MANY KINGDOMS

BY

ELIZABETH JORDAN

AUTHOR OF"May Iverson--Her Book""Tales of the Cloister""Tales of Destiny"Etc. Etc. 

. . . _"The state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers thenThe nature of an insurrection. "_

--SHAKESPEARE. 

MCMVIII

CONTENTS

CHAP. 

I. VARICK'S LADY O' DREAMSII. THE EXORCISM OF LILY BELLIII. HER LAST DAYIV. THE SIMPLE LIFE OF GENEVIEVE MAUDV. HIS BOYVI. THE COMMUNITY'S SUNBEAMVII. IN MEMORY OF HANNAH'S LAUGHVIII. THE QUEST OF AUNT NANCYIX. THE HENRY SMITHS' HONEYMOONX. THE CASE OF KATRINAXI. BART HARRINGTON, GENIUS

I

VARICK'S LADY O' DREAMS

Varick laid down the book with which he had beguiled an hour of thenight, turned off the electric light in the shaded globe that hungabove his head, pulled the sheets a little nearer his chin, reversedhis pillow that he might rest his cheek more gratefully on the coolerlinen, stretched, yawned, and composed himself to slumber with anabsolutely untroubled conscience. 

He was an eminently practical and almost rudely healthy young man, with an unreflecting belief in the existence of things he had seen, and considerable doubt concerning those which he had not seen. In hisheart he regarded sentiment as the expression of a flabby nature in afeeble body. Once or twice he had casually redressing-case, with itsarray of silver toilet articles, the solid front of his chiffonnier, the carved arms of his favorite lounging-chair, even the etchings andprints on the walls. Suddenly, as he looked at these familiar objects, a light haze fell over them, giving him for an instant the impressionthat a gauze curtain had been dropped between them and his eyes. Theyslowly melted away, and in their place he saw the streets of a tinyvillage in some foreign country which he did not know. A moment later, in what seemed at the time a perfectly natural transition from his bedin an Adirondack club-house, he was walking up the streets of thelittle town, in correct tourist attire, looking in vain for a familiarlandmark, and with a strange sinking of the heart. How he got there, or why he was there, was equally incomprehensible to him. It was highnoon of a warm summer day, and the red roofs of the old buildingsseemed to glow in the heat. Before him, at the end of the street downwhich he was walking, was a public square where marketing was going onin the open. It was crowded with men and women in picturesque peasantcostumes he did not recognize, though he had travelled a great deal. As he drew nearer he heard them speaking, but discovered that theirtongue was as unknown to him as their garb. He knew French, German, and Italian well; he had, in addition, a smattering of Spanish, andwas familiar with the accents of Slavic tongues. But this babel thatmet his ears was something new. Taken in connection with the rest ofthe experience, the discovery sent a cold chill down the spinal columnof Mr. Lawrence Varick. For the first time in his debonair life he wasafraid, and admitted it inwardly, with a sudden whitening of the lips. 

"It's so infernally queer, " he told himself, uneasily. "If I couldremember how I got here, or if I knew anything about the place--"

"Have you classified them?" asked a voice at his elbow. It wasfeminine, contralto, and exquisitely modulated. The words wereEnglish, but spoken with a slight foreign accent. With a leap of theheart Varick turned and looked at the speaker. 

She was young, he saw at once--twenty-two, twenty-three, possiblytwenty-four. He inclined to the last theory as he observed her perfectpoise and self-possession. She was exquisitely dressed; he realizedthat despite the dimness of masculine perception on such points, and, much more clearly, saw that she was beautiful. She was small, and theeyes she raised to his were large and deeply brown, with long blacklashes that matched in color the wavy hair under her coquettish hat. As he stared at her, with surprise, relief, and admiration strugglingin his boyishly handsome face, she smiled, and in that instant thephlegmatic young man experienced a new sensation. His own white teethflashed as he smiled back at her. Then he remembered that it wasnecessary to reply to her question. 

"I--I--beg your pardon, " he stammered, "a--a thousand times. But totell you the truth, I'm--I'm horribly confused this morning. I--Idon't seem, somehow, to place myself yet. And I can't understand whatthese people say. So, when you spoke English it was such a relief--"

He stopped suddenly and turned a rich crimson. It had occurred to himthat this incoherent statement was not quite the one to win interestand admiration from a strange and exceedingly attractive woman. Whatwould she think of him? Perhaps that he was intoxicated, or insane. Varick's imagination, never lively, distinguished itself during thenext few seconds by the stirring possibilities it presented to hismind. He grew redder, which was very unfortunate, and shuffledmiserably from one foot to the other, until he noticed that she waslooking at him with a glance that was entirely dignified yet veryfriendly. It had an oddly sympathetic quality in it as well. Hisspirits rose a trifle. 

"You must think me an awful duffer, " he murmured, contritely. "I'm notalways like this, I assure you. "

"I know, " she assented. "I understand. Walk on with me. Possibly I maybe able to help you. "

He bowed assent and the two walked toward the crowded square. 

"You're awfully good, " he said, feeling reassured, yet still boyishand embarrassed. "I don't want to be a nuisance, but if you'll justput me right, somehow--start me on a path that will lead me home--"

The entire idiocy of this struck him. He stopped again, then burstinto his contagious, youthful laughter, in which she instantly joined. The mellow contralto and the clear tenor formed a soft and pleasantduet, but Varick noticed that not a head in the crowd around themturned their way, nor did an eye of all the peasant throng give them aglance. He spoke of this to his companion as they continued theirwalk. 

"The most surprising thing to me in all this--unusualness, " he said, "is the cool manner in which these beggars ignore us. You know howsuch people gape, usually; but not a soul among all these people seemsto know we're here. "

She looked at him with a gentle amusement and sympathy in her browneyes. 

"That is not surprising, " she said, quietly. "For, you know, we arenot here--really. "

Varick stopped for the second time and stared at her, with arepetition of that new and annoying sinking in the region of hisheart. Her words were certainly disconcerting, but she herself wasdelightfully human and most reassuringly natural. She had walked on, and he tried to fall into her mood as he overtook her. 

"Where are we, then?" he asked, with a short and not especiallymirthful laugh. 

Her smooth brow wrinkled for a moment. 

"I do not know, " she said, frankly. "That is, I do not know thisplace, where we _think_ we are, though I have been here before, andthe experience does not frighten me now. But I know where we _really_are. You are asleep somewhere in America, and I--but oh, my dear, mydear, you're going to wake!"

The clock that was somewhere struck three. Varick, sitting up in hisbed with eyes staring into the darkness, saw again his familiar room, the dim light, the silver, the dressing-case, the pictures. He sprangto the door opening into the hall, and tried it. It was bolted, as hehad left it. So was the other door leading into his sitting-room. Thedarkness around him still seemed full of the refrain of the words hehad just heard--where?

_"Oh, my dear, my dear, you're going to wake!"_ And her eyes--hersmile--

Varick got into bed again, in a somewhat dazed condition, with atremor running through it. Very slowly he straightened himself out, very slowly he pulled up the bedclothes. Then he swore solemnly intothe obscurity of the room. 

"Well, of--all--the--dreams!" he commented, helplessly. 

As the months passed, after Varick got back to town and into the whirlof city life, he recalled his dream, frequently at first, then morerarely, and finally not at all. It was almost a year later when, onenight, lying half awake, he saw again the fine, transparent, screen-like veil enshroud the objects in his bedroom. It was winter, and agreat log was burning in the large fireplace. He had tried to chokethe flames with ashes before he went to bed, but the wood had blazedup again and he had lain quiet, awaiting slumber and blinkingindifferently at the light. His bedroom overlooked Fifth Avenue. Therewas a large club-house just opposite his house, and cabs and carriagesstill came and went. Varick heard the slam of carriage doors, theclick of horses' hoofs on the wet asphalt, and congratulated himselfon the common-sense which had inspired him to go to bed at eleveninstead of joining the festive throng across the street. He haddutifully spent the morning in his father's offices, and then, with awarming sense of virtue, had run out of town for a late luncheon and atrial of hunters. To-night he was pleasantly tired, but not drowsy. When the curtain fell before his surroundings, and he saw them meltingimperceptibly into others quite foreign to them, he at once recalledthe similar experience of the year before. With a little quickening ofhis steady heart-beats, he awaited developments. 

Yes, here was the old town, with its red roofs, its quaintarchitecture, its crowded, narrow, picturesque streets. But this timethey seemed almost deserted, and the whole effect of the place wasbleak and dreary. The leaves had dropped from the trees, the flowershad faded, the vines that covered the cottage walls were brown andbare. He was pleasantly conscious of the warmth of a sable-lined coathe had brought from Russia two years before. He thrust his glovedhands deep into its capacious pockets and walked on, his eyes turningto right and left as he went. At intervals he saw a bulky masculinefigure, queerly dressed, turn a corner or enter a house. Once or twiceone came his way and passed him, but no one looked at him or spoke. For a moment Varick was tempted to knock at one of the inhospitablyclosed doors and ask for information and directions, but something--hedid not know what--restrained him. 

When she appeared it was as suddenly as she had come before, with nowarning, no approach. She was at his elbow--a bewitching thing of fursand feminine beauty, French millinery and cordiality. She held out hersmall hand with a fine _camaraderie_. 

"Is it not nice?" she asked at once. "I was afraid I should arrivefirst and have to wait alone. I would not have liked that. "

He held her hand close, looking down at her from his great height, hisgray eyes shining into hers. 

"Then you knew--you were coming?" he asked, slowly. 

"Not until the moment before I came. But when I saw the curtain fall--"

"You saw that, too? A thin, gauzy thing, like a transparency?"

"Yes. "

He relapsed into silence for a moment, as he unconsciously adapted hisstride to hers, and they walked on together as naturally as if it werean every-day occurrence. 

"What do you make of it all?" he at length asked. 

She shrugged her shoulders with a little foreign gesture which seemedto him, even then, very characteristic. 

"I do not know. It frightened me--a little--at first. Now it does not, for it always ends and I awake--at home. "

"Where is that?"

She hesitated. 

"I may not tell you, " she said, slowly. "I do not quite know why, butI may not. Possibly you may know some time. You, I think, are anAmerican. "

He stared hard at her, his smooth face taking on a strangely solemnexpression. 

"You mean to say, " he persisted, "that this is all a dream--that youand I, instead of being here, are really asleep somewhere, ondifferent continents?"

She nodded. 

"We are asleep, " she said, "on different continents, as you say. Whether we are dreaming or whether our two souls are taking a littleexcursion through space--oh, who shall say? Who can question thewonderful things which happen in this most wonderful world? I haveceased to question, but I have also ceased to fear. "

He made no reply. Somewhere, in the back of his head, lay fear--a verydefinite, paralyzing fear--that something was wrong with him or withher or with them both. Instead of being in the neutral border-land ofdreams, had he not perhaps passed the tragic line dividing the normalmind from the insane? She seemed to read his thoughts, and her mannerbecame more gentle, almost tender. 

"Is it so very dreadful?" she asked, softly. "We are together, youknow, my friend. Would it not be worse to wander about alone?"

With a great effort he pulled himself together. 

"Infinitely, " he said, with gratifying conviction. "And you're--you'rea trump, you know. I'm ashamed of acting like such a boor. If you'llbear with me I'll try from now on to be more like a man and less likea fretful ghost. "

She clapped her hands. 

"Capital!" she cried. "I knew you would--what is the word?--oh yes--_adapt_ yourself. And it is only for a little while. You will wakevery soon. But you ought to enjoy it while it lasts. There are manyamusing things about it all. "

Varick reflected grimly that it was the "amusing things" whichoccasioned his perturbation, but he kept his reflection to himself andsmiled down at her sunnily. 

"For example, " she continued, "as we really do not exist here, and aswe are not visible to these people, we cannot do anything that willaffect them in any way or attract their attention. Look at that!"

They were passing a small house whose front door, opening on thestreet, stood ajar. Within they could see a stout woman standing at atub and washing busily, and a little girl pouring hot water from aquaint kettle into a large pan full of soiled blue dishes. The panstood near the edge of a wooden table, and the little girl was perchedon a stool just high enough to bring her on a level with her work. 

"You are, I am sure, a fine athlete, " murmured the woman. "Or elseyour looks belie you, " she added, with a roguish upward glance. "Yetwith all your strength you cannot push that pan of dishes off thetable. "

Without a word, Varick passed through the doorway, strode into thehouse and up to the table. She followed him closely. He attempted toseize the pan in his powerful hands--and, to his horror, discoveredthat they held nothing. The pan remained on the table and the childwas now unconcernedly washing the blue dishes, humming a little folk-song as she worked. As if to add to the irony of the situation, thesmall laborer quietly lifted the pan and moved it to a position shethought more convenient. This was the last touch. With a stifledmurmur of intense exasperation, Varick put forth all his strength in asupreme effort. The pan fell, the water and broken blue dishescovering the floor. He sprang back and stood aghast, gazing at thehavoc he had wrought. 

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" murmured the voice at his side. "I never dreamedyou could do it, or I would not have suggested it. Oh, oh, the poorlittle darling!"

For the stout woman at the tub had hastily dropped her work, crossedthe room, and was soundly chastising the unhappy infant who shesupposed was responsible for the mischief. Varick caught her arm. 

"Oh, I say, " he cried, "this won't do at all! She didn't do it; it wasall my fault. I'll pay for the things. Here--here--"

He fumbled in his pockets as he spoke and pulled out several goldpieces. But the fat arm of the old woman offered no resistance to hisgrasp, and the gold pieces did not exist for her. It was evident thatshe saw neither him nor them, nor the woman with him. With anunsparing hand she spanked the child, whose voice rose in shrilllamentations. Varick and his companion in guilt crept out of the roomwith a sense of great helplessness upon them, and he breathed a longbreath of relief at finding himself--in bed, with a cold February sunshining in through his windows, and the faithful Parker at his sidewith the quieting announcement that his bath was ready. 

One of Varick's boon companions in camp and hunting excursions was adistinguished New York specialist in nervous diseases. A day or twolater Varick found it convenient to drop into this man's office and, quite casually, tell him the story of his dreams, giving it variouslight touches that he fondly imagined concealed the anxiety that laybeneath the recital. "Recurrent dreams, " he then learned, were a verycommon human experience and not deserving of much attention. 

"Don't think about it, " said his friend. "Of course, if you worry overit, you'll be dreaming it all the time. Send this 'personallyconducted tour' to me if you don't like it. I don't mind meetingpretty women who are 'dreams, ' whether in the flesh or out of it. "

As time went on and the dream did not return, Varick decided that hewould not mind, either. He thought of her a great deal; he even longedfor her. Eventually he deliberately tried to induce the dream by goingto bed early, putting himself in the proper mental attitude, as heconceived it, and staring wide-eyed into his dimly lighted room. Butonly once in eighteen months was he even partly successful. Then hesaw the haze, saw the familiar streets, saw her far, far ahead of him, and hurrying onward, saw her turn a sharp corner, caught one backwardlook from her dear brown eyes as she vanished--and awoke! He gave muchthought to that look in the months which followed. He was a modestyouth, singularly unconscious of his own charms; but the eloquentglance had conveyed to him a sense of longing--of more than longing. 

Quite an interval elapsed before she came again. There was, first ofall, the inevitable filmy effect, but, in the vision that succeededit, instead of finding himself in the little town, he was in thedepths of a great old forest, and in horrible agony. Some accident hadoccurred--he did not know what. He only knew that he was shot, suffering, dying! He groaned, and even as he writhed in a spasm ofpain he saw her sitting on the sward beside him. He turned glazed eyeson her. Her brown ones looked back into his with a great love and pityin their depths. 

"Oh, my dear, " she whispered, "I know it seems terribly hard to you. And because you think you suffer, it is almost as hard for you as ifyou did. But you are not really hurt, you know. You are not suffering. It is all in the dream. You are sound asleep, far, far away. "

He forced a sardonic laugh from his stiff throat. 

"Not this time, " he managed to articulate. "Whatever the others mayhave been, this is no dream. This is the real thing--and death!"

She smoothed the hair back from his damp brow with a beautiful, caressing touch. He felt her fingers tremble. 

"No, " she said. "It is a dream, and almost over. "

"Then will you stay with me, " he gasped, "to the end?"

"Yes, " she promised. "Try to bear it just a moment longer. Courage, dear heart! for already you are waking--you are waking--_you--are--awake!_"

He was, and it was daylight, and around him were the familiar objectsof his own room. He wiped his forehead, which was cold and wet. Hefelt utterly exhausted. 

"Stay with me to the end!"

If she only would! If he could find her--find her in this warm, humanworld, away from that ghastly border-land where they two met. For inthat hour he knew he loved--what? A woman or a ghost? A creature ofthis world or a fantasy of the night? Wherever she was, whatever shewas, he loved her and he wanted her. And in that hour of his agony hereyes had told that she loved and wanted him. 

It was eight months before they met again. Varick's friends thoughthim changed, and quite possibly he was. The insouciant boy of twenty-eight had become a man, a sympathetic, serious, thoughtful man, stillgiven to sports and outdoor life, but more than all devoted to asearch which had taken him to no end of out-of-the-way European towns. He was sleeping in one of these one night (not _the_ one, alas!--hehad not found that) when the veil, now so warmly welcome, fell for thefourth time. 

He was in an exquisite Italian garden, a place all perfume and Maybreezes and flooding sunshine and overarching blue sky. As he enteredit he saw her coming to meet him, and he went forward to greet herwith his pulses bounding and a light in his eyes which no eyes buthers had ever seen there. Even in that supreme moment the wonderfully_real_ atmosphere of it all impressed him. He heard a dry twig crackunder his foot as he walked, and he recognized the different perfumesof the flowers around him--the heavy sweetness of a few belated orangeblossoms, the delicate breath of the oleander, the reminiscent perfumeof the rose. Then their hands met and their eyes, and each drew a longbreath, and neither spoke for a moment. When Varick found words theywere very commonplace. 

"Oh, my love, my love!" he said. And she, listening to them withsudden tears in her brown eyes, seemed to find in them the utmosteloquence of the human tongue. 

"It has been so long, so long!" he gasped. "I began to think I wasnever to see you again. "

They drifted side by side along a winding, rose-hedged path, past anold sun-dial, past a triumphant peacock strutting before his mildlittle mate, past a fountain whose spray flung out to them a welcome. She led the way with the accustomed step of one who knew and loved theplace. They came to a marble seat, half hidden by a tangle of vinesand scarlet blossoms, and sheltered by overhanging oleander branches;there she sat down and moved her skirts aside that he might sit closeto her. Her brown eyes, raised now to his hungry gray ones, looked athim with the softened brilliance he had sometimes seen in those of ahappy child. 

"Should you have missed me, " she asked, softly, "if you had never seenme again? Should you have been sorry?"

He drew a long breath. 

"I love you, " he said. "Whatever you are, wherever you come from, whatever all this means, I love you. I don't understand anything else, but I know that. It's the one sure thing, the one real thing, in allthis tangle. "

Without a word she put her hand in his. He could feel distinctly itscool, soft, exquisite texture. With an exclamation of delight he drewher toward him, but she held herself away, the expression of herbeautiful face softening the effect of the recoil. 

"Not yet, dear, " she said, gently. "We must be very careful. You donot understand. If you do anything abrupt or sudden you will wake--andthen we shall be parted again, who knows for how long!"

There were tears in her eyes as she spoke. Seeing them, he buried hisface in his hands and groaned, while the sense of his utterhelplessness rolled over him like a flood. 

"God!" he broke out, with sudden fierceness. "What devil's trick isthis? It's not a dream. It can't be a dream. Here we are, two humanbeings in a human world--I'll swear it. Smell that oleander. Listen tothat bird sing. Hear the trickle of that fountain. And yet you tell methat we are asleep!"

She laid her head in the curve of her arm, resting on the ivy-coveredback of the low seat. Bending over her, he saw that her cheeks werewet. The sight made him desperate. 

"Don't!" he cried, hoarsely. "Don't do that! Tell me what is expectedof me. Whatever it is, no matter how hard it is, or how long it takes, I'll do it. "

She did not reply, but she made a quick little gesture with the handnearest him. It signified hopelessness, almost despair. Darkness beganto fall, and an early moon hung pale in the heavens. Somewhere in thethick bushes near them a nightingale began to sing. To Varick'sexcited fancy there was a heart-breaking pathos in the soft notes. They seemed to have been together, he and she, for a long time--forhours. He bent his head till it touched hers. 

"But you love me?" he asked. She moved a little and wiped her eyeswith an absurdly tiny, lace-edged square of linen. One corner, henoticed, bore an embroidered coronet. 

"Yes, " she said, very quietly, "I love you. "

Her tone as she spoke expressed such entire hopelessness that the fullsense of her words did not at once come to him. When it did, slowly, sweetly, she was speaking again. 

"But oh, dearest, dearest!" she broke out, "why do we love? To whatcan love lead us--two poor shadows in a dream world, in which alone wecan meet?"

He was silent. There seemed, somehow, nothing that he could say, though later he thought of many words with which he might have filledthat throbbing silence. The dusk deepened around them. Off in thethicket the nightingale still warbled passionately, and now the starsbegan to come out over their heads, pale as yet against the warm blueof the heavens. Varick, sitting stiffly on the old marble bench, became conscious of an odd dizziness, and set his teeth with a suddendetermination to show no evidence of it. She had risen and was movingabout among the rose-bushes just behind them. Almost before he missedher she had returned, holding in her hand a beautiful salmon-huedrose, with a flame-colored, crumply heart. He had never before seenone like it. As she held it near him it exhaled an exquisitelyreminiscent perfume--a perfume which seemed to breathe of old joys, old memories, and loves of long ago. 

"Is it not beautiful?" she said. "It is called the _Toinnette_. Takeit, dear, and keep it--for memory. " Then, as he took it from her, hereyes widened in a sudden anguish of dread and comprehension. 

"Oh, you're leaving me!" she said. "You're waking. Dearest, dearest, stay with me!"

The words and the look that accompanied them galvanized him intosudden action. He sprang to his feet, caught her in his arms, held herthere, crushed her there, kissing her eyes, her hair, her exquisitelysoft mouth. 

"I will not leave you!" he raved. "I swear I won't! I defy the devilthat's back of this! I swear--" But she, too, was speaking now, andher words came to his ears as from a long, long distance, sobbingly, with a catch in the breath, but distinct. 

