebiographer of Plooie. "Though he could not fight in the ranks there wasuse for him. There was use for all true sons of Belgium in those blackdays. He was made driver of a--a charette; I do not know if you havethem in your great city?" He paused, and I guessed that the rumble ofheavy wheels on the asphalt, heard near by, had come opportunely. "Ah, yes; there is one. "

"A dump-cart, " supplied the Bonnie Lassie. 

"Merci, Madame. A dump-cart. It is perhaps not an evidently gloriousthing to drive a dump-cart for one's country--unless one makes it so. But it was the best the little Garin could do. His legs were what youcall quaint--I have already told you. He was faithful and hard-working. They helped build roads near the front, the little Garin and hisbig cart. "

"Not precisely safety-first, " whispered the Bonnie Lassie to me, maliciously. 

"You are interrupting the story, " said I with dignity. 

"One day he was driving a load of mud through a village street. Here onthis side is a hospital. There on that side is another hospital. Downthe middle of the road walks an idiot of a sergeant carrying a new typeof grenade with which we were experimenting. One moves a littlelever--so. One counts; one, two, three, four, five. One throws thegrenade, and at the count of ten, all about it is destroyed, for it isof terrible power. The idiot sergeant sets down the grenade in themiddle of the road between the two hospitals full of the helplesslywounded. For what? Perhaps to sneeze. Perhaps to light a cigarette. Heaven only knows, for the sergeant has the luck to be killed next dayby a German shell, before he can be court-martialed. As he sets down thegrenade, the little lever is moved. The sergeant loses his head. Heruns, shouting to everybody to run also. 

"But the hospitals, they cannot run. And the wounded, they cannot run. They can only be still and wait. In the nearest hospital there is avisitor. A great lady. A great and greatly loved lady. " The sad voicedeepened and softened. 

"I know, " whispered the Bonnie Lassie; "I can guess. "

"Yes. But the little Garin, approaching on his big dump-cart, does notknow. He knows the danger, for he hears the shouts and sees the peopleescaping. He sees the grenade, too. A man running past him shouts, 'Turnyour cart, you fool, and save yourself. ' Oh, yes; he can save himself. That is easy. But what of the people in the hospitals? Who can savethem? The little Garin thinks hard and swiftly. He drives his bigdump-cart over the grenade. He pulls the lever which dumps the mud. Themud buries the grenade; much mud, very soft and heavy. The grenadeexplodes, nevertheless. 

"One mule blows through one hospital, one through another. Everythingnear is covered with mud. The great lady is thrown to the floor, but sheis not hurt. She rises and attends the injured and calms the terrified. The hospitals are saved. It is a glorious thing to have driven adump-cart for one's country--so. "

"But what became of our Plooie?" besought the Bonnie Lassie. 

The big man spread his arms in a wide, Gallic gesture. "They looked forhim everywhere. No sign. But by and by some one saw a quite large pieceof mud on the hospital roof begin to wriggle. The little Garin was thatlarge piece of mud. They brought him down and put him in the hospitalwhich he had saved. For a long time he had shell-shock. Even now hecannot speak of the war without his nerves being affected. When he gotout of hospital, he did not seem to know who he was. Or perhaps he didnot care. Shell-shock is a strange thing. He went away, and his recordswere lost in the general confusion. Afterward we sought for him. Thegreat lady wished very much to see him. But we could find nothing exceptthat he had come back to this country. Official inquiry was made hereand he was traced to Our Square. So I came to see him. Because he cannotspeak for himself and will not allow his wife to tell his story--it ispart of the shell-shock which will wear off in time--I came to speakfor him. "

"Does your--do you do this sort of thing often?" asked the Bonnie Lassiewith a queer sort of resonance in her voice. 

The big man answered, in a tone which suggested that he was smiling:"One cannot visit all the brave men who suffered for Belgium. But thereis a special reason here, the matter of the great and greatly loved ladywhom the little Garin saved. "

"I see, " said the Bonnie Lassie softly. 

After the big man had made his adieux, we sat silent for some minutes. Presently she spoke; there was wonder and something else in her voice. 

"Plooie!" she said, and that was all. 

"You are crying, " I said. 

"I'm not, " she retorted indignantly. "But you ought to be. For yourinjustice. "

"If we all bewept our injustices, " said I oracularly, "Noah would haveto come back and build a new ark for a bigger flood than his. "

"What do you think of him?" said the Bonnie Lassie. 

"As a weather-prophet, he was unequaled. As an expert animal-breeder, his selections were at times ill-advised. "

"Don't be tiresome, Dominie. You know that I'm not interested in Noah. "

"As to our romantic visitant, " I said, "I think that Cyrus the Gauntwould better be watchful. I've never known anyone else except Cyrus toproduce such an emotional effect upon you. "

"Don't be school-girlish!" admonished the Bonnie Lassie severely. "Poorold Dominie! He doesn't know what's going on under his very nose. Whereare your eyes?"

"In Mendel's top drawer, I suppose. . . . The question is how are we goingto make it up to Plooie?"

"I don't think you need worry about that, " returned the Bonnie Lassieloftily. 

Nor was there any occasion for worry. Two days later there occurred anirruption of dismaying young men with casual squares of paper in theirpockets, upon which they scratched brief notes. They were, I wassubsequently given to understand, the pick and flower of the city'sreportorial genius. (I could imagine the ghost of Inky Mike with hisimportant notebook and high-poised pencil, regarding with wonder anddisdain their quiet and unimpressive methods. ) A freshly painted signacross the front of Plooie's basement, was the magnet that drew them:

 Emile Garin & Wife Umbrella Mender & Porch Cleanser

 to

 His Majesty

 The King of the Belgians (By Royal Warranty)

No; Plooie and Annie Oombrella need no help from the humble now. Theirwell-deserved fortune is made. 

TRIUMPH

 The months go by--bleak March and May-day heat-- Harvest is over--winter well-nigh done-- And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet. "

 MAY PROBYN

The Little Red Doctor sat on the far end of my bench. Snow fringed thebristling curve of his mustache. He shivered. 

"Dominie, " said he, "it's a wild day. "

I assented. 

"Dominie, " said the Little Red Doctor, "it is no kind of a day for anold man to be sitting on a bench. "

I dissented. 

"Dominie, " persisted the Little Red Doctor, "you can't deny that you'reold. "

"Whose fault is that but yours?" I retorted. 

"Don't try to flatter me, " said the Little Red Doctor. "You'd havelicked my old friend, Death, in that bout you had with him, without anyhelp of mine. And, anyway, you were already old, then. You're a toughold bird, Dominie. Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here in a Marchblizzard staring at the Worth mansion and wondering what really happenedthere three years ago. "

"Your old friend, Death, beat you that time, " said I maliciously. 

The Little Red Doctor chose to ignore my taunt. "Look your fill, Dominie, " he advised. "You won't have much more chance. "

"Why?" I asked, startled. 

"The wreckers begin on it next month. Also a nice, new building is goingup next door to it on that little, secret, walled jungle that Ely Crouchused to misname his garden. I'm glad of it, too. I don't likeanachronisms. "

"I'm an anachronism, " I returned. "You'll be one pretty soon. Our Squareis one solid anachronism. "

"It won't be much longer. The tide is undermining us. Other houses willgo as the Worth place is going. You'll miss it, Dominie. You love housesas if they were people. "

It is true. To me houses are the only fabrications of man's hands thatare personalities. Enterprise builds the factory, Greed the tenement, but Love alone builds the house, and by Love alone is it maintainedagainst the city's relentless encroachments. Once hallowed byhabitation, what warm and vivid influences impregnate it! Ambition, pride, hope, joys happily shared; suffering, sorrow, and loss bravelyendured--the walls outlive them all, gathering with age, from grief andjoy alike, kind memories and stanch traditions. Yes, I love the oldhouses. Yet I should not be sorry to see the Worth mansion razed. It hasoutlived all the lives that once cherished it and become a dead, unhuman thing. 

That solid square of brown, gray-trimmed stone had grown old honorablywith the honorable generations of the Worths. Then it had died. In onesmiting stroke of tragedy the life had gone out of it. Now it stoodstaring bleakly out from its corner with filmed eyes, across the busysquare. Passing its closed gates daily, I was always sensible of a qualmof the spirit, a daunting prescience that the stilled mansion stillharbored the ghost of an unlaid secret. 

The Little Red Doctor broke in upon my reverie. 

"Yes; you're old, Dominie. But you're not wise. You're very foolish. Foolish and obstinate. "

Knowing well what he meant, I nevertheless pampered him by asking: "Whyam I foolish and obstinate?"

"Because you refuse to believe that Ned Worth murdered Ely Crouch. Don'tyou?"

"I do. "

"Then why did Ned commit suicide?"

"I don't know. "

"How do you explain away his written confession?"

"I don't. I only know that it was not in Ned Worth's character willfullyto kill an old man. You were his friend; you ought to know it as wellas I do. "

"Ah, that's different, " said the Little Red Doctor, giving me one of hisqueer looks. "Yes; you're a pig-headed old man, Dominie. "

"I'm a believer in character. "

"I don't know of any other man equally pig-headed, except possibly one. He's old, too. "

"Gale Sheldon, " said I, naming the gentle, withered librarian of abranch library a few blocks to the westward, the only other resident ofOur Square who had unfailingly supported me in my loyalty to the memoryof the last of the Worths. 