"Alas!" she cried, "you have ruined everything! You have ruinedeverything! You will never see me again. Dearest, dearest--"

He awoke. His heart was thumping to suffocation, and he lay exhaustedon his pillow. It was a dark morning, and a cold rain beat dismallyagainst the window-panes. Gone were the Dream Woman, the Italiangarden, the song of the nightingale, the perfume of flowers. Howdefinite that perfume had been! He could smell it yet, all around him. It was like--what was it like? He became suddenly conscious of anunusual sensation in his hand, lying on the bedspread. He glanced atit and then sat up with a sudden jerk that almost threw him off hisbalance. In his upturned palm was a rose--a salmon-colored rose, slightly crushed, but fresh and fragrant, with a flame-colored, crumply heart. Varick stared at it, shut his eyes, opened them, andstared again. It was still there, and, with the discovery that it was, Varick became conscious of a prickling of the scalp, a chill along thespine. His brown face whitened. 

"Well, by all the gods!" he gasped. "How did that thing get here?"

No one ever told him. Possibly no one could except the Dream Woman, and her he never saw again; so the mystery was unfathomable. He putthe rose between the leaves of the Bible his mother had given him whenhe went to college, and which he had not opened since until thatmorning; and the rose became dry and faded as the years passed, quiteas any other rose would have done. 

Varick paid a second and quite casual visit to his medical friend, whoscoffed at him rudely and urged him to go on a long hunting trip. Hewent, and was singularly successful, and came back with considerablebig game and a rich, brown complexion. When the doctor asked himwhether he still awoke from his innocent slumbers to find his littlehands full of pretty flowers, Varick swore naturally and healthfully, turned very red, and playfully thumped the medical man between theshoulders with a force that sent that gentleman's eye-glasses off hisnose. But, notwithstanding all these reassuring incidents, Varick hasnever married; and he remains deeply interested as to the source ofthat rose. He would be very grateful to any one who could tell himwhere the thing came from. The nearest he ever came to this was when aman who knew a good deal about flowers once inspected the faded rose, at Varick's request, and listened to the description of how it lookedwhen fresh. 

"Why, yes, " he said, "I know that variety. It grows in Italy, but Idon't think it's known here. They call it the _Toinnette!_"

II

THE EXORCISM OF LILY BELL

It is quite possible that not even Raymond Mortimer Prescott himselfcould have told definitely the day or the hour when Lily Bell firstcame into his life; and as Raymond Mortimer Prescott was not only thesole person privileged to enjoy Miss Bell's society, but was also thesole person who had been permitted to gaze upon her charms at all, itwould seem that inquiries directed elsewhere were destined to provefruitless. Raymond himself, moreover, was not communicative; he hadthe reserve of an only child whose early efforts at conversation hadbeen discouraged by parents selfishly absorbed in "grown-up"interests, and whose home was too remote from other country homes toattract playmates. 

His mother was a nervous invalid, and almost in infancy Raymond hadgrasped the fact that his absence seemed to be of more definitebenefit to her than any other remedy for neurasthenia. His father wasa busy man, absent from home for weeks at a time, and bearing thisexile with a jovial cheerfulness which did not always characterize hismoods when he deigned to join the family circle. Occasionally theelder Prescott experienced a twinge of conscience when he looked athis son, ten years of age now, the possessor of a superbly healthybody and presumably of the social aspirations of growing Americans. Insuch moments of illumination the father reflected uneasily that "thelittle beggar must have a beastly lonesome time of it"; then, surveying the little beggar's choice company of pets, gazing upon thedam he had built with his own busy hands, inspecting approvingly hisprowess in the swimming-hole and with his fish-rods, even noting, inhis conscientious appraisal of his heir's assets, the self-assertivequality of the freckles on his nose and the sunburn on the whole ofhis visage, this perfunctory American parent easily decided thatnothing need be changed for another year or two. It was impossibleeven for a scrupulous conscience to make a youthful martyr of RaymondMortimer. Not the most rabid New England brand could compass that, andcertainly Raymond Mortimer Prescott, Sr. , had no such possession. Thehousekeeper, Miss Greene, a former trained nurse who had charge of theboy in infancy, looked after his clothes and his meals. Notwithstanding his steadfast elusiveness, she had also succeeded inmaking him master of extremely elementary knowledge of letters andfigures. Beyond this he was arrogantly ignorant, even to the point ofbeing ignorant of his ignorance. He had his dogs, his rods and tackle, his tool-house, unlimited fresh air, sunshine, and perfect health; inaddition he had Lily Bell. 

How long he may have enjoyed the pleasure of this young person'scompany unobserved by his elders is a matter of surmise; it may wellhave been a long time, for family curiosity never concerned itselfwith Raymond Mortimer unless he was annoyingly obtrusive ordisobedient. But the first domestic records of her arrival, keptnaturally enough by Miss Greene, whose lonely spinster heart was theboy's domestic refuge, went back to a day in June when he was five. Hewas in his nursery and she in an adjoining room, the communicatingdoor of which was open. She had heard him in the nursery talking tohimself, as she supposed, for a long time. At last his voice took on anote of childish irritation, and she distinctly heard his words. 

"But it won't be right that way, " he was saying, earnestly. "Don't yousee it won't be right that way? There won't be nothing to hold up thetop. "

There was a long silence, in the midst of which Miss Greene stolecautiously to the nursery door and looked in. The boy was on his kneeson the floor, an ambitious structure of blocks before him, which hehad evidently drawn back to contemplate. His eyes were turned from it, however, and his head was bent a little to the left. He wore a look ofgreat attention and annoyance. He seemed to be listening to aprolonged argument. 

"All right, " he said, at last. "I'll do it. But it ain't right, andyou'll be sorry when you see it fall. " He hurriedly rearranged theblock structure, adding to the tremulously soaring tower on the leftside. True to his prediction, it fell with a crash, destroying otherparts of the edifice in its downfall. The boy turned on his unseencompanion a face in which triumph and disgust were equally blended. "There, now!" he taunted; "didn't I tell you so, Lily Bell? But younever will b'lieve what I say--jes like girls!"

Miss Greene hurriedly withdrew, lifting to the ceiling eyes of awedsurprise. For some reason which she was subsequently unable toexplain, she asked the boy no questions; but she watched him moreclosely after this, and discovered that, however remote the date ofMiss Bell's first appearance, she was now firmly established as adaily guest--an honored one whose influence, though mild, was almostboundless, and whose gentle behests were usually unhesitatinglyobeyed. Occasionally, as in the instance of the blocks, RaymondMortimer combated them; once or twice he disobeyed them. But on thesecond of these occasions he drooped mournfully through the day, bearing the look of one adrift in the universe; and the observant MissGreene noted that the following day was a strenuous one, occupied witheager fulfilment of the unexpressed wishes of Lily Bell, who hadevidently returned to his side. Again and again the child did thingshe most obviously would have preferred not to do. The housekeeperlooked on with deep but silent interest until she heard him say, forperhaps the tenth time, "Well, I don't like it, but I will if youreally want me to. " Then she spoke, but so casually that the boy, absorbed in his play, felt nothing unusual in the question. 

"Whom are you talking to, Raymond?" she asked, as she rounded the heelof the stocking she was knitting. He replied abstractedly, withoutraising his eyes from the work he was doing. 

"To Lily Bell, " he said. 

Miss Greene knitted in silence for a moment. Then, "Where is she?" sheasked. 

"Why, she's here!" said the child. "Right beside me!"

Miss Greene hesitated and took the plunge. "I don't see her, " sheremarked, still casually. 

This time the boy raised his head and looked at her. There was in hisface the slight impatience of one who deals with an inferiorunderstanding. 

"'Course you don't, " he said, carelessly. "You can't. No one can't seeLily Bell but 'cept me. "

Miss Greene felt snubbed, but persevered. 

"She doesn't seem to be playing very nicely to-day, " she hazarded. 

He gave her a worried look. 

"She isn't, " he conceded, "not very. 'Most always she's very, verynice, but she's kind of cross to-day. I guess p'r'aps, " he speculated, frankly, "you're 'sturbing her by talking so much. "

Miss Greene accepted the subtle hint and remained silent. From thattime, however, Raymond Mortimer counted on her acceptance of Lily Bellas a recognized personality, and referred to her freely. 

"Lily Bell wants us to go on a picnic to-morrow, " he announced, oneday when he was six. "She says let's go on the island under the willowan' have egg-san'wiches an' ginger-ale for lunch. "

Miss Greene carried out the programme cheerfully, for the child madesingularly few requests. Thomas, the gardener, was to row them over, and Miss Greene, a stout person who moved with difficulty, seatedherself in the stem of the boat with a sigh of relief, and drewRaymond Mortimer down beside her. He wriggled out of her grasp andstruggled to his feet, his stout legs apart, his brown eyesdetermined. 

"You can't sit there, please, Miss Greene, " he said, almost austerely. "Lily Bell wants to sit there with me. You can take the other seat. "

For once the good-natured Miss Greene rebelled. 

"I'll do no such thing, " she announced, firmly, "flopping round andupsetting the boat and perhaps drowning us all. You and your Lily Bellcan sit together in the middle and let me be. "

An expression of hope flitted across the child's face. "Will that do, Lily Bell?" he asked, eagerly. The reply was evidently unfavorable, for his jaw fell and he flushed. "She says it won't, " he announced, miserably. "I'm awful sorry, Miss Greene, but we'll have to 'sturbyou. "

If Miss Lily Bell had been in the habit of making such demands, thehousekeeper would have continued to rebel. As it was, she had gravedoubts of the wisdom of establishing such a dangerous precedent ascompliance with the absurd request. But Raymond Mortimer's distresswas so genuine, and the pleasure of the picnic so obviously rested onher surrender, that she made it, albeit slowly and with groans anddismal predictions. The boy's face beamed as he thanked her. 

"I was so 'fraid Lily Bell would be cross, " he confided to her, as hesat sedately on his half of the stern-seat. "But she's all right, an'we're going to have a lovely time. "

That prediction was justified by events, for the occasion was abrilliant one, and Lily Bell's share in it so persistent andconvincing that at times Miss Greene actually found herself sharing inthe delusion of the little girl's presence. Her good-natured yieldingin the matter of the seat, moreover, had evidently commended her toMiss Bell's good graces, and that young person brought out thechoicest assortment of her best manners to do honor to the grown-upguest. 

"Lily Bell wants you to have this seat, Miss Greene, 'cause it's inthe shade an' has a nice back, " said Raymond, delightedly, almost assoon as they had reached the island; and Miss Greene flopped into itwith a sigh of content in the realization that Miss Bell did notintend to usurp all the choice spots, as her persistence earlier inthe day might possibly have suggested to a suspicious mind. There, alternately reading and dozing, she incidentally listened to the flowof conversation poured forth by her small charge, varied only byoccasional offerings to her, usually suggested by Miss Bell andranging from the minnow he had succeeded in catching with a worm and abent pin to the choicest tidbits of the luncheon. There were twoglasses for the ginger-ale. Miss Greene had one and Lily Bell theother. Raymond Mortimer gallantly drank from the bottle. 

"Why don't you use Lily Bell's glass?" was Miss Greene's very naturalinquiry. It would seem, indeed, that two such congenial souls wouldhave welcomed the closer union this suggestion invited, but RaymondMortimer promptly dispelled that illusion. 

"She doesn't want to, " he responded, gloomily. 

In other details, however, Miss Lily Bell was of an engaging sweetnessand of a yielding disposition of the utmost correctness. Again andagain Raymond Mortimer succeeded in convincing her, by the force andeloquence of his arguments, of the superiority of his ideas on fortbuilding, fishing, and other occupations which filled the day. MissGreene's heart yearned over the boy as he came to her during the mid-day heat and cuddled down comfortably by her side, heavy-eyed andtired after his exertions. 

"Where's Lily Bell?" she asked, brushing his damp hair off hisforehead and wondering whether she was also privileged to enjoy theunseen presence of the guest of honor. 

"She's back there under the tree takin' a nap, " murmured the boy, drowsily, indicating the exact spot with a grimy little hand. "Shetol' me to come an' stay with you for a while. "

Miss Greene smiled, deeply touched by this sweet mingling of coynessand thoughtfulness on the maiden's part. 

"What does Lily Bell call you?" she asked, with interest. The boysnuggled down on the grass beside her and rested his head comfortablyin her lap. 

"She knows my name's Raymond Mortimer, " he said, sleepily, "but shecalls me 'Bill' for short. " Then, more sleepily, "I asked her to, " headded. In another moment his eyelids had dropped and he too was in theLand of Nod, whither Lily Bell had happily preceded him. 

During the next four years Miss Greene was privileged to spend manydays in the society of Miss Lily Bell, and the acquaintance betweenthem ripened into a pleasant friendship. To her great satisfaction shefound Miss Bell's name one to conjure with in those moments offriction which are unavoidable in the relations of old and young. 

"I don't think Lily Bell would like that, " she began to say, tentatively, when differences of opinion as to his conduct came upbetween Raymond and herself. "I think _she_ likes a gentlemanly boy. "

Unless her young charge was in a very obstinate mood the reminderusually prevailed, and it was of immense value in overcoming the earlyprejudice of the small boy against soap and water. 

"Isn't Lily Bell clean?" she had inquired one day when he was eightand the necessity of the daily tubbing was again being emphasized tohim. 

Raymond conceded that she was. 

"When she first comes she is, " he added. "'Course she gets dirty whenwe play. Why, sometimes she gets awful dirty!"

The excellent and wise woman saw her opportunity, and promptly graspedit. 

"Ah, " she exclaimed, "that's the point. I want you to start out cleanand to go to bed clean. If you'll promise me to take a tub before youdress in the morning, and another before you go to bed at night, Idon't care how dirty you get in the mean time. "

This happy compromise effected, she was moved to ask more particularlyhow Miss Lily Bell looked. She recalled now that she had never heardher described. Raymond Mortimer, she discovered, was no better thanthe rest of his sex when it came to a description of feminine featuresand apparel, but on two points his testimony was absolute. Lily Bellhad curls and she wore pantalettes. The last word was not in hisvocabulary, and it was some time before he succeeded in conveying thecorrect impression to Miss Greene's mind. 

"Don't you remember the little girls in mamma's old Godey books?" heasked, at last, very anxiously, seeing that his early imperfectdescription had led to an apparent oscillation of Miss Greene'simagination between the paper ruffle of a lamb-chop and a frillysunbonnet. "They have slippers an' 'lastic bands an' scallopy funnelscoming down under their skirts. Well"--this with a long-drawn sigh ofrelief as she beamed into acquiescence--"that's how Lily Bell looks!"

Long before this the family had accepted Lily Bell as a part of thedomestic circle, finding her a fairly trustworthy and convenientplaymate for the boy. Not always, of course; for it was veryinconvenient to leave a vacant seat beside Raymond Mortimer when theywent driving, but this had to be done or Raymond stayed at home ratherthan desert his cherished Lily. It was long before his father forgotthe noble rebuke administered by his son on one occasion when theelder Prescott, thoughtlessly ignoring the presence of Miss Bell, sought to terminate the argument by sitting down by the boy's side. The shrieks of that youth, usually so self-contained, rent the ambientair. 

"Father, _father!_" he howled, literally dancing up and down in hisanguish, "you're sitting on Lily Bell!" Then, at the height of theuproar, he stopped short, an expression of overwhelming reliefcovering his face. "Oh no, you ain't, either, " he cried, ecstatically. "She jumped out. But she won't go now, so neither will I"; and hepromptly joined his imaginary playmate in the road. Pausing there, hegave his abashed parent a glance of indescribable reproach and ahelpful hint on etiquette. 

"Don't you know, " he asked, stonily, "that gentlemen don't _never_ siton ladies?" Striding gloomily back to the house, presumably close bythe side of the outraged maiden, he left his convulsed parent tosurvive as best he could the deprivation of their presence. This Mr. Prescott did with reluctance. He was beginning to find the society ofhis son and Lily Bell both interesting and exhilarating. He showed, infact, a surprising understanding of and sympathy with "the love-affair, " as he called it. "The poor little beggar had to havesomething, " he said, indulgently, "and an imaginary play-mate is assafe as anything I know. " Therefore he referred to Miss Bellrespectfully in conversation with his son, and, save on the tragicoccasion just chronicled, treated her with distinguishedconsideration. 

His wife's acceptance of the situation was less felicitous. Mrs. Prescott, whose utter lack of a sense of humor had long saddened herdomestic circle, suddenly felt the birth of one now that was even moresaddening, and the cause of it was Lily Bell. She referred to thatyoung person wholly without respect, and was convulsed by foolishlaughter when her son soberly replied. The boy resented this attitude--first sullenly, then fiercely. 

"She acts as if there _wasn't_ really any Lily Bell, " he confided tohis father, in a moment of such emotion. "I don't think that's nice orp'lite, an' it hurts Lily Bell's feelings. "

"That's bad, " said the father, soberly. "We mustn't have that. I'llspeak to your mother. "

He did subsequently, and to such good effect that the expression ofMrs. Prescott's amusement was temporarily checked. But RaymondMortimer's confidence was temporarily blighted, and he kept his littlefriend and his mother as far apart as possible. Rarely after that didLily Bell seek the invalid's room with the boy, though she frequentlyaccompanied him to his father's library when that gentleman was homeand, presumably, listened with awe to their inspiring conversation. Mr. Prescott had begun to talk to his boy "as man to man, " as he onceput it, and the phrase had so delighted the boy, now ten, that hisfather freely gave him the innocent gratification of listening to itoften. Moreover, it helped in certain conversations where questions ofmorals came up. As the small son of an irate father, Raymond Mortimermight not have been much impressed by the parental theory thatwatermelons must not be stolen from the patches of their onlyneighbor, a crusty old bachelor. As a man of the world, however, listening to the views of one wiser and more experienced, he was madeto see that helping one's self to the melons of another is really notthe sort of thing a decent chap can do. Lily Bell, too, held the elderman's opinion. 

"She says she doesn't like it, either, " the boy confided to his fatherwith an admiring sigh. "She never would go with me, you know. My!"--this with a heavier sigh--"I'm 'fraid if I do all the things you an'Lily Bell want me to I'll be awful good!"

His father sought to reassure him on this point, but he himself wasbeginning to cherish a lurking fear of a different character. Waslonger continuance of this dream companionship really wise? So far, ifit had influenced the boy at all, it had been for good. But he wasgrowing older; he was almost eleven. Was it not time that thisimaginary child friend should be eliminated in favor of--of what? Thefather's mind came up against the question and recoiled, blankly. Notexercise, not outdoor pursuits, not pets, for Raymond Mortimer had allthese and more. His little girl friend had not made him a milksop. Hewas an active, energetic, live, healthy-minded boy, with all a boy'snormal interests. When he built kennels for his dogs and made hutchesfor his rabbits, Lily Bell stood by, it is true, but her friendlysupervision but added to the vigor and excellence of his work. Indeed, Lily, despite her pantalettes, seemed to have a sporty vein in her. Still, the father reflected uneasily, it could lead to no good--thiscontinued abnormal development of the imagination. For Lily Bell wasas real to the boy at ten as she had been at six. 

What could be done? With what entering wedge could one begin todislodge this persistent presence? If one sent the boy away, LilyBell, of course, would go, too. If one brought--if--one--brought--

Mr. Prescott jumped to his feet and slapped his knee with enthusiasm. He had solved his problem, and the solution was exceedingly simple. What, indeed, but another little girl! A real little girl, a flesh-and-blood little girl, a jolly, active little girl, who, as Mr. Prescott inelegantly put it to himself, "would make Lily Bell, withher ringlets and her pantalettes, look like thirty cents. " Surely inthe circle of their friends and relatives there must be a little girlwho could be borrowed and introduced--oh, casually and with infinitetact!--into their menage for a few months. Mr. Prescott, well pleasedwith himself, winked a Machiavellian wink and sought his wife, ostensibly to consult her, but in reality to inform her that he hadmade up his mind, and that it would be her happy privilege to attendto the trivial details of carrying out his plan. 

In exactly three weeks Margaret Hamilton Perry was established in thePrescott homestead for a visit of indefinite length, and in preciselythree hours after her arrival Margaret Hamilton had annexed thePrescott homestead and its inmates and all the things appertainingthereto and made them her own. She was the most eager and adorable ofsmall, fat girls--alive from the crown of her curly head to the solesof her sensible little spring-heeled shoes. As Mr. Prescottsubsequently remarked in a moment of extreme self-appreciation, if shehad been made to order she couldn't have filled the bill better. Bornand bred in the city, the country was to her a mine of unexploreddelights. The shyness of Raymond Mortimer, suddenly confronted by thisnew personality and the immediate need of entertaining it, gave waybefore the enthusiasm of the little girl over his pets, his favoritehaunts, the works of his hands--everything in which he had a share. Clinging to his hand in a rapturous panic as they visited the animals, she expatiated on the privileges of those happy beings who livedalways amid such delights. 

"I wish I didn't ever have to go away again, " she ended, wistfully. 

"I wish you didn't, either, " said Raymond, gallantly, and then wasshocked at himself. Was this loyalty to Lily Bell? The reflection gavea tinge of coldness to his next utterance. When Margaret Hamilton, cheered by the tribute, asked, confidently, "May I play with you lotsand help you to make things?" the boy's response lagged. 

"Yes, " he said, finally, "if Lily Bell will let you. "

"Who's Lily Bell?"

"She--why, she's the girl I play with! Everybody knows Lily Bell!"

"Oh!"

Some of the brightness was gone from the eager face. 

"Will she like me?" she asked, at last. 

"I don't know--I guess--p'r'aps so. "

"Will I like her?"

"I don't know. You can't see her, you know. "

"Can't see her? Why can't I see her? Doesn't she come here, ever?"

"Oh yes, she's here all the time, but--" The boy squirmed. For thefirst time in his short life he was--_was_ he--ashamed of Lily Bell?No; not that. Never that! He held his small head high, and his lipsset; but he was a boy, after all, and his voice, to cover theembarrassment, took on a tone of lofty superiority. 

"Nobody ever does see her but me, " he asserted. "They'd like to, butthey don't. "

"Why don't they?"

Verily, this was a persistent child. The boy was in for completesurrender, and he made it. 

"She ain't a little girl like you, " he explained, briefly. "Shedoesn't have any home, and I don't know where she comes from--heaven, maybe, " he hazarded, desperately, as a sort of "When in doubt, playtrumps. " "But she comes, an' no one but me sees her, an' we play. "

"Huh!" This without enthusiasm from Margaret Hamilton Perry. She eyedhim remotely for a moment. Then, with an effort at understanding, shespoke again. 

"I shouldn't think that would be very much fun, " she said, candidly. "Just pretendin' there's a little girl when there ain't! I shouldthink it would be lots nicer--" She hesitated, a sense of delicacyrestraining her from making the point she so obviously had in mind. 