"Yes. He's waiting for us now in his rooms. Will you come?"

Perceiving that there was something back of this--there usually is, inthe Little Red Doctor's maneuvers--I rose and we set out. As we passedthe Worth house it seemed grimmer and bleaker than ever before. Therewas something savage and desperate in its desolation. The cold curse ofabandonment lay upon it. At the turn of the corner the Little Red Doctorsaid abruptly. 

"She's dead. "

"Who?" I demanded. 

"The girl. The woman in the case. "

"In the Ely Crouch case? A woman? There was never any woman hinted at. "

"No. And there never would have been as long as she was alive. Now--Well, I'll leave Sheldon to explain her. He loved her, too, inhis way. "

In Gale Sheldon's big, still room, crowded with the friendly ghosts ofmighty books, a clear fire was burning. One shaded lamp at the desk wasturned on, for though it was afternoon the blizzard cast a gloom likedusk. The Little Red Doctor retired to a far corner where he was all butmerged in the shadows. 

"Have you seen this?" Sheldon asked me, pointing to the table. 

Thereon was spread strange literature for the scholarly taste of ourlocal book-worm, a section from the most sensational of New York'sSunday newspapers. From the front page, surrounded by a barbarousconglomeration of headlines and uproarious type, there smiled happilyforth a face of such appealing loveliness as no journalistic vulgaritycould taint or profane. I recognized it at once, as any one must havedone who had ever seen the unforgettable original. It was VirginiaKingsley, who, two years before, had been Sheldon's assistant. Thepicture was labeled, "Death Ends Wanderlust of Mysterious Heiress, " andthe article was couched in a like style of curiosity-piquingsensationalism. Stripped of its fulsome verbiage, it told of the girl'srecent death in Italy, after traveling about Europe with an invalidsister; during which progress, the article gloated, she was "vainlywooed by the Old World's proudest nobility for her beauty and wealth, "the latter having been unexpectedly left her by an aged relative. Herinexorable refusals were set down, by the romantic journalist, as due tosome secret and prior attachment. (He termed it an "affair de court"!)

Out of the welter of words there stood forth one sentence to tempt theimagination: "She met death as a tryst. " For that brief flash thereporter had been lifted out of his bathos and tawdriness into a clearerelement. One could well believe that she had "met death as a tryst. " Forif ever I have beheld unfaltering hope and unflagging courage glorifiedand spiritualized into unearthly beauty, it was there in that picturedface, fixed by the imperishable magic of the camera. 

"No; I hadn't seen it, " I said after reading. "Is it true?"

"In part. " Then, after a pause, "You knew her, didn't you, Dominie?"

"Only by sight. She had special charge of the poetry alcove, hadn'tshe?"

"Yes. She belonged there of right. She was the soul and fragrance of allthat the singers of springtime and youth have sung. " He sighed, shakinghis grizzled head mournfully. "'And all that glory now lies dimmed indeath. ' It doesn't seem believable. "

He rose and went to the window. Through the whorls of snow could bevaguely seen the outlines of the Worth house, looming on its corner. Hestared at it musing. 

"I've often wondered if she cared for him, " he murmured. 

"For him? For Worth!" I exclaimed in amazement. "Were they friends?"

"Hardly more than acquaintances, I thought. But she left very strangelythe day of his death and never came back. "

From the physician's corner there came an indeterminate grunt. 

"If that is a request for further information, Doctor, I can say that onthe few occasions when they met here in the library, it was only in theline of her duties. He was interested in the twentieth-century poets. But even that interest died out. It was months before the--the tragedythat he stopped coming to the Library. "

"It was months before the tragedy that he stopped going anywhere, wasn'tit?" I asked. 

"Yes. Nobody understood it; least of all, his friends. I even heard ithinted that he was suffering from some malady of the brain. " He turnedinquiringly to the far, dim corner. 

Out of it the Little Red Doctor barked: "Death had him by the throat. "

"Death? In what form?"

"Slow, sure fingers, shutting off his breath. Do you need furtherdetails or will the dry, scientific term, epithelioma, be enough?" Thevoice came grim out of the gloom. No answer being returned, itcontinued: "I've had easier jobs than telling Ned Worth. It was hopelessfrom the first. My old friend, Death, had too long a start on me. "

"Was it something that affected his mind?"

"No. His mind was perfectly clear. Vividly clear. May I take my lastverdict, when it comes, with a spirit as clear and as noble. "

Silence fell, and in the stillness we heard the Little Red Doctorcommuning with memories. Now and then came a muttered word. "Suicide!"in a snarl of scornful rejection. "Fool-made definitions!" Presently, "Story for a romancer, not a physician. " He seemed to be canvassing aninadequacy in himself with dissatisfaction. Then, more clearly: "Lovefrom the first. At a glance, perhaps. The contagion of flame for powder. But in that abyss together they saw each other's soul. "

"The Little Red Doctor is turning poet, " said Sheldon to me in anincredulous whisper. 

There was the snap and crackle of a match from the shadowed corner. Thekeen, gnarled young face sprang from the darkness, vivid and softenedwith a strange triumph, then receded behind an imperfect circle, cloudedthe next instant by a nimbus of smoke. The Little Red Doctor spoke. 

Ned Worth was my friend as well as my patient. No need to tell you men, who knew him, why I was fond of him. I don't suppose any one ever camein contact with that fantastic and smiling humanity of his withoutloving him for it. "Immortal hilarity!" The phrase might have beencoined for him. 

It wasn't as physician that I went home with Ned, after pronouncingsentence upon him, but as friend. I didn't want him to be alone thatfirst night. Yet I dare say that any one, seeing the two of us, wouldhave thought me the one who had heard his life-limit defined. He was assteady as a rock. 

"No danger of my being a miser of life, " he said. "You've given me leaveto spend freely what's left of it. " Well, he spent. Freely andsplendidly!

The spacious old library on the second floor--you know it, Dominie, smelt of disuse, as we entered, Ned's servant bringing up the rear witha handbag. Dust had settled down like an army of occupation overeverything. The furniture was shrouded in denim. The tall clock in thecorner stood voiceless. Three months of desertion will change any houseinto a tomb. And the Worth mansion was never too cheerful, anyway. Sincethe others of the family died, Ned hadn't stayed there long enough at atime to humanize it. 

Ned's man set down the grip, unstrapped it, took his orders for somelate purchases, and left to execute them. I went over to open the twodeep-set windows on the farther side of the room. It was a still, closeOctober night, and the late scent of warmed-over earth came up to me outof Ely Crouch's garden next door. From where I stood in the broadembrasure of the south window, I was concealed from the room. But Icould see everything through a tiny gap in the hangings. Ned sat at hisdesk sorting some papers. A sort of stern intentness had settled uponhis face, without marring its curious faun-like beauty. I carry thepicture in my mind. 

"What's become of you, Chris?" he demanded presently. I came out intothe main part of the room. "Oh, there you are! You'll look after a fewlittle matters for me, won't you?" He indicated a sheaf of papers. 

"You needn't be in such a hurry, " said I with illogical resentment. "Itisn't going to be to-morrow or next week. "

"Isn't it?" Something in his tone made me look at him sharply. "Sixmonths or three months or to-morrow, " he added, more lightly; "what doesit matter as long as it's sure! You know, what I appreciate is that yougave me the truth straight. "

"It's a luxury few of my patients get. Their constitutions won't standit. "

"It's a compliment to my nerve. Strangely enough I don't feel nervousabout it. "

"I do. Damnably! About something, anyway. There's something wrong withthis room, Ned. What is it?"

"Don't you know?" he laughed. "It's the sepulchral silence of OldGrandfather Clock, over there. You're looking right at him and wonderingsubconsciously why he doesn't make a noise like Time. "

"That's easily remedied. " Consulting my watch I set and wound theancient timepiece. Its comfortable iteration made the place at once morelivable. Immediately it struck the hour. 

"Ten o'clock, " I said, and parted the draperies at the lower window tolook out again. "Ten o'clock of a still, cloudy night and--and the devilis on a prowl in his garden. "

"Meaning my highly respected neighbor and ornament to the local bar, theHonorable Ely Crouch?"

"Exactly. Preceded by a familiar spirit in animal form. "

"Oh, that's his pet ferret and boon companion. "

"Not his only companion. There's some one with him, " I said. "A woman. "

"I don't admire her taste in romance, " said Ned. 

"Nor her discretion. You know what they say: 'A dollar or a woman neversafe alone with Ely Crouch. '"

"My dollars certainly weren't, " observed Ned. 

"How did he ever defend your suit for an accounting?" I asked. 

"Heedlessness on my side, a crooked judge on his. Stop spying on myneighbor's flirtations and look here. "

I turned and got a shock. The handbag lay open on the desk, surroundedby a respectable-sized fortune in bank-notes. 

"Pretty much all that the Honorable Ely has left me, " he added. 

"Is it enough to go on with, Ned?" I asked. 