"Anyhow, " she added, handsomely, "I'll like her an' play with her ifyou do. "

Raymond Mortimer was relieved but doubtful. Memories of the extremecontrariness of Lily Bell on occasion overcame him. 

"If she'll let you, " he repeated, doggedly. 

Margaret Hamilton stared at him and her eyes grew big. 

"Won't you let me, if she doesn't?" she gasped. "Why--why--" Thesituation overcame her. The big, brown eyes filled suddenly. A smallgingham back rippling with fat sobs was presented to Raymond Mortimer. In him was born immediately man's antipathy to woman's tears. 

"Oh, say, " he begged, "don't cry; please don't. " He approached thegingham back and touched it tentatively. "She will let you play withus, " he urged. And then, moved to entire recklessness as the sobscontinued, "_I'll make her!"_ he promised. The gingham back stoppedheaving; a wet face was turned toward him, and a rainbow arched theirlittle heaven as Margaret Hamilton smiled. Her first triumph wascomplete. 

It is to be regretted that Lily Bell did not at once lend herself tothe fulfilment of this agreeable understanding. True, she appeareddaily, as of yore, and Margaret Hamilton was permitted to enter herpresence and join her games, but the exactions of Lily Bell becamehourly more annoying. It was evident that Raymond Mortimer felt themas such, for his anguished blushes testified to the fact when herepeated them to the victim. 

"She wants you to go away off and sit down, so's you can't hear whatwe're saying, " he said to Margaret Hamilton one day. "I don't thinkit's very p'lite of her, but she says you must. "

This brief criticism of Lily Bell, the first the boy had ever uttered, cheered the little girl in her exile. "Never mind, " she said. "I don'tcare--much. I know it isn't your fault. " For by this time she, too, was under the influence of the spell of convincing reality whichRaymond Mortimer succeeded in throwing over his imaginary friend. 

"She does things Ray wouldn't do, " she once confided to Miss Greene. "I mean, " hastily, as she suddenly realized her own words--"I mean shemakes him think--he thinks she thinks--Oh, I don't know how to 'splainit to you!" And Margaret Hamilton hastily abandoned so complicated aproblem. In reality she was meeting it with a wisdom far beyond heryears. The boy was in the grip of an obsession. Margaret Hamiltonwould have been sadly puzzled by the words, but in her wise littlehead lay the idea they convey. 

"He thinks she really is here, an' he thinks he's got to be nice toher because they're such ve-ry old fren's, " she told herself. "But sheisn't very nice lately, an' she makes him cross, so maybe by-an'-byhe'll get tired an' make her act better; or maybe--"

But that last "maybe" was too daring to have a place even in the veryfurthest back part of a little girl's mind. 

She lent herself with easy good-nature to Lily Bell's exactions. Shehad no fondness for that young person, and she let it be seen that shehad none, but she was courteous, as to a fellow-guest. 

"Pooh! I don't mind, " was her usual comment on Miss Bell's behests;and this cheerful acceptance threw into strong relief the dark shadowsof Lily Bell's perversity. Once or twice she proposed a holiday. 

"Couldn't we go off somewhere, just by ourselves, for a picnic, " shehazarded, one morning--"an' not ask Lily Bell?"

It was a bold suggestion, but the conduct of Miss Bell had beenespecially reprehensible the day before, and even the dauntless spiritof Margaret Hamilton was sore with the strife. 

"Wouldn't you like a--a rest, too?" she added, insinuatingly. Apparently the boy would, for without comment he made the preparationsfor the day, and soon he and the child were seated side by side in theboat in which the old gardener rowed them over to their belovedisland. 

It was a perfect day. Nothing was said about Lily Bell, and herpresence threw no cloud on those hours of sunshine. Seated adoringlyby the boy's side, Margaret Hamilton became initiated into themysteries of bait and fishing, and the lad's respect for his companionincreased visibly when he discovered that she could not only bait hishooks for him, but could string the fish, lay the festive board forluncheon, and set it forth. This was a playmate worth while. RaymondMortimer, long a slave to the exactions of Lily Bell, for whom he hadthanklessly fetched and carried, relaxed easily into the comfort ofman's more congenial sphere, and permitted himself to be waited on bywoman. 

In such and other ways the month of August passed. Margaret Hamilton, like the happy-hearted child she was, sang through the summer days andknitted more closely around her the hearts of her companions. 

With the almost uncanny wisdom characteristic of her, she refrainedfrom discussing Lily Bell with the other members of the family. Possibly she took her cue from Raymond Mortimer, who himself spoke ofher less and less as the weeks passed; but quite probably it was partof an instinct which forbids one to discuss the failings of one'sfriends. Lily Bell was to Margaret Hamilton a blot on the boy'sscutcheon. She would not point it out even to him, actively as herpractical little soul revolted against his self-deception. Once, however, in a rare moment of candor, she unbosomed herself to Mr. Prescott. 

"I don't like her very well, " she said, referring, of course, to LilyBell. "She's so silly! I hate to pretend an' pretend an' do things wedon't want to do when we could have such good times just byourselves. "

She buried her nose in his waistcoat as she spoke and sniffed ratherdismally. It had been a trying day. Lily Bell had been much _enevidence_, and her presence had weighed perceptibly upon the spiritsof the two children. 

"Can't you get rid of her?" suggested the man, shamelessly. "A realmeat little girl like you ought to do away with a dream kid--animaginary girl--don't you think?"

Margaret Hamilton raised her head and looked long into the eyes thatlooked back at her. The man nodded solemnly. 

"I'd try if I were you, " he said. "I'd try mighty hard. You don't wanther around. She's spoiling everything. Besides, " he added, half tohimself, "it's time the boy got over his nonsense. "

Margaret Hamilton reflected, her small face brightening. 

"Are you very, very sure it wouldn't be wicked?" she asked, hopefully. 

"Yep. Perfectly sure. Go in and win!"

Greatly cheered by this official sanction, Margaret Hamilton thefollowing day made her second suggestion of a day _a deux_. 

"All by ourselves, " she repeated, firmly. "An' not Lily Bell, 'cosshe'd spoil it. An' you row me to the island. Don't let's takeThomas. "

This was distinctly wrong. The children were not allowed to take theboat save under Thomas's careful eye; but, as has been pointed out, Margaret Hamilton had her faults. Raymond Mortimer struggled weakly inthe gulf of temptation, then succumbed and went under. 

"All right, " he said, largely, "I will. We'll have lunch, too, andp'r'aps I'll build a fire. "

"We'll play we're cave-dwellers, " contributed Margaret Hamilton, whoseinvention always exceeded his own, and whose imagination had recentlybeen stimulated by Miss Greene, who occasionally read aloud to thechildren. "You hunt an' get the food an' bring it home, an' I'll cookit. You be the big, brave man an' I'll be your--your mate, " sheconcluded, quoting freely from the latest interesting volume to whichshe had lent an ear. 

The picture appealed to Raymond Mortimer. With a manly stride heapproached the boat, helped her in, loosened it from its moorings, andcast off. His brow dark with care, he loftily ordered her to steer, and spoke no more until they had safely made their landing. 

Alone on their desert island, the two children faithfully carried outthe programme of the day. With dry branches gathered by his mate theintrepid male soon made a fire, and retreating hurriedly to a pointcomfortably distant from it, they gazed upon their work. Fishing andthe cleaning and cooking of their catch filled the morning; and if, indeed, the cleaning is something the mind would mercifully pass over, those chiefly concerned were satisfied and ate with prodigiousappetite. 

"It's awful funny, " said Raymond Mortimer, comfortably, as theyreposed under a tree after their repast, "but when Lily Bell an' Iused to come here--"

He stopped and gazed apprehensively behind him, as if fearful that theunbidden guest was even now within hearing. Apparently reassured, heresumed: "When Lily Bell an' I used to come we 'most always went tosleep after awhile. I--we--got kind of tired talking, I guess. Butwhen you an' I talk I don't get tired. "

Margaret Hamilton flushed with delight, but an excess of maidenlymodesty overcame her at the same moment. 

"Why don't you?" she inquired, coyly. 

"'Cos I like you better. "

Margaret Hamilton gasped, sputtered, looked around her. Everything wasin its place; there had been no submarine upheaval. The boy was thereand he had said this thing, the full meaning of which burst suddenlyupon her. Rising to her feet, she hurled herself upon him with theimpetuosity of her intense nature. 

"Do you really?" she gasped and gurgled. "Do you? Oh, do you? Oh, Ray, I'm so glad!"

And she kissed him!

Disengaging himself with dignity from the clinging embrace of themaiden, the outraged youth rose to his feet. 

"Don't you ever do that again, Margaret Hamilton Perry, " he said, slowly, and with awful sternness. "Don't you ever. Lily Bell never, never did such a thing!"

She retreated, but unabashed. 

"It's 'cause I was so glad, " she said, happily. "Real girls always do;they're like that. But I won't any more. You like me best, just thesame, don't you?" she inquired, anxiously. 

He came cautiously nearer. 

"Yes, I do, " he said, coldly, "but don't you try that any more, or Iwon't!"

Then they talked of cave-dwellers, and of the pleasant warmth of anopen-air fire on an August day, and of marvellous things they would doduring the coming weeks. And the absorption of their conversation wassuch that when the faithful Thomas, having rowed after them, stealthily approached and smote the boy upon the back, they yelled instartled unison. 

That no rancor lingered in the mind of Raymond Mortimer toward thetoo-demonstrative Margaret Hamilton was proved by the careless remarkhe made to his father when, some days later, that gentleman uttered ajocund inquiry as to the health of Lily Bell. 

His son stared at him for an instant, as one who seeks to recall thesnows of yester-year. 

"Oh, " he said, at last, "I haven't seen her for a long time. Shedoesn't come round now. "

Then, as his father grinned widely over these melancholy tidings, theson flushed crimson. 

"Well, I don't care, " he said, hotly. "It's all your fault. Didn't youtell me I had to 'muse Margaret? Didn't you? Well--I am. I ain't gottime for two. An', anyhow, " he concluded, with Adamitic instinct, "Lily Bell stopped coming herself!"

The exorcism of Lily Bell was complete. Unlike more substantial LilyBells of larger growth, she had known how to make her disappearancecoincide with a wish to that effect on the part of her gentlemanfriend. 

III

HER LAST DAY

For some time--possibly an hour or more--she sat perfectly still, staring at a wavering line made on the floor by a stray sunbeam whichhad forced its way through the window of her hotel sitting-room. Atfirst she looked unseeingly, with the dull, introspective gaze of themelancholic. Then she began to notice the thing, and to fear it, andto watch for outlines of a quivering human face, and to tremble alittle. Surely there had been a face--she thought vaguely, andpuckered her brow in an effort to remember. It was half an hour beforeshe realized what it was, and the passing of fifteen minutes more hadbeen ticked off by a clock on the table near her when she lifted herglance enough to follow the beam along the floor, up the wall, to thepane where it had entered. She rose suddenly. It was long since shehad made a consciously voluntary movement, and she knew this. She drewa deep breath as she stood up, and almost on the instant sheexperienced a life-giving sensation of poise and freedom. The weightfell from her feet, the blackness in which she had lived for weeksunwrapped itself from around her like a departing fog, her lax musclestightened. She groped her way to the window and stood there for amoment, resting her cheek against the cool pane and gazing up at thesky. Presently her eyes dropped to the level of a distant water-line, and she saw the river and the trees that fringed its distant bank, andthe swiftly moving boats on its surface. 

She was better. She knew all that this meant, how much and how little. For an interval, long or short, as it should happen to be, she wasagain a rational human being. She abruptly swerved around from thewindow and swept the room with her eyes, recognizing it as the one shewas occupying before she "went under, " as she put it to herself, andtrying, from association with the familiar objects around her, to formsome idea of the length of this attack. 

At the beginning of her breakdown the intervals between intelligentconsciousness and insanity had been long. She was herself, or was ableto keep herself fairly in hand, the greater part of the time, andchaos, when it came, lasted only for a few days or weeks. Recentlythis condition had been reversed. She had lost knowledge of time, butshe felt that centuries must have passed since those last flying, blessed hours when she knew herself at least for what she was. Shegrasped now at her returning reason, with a desperate, shudderinglittle moan, which she quickly stifled. Some one must be near, sheremembered, on guard: her nurse, or a hotel maid if the nurse wastaking one of her infrequent outings. Whoever was in charge of hermust be in the next room, for the door was open between the two. Thenurse would welcome her return, the patient reflected. It was herhabit--a singularly pathetic habit, the nurse had found it--to referalways to her attacks as "absences, " and to temporary recovery as"returns. "

She moved toward the open door and then stopped, feeling suddenly thatshe was not yet ready to talk to any one, even the nurse, for whom shehad a casually friendly feeling based on dependence and continuedassociation. She wished to think--dear God, to be able to thinkagain!--and there seemed so much thinking to be done and so littletime in which to do it. Her heart dropped a beat as she realized that. On how much time could she safely count, she wondered. A week? A fewdays? It had never been less than a week, until the last episode. Sheturned from the thought of that with a sick shudder, but memorydragged it up and ruthlessly held it before her--the hour, the moment, the very place she was sitting when it occurred. She had been talkingto a friend, who unconsciously said something that annoyed and excitedher. She saw now that friend's face growing dim before her eyes--atfirst puzzled, then frightened, then writhing and twisting intohideous shapes, she thought, until in her horror she had struck at it. She must not think of that, she knew, as she set her teeth and pulledherself up short. She had a will of extraordinary strength, herphysicians and nurses had conceded, and she resolved that it shouldserve her now. With grim determination she pieced together the patchesof memory left to her. She had had three days then--three short days. She dared not count on even that much respite now, though she mightpossibly have it and more. But one day--surely Providence would lether have one day--one _last_ day. Her friends and the specialists hadbegun to talk of asylums. She had heard whispers of them before shesuccumbed to this last attack; and though her memory of what occurredin it was mercifully vague, she dimly recalled struggles and theshrieks of some one in agony--her own shrieks, she knew now, thoughshe had not known it then. It all meant that she was getting worse andmore "difficult. " It all meant chronic invalidism, constant care, eventual confinement. 

Her brain was now abnormally clear, supernaturally active. It workedwith an eager deference, as if striving to atone for the periods whenit failed her. The little clock struck ten. It was early--she had along day before her, a beautiful spring day; for she noticed now thetender green of the leaves and the youth of the grass. How interestingit would be, she reflected, idly, to go out into the free, busy worldand mingle with human beings, and walk the city streets and come intotouch with life and the living. She would go, she would spend the daythat way; but, alas! the nurse would go, too--cool, kind, professional, alert, quietly watchful. If she could in any way eludeher and go alone. . . . 

Her eyes narrowed and took on a look of cunning as she turned themsidewise toward the open door. As stealthily as a cat she crept to itand looked in. On a divan in the farthest corner the nurse laystretched in a deep sleep, whose unpremeditatedness was shown by thebook which lay on the floor, dropped, evidently, from her suddenlyrelaxed fingers. The patient retreated as noiselessly as she hadadvanced, and, going to a mantel-mirror in her sitting-room, turned onher reflection there a long and frightened look. She saw a woman ofthirty-five, thin, pale, haggard, high-bred. Her hair had beenarranged in accordance with the nurse's conception of comfort andeconomy of time, and though her gown was perfect in its fit andtailor-made severity, the lace at her neck and in the sleeves of hersilk waist was not wholly fresh. Her lips curled as she looked. Thiswas she, Alice Stansbury, the wreck of a woman who had once had healthand beauty and wealth and position. The last two were in a degree leftto her, but what difference did it make how she looked, she askedherself, harshly. Even as the thought came, however, she took off herwaist and sewed clean lace cuffs on the sleeves, replacing the collarwith a fresh one. Then she took down her hair and rearranged it, rapidly but with care. It was a simple matter to change her slippersfor walking-boots, and to find her hat and coat and gloves in theirold places. Miss Manuel, the nurse, _was_ reliable, she told herselfagain as she put them on, feeling a moment's gratitude to the womanfor trying to keep her "up, " even during her "absences, " to somethingapproaching the standard a gentlewoman's birth and breeding demanded. Her money, or at least a large part of it, for she did not stop tocount it, she found in the despatch-box where she had put it on theirarrival in New York, and the key was with others on a ring in theprivate drawer of her writing-desk. Hurriedly she selected severallarge bills and put them into a silver purse, pressing it deep intothe pocket of her walking-skirt with some vague fear that she mightlose it. Then she replaced the box and locked the desk, dropping thekey in her pocket. Her movements were extraordinarily swift andnoiseless. In twenty minutes from the time she had looked in on thenurse she was ready for the street. 

A second glance into the inner room showed her that Miss Manuel wasstill sleeping. She regarded her distrustfully for an instant, and ona sudden impulse sat down at her desk and wrote a message on a sheetof the hotel paper. 

"I am going out for the day. _I will return to-night. _ Do nothing, consult no one. I am quite able to take care of myself. Don't make asensation for the newspapers! ALICE STANSBURY. "

"That last sentence will quiet her, " she reflected, with coolsatisfaction, as she pinned the note to the side of the mirror. "Shewon't care to advertise far and wide that she has temporarily mislaida patient!"

The most difficult thing of all remained to be done. The outer door ofher own room was locked and the key was missing. To leave theapartment she must pass through the room where Miss Manuel lay asleep. She held her breath, but crossed in safety, though Miss Manuel stirredand murmured something, as if subconsciously warned of danger. MissStansbury closed the door noiselessly behind her and stood silent fora moment in the hall, glancing about her and planning the wisestmethod of getting away. She knew better than to enter any of the hotelelevators. While there was no certainty that she would be detained ifshe did, there had been a great deal of interest in her when shearrived at the hotel, and there was every chance that some employemight think it a wise precaution to ask her nurse a question or twoafter she departed. Then Miss Manuel would be hot upon her trail, andher day would be spoiled. She crept cautiously along the rear halls, keeping out of sight on each floor when the elevators were passing, and meeting only strangers and one preoccupied porter. Her rooms wereon the fifth floor, but she descended the four flights of stairs insafety, and, going triumphantly out of the rear entrance of the hotel, found herself in the quiet street on which it opened. The greatbuilding was on a corner, and as she crossed its threshold she saw atrolley-car passing along the avenue at her right. On a quick impulseshe signalled. When it stopped she entered and seated herself in acorner, surveying her fellow-passengers with seeming unconcern, thoughher breath came fast. She was safe; she was off! She decided to rideon until she made her plans and knew in more detail what should bedone with this gift of the gods, a day that was all her own. 

It had been a long time since she had been alone, she suddenlyremembered. There had been outings, of course, and shoppingexpeditions and the like, but always Miss Manuel or one of her kindhad been at her elbow--sometimes professionally cheerful, sometimesprofessionally grave, but at all times professionally watchful. Thewoman exulted fiercely in her new-found liberty. She had hours beforeher--free, glorious hours. She would use them, fill them, squanderthem in a prodigal spending, following every impulse, indulging everydesire, for they were hers and they were her last. In the depths ofher brain lay a resolution as silent, as deadly, as a coiled serpentwaiting to strike. She would enter no asylums, she would endure nomore "absences, " she would have no more supervision, no moreconsultations, no more half-concealed fear of friends, no more pityfrom strangers. There was a way of escaping all this forever, and sheknew it and would take it, though it led across the dim threshold overwhich she could never return. 

The car hummed as it sped along. At a distance she saw an entrance toCentral Park, and from the inside the branches of trees seemed to wavea salute to her in honor of her freedom. She signalled to theconductor and left the car, retracing her steps until she entered thePark. She was far up-town, near the northern end of it, and the paths, warm in the spring sunshine, were almost deserted. For a while shestrolled idly about, her senses revelling in the freshness and beautyaround her, in the green vistas that opened to right and left, and thesoft breeze that fanned her face. Children, riding tricycles orrolling hoops, raced past her; and once, after she had walked almostan hour, a small boy of four slipped his hand into her gloved one andtrotted beside her for a moment, to the open scandal of his nurse. Shesmiled down at him, pleased by the touch of his little fingers. Whenhe left, as abruptly as he had joined her, and in response to astentorian Irish summons from the rear, she felt a rather surprisingdegree of regret. The momentary contact had given her a pleasant senseof companionship; for the first time it came to her that it would bebetter to have a sharer of this day of days--no hireling, noscientific-eyed caretaker, but a little child or a friend, some one, any one, whom she liked and who liked her, and who, like the littleboy, did not know the truth about her. 

Her spirits dropped as suddenly as they had risen, and she felt tiredand disappointed. Almost unconsciously she dropped on a bench to rest, her eyes still following the figure of the child, now almost out ofsight around a distant bend. The bench was off the path, and she hadbeen too preoccupied when she sat down to notice that it had anotheroccupant; but as the figure of her little friend vanished and sheturned her eyes away with a sigh, she found herself looking into thoseof a man. He was very young, hardly more than a boy, and he occupiedthe far end of the seat, one arm thrown across the back of it, hisknees crossed, and his body so turned that he faced her. The thing shesaw in his eyes held her own fastened to them, at first in surprise, then in sudden comprehension. It was hunger. With a long look she tookhim in--the pinched pallor of his smooth, handsome young face, thefeverish brightness of his gray eyes, the shabbiness of his well-made, well-fitting clothes, even the rent in the side of one of his patent-leather shoes. His linen was clean, and his cuffs were fastened withcheap black links; she reflected instinctively that he had pawnedthose whose place they obviously filled, and then her mind returned atonce to her first discovery, that he was hungry. There was nomistaking it. She had never seen hunger in a face before, but sherecognized it now. He had taken off his hat and dropped it on thebench beside him. His brown hair was short and wavy, and one lock onhis left temple was white. He had been writing a note, or possibly anadvertisement for work, with a stub of lead-pencil on a scrap of paperresting on his knee, and now he suddenly raised his eyes--either in anabstracted search for the right word or because her appearance hadstartled him. 

Without hesitation she spoke to him. 

"Pardon me, " she said, impersonally. "May I ask you some questions?"

He looked at her, and the understanding of his situation revealed inher glance brought the blood to his face. He straightened himself, hislips parting for a reply, but she gave him no time to speak. 

"I am a stranger here, " she continued, "and New York is not alwayskind to strangers. You seem to be unhappy, too. I wonder if we cannothelp each other. "

He smiled with an unyouthful bitterness. 

"I'm afraid I'm not much use--to myself or any one else, " he answered, with hard deliberation. Then his face underwent a change as he lookedat hers and read in it, inexperienced as he was, some of the tragicwriting of Fate's inexorable hand. His voice showed his altered mood. 