He smiled at me. "Plenty for my time. You forget. "

For the moment I had forgotten. "But what on earth are you going to dowith all that ready cash?"

"Carry out a brilliant idea. I conceived it after you had handed downyour verdict. Went around to the bank and quietly drew out the lot. I'veplanned a wild and original orgy. A riot of dissipation in giving. Thinkof the fun one can have with that much tangible money. Already to-dayI've struck one man dumb and reduced another to mental decay, by thesimple medium of a thousand-dollar bill. Miracles! Declare a vacation, Chris, and come with me on my secret and jubilant bat, and we'llwork wonders. "

"And after?" I asked. 

"Oh, after! Well, there'll be no further reason for the 'permanentpossibility of sensation' on my part. That's your precious science'sbest definition of life, I believe. It doesn't appeal to one as alluringwhen the sensation promises to become--well, increasingly unpleasant. "

There was no mistaking his meaning. "I can't have that, my son, " Iprotested. 

"No? That's a purely professional prejudice of yours. Look at it from mypoint of view. Am I to wait to be strangled by invisible hands, ratherthan make an easy and graceful exit? Suicide! The word has no meaningfor a man in my condition. If you'll tell me there's a chance, one mere, remote human chance--" He paused, turning to me with what was almostappeal in his glance. How I longed to lie to him! But Ned Worth was thekind that you can't lie to. I looked at him standing there so strong andfine, with all the mirthful zest of living in his veins, sentencedbeyond hope, and I thought of those terrible lines of another manunder doom:

 "I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. "

We medical men learn to throw a protective film over our feelings, likethe veil over the eagle's eye. We have to. But I give you my word, Icould not trust my voice to answer him. 

"You see, " he said; "you can't. " His hand fell on my arm. "I'm sorry, Chris, " he said in that winning voice of his; "I shouldn't plague youfor something that you can't give me. "

"I can tell you this, anyway, " said I: "that it's something less thancourage to give up until the time comes. You didn't give your life. Youhaven't the right to take it; anyway, not until its last usefulnessis over. "

He made a movement of impatience. 

"Oh, I'm not asking you to endure torture. I'd release you myself fromthat, if it comes to it, in spite of man-made laws. But how can you tellthat being alive instead of dead next week or next month may not make aneternal difference to some other life? Your part isn't played out yet. Who are you to say how much good you may yet do before the curtain isrung down?"

"Or how much evil! Well, as a suitable finish, suppose I go down intothat garden and kill Ely Crouch, " he suggested, smiling. "That would bea beneficial enough act to entitle me to a prompt and peaceful death, wouldn't it?"

"Theoretically sound, but unfortunately impracticable, " I answered, relieved at his change of tone. 

"I suppose it is. " He looked at me, still smiling, but intent. "Chris, what do you believe comes after?"

"Justice. "

"A hard word for cowards. What do I believe, I wonder? At any rate, inbeing sport enough to play the game through. You're right, oldhard-shell. I'll stick it out. It will only mean spending _this_"--heswept the money back into its repository--"a little more slowly. "

"I was sure I could count on you, " I said. "Now I can give you thetalisman. " I set on the desk before him a small pasteboard box. "Paystrict attention. You see that label? That's to remind you. One tabletif you can't sleep. "

"I couldn't last night. "

"Two if the pain becomes more than you can stand. "

He nodded. 

"But three at one time and you'll sleep so sound that nothing will everawaken you. "

"Good old Chris!" Opening the box, he fingered the pellets curiously. "Ablessed thing, your science! Three and the sure sleep. "

"On trust, Ned. "

"On honor, " he agreed. "Then I mustn't expunge old Crouch? It's adisappointment, " he added gayly. 

He pushed the box away from him and crossed over to the upper window. His voice came to me from behind the enshrouding curtains. 

"Our friend has finished his promenade. The air is the sweeter for it. I'll stay here and breathe it. "

"Good!" said I. "I've five minutes of telephoning to do. Then I'll beback. "

Nobody can ever tell me again that there's an instinct which feels thepresence of persons unseen. On my way to the door I passed withinarm's-length of a creature tense and pulsating with the most desperateemotions. I could have stretched out a hand and touched her as shecrouched, hidden in the embrasure of the lower window. It would seem asif the whole atmosphere of the room must have been surcharged with theterrific passion of her newborn and dreadful hopes. And I felt--nothing. No sense, as I brushed by, of the tragic and concentrated force of willwhich nerved and restrained her. I went on, and out unconscious. Afterward she was unable to tell me how long she had been there. It musthave been for some minutes, for what roused her from her stupor ofterror was the word "Suicide. " It was like an echo, a mockery to her, atfirst; and then, as she listened with passionate attention to whatfollowed, my instructions about the poison took on the voice of aministering providence. The draperies had shut off the view of Ned, norhad she recognized his voice, already altered by the encroachments ofthe disease. But she heard him walk to the upper window, and saw me passon my way to the telephone, and knew that the moment had come. From whatshe told me later, and from that to which I was a mazed witness on myreturn, I piece together the events which so swiftly followed. 