"Of course, " he added, quickly, "if there's really anything I can do. I know the town well enough. Perhaps I can help you if you want to getanywhere. What is it you would like?"

Her face, under the sudden idea which came to her, could hardly besaid to brighten, but it changed, becoming less of a mask, more human. She felt a thrill of unaccustomed interest, less in him than in theplan which he unconsciously suggested. Here at last was something todo. Here was a companion who did not know her. He was watching herclosely now, and it came to him for the first time, with a sense ofsurprise, that this strange woman who had spoken to him was not old, and was even attractive. 

"I think you can help me, if you will, " she went on, quietly. "As Ihave said, I am a stranger in New York. I have never seen anything ofit except the streets I passed through this morning between the Parkand my hotel. But I've always wanted to see it, and to-day is my firstand only opportunity, for I am going away to-night. "

He surveyed her thoughtfully. The shadow had returned to his face, andit was plain that under his air of courteous interest stirred theself-despair she had surprised in her first look at him. 

"Of course I can make out a sight-seer's list for you, " he said, whenshe stopped, "and I will, with pleasure. I think you'd better dropinto the Metropolitan Art Galleries while you're in the Park. I'llwrite the other places in their street order going down-town, so youwon't waste time doubling on your tracks. Have you a bit of paper?"

He began to fumble in his own pockets as he spoke, but vaguely, as onewho knows the search is vain. She shook her head. 

"No, " she told him, "and I don't want one. That isn't my idea at all--a list of places to look up all alone and a dismal round of drearysight-seeing. What I would like"--she smiled almost demurely--"is a'personally conducted' tour. Are you very busy?"

He flushed again and looked at her, this time with a veiled suspicionin his glance. She met it with such calm appreciation that it changedto one of surprised doubt. She knew perfectly what was passing in hismind, and it caused her no more concern than the puzzled silence of achild who has heard a new word. She went on as complacently as if hewere the little boy who had walked beside her a few moments before. 

"In Paris and London, " she remarked, "one can engage a guide, agentleman, for a day at a fixed price. Probably there are such guideshere in New York, if I knew where they were to be found and had thetime to look for them. You are much younger than I am. You mightalmost be my son! Moreover, you will not mind my saying that I fanciedyou were unemployed and possibly were looking for employment. You canhardly help seeing the definite connection in all this. "

His eyes met hers for a moment and then dropped. He blushed boyishly. 

"I see you're trying to help me, " he murmured, apologetically. 

She went on as if she had not heard him. 

"Let me employ you for the day. I need amusement, interest, occupation--more than you can imagine. I am in the same mood, as faras desolation and discouragement go, that you are in. I must be about, seeing people and diverting my mind. We can each supply the other withone thing that we need. I have money. To earn a little of thatprofessionally, by a humane service, should really appeal to you. "

Something in her voice as she uttered the last words made him turntoward her again. As he looked, his young face softened. She waited insilence for what he would say. 

He sat up and straightened his shoulders with a quick gesture. 

"You are right, " he said, "but I'm awfully afraid you'll get the worstof it. I'm not an ornamental escort for a lady, as you see. " He lookedat his broken shoe, and then at her. Her expression showed entireindifference to the point he had raised. 

"We will consider it settled, " she said. "You will take my purse andpay our joint expenses. I think, " she went on, as she handed it tohim, "we'll omit the Metropolitan. After miles of the Louvre and theLuxembourg and the Vatican, I don't seem to crave miles of that. Suppose we take a cab and drive round. I want to see the streets, andthe crowds, and the different types of men and women, and the slums. Iused to be interested in Settlement work, long ago. "

"Pardon me, " he said. "You have won your case. I will serve you to thebest of my ability. But as a preliminary I insist on counting themoney in this purse, and on your seeing that my accounts are allright. "

"Do as you like about that, " she replied, indifferently, but herglance rested on him with a glint of approval. 

He deliberately counted the bills. "There are three hundred and fortydollars, " he said, replacing them. 

She nodded absently. She had sunk into a momentary reverie, from whichhe did not arouse her until she suddenly looked at her watch. "Why, it's after twelve!" she exclaimed, with more animation than she hadyet shown. "We'll go to Delmonico's or Sherry's for luncheon, and makeour programme while we're there. "

He started, and leaned forward, fixing his eyes on her, but she didnot meet them. She replaced her watch in her belt with a successfulassumption of abstraction, but she was full of doubt as to how hewould take this first proposition. The next instant the bench trembledunder the force with which he had dropped back on it. 

"God!" he cried, hoarsely, "it's all a put-up job to feed me becauseyou suspect I'm hungry! No, you don't even suspect--you _know_ I'mhungry!"

She put her hand on his arm, and the gesture silenced him. 

"Be quiet, " she said. "Suppose you are hungry? What of it? Is it adisgrace to be hungry? Men and women deliberately cultivate thecondition! Come, " she ended, as she rose abruptly, "keep to yourbargain. We both need our luncheon. "

He replaced the purse in the inside-pocket of his coat, and rose. Theywalked a few moments without a word. She noticed how well he carriedhimself and how muscular and athletic his figure appeared even in itsshabby clothes. As they strolled toward the nearest exit she talked ofthe Park, and asked him a few matter-of-fact questions, to which hereplied with growing animation. "I can't give you figures andstatistics, I'm afraid, " he added, smiling. 

She shook her head. "It would be sad if you could, " she said. "Give meanything but information. As for statistics, I've a constitutionaldistaste for them. Where can we find a cab?"

"We won't find a cab, " he explained, with an authoritativeindependence which somehow appealed to her. "We'll take this trolley-car and ride to within a short walk of Delmonico's. After luncheonwe'll find cabs at every turn. "

He helped her into a car as he spoke, and paid their fare from herpurse, flushing as he had to change a five-dollar note to do so. Thesimple act emphasized for him, as no words could have done, hispeculiar relation to this strange woman, whom he had never seen untilhalf an hour ago. Balancing the purse in his hand, he glanced at her, taking in almost unconsciously the tragic droop of her lips, theprematurely gray locks in her dark hair, and the unchanging gloom ofher brown eyes. 

"How do you know I won't drop off the car at some corner and abscondwith this?" he asked, in a low voice. 

She looked at him calmly. 

"I think I know you will not. But if you did it would hurt me. "

"Would it spoil your day?"

"Yes, " she conceded, "it would spoil my day. "

"Well, " he announced, judiciously, "you shall not have to reproach mewith anything of that kind. Your day shall be a success if I can makeit so. "

His manner was more than gentle. His mood was one of gratitude andpleasant expectation. He was getting to know her and was sorry forher--possibly because she trusted him and was sorry for him. She wasnot the companion he would have chosen for a day's outing, and it wasdoubtful if she would be any too cheerful; but he would serve herloyally, wherever this queer adventure led, and he was young enough toappreciate its possibilities. Inwardly she was amused by his littleaffectation of experience, of ripe age addressing youth, but it was sounconsciously done, so unconquerably youthful, that it added to theinterest he had aroused in her. She liked, too, his freshness andboyish beauty, and his habit of asserting his sense of honor aboveeverything. Above all things, she liked his ignorance of her. To him, she was merely a woman like other women; there was a satisfaction toher in that thought as deep as it was indescribable. The only otheroccupants of the car were a messenger-boy, lost to his surroundings ina paper-covered novel, and a commercial traveller whose brow wascorrugated by mental strain over a notebook. 

"There are some things I would like to do in New York, " she confided. "We will do them now--lunch at Delmonico's, go sight-seeing all theafternoon, dine at Sherry's, and go to the theatre this evening. Whichis the best play in town?"

"Well--er--that, you know, depends on what you like, " hazarded theboy, sagely. "Do you prefer comedy, tragedy, or melodrama?"

She reflected. 

"Something light, " she decided; "something airy and effervescent--withno problems or even thoughts in it. "

His eyes twinkled as he smiled at her. If these were her tastes, shewas getting on, he reflected, and the vista of the long day before himoffered attractions. 

"'Peter Pan'!" he exclaimed. "That's all those things. I've not seenit, but I've read the criticisms, and I know a fellow who has gonefive times. "

"Testimony enough, " agreed his companion. "We'll go to 'Peter Pan. 'Now tell me something about yourself. "

"Is that in the bond?"

"No. That would be a gift. "

"I'd--I'd rather not, if you don't mind. "

He indulged in his inevitable painful blush as he spoke, but shestared at him without pity and with a sudden hauteur which gave him aglimpse of another side of her complex nature. This woman who pickedup strange youths in the street and spent the day with them wasobviously accustomed to unquestioning deference from others. He edgedaway from her, firm but unhappy. 

"You're right, " she said, at last. "We'll add a clause to our compactand play we're disembodied spirits. Neither of us will ask the other apersonal question. "

"Agreed, and thank you. It's not that I wouldn't be flattered, youknow, by your interest, and all that, " he went on, awkwardly. "It'sonly because it's such a beastly harrowing recital and shows me up insuch--such an inefficient light. It would depress you, and it couldn'tdo me any good. The things about myself are what I want to get awayfrom--for a while. "

They were soon at Delmonico's, and she followed him into the maindining-room, where she selected a table at a window looking out on theAvenue. The head waiter glanced at him, hesitated, surveyed her, andshowed that he was indeed a good servant who knew his own. He hoveredover them with deepening interest as they scanned the menu. 

The boy smiled at his companion, trying not to notice the smell of thefood around them, nor the horrible sinking sensation which overwhelmedhim at intervals. A sickening fear swept over him that he would faintbefore luncheon came--faint on a lady's hands, and from starvation atthat! He plunged into conversation with reckless vivacity. 

When the waiter came with the oysters she set the example of eatingthem at once. Her companion followed it in leisurely fashion. She toldherself that he was a thoroughbred, and that she had not been mistakenin him, but she would almost have preferred to see him eat wolfishly. His restraint got on her nerves. She could not eat, though she made apretence of it. When he had eaten his soup with the same carefuldeliberation, a little color came into his face. She observed this, and her tension relaxed. 

"The last time I was here, " he said, absently, "was two years ago. Oneof the fellows at New Haven had a birthday, and we celebrated it inthe corner room just above this. It was a pretty lively dinner. Wekept it up from seven o'clock until two in the morning, and then weall went out on the Avenue and sat down in the middle of the street, where it was cool, to smoke and talk it over. That was Davidson'sidea. It annoyed the cabmen and policemen horribly. They have suchready tempers and such torpid minds. "

The recital and the picture it called up amused her. 

"What else did you do?" she asked, with interest. 

"I'm afraid I don't remember much of it, " he confessed. "I know wewere pretty silly; but I do remember how foolish the head waiterlooked when Davidson insisted on kissing him good-bye in the hall outthere, and cried because he didn't know when he'd see him again. Ofcourse you can't see how funny that was, because you don't knowDavidson. He was the most dignified chap at college, and hated gushmore than any one I ever knew. "

He drank the last of his black coffee with a sigh of content, and blewa last ring from the cigar she had insisted that he should smoke. 

"Don't you think, " he hazarded, "that it would be jolly to drive upand down Broadway and Fifth Avenue for an hour or two? If you wantcrowds, they're there; and if you see anything worth closerinspection, we can get out and look at it. "

She agreed, and he paid the bill, tipping the waiter discriminatingly. 

As their hansom threaded its way through the crowded street she rarelysmiled, but her sombre eyes took in everything, and she "said things, "as the boy put it, which he recalled and quoted years afterward. Incidentally she talked of herself, though always without giving him aclew as to who she was and where she came from. Several times, as aface in the passing throng caught her interest, she outlined for himin a few terse words the character of its possessor. He wasinterested, but he must have unconsciously suggested a certainunbelief in her intuition, for once she stopped speaking and looked athim sharply. 

"You think I don't know, " she said, "but I do. We always know, untilwe kill the gift with conventionalities. We're born with an intuitiveknowledge of character. Savages have it, and animals, and babies. Welose it as we advance in civilization, for then we distrust ourimpressions and force our likes and dislikes to follow the dictates ofpolicy. I've worked hard to keep and develop my insight, and behold myreward! I recognized you at the first glance as the perfect companionof a day. "

The boy's face flamed with pleasure. 

"Then it is a success?"

"It is a success. But it's also five o'clock. What next?"

"Then it's been a success?" he repeated, dreamily--"so far, I mean. We've done so little in one way, but I'm awfully glad you've liked it. We'll drop into Sherry's now for a cup of tea and a buttered Englishmuffin and the beautiful ladies and the Hungarian Band. Then, insteadof dining there, suppose we go to some gayer, more typical New Yorkplace--one of the big Broadway restaurants? That will show you another'phase, ' as you say; and the cooking is almost as good. "

She agreed at once. "I think I'd like that, " she said. "I want as muchvariety as I can get. "

He leaned toward her impressively over the little table in the tea-room, recalling her unexpected tribute to the "perfect companion, " andfeeling all at once surprisingly well acquainted with her. 

"What a pity you've got to go away tonight!" he murmured, ingenuously. "There's so much left to do. "

For an instant, as memory rolled over her, her heart stopped beating. He observed her change of expression and looked at her with asympathetic question in his gray eyes. 

"Can't you change your plans?" he suggested, hopefully. "Must you go?"

"No, they're not that kind of plans. I must go. "

As she spoke her face had the colorlessness and the immobility he hadseen in it during the first moments it was turned toward him in themorning, and her features suddenly looked old and drawn. Under therevelation of a trouble greater than he could understand, the boydropped his eyes. 

"By Jove!" he thought, suddenly, "she's got something the matter withher. " He wondered what it was, and the idea flashed over him that itmight be an incurable disease. Only the year before he had heard afriend receive his death-warrant in a specialist's office, and thememory of the experience remained with him. He was so deep in thesereflections that for a moment he forgot to speak, and she in her turnsat silent. 

"I'm sorry, " he then said, awkwardly. Then, rightly divining thequickest way to divert her thoughts, he suggested that they shoulddrive again before dinner, for an hour or two, to get the effect ofthe twilight and the early lights on Broadway. 

She agreed at once, as she had agreed to most of his suggestions, andher face when she looked at him was serene again, but he was notwholly reassured. In silence he followed her to the cab. 

Over their dinner that night in the glittering Broadway restaurant, with the swinging music of French and German waltzes in their ears, she relaxed again from the impersonal attitude she had observed duringthe greater part of the day. She looked at him more as if she saw him, he told himself, but he could not flatter himself that the change wasdue to any deepening of her interest in him. It was merely that sheknew him better, and that their long hours of sight-seeing hadverified her judgment of him. 

Their talk swept over the world. He realized that she had lived muchabroad and had known many interesting men and women. From casualremarks she dropped he learned that she was an orphan, unmarried, withno close ties, and that her home was not near New York. This, when thenext day, after a dazed reading of the morning newspapers, he summedup his knowledge of her, was all he could recall--the garnered drift-wood of a talk that had extended over twelve hours. 

"You look, " he said once, glancing critically at her, "as if you hadlived for centuries and had learned all the lessons life could teach. "

She shook her head. "I have lived for centuries, so far as that goes, "she said, "but of all the lessons I've really learned only one. "

"And that is?"

"How little it all amounts to. "

Again, as he studied her, he experienced an unpleasant little tremor. He felt at the same time an odd conviction that this woman had playeda part all day, and that now, through fatigue and depression, she wastiring of her role and would cast it away, showing herself to him asshe was. For some reason he did not want this. The face behind themask, of which he was beginning to get a glimpse at intervals, was aface he feared he would not like. He shrank from it as a child shrinksfrom what it does not understand. 

Much to his relief, she threw off the dark mood that seemed tothreaten her, and at the play she was more human than she had beenyet. 

"Ah, that first act, " she said, as the curtain fell on Peter Pan'sflight through the window with the Darling Children--"that deliciousfirst act! Of course Barrie can't keep it up--no one could. But thehumor of it and the tenderness and the naivete! Only a grown-up withthe heart of a child could really appreciate it. "

"And you are that?" he asked, daringly. He knew she was not. 

"Only for this half-hour, " she smiled. "I may get critical at anymoment and entirely out of touch. "

She did not, however, and watching her indulgent appreciation of thelittle boys in Never Never Land, he unconsciously reflected that, after all, this must be the real woman. That other personality, somesudden disheartening side of which he got from time to time, was nothis new friend who laughed like a young girl over the crocodile withthe clock inside, and showed a sudden swift moisture in her brown eyeswhen the actress pleaded for the dying fairy. When the curtain fell onthe last act, leaving Peter Pan alone with his twinkling fairy friendsin his little home high among the trees, Alice Stansbury turned to hercompanion with the sudden change of expression he had learned todread. The pupils of her eyes were strangely dilated, and she wasevidently laboring under some suppressed excitement. She spoke to himcurtly and coolly. 

"We'll have a Welsh rabbit somewhere, " she said, "and then I'll go--back. " He was struck by this use of the word, and by the tone of hervoice as she said it. "Back, " he repeated, mentally--"back tosomething mighty unpleasant, I'll wager. "

At the restaurant she ate nothing and said little. All the snap andsparkle had gone out of the day and out of their companionship aswell. Even the music was mournful, as if in tacit sympathy, and thefaces of the diners around them looked tired and old. When they leftthe dining-room they stood together for an instant in the vestibuleopening into the street. No one was near them, and they were for themoment beyond the reach of curious eyes. She cast one quick lookaround to be sure of this, and then, going close to him, she put bothher hands on his shoulders. As she stood thus he realized for thefirst time how tall she was. Her eyes were almost on a level with hisown. 

"You're a dear boy, " she said, quickly, and a little breathlessly. "You have made the day perfect, and I thank you. We shall not meetagain, but I'd like to feel that you won't forget me, and I want youto tell me your first name. "

He put his hands over hers. 

"It's Philip, " he said, simply, "and as for forgetting, you may bevery sure I won't. This isn't the kind of thing one forgets, andyou're not the kind of woman. "

As he spoke the grip of her hands on his shoulders tightened, and sheleaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Under the suddenness andthe surprise of it his senses whirled, but even in the chaos of themoment he was conscious of two conflicting impressions--the first, anodd disappointment in her, his friend; the second, an absurdresentment against the singular remoteness of those cool, soft lipsthat for an instant brushed his own. She gave him no chance to speak. 

"I've left my gloves on the table, " she said, crisply. "Get them. "

He went without a word. When he returned the vestibule was deserted. With a swift intuition of the truth he opened the door and rushed outinto the street. She was not there, nor the cabman whom he hadinstructed to wait for them. She had slipped away, as she intended todo, and the kiss she had given him had been a farewell. He was leftstanding looking stupidly up and down the street, with her gloves inhis hand and her purse, as he now remembered, in his pocket. Well, hecould advertise that the next morning, in such a way that she couldreclaim it without seeing him again if she wished. He could even sealit in an envelope and leave it at the _Herald_ office, to be given toany one who would describe it. He walked slowly down Broadway andturned into the side street which held the house and the unattractivehall bedroom he called home. He felt "let down, " as he would have putit, and horribly lonely and depressed. She was such a good sort, hereflected, and it was such a big pity she wouldn't let him see heragain. He knew somehow that he never would. She was not a woman thatchanged her mind about things. Jove! but the whole experience had beeninteresting; and that kiss--that kiss he had been cad enough tomisunderstand for an instant. . . . The deepest blush of the dayscorched his face as he recalled it. 

Miss Stansbury arrived at the front entrance of her hotel at the samemoment, and tersely instructed the driver to collect his fare at thedesk. She entered the hall with him, and walked indifferently past thenight clerk, answering with a nod the tacit question of that youth ashe glanced from her to the cabman. She was not unconscious of thesuppressed excitement in his manner nor of the elevator boy's reliefas he joyfully greeted her appearance in his car. What did it matter?What did anything matter now? Her day was over. 

Miss Manuel, already informed of her arrival by a hurried telephonemessage from the office, was waiting for her at the door of theirapartment. She burst into tears as she put her arms around her patientand kissed her and led her inside. 

"Oh, my dear, how _could_ you?" she cried, reproachfully. "Think ofthe agonies I've been through. It's almost twelve o'clock. "

The other woman did not look at her, nor did she return the caress. She walked into the room and sat down at her desk, with a strangeappearance of haste, at which the nurse marvelled. Without waiting totake off her hat or coat, she seized a pen and paper and wrote theselines, marking them plainly:

PERSONAL

FOR INSERTION IN TO-MORROW'S "HERALD"

_PHILIP. --The purse was purposely left with you. Its contents areyours. _

She put this in an envelope and directed it to the _Herald_Advertising Department. Then, for the first time, she spoke to thenurse, balancing the envelope absently in her hand as she talked, andnot looking once at the other's face. Her tones were level andmonotonous, almost as if she were repeating a lesson. 

"You need not have worried, " she said, answering at last the nurse'sfirst words. "I've had what I've wanted for years--a whole day tomyself. I've done what I wanted to do. It's been worth while. But, "she added, more slowly, "you needn't ask me about it, for I shall nottell you anything. Ring for a messenger, please. I want this taken tothe _Herald_ office at once; give him the money to pay for it. "

In silence Miss Manuel obeyed. When the boy came she went into thehall to hand the envelope to him, glancing at the address as she didso. The instant she crossed the threshold Alice Stansbury slipped intothe next room and opened a window looking down into a court. As shedid so she whimpered like a frightened child. 

"I must do it, " she whispered. "I must--I must--now--now--now! If Iwait, I won't--dare. "

When the nurse entered the room there was only the open window to tellher what had happened. Panting, she leaned out and looked down withstarting eyes. Far below, on the asphalt floor of the court, was adark mass which moved once and then lay still. 

The little clock on the table in the inner room struck twelve. Out inthe hall the messenger whistled softly as he waited for the elevator. Hearing these familiar sounds, the nurse cast off the paralysis whichhad held her, and the silent corridor of the great hotel echoed heruseless call for help. 

IV

THE SIMPLE LIFE OF GENEVIEVE MAUD

Genevieve Maud reclined in a geranium-bed in an attitude of unstudiedease. On her fat body was a white dress, round her waist was a wide, blue sash, perched on one side of her head was a flaunting blue bow, and in her heart was bitterness. It was dimly comforting to lie downin all this finery, but it did not really help much. She broodeddarkly upon her wrongs. They were numerous, and her cherubic littleface took on additional gloom as she summed them up. First, she hadbeen requested to be good--a suggestion always unwelcome to thehaughty soul of Genevieve Maud, and doubly so this morning when shesaw no alternative but to obey it. Secondly, there was no one to playwith--a situation depressing to any companionable being, andgrindingly so to one who considered all men her peers, all women herunquestioning slaves, and all animals grateful ministers to her needsin lowlier fields of delight. 

These delusions, it must be admitted, had been fostered during thefour short but eventful years of Genevieve Maud's life. Her method ofapproach had been singularly compelling; old and young paused not toargue, but freely stripped themselves of adornments she fancied, andanimals, from the kitten she carried round by one ear to the great St. Bernard she half strangled in recurring moments of endearment, borewith her adoringly, and humbly followed the trail of cake she leftbehind her when she tired of them and trotted off in search of freshattractions. These were usually numerous; and had they been rarer, theingenuity of Genevieve Maud would have been equal to the test. Therewere no social distinctions in her individual world. But one shortyear ago she had followed a hand-organ man and a monkey to a pointsafely distant from too-observant relatives and servants; there, beside the chattering monkey, she had sung and danced and scrambledfor pennies and shaken a tambourine, and generally conducted herselflike a _debutante_ maenad. 

That had been a glorious day. She recalled it now smoulderingly, resentfully. Different, indeed, was the tragic present. No one to playwith--that was bad enough. But there were still worse conditions. Shewas not even allowed to play by herself! Rover had been banished to aneighbor's, the kitten had been lent generously to the Joyce children, her human playmates had been warned off the premises, and GenevieveMaud had been urged to be a dear little girl and keep very, very quietbecause mamma was sick. As if this was not enough, fate drove itsrelentless knife and gave it a final twist. Far back in a corner ofthe garden where she lay, almost hidden by the drooping branches of anold willow, sat her two sisters, Helen Adeline and Grace Margaret, highly superior beings of a stately dignity even beyond their ripeages of eleven and nine years. They were too old to play with littlegirls, as they had frequently mentioned to Genevieve Maud, but theywere not wholly beyond the power of her spell, and there had beenoccasions when they had so far forgotten themselves as to descend toher level and enjoy doll tea-parties and similar infantile pleasures. To-day, however, they were of a remoteness. Their plump backs wereturned to her, their heads were close together, and on the softafternoon breeze that floated over the garden were borne sibilantwhispers. They were telling each other secrets--secrets from whichGenevieve Maud, by reason of her tender years, was irrevocably shutout. 

Genevieve Maud sat up suddenly in the flower-bed as the full horror ofthis truth burst upon her, and then briskly entered into actiondesigned to transform the peace and quiet of the scene. Her small, fatface turned purple, her big, brown eyes shut tight, her round mouthopened, and from the tiny aperture came a succession of shrieks whichwould have lulled a siren into abashed silence. The effect of thisdemonstration, rarely long delayed, was instantaneous now. A white-capped nurse came to an up-stairs window and shook her head warningly;the two small sisters rose and scurried across the lawn; a neighborcame to the hedge and clapped her hands softly, clucking mysticmonosyllables supposed to be of a soothing nature; neighboringchildren within hearing assumed half-holiday expressions and startedwith a rush to the side of the blatant afflicted one. Surveying allthis through half-shut eyes and hearing the steady tramp of theoncoming relief corps, an expression of triumphant content rested foran instant of Genevieve Maud's face. Then she tied it up again intoknots of even more disfiguring pattern, took another long breath, andapparently made an earnest effort to attract the attention of citizensof the next township. "I'm tired!" was the message Genevieve Maud sentto a sympathetic world on the wings of this megaphonic roar. 

The trained nurse, who had rushed down-stairs and into the garden, nowreached her side and drastically checked Genevieve Maud's histrionismby spreading a spacious palm over the wide little mouth. With herother hand she hoisted Genevieve Maud from the flower-bed and escortedher to neutral ground on the lawn. 

"'Tired!'" repeated the irate nurse, as the uproar subsided togurgles. "Heavens! I should think you would be, after that!" HelenAdeline and Grace Margaret arrived simultaneously, and the older childtook the situation and the infant in hand with her best imitation ofher mother's manner. 

"I am so sorry you were disturbed, Miss Wynne, " she said, "and poormamma, too. We will take care of Genevieve Maud, and she won't cry anymore. We were just making some plans for her future, " she ended, loftily. 

The mouth of Genevieve Maud, stretched for another yell, was arrestedin its distension. Her small ears opened wide. Was she, after all, inthe secret? It would seem so, for the nurse, seemingly satisfied, leftthe three children alone and went back to her patient, while HelenAdeline at once led her small sister to the choice retreat under thewillow. 

"We are going to talk to you, Genevieve Maud, " she began, "ve-ryseriously, and we want you to pay 'tention and try to understand. "This much was easy. Mamma usually opened her impressive addresses insuch fashion. 

"'Pay 'tention and try to understand, " echoed Genevieve Maud, andgrinned in joyful interest. 

"Yes, really try, " repeated Helen Adeline, firmly. Then, ratherimpatiently, and as one bearing with the painful limitations of theyoung, she went on:

"You're so little, Maudie, you see, you don't know; and you won't knoweven if we tell you. But you are a spoiled child; every one says so, and mamma said the other day that something should be done. She'ssick, so she can't do it, but we can. We've got to take care of you, anyhow, so this is a good time. Now what it really is, is a kind ofgame. Gracie and I will play it, and you are going to--to--well, youare going to be the game. "

Genevieve Maud nodded solemnly, well satisfied. She was in it, anyhow. What mattered the petty details? "'Going to be the game, '" she echoed, as was her invariable custom, with the air of uttering an originalthought. 

Helen Adeline went on impressively. 

"It's called the simple life, " she said, "and grown-up folks areplaying it now. I heard the minister an' mamma talking about it las'week for hours an' hours an' hours. They give up pomps an' vanerties, the minister says, an' they mus'n't have luxuries, an' they mus' livelike nature an' save their souls. They can't save their souls whenthey have pomps an' vanerties. We thought we'd try it with you first, an' then if we like it--er--if it's nice, I mean, p'r'aps Grace an' Iwill, too. But mamma is sick, an' you've had too many things an' toomuch 'tention, so it's a good time for you to lead the simple life an'do without things. "

Genevieve Maud, gazing into her sister's face with big, interestedeyes, was vaguely, subconsciously aware that the new game might haltthis side of perfect content; but she was of an experimental turn andrefrained from expressing any scepticism until she knew what wascoming. In the mean time the eyes of her sister Grace Margaret hadroamed disapprovingly over Genevieve Maud's white dress, the blue sashthat begirded her middle, the rampant bow on her hair. Katie had puton all these things conscientiously, and had then joyfully freed hermind from the burden of thought of the child for the rest of theafternoon. 

"Don't you think, " Grace Margaret asked Helen Adeline, tentatively, "sashes an' bows is pomps?"

Helen Adeline gave the speaker a stolid, unexpressive glance. Sheacquiesced. 

"Let's take 'em off, " went on the younger and more practical spirit. "Then we won't never have to tie 'em for her, either, when they getloose. "

They stripped Genevieve Maud, first of the sash and bows, then of thewhite gown, next of her soft undergarments, finally, as zeal waxed, even of her shoes and stockings. She stood before them clad ininnocence and full of joyful expectation. 

"All these fine clothes is pomps an' vanerties, " remarked HelenAdeline, firmly. "The minister said so when he was talking with mamma'bout the simple life, an' Gracie and I listened. It was veryinterestin'. "

She surveyed the innocent nudity of her little sister, "naked but notashamed, " with a speculative glance. 

"Katie will be glad, won't she?" she reflected, aloud. "She saysthere's too much washing. Now she won't have to do any more for you. Don't you feel better an' happier without those pomps?" she askedGenevieve Maud. 

That young person was already rolling on the grass, thrusting herlittle toes into the cool earth, exulting in her new-found sartorialemancipation. If this was the "new game, " the new game was a winner. Grace Margaret, gazing doubtfully at her, was dimly conscious of aneffect of incompleteness. 

"I think she ought to have a hat, " she murmured, at last. HelenAdeline was good-naturedly acquiescent. 

"All right, " she answered, cheerfully, "but not a pompy one. Papa'sbig straw will do. " They found it and put it on the infant, whose eyesand face were thereby fortunately shaded from the hot glare of theAugust sun. Almost before it was on her head she had slipped away andwas running in and out of the shrubbery, her white body flashing amongthe leaves. 

"We'll have our luncheon here, " announced Helen Adeline, firmly, "an'I'll bring it out to save Katie trouble. Maudie can't have rich food, of course, 'cos she's livin' the simple life. We'll give her bread offa tin plate. "

Grace Margaret looked startled. 

"We haven't got any tin plate, " she objected. 

"Rover has. "

Grace Margaret's eyes dropped suddenly, then rose and met hersister's. An unwilling admiration crept into them. 

"How will Maudie learn nice table manners?" she protested, feebly. "Mamma says she must, you know. "

"Folks don't have nice table manners when they're livin' simplelives, " announced Helen Adeline, loftily. "They just eat. I guess wewon't give her knives an' forks an' spoons, either. "

Grace Margaret battled with temptation and weakly succumbed. 

"Let's give her some of the rice pudding, though, " she suggested. "Itwill be such fun to see her eat it, 'specially if it's very creamy!"

Of further details of that luncheon all three children thereafterdeclined to speak. To Genevieve Maud the only point worthy of mentionwas that she had what the others had. This compromise effected, themanner of eating it was to her a detail of indescribable unimportance. What were knives, forks, spoons, or their lack, to Genevieve Maud? Thetin plate was merely a gratifying novelty, and that she had been inclose communion with rice pudding was eloquently testified by thesamples of that delicacy which clung affectionately to her featuresand her fat person during the afternoon. 

While they ate, Helen Adeline's active mind had been busy. Shegenerously gave her sisters the benefit of its working without delay. 

"She mus'n't have any money, " she observed, thoughtfully, followingwith unseeing eyes the final careful polish the small tongue ofGenevieve Maud was giving Rover's borrowed plate. "No one has money inthe simple life, so we mus' take her bank an' get all the money outan'--"

"Spend it!" suggested Grace Margaret, rapturously, with her secondinspiration. Helen Adeline reflected. The temptation was great, but atthe back of her wise little head lay a dim foreboding as to thepossible consequences. 

"No, " she finally decided, consistently. "I guess it mus' be given tothe poor. We'll break the bank an' take it out, an' Maudie can give itto the poor all by herself. Then if any one scolds, _she_ did it!You'll enjoy that kind an' noble act, won't you, Maudie?" she added, in her stateliest grown-up manner. 

Maudie decided that she would, and promptly corroborated HelenAdeline's impression. The soft August breeze fanned her body, thegrass was cool and fresh under her feet, and her little stomach lookedas if modelled from a football by her ample luncheon. She was to bethe central figure in the distribution of her wealth, and wisdombeyond her own would burden itself with the insignificant details. Genevieve Maud, getting together the material for large and slushy mudpies, sang blithely to herself, and found the simple life its ownreward. 

"We'll leave her with her dolls, " continued Helen Adeline, "an' we'llhunt up deservin' poor. Then we'll bring 'em here an' Maudie can give'em all she has. But first"--her little sharp eyes resteddiscontentedly upon Genevieve Maud's family--six dolls reposing in ablissful row in a pansy-bed--"first we mus' remove _those_ pomps an'vanerties. "

Grace gasped. 

"Take away the dolls?" she ejaculated, dizzily. 

"No, not edzactly. Jus' take off all their clothes. Don't you think itlooks silly for them to have clothes on when Maudie hasn't any?"

Grace Margaret agreed that it did, and at once the mistake wasrectified, the clothing was added to the heap of Genevieve Maud'sgarments, and a pleasing effect of harmony reigned. The little girlsregarded it with innocent satisfaction. 

"I s'pose we couldn't really take her dolls, " reflected Helen Adeline, aloud. "She'd make an awful fuss, an' she's so good an' quiet now it'sa pity to start her off. But her toys _mus'_ go. They're veryexpensive, an' they're pomps an' vanerties, I know. So we'll take 'emwith us an' give 'em to poor children. "

"You think of lots of things, don't you?" gurgled Grace Margaret, withwarm admiration. Her sister accepted the tribute modestly, as no morethan her due. Leaving Genevieve Maud happy with her mud pies and herstripped dolls, the two sought the nursery and there made adiscriminating collection of her choicest treasures. Her Noah's Ark, her picture-books, her colored balls and blocks, her woolly lambs thatmoved on wheels, her miniature croquet set, all fell into theirruthless young hands and, as a crowning crime, were dumped into thelittle go-cart that was the very apple of Genevieve Maud's round eyes. It squeaked under its burden as the children drew it carefully alongthe hall. They carried it down-stairs with exaggerated caution, butGenevieve Maud saw it from afar, and, deeply moved by theirthoughtfulness, approached with gurgles of selfish appreciation. Theconspirators exchanged glances of despair. It was the intrepid spiritof Helen Adeline that coped with the distressing situation. Sittingdown before her victim, she took Maudie's reluctant hands in hers andgazed deep into her eyes as mamma was wont to gaze into hers on thevarious occasions when serious talks became necessary. 

"Now, Genevieve Maud, " she began, "you mus' listen an' you mus' mind, or you can't play. Ain't you havin' a good time? If you don't want todo what we say, we'll put your clothes right straight on again an'leave you in the midst of your pomps an' vanerties: an' then--what'llbecome of your soul?" She paused impressively to allow this vitalquestion to make its full appeal. Genevieve Maud writhed and squirmed. 

"But, " continued Helen Adeline, solemnly, "if you do jus' as we say, we'll let you play some more. " The larger issue was temporarily lostsight of this time, but the one presented seemed to appeal vividly toGenevieve Maud. 

"Let Genevieve Maud play some more, " she wheedled. 

"And will you do everything we say?"

"Do everything you say, " promised Genevieve Maud, recklessly. 

"Very well, "--this with a fidelity in its imitation to her mother'smanner which would have convulsed that admirable and long-sufferingwoman could she have heard it. "An' first of all we mus' give awayyour toys to poor children. "

The mouth of Genevieve Maud opened. Helen Adeline held up a warninghand, and it shut. 

"They're _pomps_, " repeated the older sister, positively, "an' we'llbring you simple toys if poor children will exchange with us. "

This was at least extenuating. Genevieve Maud hesitated and sniffed. In the matter of being stripped, toys were more important thanclothes. 

"If you don't, you know, you can't play, " Grace Margaret reminded her. 

"Awright, " remarked Genevieve Maud, briefly. "Give toys to poorchil'ren. "

They hurriedly left her before her noble purpose could do so, andGenevieve Maud, left to her own resources, made unctuous mud pies andfed them to her family. Grace Margaret and Helen Adeline returned intriumph within the hour and laid at the feet of their small victimmodest offerings consisting of one armless rubber doll, one dirty andbadly torn picture-book, and one top, broken. 

"These is simple, " declared Helen Adeline, with truth, "an' the poorMurphy children has your pomps, Maudie. Are you glad?"

Genevieve Maud, surveying doubtfully the nondescript collection beforeher, murmured without visible enthusiasm something which wasinterpreted as meaning that she was glad. As a matter of fact, thecharm of the simple life was not borne in upon her compellingly. Thetop she accepted until she discovered that it would not go. The rubberdoll she declined to touch until Grace Margaret suggested that it hadbeen in a hospital and had had its arms amputated like Mrs. Clark'sson Charlie. Deeply moved by the pathos of this tragic fate, GenevieveMaud added the rubber doll to her aristocratic family, whose membersseemed to shrink aside as it fell among them. The picture-book shedeclined to touch at all. 

"It's dirty, " she remarked, with an air of finality which effectuallyclosed the discussion. By this time she was not herself an especiallyeffective monument of cleanliness. The rice pudding and the mud pieshad combined to produce a somewhat bizarre effect, and the dirt shehad casually gathered from the paths, the flower-beds, and the hedgesenlivened but did not improve the ensemble. 

"She ought to be washed pretty soon, " suggested Grace, surveying hercritically; but to this tacit criticism Helen Adeline promptly tookexception. 

"They don't have to, so much, " she objected, "when it's the simplelife. That's one of the nice things. "

With this decision Genevieve Maud was well content. Her tender yearsforbade hair-splitting and subtle distinctions; the term "accumulateddirt" or "old dirt" had no significance for her. She could not havetold why she rejected the Murphy child's thoroughly grimed picture-book, yet herself rolled happily about in a thin coating of mud anddust, but she did both instinctively. 

Her attention was pleasantly distracted by subdued cries from thestreet beyond the garden hedge. Three Italian women, all old, stoodthere gesticulating freely and signalling to the children, and a smallragged boy on crutches hovered nervously near them. Helen Adelinejumped to her feet with a sudden exclamation. 

"It's the poor!" she said, excitedly. "For your money, Genevieve Maud. I told them to come. Get the bank, Gracie, an' she mus' give it allaway!"

Grace departed promptly on her errand, but there was some delay inopening the bank when she returned--an interval filled pleasantly bythe visitors with interested scrutiny of the shameless Genevieve Maud, whose airy unconsciousness of her unconventional appearance uniquelyattested her youth. When the money finally came, rolling out inpennies, five-cent pieces, and rare dimes, the look of good-naturedwonder in the old black eyes peering wolfishly over the hedge changedquickly to one of keen cupidity, but the children saw nothing of this. Helen Adeline divided the money as evenly as she could into fourlittle heaps. 

"It's all she has, " she explained, grandly, "so she's got to give itall to you, 'cos riches is pomps an' ruins souls. Give it, GenevieveMaud, " she continued, magnanimously surrendering the centre of thestage to the novice in the simple life. 

Genevieve Maud handed it over with a fat and dirty little paw, and thewomen and the lame boy took it uncritically, with words of thanks andeven with friendly smiles. Strangely enough, there was no quarrellingamong themselves over the distribution of the spoils. For one goldenmoment they were touched and softened by the gift of the baby handthat gave its all so generously. Then the wisdom of a speedydisappearance struck them and they faded away, leaving the quietstreet again deserted. Helen Adeline drew a long breath as the brightgleam of their kerchiefs disappeared around a corner. 

"That's nice, " she exclaimed, contentedly. "Now what else can we makeher do?"

The two pair of eyes rested meditatively on the unconscious littlesister, again lost to her surroundings in the construction of hertwenty-third mud pie. Not even the surrender of her fortune beguiledher from this unleavened joy of the simple life. "We've made her do'mos' everything, I guess, " admitted Grace Margaret, with evidentreluctance. It appeared so, indeed. Stripped of her clothing, hermoney and her toys, it would seem that little in the way of earthlypossessions was left to Genevieve Maud; but even as they looked again, Grace Margaret had another inspiration. 

"Don't they work when they have simple lives?" she asked, abruptly. "'Course they work. "

"Then let's have Genevieve Maud do our work. "

There was silence for a moment--silence filled with the soul-satisfying enjoyment of a noble conception. 

"Grace Margaret Davenport, " said Helen, solemnly, "you're a smartgirl!" She exhaled a happy sigh, and added: "'Course we'll let her!She mus' work. She can water the geraniums for you an' the pansies forme, an' gather up the croquet things for me an' take them in, an' fillRover's water-basin, an' get seed for the birds, an' pick up all thepaper an' leaves on the lawn. "

It is to be deplored that the active and even strenuous life thusoutlined did not for the moment appeal to Genevieve Maud when theybrought its attractions to her attention. The afternoon was fading, and Genevieve Maud was beginning to fade, too; her little feet weretired, and her fat legs seemed to curve more in her weariness of well-doing; but the awful threat of being left out of the game still held, and she struggled bravely with her task, while the two arch-conspirators reposed languidly and surveyed her efforts from beneaththe willow-tree. 

"It'll be her bedtime pretty soon, " suggested Helen Adeline, thesuspicion of a guilty conscience lurking in the remark. "She can haveher bread and milk like she always does--that's simple 'nuff. But doyou think she ought to sleep in that handsome brass crib?"

Grace Margaret did not think so, but she was sadly puzzled to find asubstitute. 

"Mamma won't let her sleep anywhere else, either, " she pointed out. 

"Mamma won't know. "

"Annie or Katie will know--p'r'aps. "

The "p'r'aps" was tentative. Annie and Katie had taken full advantageof the liberty attending the illness of their mistress, and theirpolicy with the children was one of masterly inactivity. So long asthe little girls were quiet they were presumably good, and hence, to asurety, undisturbed. Still, it is hardly possible that even theircarelessness would fail to take account of Genevieve Maud's unoccupiedbed, if unoccupied it proved to be. 

"An' cert'inly papa will know. "

Helen Adeline's last hope died with this sudden reminder. She sighed. Of course papa would come to kiss his chicks good-night, but that washours hence. Much could be done in those hours. Her problem wassuddenly simplified, for even as she bent her brows and pondered, Grace Margaret called her attention to an alluring picture behind her. Under the shelter of a blossoming white hydrangea lay Genevieve Maudfast asleep. It was a dirty and an exhausted Genevieve Maud, worn withthe heat and toil of the day, scratched by bush and brier, butwonderfully appealing in her helplessness--so appealing, that HelenAdeline's heart yearned over her. She conquered the momentaryweakness. 

"_I_ think, " she suggested, casually, "she ought to sleep in thebarn. "

Grace Margaret gasped. 

"It ain't a simple life sleepin' in lovely gardens, " continued theauthority, with simple but thrilling conviction. "An'--wasn't theInfant Jesus born in barns?"

Grace Margaret essayed a faint protest. 

"Papa won't like it, " she began, feebly. 

"He won't know. 'Course we won't let her _stay_ there! But just alittle while, to make it finish right--the way it ought to be. "

The holding up of such lofty ideals of consistency conquered GraceMargaret--so thoroughly, in fact, that she helped to carry thesleeping Genevieve Maud not only to the barn, but even, in a gloriousinspiration, to Rover's kennel--a roomy habitation and beautifullyclean. The pair deposited the still sleeping innocent there andstepped back to survey the effect. Helen Adeline drew a long breath ofsatisfaction. "Well, " she said, with the content of an artistsurveying the perfect work, "if that ain't simple lives, I don't knowwhat is!"

They stole out of the place and into the house. The shadows lengthenedon the floor of the big barn, and the voices of the children in thestreet beyond grew fainter and finally died away. 

Lights began to twinkle in neighboring windows. Rover, returning fromhis friendly visit, sought his home, approached its entranceconfidently, and retreated with a low growl. The baby slept on, andthe dog, finally recognizing his playmate, stretched himself beforethe entrance of his kennel and loyally mounted guard, with a puzzledlook in his faithful brown eyes. The older children, lost in agreeableconversation and the attractions of baked apples and milk toast, wholly forgot Genevieve Maud and the flying hours. 