A wind had risen outside or Ned might have heard the footsteps sooner. As it was, when he stepped out from behind the draperies of the upperwindow those of the lower window were still waving, but the swift figurehad almost reached the desk. The face was turned from him. Even in thatmoment of astonishment he noticed that she carried her left arm close toher body, with a curious awkwardness. 

"Hello!" he challenged. 

She cried out sharply, and covered the remaining distance with a rush. Her hand fell upon the box of pellets. She turned, clutching that littlebox of desperate hopes to her bosom. 

"Good God! Virginia!" he exclaimed. "Miss Kingsley!"

"Mr. Worth! Was it you I heard? Why--how are you here?"

"This is my house. "

"I didn't know. " Keeping her eyes fixed upon him like a watchful animal, she slowly backed to interpose the table between herself and a possibleinterference. Her arm, still stiffly pressed to her side, impeded herfumbling efforts to open the box. Presently, however, the cover yielded. 

He measured the chances of intervention, and abandoned the hope. Hisbrain hummed with a thousand conjectures, a thousand questions centeringupon her obvious and preposterous purpose. Suddenly, as her fingerstrembled among the tablets, his thoughts steadied and his stratagemwas formed. 

"What do you want with my tonic?" he asked coolly. 

"Tonic? I--I thought--"

"You thought it was the poison. Well, you've got the wrong box. Thepoison box is in the drawer. "

"In the drawer, " she repeated. She spoke in the mechanical voice of onedesperately intent upon holding the mind to some vital project. Hernerveless hands fumbled at the side of the desk. 

He crossed quickly, caught up the box which she had just relinquished, and dropped it into his pocket. 

"Oh!" she moaned, and stared at him with stricken and accusing eyes. "Then it _was_ the poison!"

"Yes. "

"Give it back to me!" she implored, like a bereft child. "Oh, give it tome!"

"Why do you want to kill yourself?"

She looked at him in dumb despair. 

"How did you get here?" he demanded. 

"Your fire escape. "

"And to that from the garden wall, I suppose? So _you_ were Ely Crouch'scompanion, " he cried with a changed voice. 

"Don't, " she shuddered, throwing her right arm over her face. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said gently. "Take a swallow of this water. What's the matter with your arm? Are you hurt?"

"No. " Her eyes would not meet his. They were fixed obstinately upon thepocket into which he had dropped the poison. 

"It's incredible!" he burst out. "You with your youth and loveliness!With everything that makes life sweet for yourself and others. Whatmadness--" He broke off and his voice softened into persuasion. "We werealmost friends, once. Can't I--won't you let me help? Don't you thinkyou can trust me?"

She raised her eyes to his, and he read in them hopeless terror. "Yes, Icould trust you. But there is only one help for me now. And you've takenit from me. "

"Who can tell? You've been badly frightened, " he said in as soothing atone as he could command. "Try to believe that no harm can come to youhere, and that I--I would give the blood of my heart to save you fromharm or danger. You said you could trust me. What was your errand withEly Crouch?"

"Money. "

"Money!" he repeated, drawing back. 

"It was our own; my sister's and mine. Mr. Crouch had it. He had managedour affairs since my father's death. I could never get an accountingfrom him. To-day the doctor told me that Alice must go away at once foran operation. And to-day Mr. Crouch made this appointment for to-night. "

"Didn't you know his reputation? Weren't you afraid?"

"I didn't think of fear. When I told him how matters stood, he offeredme money, but--but--Oh, I can't tell you!"

"No need, " he said quickly. "I know what he is. I was joking when Ispoke of killing him, a little while ago. By God, I wish I had killedhim! It isn't too late now. "

"It _is_ too late. "

Her eyes, dilated, were fixed upon his. 

"Why? How--too late?" he stammered. 

"I killed him. "

"_You_! You--killed--Ely--Crouch?"

"He had a cane, " she said, in a hurried, flat, half-whisper. "When hecaught at me, I tried to get it to defend myself. The handle pulled out. There was a dagger on it. He came at me again. I didn't realize what Iwas doing. All I could see was that hateful face drawing nearer. Then itchanged and he seemed to dissolve into a hideous heap. I didn't mean tokill him. " Her voice rose in the struggle against hysteria. "God knows, I didn't mean to kill him. "

"Hush!"