It was almost dark when their father came home and, after a visit tothe bedside of his wife, looked to the welfare of his children. Theexpression on the faces of the two older ones as they suddenly graspedthe fact of his presence explained in part the absence of the third. Mr. Davenport had enjoyed the advantages of eleven years of dailyassociation with his daughter Helen Adeline. 

"Where is she?" he asked, briefly, with a slight prickling of thescalp. 

In solemn procession, in their night-gowns, they led him to her side;and the peace of the perfumed night as they passed through the gardenwas broken with explanations and mutual recriminations and expressionsof unavailing regret. Rover rose as they approached and looked up intohis master's eyes, wagging his tail in eager welcome. 

"Here she is, " he seemed to say. "It's all right. _I_ looked afterher. "

The father's eyes grew dim as he patted the dog's fine head and liftedthe naked body of his youngest daughter in his arms. Her little bodywas cold, and she shivered as she awoke and looked at him. Then shegazed down into the conscience-stricken faces of her sisters andmemory returned. It drew from her one of her rare spontaneous remarks. 

"Don't yike simple yives, " announced Genevieve Maud, with considerablefirmness. "Don't yant to play any more. "

"You shall not, my babykins, " promised her father, huskily. "No moresimple life for Genevieve Maud, you may be sure. "

Later, after the hot bath and the supper which both her father and thetrained nurse had supervised, Genevieve Maud was tucked cozily away inthe little brass crib which had earlier drawn out the sterndisapproval of her sisters. Her round face shone with cold cream. Asilver mug, full of milk, stood beside her crib, on her suggestionthat she might become "firsty" during the night. Finding the occasionone of unlimited indulgence and concession, she had demanded andsecured the privilege of wearing her best night-gown--one resplendentwith a large pink bow. In her hand she clasped a fat cookie. 

Helen Adeline and Grace Margaret surveyed this sybaritic scene fromthe outer darkness of the hall. 

"Look at her poor, perishin' body full of comforts, " sighed HelenAdeline, dismally. Then, with concentrated bitterness, "I s'pose we'llnever dare to even _think_ 'bout her soul again!"

V

HIS BOY

Captain Arthur Hamilton, of the ----th Infantry, moved on his narrowcot, groaned partly from irritation and partly from pain, muttered afew inaudible words, and looked with strong disapproval toward theopening of the hospital tent in which he lay. Through it came the softbreezes of the Cuban night, a glimpse of brilliantly starred horizon-line, and the cheerful voice of Private Kelly, raised in song. Thewords came distinctly to the helpless officer's reluctant ears. 

"'Oh, Liza, de-ar Liza, '" carolled Kelly, in buoyant response to thebeauty of the evening. 

Captain Hamilton muttered again as he suppressed a seductive desire tothrow something at the Irishman's head, silhouetted against the sky ashe limped past the entrance. Six weeks had elapsed since the battle ofSan Juan, in which Hamilton and Kelly had been among the manygrievously hurt. Kelly, witness this needless service of song, wasalready convalescent. He could wander from tent to tent in well-meaning but futile efforts to cheer less fortunate mates. Baker wasaround again, too, Hamilton remembered, and Barnard and Hallenbeck andLee, and--oh, hosts of others. He ran over their names as he had donecountless times before in the long days and nights which had passedsince he had been "out of it all, " as he put it to himself. He alone, of his fellow officers in the regiment, still lay chained to hiswretched cot, a very log of helplessness, in which a fiery spiritflamed and consumed. His was not a nature that took gracefully toinactivity; and of late it had been borne in upon him with a cold, sickening sense of fear, new, like his helplessness, that inactivitymust be his portion for a long, long time to come. At first thethought had touched his consciousness only at wide intervals, but nowit was becoming a constant, lurking horror, always with him, or justwithin reach, ready to spring. 

He was "out of it all, " not for weeks or even for months, but verypossibly for all time. The doctor's reticence told him this; so didhis own sick heart; so did the dutiful cheerfulness of his men and hisbrother officers. They overdid it, he realized, and the efforts theyso conscientiously made showed how deep their sympathy must be, andhow tragic the cause of it. His lips twisted sardonically as heremembered their optimistic predictions of his immediate recovery andthe tributes they paid to his courage in the field. It was true he haddistinguished himself in action (by chance, he assured himself andthem), and he had figured as a hero in the subsequent reports of thebattle. But the other fellows would hardly have bothered to have atrifle like that mentioned, he told himself, if the little glowingbadge of fame he carried off the field had not been now his solepossession. He had given more than his life for it. He had sacrificedhis career, his place in the active ranks, his perfect, athletic body. His life would have been a simple gift in comparison. Why couldn't ithave been taken? he wondered for the hundredth time. Why could not he, like others, have died gloriously and been laid away with the flagwrapped round him? But that, he reflected, bitterly, would have beentoo much luck. Instead, he must drag on and on and on, of no use tohimself or to any one else. 

Again and again he contemplated the dreary outlook, checking offmentally the details of the past, the depressing experiences to come, the hopelessness of it all; and as his mind swung wearily round thesmall circle he despised himself for the futility of the whole mentalprocess, and for his inability to fix his thoughts on things otherthan his own misfortune. A man paralyzed; a thing dead from the waistdown--that was what he had become. He groaned again as the realizationgnawed at his soul, and at the sound a white-capped nurse rose from atable where she had been sitting and came to his bedside with a smileof professional cheerfulness. She had a tired, worn face, and fadedblue eyes, which looked as if they had seen too much of humansuffering. But an indomitable spirit gazed out of them, and spoke, too, in her alert step and in the fine poise of her head andshoulders. 

"Your mail has come, " she told him, "and there seem to be some niceletters--fat ones. One, from Russia, has a gold crown on the envelope. Perhaps I had better leave you alone while you read it. "

Hamilton smiled grimly as he held out a languid hand. He liked MissFoster. She was a good sort, and she had stood by the boys noblythrough the awful days after the fight. He liked her humor, too, though he sometimes had suspicions as to its spontaneity. Then his eyefell on the top envelope of the little package she had given him, andat the sight of the handwriting he caught his breath, and the bloodrushed suddenly to his face. He closed his eyes for a moment in aneffort to pull himself together. Did he still care, after ten years, and like that! But possibly, very probably, it was merely amanifestation of his wretched weakness, which could not endure even apleasant surprise without these absurd physical effects. Heremembered, with a more cheerful grin, that he had hardly thought ofher at all during the past year. Preparations for war and his smallpart in them had absorbed him heart and soul. He opened the letterwithout further self-analysis, and read with deepening interest theclosely written lines on the thin foreign paper, whose left-handcorner held a duplicate of the gold crown on the envelope. 

"DEAR OLD FRIEND, --You have forgotten me, no doubt, in all theseyears. Ten, is it not? But I have not forgotten you, nor my otherfriends in America, exile though I am and oblivious though I may haveseemed. I do not know quite why I have not come home for a visit longbefore this. Indeed, I have planned to do so from year to year, but afull life and many varied interests have deferred the journey one wayor another. I have three boys--nine, seven, and five--and it would bedifficult to bring them with me and impossible to leave them behind. So, you see--

"But my heart often longs for my native land, and in one tower of thisold castle I have a great room full of souvenirs of home. It is thespot I love best in my new country. Here I read my mail and write myletters and follow American news in the newspapers friends send me. Here, with my boys tumbling over each other before the fireplace, Iread of the ascent of San Juan Hill, and of you, my friend, and yoursplendid courage, and your injury. 

"No doubt by the time this letter reaches you you will be well again, and in no need of my sympathy. But you will let me tell you how proudof you I am. 

"I read the newspaper accounts to my boys, who were greatly interestedand impressed when they learned that mamma knew the hero. I was muchamused by the youngest, Charlie--too small, I thought, to understandit all. But he stood before me with his hands on my knees and his bigbrown eyes on my face; and when I finished reading he asked manyquestions about the war and about you. He is the most American of mychildren, and loves to hear of his mother's country. After the othershad gone he cuddled down in my lap and demanded the 'story' repeatedin full; and when I described again the magnificent way in which yousaved your men, he said, firmly, 'I am _his_ boy. '

"I thought you might be interested in this unsought, spontaneoustribute, and my purpose in writing is to pass it on to you--though Iadmit it has taken me a long time to get 'round to it!

"You will forgive this rambling letter, and you will believe me, nowas ever, "Sincerely your friend, "MARGARET CHALLONER VALDRONOVNA. "

Hamilton slowly refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope, letting the solace of its sweet friendliness sink into his sore heartthe while. She had not wholly forgotten him, then, this beautifulwoman he had loved and who had given him a gracious and charming_camaraderie_ in return for the devotion of his life. He had not beensenseless enough to misconstrue her feeling, so he had never spoken;and she, after two brilliant Washington seasons, had married a greatRussian noble and sailed away without suspecting, he felt sure, whatshe was to him. He had recovered, as men do, but he had not lovedagain, nor had he married. He wondered if she knew. Very probably; forthe newspapers which devoted so much space to his achievements hadadded detailed biographical sketches, over which he had winced frominstinctive distaste of such intimate discussion of his personalaffairs. The earlier reports (evidently the ones she had read) hadpublished misleading accounts of his injuries. They were serious, butnot dangerous, according to these authorities. It was only recentlythat rumors of his true condition had begun to creep into print. ThePrincess had not read these. Hamilton was glad of that. 

He recalled dreamily the different passages of her letter, theremainder of his mail lying neglected on his bed. That boy--her boy--_his_ boy. He smiled to himself, at first with amusement, then with asudden tenderness that pleasantly softened his stern lips. He was weakenough, frightened enough, lonely enough, to grasp with an actualpitiful throb of the heart this tiny hand stretched out to him acrossthe sea. He liked that boy--_his_ boy. He must be a fine fellow. Hewondered idly how he looked. "Three boys--nine, seven, five"--yes, Charlie was five and had great brown eyes. Like his mother's, thestricken man remembered. She had brown eyes--and such brown eyes. Suchkind, friendly, womanly brown eyes--true mirrors of the strong soulthat looked from them. Something hot and wet stung the surface ofHamilton's cheek. He touched it unsuspectingly, and then swore alonein deep, frank self-disgust. 

"Well, of all the sentimental idiots!" he muttered. "My nerves are ina nice way, when I bawl like a baby because some one sends me afriendly letter. Guess I'll answer it. "

Miss Foster brought him pen, ink, and paper, and he began, writingwith some difficulty, as he lay flat on his back. 

"MY DEAR PRINCESS, --Your letter has just reached me, and you cannot, Iam sure, imagine the cheer and comfort it brought. I am stilllingering unwillingly on the sick-list, but there is some talk now ofshipping me north on the _Relief_ next week, when I hope to give abetter account of myself. In the mean time, and after, I shall thinkmuch of you and the boys, especially of the youngest and hisflattering adoption of me. I am already insufferably proud of that, and rather sentimental as well, as you will see by the fact that Iwant his photograph! Will you send it to me, in care of the MortonTrust Company, New York? I do not yet know just where I shall be. 

"There is a pleasant revelation of well-being and happiness betweenthe lines of your letter. Believe me, I rejoice in both. 

"Faithfully yours, "ARTHUR HAMILTON. "

As he read it over the letter seemed curt and unsatisfactory, but hewas already exhausted and had not the strength to make another effort. So he wearily sealed and addressed it, and gave it to Miss Foster forthe next mail. Her tired eyes widened a little as she artlessly readthe inscription. 

During the seemingly endless days and nights that followed, Hamiltonbattled manfully but despairingly with his sick soul. Wherever helooked there was blackness, lightened once or twice, and for aninstant only, by a sudden passing memory of a little child. It wouldbe too much to say that the memory comforted him. Nothing could dothat, yet. All he dared hope for was for the strength to go throughhis ordeal with something approaching manliness and dignity. Thevisits of his friends were a strain to him, as well as to them, and itwas sadly easy to see how the sense of his hopeless case depressedthem. He could imagine the long breath they drew as they left his tentand found themselves again in the rich, warm, healthy world. He didnot blame them. In their places, he would no doubt have felt just thesame. But he was inevitably driven more and more into himself, and inhis dogged efforts to get away from self-centred thought he turnedwith a sturdy determination to fancies about remote things, andespecially to imaginings of the boy--the little fellow who loved him, and who, thank God, was not as yet "sorry for him!" Oddly enough, themother seemed to have taken her place in the background of Hamilton'sthoughts. It was her son who appealed to him--the innocent man-child, half American, half Russian, entering so happily and unconsciously onthe enhanced uncertainties of life in the tragic land of his birth. 

During the trying, stormy voyage north on the great hospital ship, Hamilton had strange, half-waking visions of a curly headed lad withbrown eyes, tumbling over a bear-skin rug in front of a greatfireplace, or standing at his mother's knee looking into her face asshe talked of America and of an American soldier. He began to fancythat the vision held at bay the other crowding horrors which lay inwait. If he could keep his mind on that he was safe. He was glad themother and son could not, in their turn, picture him--as he was. 

When the photographs arrived, soon after he reached New York, thehelpless officer opened the bulky package with eager ringers. Therewere two "cabinets, " both of the child. One showed him at the tenderage of two, a plump, dimpled, beautiful baby, airily clad in anembroidered towel. The second was apparently quite recent. A five-year-old boy, in black velvet and a bewildering expanse of lacecollar, looked straight out of the picture with tragic dark eyes, whose direct glance was so like his mother's that ten years seemedsuddenly obliterated as Hamilton returned their gaze. With these was alittle letter on a child's note-paper, in printed characters whichreeled drunkenly down the page from left to right. Hamilton read itwith a chuckle. 

"DEAR CAPTAIN HAMILTON, --I love you very much. I love you becos youfought in the war. I have your picture. I have put a candle befront ofyour picture. The candle is burning. I love you very much. Your boy, "CHARLIE. "

Accompanying this epistolary masterpiece was a brief note from thewriter's mother, explaining that the "picture" of Captain Hamilton, ofwhose possession her infant boasted, had been cut from an illustratednewspaper and pasted on stiff card-board in gratification of thechild's whim. 

"He insists on burning a candle before it, " she wrote, "evidently fromsome dim association with tapers and altars and the rest. As it is alla new manifestation of his character, we are indulging him freely. Certainly it can do him no harm to love and admire a brave man. Besides, to have a candle burned for you! Is not that a new flutter ofglory?"

Hamilton, still in the grasp of a dumb depression he would voice to noone, was a little amused and more touched. In his hideous lonelinessand terror the pretty incident, one he would have smiled at andforgotten a year ago, took on an interest out of all proportion to itsimportance. He felt a sudden, unaccountable sense of pleasantcompanionship. The child became a loved personality--the one human, close, vital thing in a world over which there seemed to hang a thickblack fog through which Hamilton vaguely, wretchedly groped. Hehimself did not know why the child interested him so keenly, nor didhe try to analyze the fact. He was merely grateful for it, and for theother fact that he cherished no sentimental feeling for the boy'smother. That had passed out of his life as everything else hadseemingly passed which belonged to the old order of things. He hadalways been a calm, reserved, self-absorbed, unemotional type of man, glorying a little, perhaps, in his lack of dependence on human kind. In his need he had turned to his fellows and turned in vain. Now thata precious thing had come to him unsought, he did not intend to loseit. 

Through his physicians he pulled various journalistic wires, resultingin the suppression, in the newspapers, of the hopeless facts of hiscase. He did not intend, he decided, to have his boy think of him astied to an invalid's couch. Then, knowing something of human nature, and of the evanescent character of childish fancies, he orderedshipped to Russia a variety of American mechanical toys, calculated toswell the proud bosom of the small boy who received them. Thisshameless bid for continued favor met with immediate success. Anecstatic, incoherent little shriek of delight came from the land ofthe czar in the form of another letter; and the candle, which quitepossibly would have burned low or even gone out, blazed up cheerilyagain. 

That was the beginning of an intercourse which interested and divertedHamilton for months. He spared no pains to adapt his letters to theinterest and comprehension of his small correspondent, and he deriveda quite incredible amount of satisfaction from the childish scrawlswhich came to him in reply. They were wholly babyish documents, aboutthe donkey, the nurse, the toys, and games of the small boy's dailylife. Usually they were written in his own printed letters. Sometimesthey were dictated to his mother, who faithfully reported everyweighty word that fell from the infant's lips. But always they werefull of the hero-worship of the little child for the big, strong, American fighting-man; and in every letter, sometimes in thebeginning, sometimes at the end, occasionally in both places, as theenthusiasm of the writer waxed, was the satisfying assurance, "_I amyour boy. _" Hamilton's eyes raced over the little pages till he foundthat line, and there rested contentedly. 

As the months passed, the healing influence of time wrought itseffects. Hamilton, shut in though he was, adapted himself to thenarrow world of an invalid's room and its few interests. With thewealth he had fortunately inherited he brought to his side leadingspecialists who might possibly help him, and went through alternateecstatic hopes and abysmal fears as the great men came and departed. Very quietly, too, he helped others less fortunate, financially, thanhimself. The nurses and physicians in the hospital where he laylearned to like and admire him, and other patients, convalescents ornewcomers who were able to move about, sought his cheerful rooms andbrought into them a whiff of the outside world. Through it all, winding in and out of the neutral-colored weeks like a scarlet threadof life and hope, came the childish letters from Russia, and each weeka thick letter went back, artfully designed to keep alive the love andinterest of an imaginative little boy. 

At the end of six months young Charles fell from his donkey and brokehis left arm, but this trivial incident was not allowed to interferewith the gratifying regularity with which his letters arrived. It was, however, interesting, as throwing a high light on the place hisAmerican hero held in the child's fancy. His mother touched on this inher letter describing the accident. 

"The arm had to be set at once, " she wrote, "and of course it was verypainful. But I told Charlie you would be greatly disappointed if yourboy were not brave and did not obey the doctor. He saw the force ofthis immediately, and did not shed a tear, though his dear little facewas white and drawn with pain. "

Master Charlie himself discussed the same pleasant incident in thefirst letter he dictated after the episode. 

"I did not cry, " he mentioned, with natural satisfaction. "Mammacried, and Sonya cried. Men do not cry. Do they? You did not cry whenyou were hurt, did you? I am going to be just like you. "

Hamilton laughed over the letter, his pale cheek flushing a little atthe same time. He _had_ cried, once or twice; he recalled it now withshame. He must try to do better, remembering that he loomed large as aheroic model for the young. 

He was still reading the little letter when Dr. Van Buren, hisclassmate at the Point, his one intimate since then, and his physiciannow, entered the room, greeted him curtly, and stood at the window fora moment, drumming his fingers fiercely against the pane. Hamiltonknew the symptoms; Van Buren was nervous and worried about something. He dropped the small envelope into his lap and looked up. 

"Well?" he said, tersely. 

Van Buren did not answer for a moment. Then he turned, crossed theroom abruptly, and sat down near the reclining-chair in which theofficer spent his days. The physician's face was strained and pale. His glance, usually direct, shifted and fell under his friend'sinquiring gaze. 

"Well?" repeated the latter, compellingly. "I suppose you fellows havebeen talking me over again. What's the outcome?"

Van Buren cleared his throat. 

"Yes, we--we have, old man, " he began, rather huskily--"in there, youknow. " He indicated the direction of the consulting-room as he spoke. "We don't like the recent symptoms. "

Unconsciously, Hamilton straightened his shoulders. 

"Out with it. Don't mince matters, Frank. Do you think life is soprecious a thing to me that I can't part with it if I've got to?"

Van Buren writhed in his chair. 

"It isn't that, " he said, "life or death. It's wor--I mean, it'sdifferent. It's--it's these. " He laid his hand on the officer'shelpless legs, stretched out stiffly under a gay red afghan. "God!" hebroke out, suddenly, "I don't know how you'll take it, old chap; andthere's no sense in trying to break a thing like this gently. We'reafraid--we think--they'll--have to come off!"

Under the shock of it Hamilton set his teeth. 

"Why?" he asked, quietly. 

"Because--well, because they're no good. They're dead. They're aconstant menace to you. A scratch or injury of any kind--they've gotto go--that's all, Arthur. But we've been talking it over and we canfix you up so you can get about and be much better off than you arenow. " He leaned forward as he spoke, and his words came quickly andeagerly. The worst was over; he was ready to picture the other side. Hamilton stopped him with a gesture. 

"Suppose I decline to let them go?" he asked, grimly. 

Van Buren stared at him. 

"You can't!" he stammered. 

"Why not?"

"Because--why, because your life depends on their coming off!"

Hamilton's lips set. 

"My _life!_" he repeated. "My precious, glad, young life! So full ofhappiness! So useful!" He dropped the savagely bitter tone suddenly. "No, Frank, " he said, quietly, "I won't go through life as the half ofa man. I'll let the thing take its course; or if that will be too slowand too--horrible, I'll help the hobbling beast on its way. I thinkI'd be justified. It's too much to ask--you know it--to be hoistedthrough life as a remnant. "

Van Buren rose, moved his chair nearer to Hamilton's, and sat downclose to his friend's side. All nervousness had left him. He was againcool, scientific, professional; but with it all there was the deepsympathy and understanding of a friend. 

"No, you won't, " he said, firmly; "you won't do anything of the kind, and I'll tell you why you won't. Because it isn't in your make-up toplay the coward. That's why. You've got to go through with it and takewhat comes, and do it all like the strong chap you are. If you thinkthere won't be anything left in life, you are mistaken. You can be ofa lot of use; you can do a lot of good. You will have time andinclination and money. You will be able to get around, not as quickly, but as surely. With a good man-servant you'll be entirely independentof drafts on charity or pity. Money has some beautiful uses. If youwere a poor devil who hadn't a cent in the world and would bedependent on the grudging service of others, I should wish you toaccept and bear, perhaps, but I could not urge you to. Now, your lifeis helpful to others. You can give and aid and bless. You can be agreater hero than the man who went up San Juan Hill, and there arethose who will feel it. "

"That is, my money is needed, and because I've got it I should dragout years of misery while I spread little financial poultices on otherpeople's ills, " returned Hamilton. "No, thanks; it's not enough good. They can have the money just the same. That can be amputated withprofit to all concerned. I'll leave it to hospitals and homes for thehelpless, especially for fractional humanity--needy remnants. But Idecline absolutely, once and for all, to accept the noble future youhave outlined. I grant you it would be heroic. But have you ever heardof great heroism with no stimulus to arouse it?"

He raised his hand as he spoke, and brought it down with a gesture offinality. As it fell, it dropped on the little letter. Mechanically, his fingers closed on it. 

His boy! His brave little boy who had not flinched or cried, becausehe meant to be just like Captain Hamilton. What would _he_ think whenthe truth came to him years hence, as it must do. What would she thinknow, the mother who was glad that her son should "love and admire abrave man"? The small missive was a stimulus. 