His hands fell on her shoulders and held her against the onset. Energyand resolution quickened in his eyes. "Who knows of your being inthe garden?"

"No one. "

"Any one see you climb the wall and come here?"

"No. "

"Or know that you had an appointment with him?"

"No. "

"Will you do exactly as I tell you?"

"What is the use?" she said dully. 

"I'm going to get you out of here. "

"I should have to face it later. I couldn't face it--the horror andshame of it. I'd rather die a thousand times. " She lifted her arms, thecoat opened, and the cane-handled blade dropped to the floor, androlled. She shuddered away from it. "I kept that for myself, but Icouldn't do it. It's got his blood on it. When I heard the doctor speakof the poison, it seemed like a miracle of Providence sent to guide me. Oh, give it to me! Is it"--she faltered--"is it quick?"

"Steady!" Stooping he picked up the weapon. "It needn't come to that, ifyou can play your part. Have you got the courage to walk out of thishouse and go home to safety? Absolute safety!"

She searched his face in bewilderment. "I--don't know. "

"If I give you my word of honor that it depends only on yourself?"

"How?"

"Pull yourself together. Go downstairs quietly. Turn to your left. You'll see a door. It opens on the street. Walk out with your head up, and go home. You're as safe as though you'd never seen Ely Crouch. There's no clue to you. "

"No clue! Look down the fire escape!"

He crossed the room at a bound. Beneath him, its evil snout pointedupwards, sat the dead man's familiar spirit. 

"Good God! The ferret!"

"It's been sitting there, watching, watching, watching. "

"The more reason for haste. Pull yourself together. Forward, _march_!"he cried, pressing his will upon her. 

"But you? When they come what will you say to them?"

"I'll fix up something. " He drew back from the window, lowering hisvoice. "Men in the garden. A policeman. "

"They've found him!" She fell into Ned's chair, dropping her head in herhands. For an instant he studied her. Then he took his great and tenderresolution. His hand fell warm and firm on her shoulder. 

"Listen; suppose they suspect some one else?"

"Who?"

"Me. "

"You? Why should they?"

"Circumstances. The place. The weapon here in my possession. My knowntrouble with Ely Crouch. Don't you see how it all fits in?"

She recovered from the stupor of surprise into which his suggestion hadplunged her. "Are you mad? Do you think that I'd let you sacrificeyourself? What am I to you that you should do this for me?"

"The woman I love, " he said quietly. "I have loved you from the firstday that I saw you. "

It was at this moment that I returned and halted at the door, anunwilling witness to the rest, only half understanding, not daring tomove. I saw the splendid color mount and glorify her beauty. I saw herhands go out to him half in appeal, half in rejection. 

"Oh, it's madness!" she cried. "It's your life you're offering me. "

"What else should I offer you--you who have given life its real meaningfor me?"

He caught her hands in his and held them. He caught her eyes in his andheld them. Then he began speaking, evenly, soothingly, persuasively, binding her to his will. 

"What does my life amount to? Think how little it means. A few moreweeks of waiting. Then the suffering: then the release. You heard Dr. Smith. You know. You understand. Didn't you understand?"

"Yes, " she breathed. 

"Then you must see what a splendid way out this is for me. No morewaiting. No pain. Death never came to any one so kindly before. It's mychance, if only you'll make it worth while. Will you?" he pleaded. 

"Oh, the wonder of it!" she whispered, gazing on him with parted lips. But he did not understand, yet. He pressed what he thought to be hisadvantage. 

"Here, " he cried, suddenly dropping her hands and catching up the billsfrom the valise. "Here's safety. Here's life. For you and your sister, both. You spoke of Providence a moment ago. Here's Providence for you!Quick! Take it. "

"What is it?" she asked, drawing away as he sought to thrust the moneyinto her hands. 

"Twenty thousand dollars. More. It doesn't matter. It's life for both ofyou. Have you the right to refuse it? Take it and go. "

She let the bank-notes fall from her hands unnoticed. 

"Do you think I would leave you _now_?" she cried in a voice of thrilledmusic. "Even if they weren't sure to trace me, as they would be. "

This last she uttered as an unimportant matter dismissed withindifference. 

"There will be nothing to trace. My confession will cover the ground. "

"Confession? To what?"

"To the murder of Ely Crouch. "

Some sort of sound I was conscious of making. I suppose I gasped. Butthey were too engrossed to hear. 

"You would do even that? But the penalty--the shame--"

"What do they matter to a dying man?" he retorted impatiently. 

She had fallen back from him, in the shock of his suggestion, but nowshe came forward again slowly, her glorious eyes fixed on his. So theystood face to face, soul to soul, deep answering unto deep, and, as Isit here speaking, I saw the wonder and the miracle flower in her face. When she spoke again, her words seemed the inevitable expression of thatwhich had passed silently between them. 