Hamilton turned to Van Buren again, checking with a little shake ofthe head the impetuous speech that rushed to that gentleman's lips. 

"Just wait one moment, " he said, thoughtfully. He leaned back and shuthis eyes, and as he did so the familiar scene of months past camesuddenly before them--the quaint old foreign room, the great fireplacewith its blazing logs, the mother, the curly haired boy. His life hadbeen a lonely one, always, Hamilton reflected. Few, pathetically few, so far as he knew, would be affected by its continuance or its end. But the _manner_ of its end--that was a different matter. That mighttouch individuals far and wide by its tragic example to otherdesperate souls. Still, he was not their keeper. As for Charlie--

Ah, _Charlie!_ Charlie, with his childish but utter hero-worship;Charlie, with his lighted candle; Charlie, with his small-boy love andtrust--Charlie would be told some little story and Charlie would soonforget. But--what would Charlie think of him some day when the truthwas out--Charlie who at five could set his teeth and bear painstoically because his hero did! Because he was "His Boy!" Hamilton'smind returned to that problem again and again and lingered there. No, he could not disappoint Charlie. Besides, Van Buren was right. Therewas work, creditable work to do. And to be plucky, even if only tokeep a brave little chap's ideal intact, to maintain its helpfulactivity, was something worthy of a stanch man. Would he wish his boyto go under when the strain against the right thing was crushing?

He laid the letter down gently, deliberately, turned to his friend, and smiled as Van Buren had not seen him smile since their ingenuousboyhood days. There was that sweetness in the smile which homage towoman makes us dub "feminine, " and something of it, too, in the way helaid his hand on his chum's shoulder. 

"All right, old sawbones, " he said, slowly. "You may do whatever hasto be done. I'll face the music. Unbuilding one man may build upanother. "

VI

THE COMMUNITY'S SUNBEAM

Miss Clarkson looked at the small boy, and the small boy looked backat Miss Clarkson with round, unwinking eyes. In the woman's glancewere sympathy and a puzzled wonder; the child's gaze expressed only acalm and complete detachment. Subtly, but unmistakably, he succeededin conveying the impression that he regarded this human object beforehim because it was in his line of vision, but that he found nointerest in it, nor good reason for assuming an interest he did notfeel: that if, indeed, he was conscious of any emotion at all, it wasin the nature of a vaguely dawning desire that the object shouldremove itself, should cease to shut off the view from the one windowof the tenement room that was his home. But it really did not mattermuch. Already, in his seven years of life, the small boy had decidedthat nothing really mattered much, and his dark, grim little face, with its deep-cut, unchildish lines, bore witness to the unwaveringstrength of this conviction. If the object preferred to stay--Hesettled himself more firmly on the rickety chair he occupied, crossedhis feet with infinite care, and continued to regard the object witheyes that held the invariable expression with which they met theincidents of life, whether these incidents were the receiving of abanana from Miss Clarkson's hands, or, as had happened half an hourbefore, the spectacle of his dead mother being carried down-stairs. 

It was not a stupid look; it was at once intent, unsympathetic, impersonal. Under it, now, its object experienced a moment of actualembarrassment. Miss Clarkson was not accustomed to the indifferentgaze of human eyes, and in her philanthropic work among the tenementsshe had been somewhat conspicuously successful with children. Theyseemed always to like her, to accept her; and if her undoubted charmof face, of dress, and of smile failed to win them, Miss Clarkson wasnot above resorting to the aid of little gifts, of toys, even to thepernicious power of pennies. She did good, but she did it in her ownway. She was young, she was rich, she was independent. She helped thepoor because she pitied them, and wished to aid them, but her methodswere unique, and were followed none the less serenely when, asfrequently happened, they conflicted with all the accepted notions oforganized philanthropy. 

She had come to this room almost daily, Miss Clarkson remembered, since she had discovered the destitute Russian woman and her childthere a month ago. The mother was dying of consumption; the child wasneglected and hungry--yet both had an unmistakable air of birth, ofbreeding; and the mother's French was as perfect as the exquisitelyfinished manner that drew from Anne Clarkson, in the wretched tenementroom, her utmost deference and courtesy. The child, too, had glints ofpolish. Punctiliously he opened doors, placed chairs, bowed;punctiliously he stood when the lady stood, sat when the lady sat, mether requests for small services with composure and appreciation. And(here was the rub) each time she came, bringing in her generous wakethe comforts that lightened his mother's dreary journey into anotherworld, he received her with the air of one courteously greeting astranger, or, at best, of one seeking an elusive memory as one surveysa half-familiar face. 

Doggedly Anne Clarkson had persisted in her attentions to them both. The mother was grateful--there was no doubt of that. Under theministrations of the nurse Miss Clarkson supplied, under the influenceof food, of medicines, and of care, she brightened out of the apathyin which her new friend had found her. But to the last she retainedsomething of her son's unresponsiveness, and an uncommunicativenesswhich tagged his as hereditary. She never spoke of herself, of herfriends, or of her home. She made no last requests, left no lastmessages. Once, as she looked at her boy, her eyeballs exuded a filmof moisture. Miss Clarkson interpreted this phenomenon rightly, andquietly said:

"I will see that he is well cared for. " The sick woman gave her a longlook, and then nodded. 

"You will, " she answered. "You are not of those who promise and do notperform. You are very good--you have been very good to us. Your rewardshould come. It does not always come to those who are good, but itshould come to you. You should marry and have children, and leave thisterrible country, and be happy. "

The words impressed Miss Clarkson, because, as she reminded herselfnow, they were almost the last her protegee uttered. She consideredthem excessively unmodern, and strongly out of place on the lips ofone whose romance had ended in disillusionment. 

Well, it was over. The mother was gone. But the child remained, andhis future--his immediate future, at least--must be decided here andnow. With a restless movement Anne Clarkson leaned toward him. In herabstraction she had shifted her glance from him for a few moments, andhe had taken advantage of the interval to survey dispassionately thetoes of the new shoes she had given to him. He glanced up now, and mether look with the singular unresponsiveness which seemed his note. 

"We're going away, Ivan, " she said, speaking with that artificialcheerfulness practised so universally upon the helpless and the young. "Mother has gone, you know, and we can't stay here any more. We'regoing to the country, to a beautiful place where there are flowers, and birds, and dogs, and other little boys and girls. So get your cap, dear. "

Ivan looked unimpressed, but he rose with instant obedience andcrossed the room to its solitary closet. His little figure looked verytrim in the new suit she had bought for him; she noticed how well hecarried himself. His preparations for departure were humorouslysimple. He took his cap from its peg, put it on his head, and openedthe door for her to precede him in the utter abandonment of his"home. " Earlier in the day Miss Clarkson had presented to pleasedneighbors the furniture and clothing of the dead woman, taking theprecaution to have it fumigated in an empty room in the building. Onthe same impulse she had given to an old bedridden Irishwoman a fewlittle articles that had soothed the Russian's last days: a smallnight-lamp, a bed-tray, and the like. Ivan's outfit, consisting solelyof the things she herself had given him, had been packed in hismother's one small foreign trunk, whose contents until then, MissClarkson, observed, was an ikon, quaintly framed. Of letters, ofsouvenirs, of any clue of any kind to the identity of mother and son, there was none. She felt sure that the names they had given her wereassumed. 

Stiffly erect, Ivan waited beside the open door. Miss Clarkson gave amethodical last look around the dismantled room, and walked out of it, the child following. At the top of the stairs she turned her headsharply, a sudden curiosity uppermost in her mind. Was he glancingback? she wondered. Was he showing any emotion? Did he feel any? Heseemed so horribly mature--he _must_ understand something of what thisdeparture meant. Did he, by chance, need comforting? But Ivan wasclose by her side, his sombre black eyes looking straight before him, his new shoes creaking freshly as he descended the rickety steps. MissClarkson sighed. If only he were pretty, she reflected. There werealways sentimental women ready and willing to adopt a handsome child. But even Ivan's mother would have declared him not pretty. He wasmerely small, and dark, and foreign, and reserved, and horribly self-contained. His black hair was perfectly straight, his lips made astraight line in his face. He had no dimples, no curls, none of theappealing graces and charms of childhood. He was seven--seven decades, she almost thought, with a sudden throb of pity for him. But he hadone quality of childhood--helplessness. To that, at least, theCommunity to which she had finally decided to intrust him would surelyrespond. She took his small hand in hers as they reached the street, and after an instinctive movement of withdrawal, like the startledfluttering of a bird, he suffered it to remain there. Together theywalked to the nearest corner, and stood awaiting the coming of atrolley-car, the heat of an August sun blazing upon them, the stiflingodors of the tenement quarter filling their nostrils. Rude, half-nakedlittle boys jeered at them, and made invidious remarks about Ivan'snew clothes; a small girl smiled shyly at him; a wretched yellow dogsnapped at his heels. To these varying attentions the child gave thesame quietly observant glance, a glance without rancor as withoutinterest. Miss Clarkson experienced a sense of utter helplessness asshe watched him. 

"Did you know the little girl, Ivan?" she asked, in English. 

"Yes, madam. "

"Do you like her?"

"No, madam. "

"Why not? She seemed a nice little girl. "

There was no response. She tried again. 

"Are you tired, dear?"

"No, madam. "

"Are you glad you are going into the country and away from the hot, dirty city?"

"No, madam. "

"Would you rather stay here?"

"No, madam. "

The quality of the negative was the same in all. 

Miss Clarkson gave him up. When they entered the car she sank into adepressed silence, which endured until they reached the Grand CentralStation. There, after she had sent off several telegrams and boughttheir tickets, and established herself and her charge comfortably sideby side on the end seat in a drawing-room car, she again essayedsprightly conversation adapted to the understanding of the young. 

"Do you know the country, Ivan?" she asked, ingratiatingly. "Have youever been there to see the grass and the cows and the blue skies?"

"No, madam. "

"You will like them very much. All little boys and girls like thecountry, and are very happy there. "

"Yes, madam. "

"Do you like to play?"

"No, madam. "

"Do you like to--to--look at picture-books?"

"No, madam. "

"What do you like to do?"

There was no reply. Miss Clarkson groaned inwardly. Was he only alittle monosyllabic machine? The infant regarded with calm eyes thesweep of the New York landscape across which the train was passing. His patron opened the new novel with which she had happily providedherself, plunged into its pages, and let herself rest by forgettinghim for a while. He sat by her side motionless, observant, continuingto exude infinite patience. 

"He ought to be planted on the Egyptian sands, " reflected MissClarkson once, as she glanced at him. "He'd make a dear little brotherto the Sphinx. " She stopped a train-boy passing through the car andbought him a small box of chocolates, which he ate uninterruptedly, somewhat as the tiny hand of a clock marks the seconds. Later shepresented him with a copy of a picture-paper. He surveyed itsillustrations with studious intentness for five minutes, and then laidthe paper on the seat beside him. Miss Clarkson again fled tosanctuary in her novel, wondering how long pure negation could enlistinterest. 

At the small station where they left the train the tension of thesituation was slightly lessened. A plump little woman, with a roundpink face, keen, very direct blue eyes, and live gray hair, deftlytooled a fat pony up to the asphalt, and greeted them with cheerfulinformality. 

"Get in, " she said, briskly, after a brief handshake with MissClarkson. "There's plenty of room in the phaeton. We pack five insometimes. I was sorely tempted to bring two of the children; theybegged to come to meet the new boy; but it seemed best not to rush himin the beginning, don't you know, so I left Josephine squalling behindthe wood-pile, and Augustus Adolphus strangling manfully on a glass oflemonade intended to comfort him. "

She laughed as she spoke, but her blue eyes surveyed the boyappraisingly as she tucked him into the space between herself and MissClarkson. He had stood cap in hand during the meeting between theladies; now he replaced his cap upon his head, fixed his black eyes onthe restless tail of the fat pony, and remained submerged under theencroaching summer garments of both women. Mrs. Eltner, presidinggenius of the Lotus Brotherhood Colony, exchanged an eloquent glancewith Miss Clarkson as she started the pony along the winding ribbon ofthe country road. The New-Yorker's heart lightened. She had infinitefaith in the plump, capable hands that held the reins; she believedthem equal to anything, even to the perplexing task of guiding theinfant career of Ivanovitch. Mrs. Eltner prattled on. 

"Well, " she quoted, in answer to Miss Clarkson's question, "they areso well that Fraulein von Hoffman is in despair over them. She hassome new theories she's anxious to try when they're ill, butthroughout the year she hasn't had one chance. Every blessed child isflamboyantly robust. Goodness! Why shouldn't they be? In the sunshinefrom eight in the morning until six at night. They have their lessonsin a little roofed summer-house in the open air, their meals inanother, and they almost sleep in the open air. There are ten of themnow--counting your boy"--she nodded toward the unconscious Ivan--"fourgirls and six boys. None of the parents interferes with them. Theysleep in the dormitory with Fraulein, she teaches them a few hours aday, and the rest of the time we leave them alone. Fraulein assures methat the influence on their developing souls is wonderful. " Mrs. Eltner laughed comfortably. "It's all an experiment, " she went on, more seriously. "Who can tell how it will end? But one thing iscertain: we have taken these poor waifs from the New York streets, andwe have at least made them healthy and happy to begin with. The restmust come later. "

"An achievement, " agreed Miss Clarkson. "I hope you will be assuccessful with my small charge. He is not healthy, and I doubt if hehas ever known a moment of happiness. Possibly he can never take itin. I don't know--he puzzles me. "

Her friend nodded, and they drove on in silence. It was almost sunsetwhen the fat pony turned into an open gate leading to a big whitecolonial house, whose wide verandas held hammocks, easy-chairs, andone fat little girl asleep on a door-mat. On the sweeping lawn beforethe house an old man lounged comfortably in a garden-chair, surveyingwith quiet approval the efforts of a pretty girl in a wide sunbonnetwho was weeding a flower-bed near him. Through the open window of adistant room came the sound of a piano. At the left of the house asolitary peacock strutted, his spreading tail alive in the sun's lastrays. The effect of the place was deliriously "homey. " With eyesslightly distended, Ivan surveyed the monstrous fowl, turning his headto follow its progress as the phaeton rolled around the drive andstopped before the wide front door. The two women again exchangedglances. 

"Absolutely the first evidence of human interest, " remarked MissClarkson, with hushed solemnity. The other smiled with quietconfidence. "It will come, " she predicted; "it will come all right. Wedo wonders with them here. "

As they entered the wide hall a picturesque group disintegratedsuddenly. A slender German woman, tall, gray-haired, slightly bent, detached herself from an encircling mass of childish hands and armsand legs, gave a hurried greeting to Miss Clarkson, of whom she ratherdisapproved, and turned eyes alight with interest on the new claimantfor her ministrations. Cap in hand, Ivan looked up at her. Mrs. Eltnerintroduced them briefly. 

"Your new little boy, Fraulein, " she said, "Ivan Ivanovitch. He speaksEnglish and French and Russian. He is going to love his new teacherand his new little friends, and be very happy here. "

Fraulein von Hoffman bent down and kissed the chilling surface ofIvan's pale cheek. 

"But yes, " she cried, "of a certainty he shall be happy. We are allhappy here--all, all. He shall have his place, his lessons, his littleduties--but, ach, he is so young! He is the youngest of us. Still, hemust have his duty. " She checked her rapid English for a courteousexplanation to Miss Clarkson. 

"Each has his duties, " she told that lady, while the line of childrenlent polite interest to her words, drinking them in, apparently, withopen mouths. "Each of us must be useful to the community in some way, however small. That is our principle. Yes. Little Josephine watersevery day the flowers in the dining-room, and they bloom gratefullyfor little Josephine--ach, how they bloom! Augustus Adolphus keeps thewood-box filled. It is Henry's task to water the garden plants, andHenry never forgets. So, too, it is with the others. But Ivan--Ivan isvery young. He is but seven, you say. Yes, yes, what shall one do atseven?"

Her rapid, broken English ceased again as she surveyed the child, herblond brows knit in deep reflection. Then her thin face lit suddenly. 

"Ach, " she cried, enthusiastically, "an inspiration I have! He is tooyoung to work as yet, this little Ivan, but he shall have his task, like the rest. He shall be our little sunbeam. He shall laugh and playand make us happy. "

With a common hysterical impulse Miss Clarkson and Mrs. Eltner turnedtheir heads to avoid each other's eyes, the former making a desperateeffort at self-control as she gazed severely through a window nearher. It was not funny, this thing, she reminded herself sternly; itwas too ghastly to be funny, but there was no question that theselection of Ivan Ivanovitch as the joyous, all-pervasive sunbeam ofthe community at Locust Hall was slightly incongruous. When she couldtrust herself she glanced at him. He stood as he had stood before, hissmall, old, unchildish face turned up to the German, his black eyesfixed unwaveringly upon her gray ones. Under the glance Fraulein'sexpression changed. For an instant there was a look of bewilderment onher face, of a doubt of the wisdom of her choice of a mission for thisunusual new-comer, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. Withrecovered serenity she addressed him and those around him. 

"But he need not begin to-night, " she added, kindly, "not when he istired. He shall eat, he shall rest, he shall sleep. Then to-morrow heshall take his place among us and be the little sunbeam. Yes, yes--think how far the sunbeam has to travel!" she murmured, inspirationally. 

Miss Clarkson knelt down before the boy and gathered him into herarms. The act was spontaneous and sincere, but as she did it sherealized that in the eyes of the German, and even in those of Mrs. Eltner, it seemed theatrical. It was one of the things Fraulein vonHoffman disapproved in her--this tendency to moments of emotion. 

"Good-night, Ivan, " she said. "I am going to stay until morning, so Ishall see you then. Sleep well. I am sure you will be a happy littleboy in this pleasant home. "

The unfathomable eyes of Ivan Ivanovitch looked back into hers. 

"Good-night, madam, " he said, quietly. Then, as she was about to turnaway, his small face took on for an instant the dawn of an expression. "Good-night, madam, " he said again, more faintly. 

Slight as the change had been, Miss Clarkson caught it. She swayedtoward him. 

"Are you homesick, Ivan?" she asked, caressingly, almost lovingly. "Would you like me to take you up-stairs and put you to bed?"

Fraulein von Hoffman broke in upon her speech. 

"But they shall all go!" she cried. "It is their time. He will not bealone. Josephine shall take him by the hand; Augustus Adolphus shalllead the way. It will be a little procession--ach, yes! And he shallhave his supper in the nursery. "

A chubby, confident little girl of nine detached herself from thegroup near them and grasped the hand of Ivan Ivanovitch firmly withinher own. He regarded her stoically for an instant; then his eyesreturned to Miss Clarkson's, who had risen, and was watching himclosely. There was a faint flicker in them as he replied to herquestion. 

"No, madam, " he said, gravely. "Thank you, madam. Good-night, madam. "

He bowed deeply, drawing the reluctant figure of the startledJosephine into the salute as he did so. A sturdy German boy of eleven, with snapping brown eyes, placed himself before the children, his feetbeating time, his head very high. "Forward, march!" he cried, inclear, boyish tones. The triumphant Josephine obeyed the command, dragging her charge after her. Thus convoyed, one companion leading, another pulling, the rest following with many happy giggles, IvanIvanovitch marched up-stairs to bed. His life as the community'ssunbeam had begun. 

The next morning Fraulein von Hoffman met Miss Clarkson in the hall, and turned upon her the regard of a worried gray eye. Miss Clarksonreturned the look, her heart sinking as she did so. 

"It is that child, " the German began. "He is of an interest--and ach, ja! of a discouragement, " she added, with a gusty sigh. "Already I cansee it--what it will be. He speaks not; he plays not. He gazes alwaysfrom the window, and when one speaks, he says, 'Yes, madam'--onlythat. This morning I looked to see him bright and happy, but it is notso. Is it that his little heart breaks for his mother? Is it--that heis always thus?"

Miss Clarkson shook her head and then nodded, forming therebyunconsciously the sign of the cross. The combination seemed to answerthe German's questions. Fraulein von Hoffman nodded also, slowly, andwith comprehension. 

"I don't know what you can do with him, " said the American, frankly. "He's like that all the time. I asked his mother, and she admitted it. I brought him here because I hoped the other children might brightenhim up, and I knew you could arouse him if any one could. "

The tribute, rare from Miss Clarkson, cheered Fraulein von Hoffman. Her face cleared. She began to regain her self-confidence. 

"Ach, well, " she said, comfortably, "we will see. We will do our best--yes, of a certainty. And we will see. " She strolled away after thisoracular utterance, and Miss Clarkson went to breakfast. Thus neitherwitnessed a scene taking place at that moment on the lawn near thefront veranda. Standing there with his back against a pillar, surrounded by the other children of the community, was IvanIvanovitch. In the foreground, facing him, stood Augustus Adolphus, addressing the new-comer in firm accents, and emphasizing his remarksby waving a grimy forefinger before Ivan Ivanovitch's uninterestedface. The high, positive tones of Augustus Adolphus filled the air. 

"Well, then, why don't you do it?" he was asking, fiercely. "You _got_to do it! You _have_ to! Fraulein says so. The rest of us has to doours. I filled my wood-boxes already, and Josie watered the flowers. We did it early so we could watch you being a sunbeam, and now youain't being one. Why ain't you? You _got_ to! Why don't you begin?"The continued unresponsiveness of Ivan Ivanovitch irritated him atthis point, and he turned excitedly to the others for support. 

"'Ain't he got to?" he cried. "'Ain't he got to be a sunbeam? Frauleinsaid he should begin this morning. Well, then, why don't he begin?"

A childish buzz of corroboration answered him. It was plain that theassignment of Ivan's mission, publicly made as it had been the nightbefore, had deeply impressed the children of the community. Theyclosed around the two boys. The small Josephine laid a propelling handupon Ivan's shoulder and tried to push him forward, with a vague ideaof thus accelerating his task. 

"Begin now, " she suggested, encouragingly. "Do it, and have it over. That's the way I do. "

In response to this maiden appeal the lips of Ivan Ivanovitch parted. 

"I do not know how to do it, " he announced, distinctly. "How shall Ido it?"

Augustus Adolphus broke in again. "Aw, say, go on, " he urged. "You_got_ to do it! Why _don't_ you, then?"

Ivan Ivanovitch turned upon him an eye in which the habitualexpression of patience was merely intensified. 

"I do not know how to do it, " he said again, speaking slowly andpainstakingly. "You tell me how; then I will do it. "

Under the force of this counter-charge, Augustus Adolphus fell back. 