"Do you love me?"

"Before God I do, " he answered. 

"Take me away! There's time yet. I'll go with you anywhere, anywhere!I'm all yours. I've loved you from the first, I think, as you have lovedme. All I ask is to live for you, and when you die, to die with you. "

Fire flashed from his face at the call. He took a step toward her. Ashout, half-muffled, sounded from outside the window. Instantly thelight and passion died in his eyes. I have never seen a face at once sostern and so gentle as his was when he caught the outreaching handsin his own. 

"You forget that they must find one of us, or it's all no use. Listencarefully, dear one. If you truly love me, you must do as I bid you. Give me my chance of fooling fate; of making my death worth while. Itwon't be hard. " He took the little box from his pocket. "It will bevery easy. "

"Give it to me, too, " she pleaded like a child. "Ah, Ned, we can't partnow! Both of us together. "

He shook his head, smiling. The man's face was as beautiful as a god'sat that moment or an angel's. "You must go back to your sister, " he saidsimply. "You haven't the right to die. "

He turned to the table, drew a sheet of paper to him and wrote fourwords. You all know what they were; his confession. Then his hand wentup, a swift movement, and a moment later he was setting back the glassof water upon the desk whence he had taken it. 

"Love and glory of my life, will you go?" he said. 

"Yes, " she whispered. 

Not until then did the paralysis, which had gripped me when I saw Nedturn the pellets into his hand, relax. I ran forward. The girl criedout. Ned met me with his hand against my breast. 

"How much have you heard?" he said quickly. 

"Enough. "

"Then you'll understand. " His faith was more irresistible than athousand arguments. "Take her home, Chris. "

I held out my hand. "Come, " I said. 

She turned and faced him. "Must I? Alone?" What a depth of desolation inthat word!

"There is no other way, dearest one. "

"Good-bye, then, until we meet, " she said in the passionate music of hervoice. "Every beat of my heart will bring me nearer to you. There willbe no other life for me. Soon or late I'll come to you. You believe it. Say you believe it!"

"I believe it. " He bent and kissed her lips. Then his form slackenedaway from the arms that clasped it, and sank into the chair. Apoliceman's whistle shrilled outside the window. The faintest flicker ofa smile passed over the face of the sleeper. 

I took her away, still with that unearthly ecstasy on her face. 

 * * * * *

The glow of the narrator's cigar waxed, a pin-point of light in a worldof dimness and mystery. Subdued breathing made our silence rhythmic. When I found my voice, it was hardly more than a whisper. 

"Good God! What a tragedy!"

"Tragedy? You think it so?" The Little Red Doctor's gnarled face gleamedstrangely behind the tiny radiance. "Dominie, you have a queer notion ofthis life and little faith in the next. "

"'She met death as a tryst, '" murmured the old librarian. "And he!'Trailing clouds of glory!' The triumph of that victory over fate! Onewould like to have seen the meeting between them, after the waiting. "

The Little Red Doctor rose. "When some brutal and needless tragedy ofthe sort that we medical men witness so often shakes my faith in mykind, I turn to think of those two in the splendor of their last meetingon earth, the man with the courage to face death, the woman with thecourage to face life. "

He strode over to the table and lifted the newspaper, which had slippedto the floor unnoticed. The girlish face turned toward us itsirresistible appeal, yearning out from amidst the lurid indignitiesof print. 

"You heard from her afterward?" I asked. 

"Often. The sister died and left her nothing to live for but herpromise. Always in her letters sounded the note of courage and ofwaiting. It was in the last word I had from her--received since herdeath--set to the song of some poet, I don't know who. You ought toknow, Mr. Sheldon. "

His deep voice rose to the rhythm. 

 "Ah, long-delayed to-morrow! Hearts that beat Measure the length of every moment gone. Ever the suns rise tardily or fleet And light the letters on a churchyard stone. -- And still I say, 'To-morrow we shall meet!'"

"May Probyn, " the librarian identified. "Too few people know her. Awonderful poem!"

Silence fell again, folding us and our thoughts in its kindly refuge. Rising, I crossed to the window and drew the curtain aside. A surgingwind had swept the sky clear, all but one bank of low-lurking, westerncloud shot through with naming crimson. In that luminous setting theancient house across Our Square, grim and bleak no longer to my eyes, gleamed, through eyes again come to life, with an inconceivable glory. Behind me in the shadow, the measured voice of the witness to life anddeath repeated once more the message of imperishable hope:

 "And still I say, 'To-morrow we shall meet. '"

THE END