"I--I--don't know, neither, " he muttered, feebly. "I thought you knew. You _got_ to know, 'cause you got to do it. "

The eyes of the small Russian swept the little group, and lingered onthe round face of Josephine. 

"You tell me, " he said to her. "Then I will do it. "

Josephine rose to the occasion. 

"Why, why, " she began, doubtfully, "_I_ know what it is. You be asunbeam, you know. I know what a sunbeam is. It's a little piece ofthe sun. It is long and bright. It comes through the window and fallson the floor. Sometimes it falls on us. Sometimes it falls onflowers. "

Offered this choice, Ivan at once expressed his preference. 

"I will fall on flowers, " he announced, with decision. 

The brown eyes of Augustus Adolphus glittered as he suddenly graspedthe possibilities of the situation. 

"No, you won't, neither!" he cried, excitedly. "You got to do it_all!_ You better begin now. You can fall through that window; it'sopen. " He indicated, as he spoke, a low French window leading from theliving-room on to the broad veranda. "He's got to!" he cried, again. "'Ain't he got to?" With a unanimous cry the meeting declared that hehad got to. Some of the children knew better; others did not; but allknew Augustus Adolphus Schmidtt. 

Without a word, Ivan turned, walked up the steps of the veranda, entered the wide hall, swung to the left, crossed the living-room, approached the window, and fell out, head first. There was somethingdeeply impressive in the silence and swiftness of his action, something deliriously stimulating to the spectators in the thud of hissmall body on the unyielding wood. A long sigh of happiness wasexhaled by the group of children. Certainly this was a new duty--astrange one, but worthy, no doubt, since it emanated from Fraulein, and beyond question interesting as a spectacle. Augustus Adolphusresolved in that instant to attend to his personal tasks at an earlyhour each day, that he might have uninterrupted leisure for gettingnew falls out of Ivan's. That infant had now found his feet, and wasmethodically brushing the dust from his clothes. There was a rapidlydeveloping lump over one eye, but his expression remained unchanged. Josephine approached him with happy gurgles. Her heart was filled withwomanly sympathy, but her soul remained undaunted. She was of theSpartan stuff that sends sons to the war, and holds a reception forthem if they return--from victory--on their shields. She cooed inconscious imitation of Fraulein's best manner. "Now, you can fall onflowers. "

Her victim followed her unresistingly to the spot she indicated, and, having arrived, cast himself violently upon a bed of blazingnasturtiums. The enthusiastic and approving group of children closedaround him as he rose. Even Augustus Adolphus, as he surveyed thewreck that remained, yielded to Ivan's loyal devotion to his role thetribute of an envious sigh. 

"Now you can fall on us, " he suggested, joyfully. Before the words hadleft his innocent lips, Ivan had made his choice. The next instant theair was full of arms, legs, caps, and hair. 

"Lemme go!" shrieked Augustus Adolphus, battling wildly with theunsuspected and terrible force that had suddenly assailed him. "Lemmego, I tell you!"

The reply of Ivan came through set teeth as he planted one heel firmlyin the left ear of the recumbent youth. "I have to fall on you, " heexplained, mildly, suiting the action to the word. "First I fall onyou; then I let you go. "

There was no question in the minds of the spectators that this was themost brilliant and successfully performed of the strange andinteresting tasks of Ivan. They clustered around to tell him so, whileAugustus Adolphus sought the dormitory for needed repairs. One of therules of the community was that the children should settle theirlittle disputes among themselves. Fortunately, perhaps, for AugustusAdolphus he found the dormitory empty, and was able to remove from hisperson the most obvious evidences of one hoisted by his own petard. Inthe mean time Ivan Ivanovitch was experiencing a new sensation--thepleasurable emotion caused by the praise of one's kind. But he did notshow that it was pleasant--he merely gazed and listened. 

"I think your new duties is nice, " Josephine informed him, as shegazed upon him with eyes humid with approval. "You have to do it everyday, " she added, gluttonously. 

Ivan assented, but in his heart there lay a doubt. Seeking for light, he approached Fraulein von Hoffman that afternoon as she dozed andknitted under a sheltering tree. 

He stopped before her and fixed her with his serious gaze. 

"Does a sunbeam fall through windows?" he inquired, politely. 

Fraulein von Hoffman regarded him with a drowsy lack of interest. 

"But yes, surely, sometimes, " she admitted. 

"Does it fall always through the window--every day?"

"But yes, surely, if it is in the right place. "

The community's sunbeam sighed. 

"Does it fall on flowers and on boys and girls?" he persisted. 

"But yes, it falls on everything that is near. "

A look of pained surprise dawned upon the features of Ivan Ivanovitch. 

"Always?" he asked, quickly. "Always--it falls on _everything_ that isnear?"

Fraulein von Hoffman placidly counted her stitches, confirming with asigh her suspicion that in dozing she had dropped three. 

"Not always, " she murmured, absently. "But no. Only when the sun isshining. "

Ivan carried this gleam of comfort with him when he went away, and itis very possible that he longed for a darkened world. But if, indeed, his daily task was difficult, as it frequently proved to be as thedays passed, there were compensations--in the school games, in thecompanionships of his new friends, in the kindness of those aroundhim. Even Augustus Adolphus was good to him at times. Unquestioningly, inscrutably, Ivan absorbed atmosphere, and did his share of thecommunity's work as he saw it. 

The theories of the community were consistently carried out. In thesummer, after their few hours of study, the children were left tothemselves. Together they worked out the problems of their littleworld; together they discussed, often with an uncanny insight, thegrown-ups around them. Sometimes the tasks of the others wereforgotten; frequently, in the stress of work and play, AugustusAdolphus's wood-box remained unfulfilled; Josephine's flowers wereunwatered. But the mission of Ivan as a busy and strenuous sunbeam wasregularly and consistently carried out--all the children saw to that. Regularly, that is, save on dark days. Here he drew the line. 

"Fraulein says it only falls on things when the sun shines, " heexplained, tersely, and he fulfilled his mission accordingly. Frauleinwondered where he had accumulated the choice collection of bumps andbruises that adorned his person; but he never told, and apparentlynobody else knew. Mrs. Eltner marvelled darkly over the destruction ofher favorite nasturtium-bed. Daily the stifled howls of AugustusAdolphus continued to rend the ambient air when the sunbeam fell onhim; but he forbore to complain, suffering heroically this unpleasantfeature of the programme, that the rest might not be curtailed. Once, indeed, he had rebelled. 

"Why don't you fall on some one else?" he had demanded, sulkily. "Youdon't have to fall on me all the time. "

The reply of the sunbeam was convincing in its simple truth. 

"I do, " he explained. "Fraulein has said so. It must fall always onthe same place if it is there. "

Augustus Adolphus was silenced. He was indeed there, always. It wasunfortunate, but seemed inevitable, that he should contribute hisshare to the daily entertainment so deeply enjoyed by all. 

It was, very appropriately, at Thanksgiving-time that Ivan's missionas an active sunbeam ended. He was engaged in his usual profoundmeditation in the presence of Miss Clarkson, who had come to see him, and who was at the moment digesting the information she had received, that not once in his months at Locust Hall had he been seen to smile. True, he seemed well and contented. His thin little figure was fasttaking on plumpness; he was brown, bright-eyed. Studying him, MissClarkson observed a small bruise on his chin, another on hisintellectual brow. 

"How did you get those, Ivan?" she asked. 

For some reason Ivan suddenly decided to tell her. 

"I fell through the window. This one I got yesterday"--he touched it--"this one I got Monday; this one I got last week. " He revealed anotherthat she had not discovered, lurking behind his left ear. 

"But surely you didn't fall through the window as often as that!"gasped Miss Clarkson. The small boy surveyed her wearily. 

"But yes, " he murmured, in unconscious imitation of Praulein. "I mustfall through the window every day when the sun shines. "

Miss Clarkson held him off at arm's-length and stared at him. 

"In Heaven's name, _why?_" she demanded. 

Ivan explained patiently. Miss Clarkson listened, asked a fewquestions, gave way to a moment of uncontrollable emotion. Then shecalled together the other children, and again heard the story. It camedisjointedly from each in turn, but most fluently, most picturesquely, most convincingly, from the lips of Augustus Adolphus Schmidtt and thefair Josephine. When they had finished their artless recital, MissClarkson sought Fraulein von Hoffman. That afternoon, beside the bigopen fire in the children's winter play-room, Fraulein von Hoffmanaddressed her young charges in words brief but pointed, and as shetalked the mission of Ivan at Locust Hall took on a new significance, clear to the dullest mind. 

"You were very cruel to Ivan--ach, most cruel! And he is not to fallany more, anywhere, on anything, you understand, " explained theGerman, clearly. "He has no tasks any more. He is but to be happy, andyou should love him and take care of him, because he is so small. Thatis all. "

Ivan exhaled a sigh of deep contentment. Then he looked around him. The great logs on the andirons were blazing merrily. In the hands ofJosephine a corn-popper waved above them, the corn inside burningunobserved as she lent her ears to Fraulein's earnest words. Tenapples, suspended on strings, swung from the mantel, spinning slowlyas they roasted. It was a restful and agreeable scene to the eyes oflittle Ivan. 

Josephine felt called upon to defend her friends. 

"We didn't mean to be cruel, " she explained, earnestly, answering theone of Fraulein's charges which had most impressed her. "We love Ivan. We love him lots. We like to see him to be a sunbeam, an' we thoughthe liked to be one. He never said he didn't. "

The faces of his little companions were all around him. Ivan surveyedthem in turn. They loved him--lots. Had not Josephine just said so?And only yesterday Augustus Adolphus had played marbles with him. Itwas very good to be loved, to have a home, and not to be a littlesunbeam any longer. Then his eyes met those of Miss Clarkson, fixedupon him sympathetically. 

"Would you like to go away, Ivan?" she asked, quietly. "Would you behappier somewhere else?"

The eyes of Ivan widened with sudden fear. To have this and to loseit!--now, if ever, he must speak! "Oh _no_, " he cried, earnestly; "no, _no_, madam!"

Reassured, she smiled at him, and as she did so something in her look, in the atmosphere, in the moment, opened the boy's closed heart. Hedrew a long breath and smiled back at her--a shy, hesitant, unaccustomed smile, but one very charming on his serious little face. Miss Clarkson's heart leaped in sudden triumph. It was his firstsmile, and it was for her. 

"I like it here, " he said. "I like it very much, madam. "

Miss Clarkson had moments of wisdom. 

"Then you shall stay, my boy, " she said. "You shall stay as long asyou wish. But, remember, you must not be a sunbeam any more. "

Ivan responded in one word--a simple, effective word, much used by hisassociates in response to pleasing announcements of holidays andvacations, but thus far a stranger on his lips. He threw back his headand straightened his shoulders. 

"Hurray!" he cried, with deep fervor. This was enough for AugustusAdolphus and the fair Josephine. "Hurray!" they shrieked, in jubilantduet--"Hurray! Hurray!"

The others joined in. "Hur-ray!" cried the nine small companions ofIvan. He looked at them for a moment, his thin mouth twitching. Theywere glad, too, then, that he was to stay! He walked straight to MissClarkson, buried his face in her lap, and burst into tears. For amoment she held him close, smoothing his black head with a tenderhand. Almost immediately he straightened himself and returned to theside of Josephine, shy, shamefaced, but smiling again--a new Ivan. 

"What did you cry for?" demanded that young lady, obtusely. "Becauseyou feel bad?"

Augustus Adolphus replied for his friend, with an insight beyond hisyears. 

"You let him alone, " he said, severely. "He don't never cry when hefeels bad; _he_ only cries when he feels good!"

VII

IN MEMORY OF HANNAH'S LAUGH

His name was "'Rastus Calhoun Breckenridge, " he announced the morningthat he began his new duties as janitor of the Adelaide apartments, and he at once gave the tenants to understand that no liberties wereto be taken with it. He preferred it _all_ when he was addressed inordinary conversation, he explained to them, but he had no objectionsto the title, "Mistah Breckenridge, " when they felt hurried. Thisinterested every inmate of the Adelaide, and for a few days amazinglyamused several, who gave play to their fancy in the use ofabbreviations which struck them as humorous. Their jokes lost point, subsequently, when it was discovered that on no occasion did "MistahBreckenridge" respond to their calls nor meet their demands--whereashis service to all others was swift, expert, phenomenally perfect. Thereafter the jokers forswore indulgence of their sense of humor andaddressed the janitor at full length and with fuller deference, toreap their reward with those whose apartments were warm, whosereasonable requests were met, whose halls were clean, and whose door-knobs shone even as the rare smile of "Mistah Breckenridge" himself. 

It required no unusual powers of observation to discover that as ajanitor the new man was the rare and perfect specimen who keeps alivein a chilly world the tender plant of faith. Long before the sun wasup his busy mop and broom were heard in the land, and the slip-slap ofhis carpet slippers, flopping along the halls as he made his nightlyround, was the lullaby of dissipated souls who "retired" at eleven. Results followed with gratifying promptness. Apartments long emptywere soon rented, and envious neighbors came to gaze in awe upon theAdelaide and its presiding genius, beholding in it the fine essence ofNew England neatness and in him a small, thin, nervous, insignificant-looking "colored gemman, " who gazed past the sides of their faces withcold aloofness. Often, neighbors, passing the impressive entrance, heard from the lower regions of the building the sound of a highchuckle, deepening rapidly to a contralto gurgle, and then broadeningout into a long, rich, velvety laugh as smooth as a flowing stream. Noone could hear that laugh unmoved. It rippled, it lilted, it diedaway, and rolled forth again until the most _blase_ listener smiled insympathy, and children in the streets haw-hawed in mindless glee. Itwas the laugh of Hannah--_Mrs. _ 'Rastus Calhoun Breckenridge, as herhusband was careful to explain; and he once so far forgot his dignityas to add, expansively, "We got de stifkit dat prove hit, Hannah an'me. We got mah'd, _real_ mah'd, by a pahson. "

Hannah--stout, indolent, good-looking, good-natured, large enough tomake two small persons like her husband--chuckled and gurgled into herfruity laugh. 

"Dat's de mos' pahtickler man, " she volunteered, artlessly. Then, seeing with wifely insight the first traces of gloom on her lord'sbrow, she winked, trembled like a jelly-fish in a fresh convulsion ofher exhaustless mine of mirth, and disappeared into the lower regions, to which, it was said, her husband devoted much more housewifely carethan she did. Usually he cooked his meals--and hers. Invariably hescrubbed and swept the floors. 

Not infrequently he washed and ironed. But whatever he did andwhatever he was, the ripple of his wife's easy laughter followed himlike the wave in the wake of a puffing tug; and as he listened, theweazened face of "Mistah Breckenridge" took on the expression of asmall dog who hears his master's footsteps at the end of a draggingday. 

The strenuousness of life left 'Rastus little time for the society ofhis wife, but occasionally on a Sunday afternoon a rainbow-huedapparition appeared at the entrance of the Adelaide, which, beingresolved into its elements, was recognized as "Mistah" and Mrs. Breckenridge attired for a walk. Richly red were the hats of Hannah, brilliantly blue her gown, glaringly yellow her new kid gloves. Like arubber-tired automobile she rolled along the street, while, not a badsecond--immaculate, silent, spatted, creased, silk-hatted, gloved, andlavender-tied--pattered her small husband. He rarely spoke and neverlaughed; but there was no evidence that Hannah missed theseattentions; if she did, there were numerous compensations, one ofwhich she confided to the cook of the newly married Browns, on thefirst floor. 

"'Rastus suttinly do pay mah bills, " she murmured, appreciatively. Andthen, with her unctuous laugh, "An' ah suttinly does keep dat man busyat hit!"

Quite possibly it was this and his other occupations which for a longtime made "Mistah Breckemidge" seemingly oblivious of a situationwhich deeply impressed many others. It was the frequent presence inhis home of another "colored gemman"--large, brilliantly attired, loud-voiced, and cheerful--who called upon Hannah three or four timesa week and whiled away many hours in her stimulating society. Occasionally her husband found him there, but if the fact annoyed himhe gave no evidence of it. It was observed, too, that the manner ofthe visitor was gingerly deferential toward his host; he evidentlydesired no trouble with "Mistah Breckenridge. " Occasionally he tookHannah for a walk; several times he brought her simple offerings ofchickens and melons, heartening her to their consumption byparticipating in the same. One evening he presented her with a rhinestone belt-buckle. The next morning "Mistah Breckenridge" sought youngHaddon Brown, the newly married, who happened to be a lawyer as wellas a happy groom. Without preface or apology, 'Rastus came to thepoint. He wished a divorce from Hannah. He wished it to be procured ascheaply as possible, but economy was not to interfere with its beingriveted as strongly as the law permitted. He had his facts neatlytabulated. There was no emotion on his little black face. At the door, after young Brown had promised to do what he could for him, "MistahBreckenridge" paused. 

"Git it jes' as quick as yuh kin, Mistah Brown, " he suggested, "foh efyuh don't, I'se feared Hannah ain't a-gwine tuh stay tell hit comes. Hannah am mighty sudden sometimes in huh ways. " With this finaltribute to his spouse, he shut the door quietly and departed. 

In due time Haddon Brown handed "Mistah Breckenridge" the documentaryevidence of his freedom, and immediately on its receipt Hannah rose, donned her most radiant attire, shook out a few farewell peals oflaughter, and departed, closely followed by the friend of the family, beautiful in patent-leather shoes, new gray spats, and a tie to match. Left alone, 'Rastus rearranged his household possessions, watered thegeraniums blooming in his basement windows, scrubbed, washed, answeredbells as scrupulously as of yore, and each night, when the work of theday was done, donned his best clothes, oiled his crinkly hair, anddeparted, returning in time for his usual inspection of the halls ateleven o'clock. 

At the end of one month he set a fresh geranium in the window, purchased a generous supply of provisions, went forth attired likeSolomon, and came back holding in one hand the hand of a blushingbride, and in the other the "stifkit, " signed by the negro ministerwho had just married them. 

No two human beings could have been more unlike than the former andthe present Mrs. 'Rastus Calhoun Breckenridge. The bride was tall, thin, chocolate-colored, serious, and hard-working. She toiled assteadily and as indefatigably as her husband, and to the most cynicalobserver it was plain that she loved him and valued him even at hisworth. She cooked appetizing meals for him, to which he did fulljustice; she mended his old clothes and saw to it that he bought newones; she saved his money; and at the end of the year she presentedhim with a small, fat, black son, over which 'Rastus hung in patheticwonder. 

He himself had begun to grow stout. He put on more flesh as threeadditional years passed. He seemed well-fed, happy, and prosperous. Hehad money in the bank. His wages had been twice increased, and oneChristmas the enthusiastic tenants of the Adelaide had solemnlypresented him with a watch, with his name and the value of hisservices inscribed in the case. His little boy flourished, his silentwife still adored him. The world seemed good to 'Rastus. 

One day a dirty note was put into his hand by a small black youth hehad never seen before. It was brief but pointed:

"I am sik. Com to Sharty Hospitl. He ain't duin nuthen fer me. HANNAH. "

"Mistah Breckenridge" carefully placed the note in his pocket, put hishat on his head, and went to the Charity Hospital. It was not hard tofind Hannah. She had not been there long, but the doctors and nursesliked her and seemed to have been expecting him. 

"She's the life of the place, " said one of them. "She's got a lot ofpluck, too, and laughs when we hurt her. She thinks she's going to getwell, but she isn't. "

The little round face of 'Rastus changed expression. 

"She gwine tuh die?" he asked, quickly. 

"Sure, " was the terse reply. 

"How--how soon?"

The doctor hesitated. "In about a month, I think, " he said, finally. 

'Rastus carried the memory of the words into the ward where she lay, and then felt a quick sense of reaction. Die? Why, this was the old-time Hannah, the Hannah of his youth, the Hannah he had married. Shewas thinner, but the lines had smoothed out of her face and her bigblack eyes looked up at him as confidingly as the eyes of a baby. Shelaughed, too, a little--a ghost of the old, fat, comfortable chuckle;but there was nothing of death nor even of suffering about Hannah thatday. Her spirit was not yet overthrown. 

"Ahm awful glad tuh see yuh, honey, " she said. "Ah knew yuh'd cum. "

'Rastus sat down on the wooden chair beside her and fixed his littleblack eyes unwinkingly upon her face. In his hands he held his hat, which he twisted nervously between his knees at first, but finallyforgetfully dropped on the floor as his embarrassment passed. Proppedup on her pillows, Hannah chatted incessantly, telling him the smalldetails of her hospital life and such few facts of her illness as shehad been permitted to know. 

"I ain' got no pain, " she assured him--"des now, I mean. Bimeby hit'llcum, like hit do ebery aftahnoon, but doctah he come, too, an' he gitde better ub hit, ebery time. He sure am good to me, dat man!"

Her white teeth flashed in a smile as she talked, but the eyes shekept on the man's face had a curious look of wonder in them. 

"Yuh look well, honey, " she said, finally, "an' yit yuh doan lookwell. How come dat? You-all ain' got nuffin' tuh trouble yuh, is yuh?"

'Rastus hurriedly assured her that he had not. He did not mention hiswife nor child, of whose existence she was, of course, perfectlyaware; but he dilated on the glories of his position, the size of hisincome, and the gift of the watch. He pulled the last from his pocketas he spoke of it, and she wagged her head proudly over it andshamelessly boasted to the nurse who happened to come to her side. 

"Dey give dat to mah husban', " she said. Then she mentioned casually, with all her old naivete, "Leaseways, he wuz mah husban' oncet. "

"Mistah Breckenridge" ignored this little incident. His mind was onpractical things. 

"Yuh got all yuh want, Hannah?" he asked. "'Caze ahm gwine tuh git hitfoh yuh ef yuh ain't. "

Hannah, who seemed prepared for this inquiry, responded to it withmuch promptness. She needed a wrapper, she said, and some cologne, andthree new night-gowns, and "a lil chicking. " 'Rastus wrote down eachitem painstakingly and somewhat ostentatiously in a hand suited tounruled paper. Then he bowed to the nurse, touched Hannah's hand withhis sinewy little paw, and trotted out with an air of vast importance. 

For several weeks the Adelaide was almost neglected, and puzzledtenants sought the janitor in vain. He was rarely home, but Dinah, dark-browed, sullen, red-lidded, and with a look of suffering on herplain face, responded to their demands and did, so far as she could, her husband's work and her own. She made no explanation of hisabsence, and the last one which would have been accepted was thetruth--that day after day "Mistah Breckenridge" sat by the bedside ofHannah, talking to her, cheering her, nursing her, feeding her withthe fruit he had brought her. He had almost superseded the nurse; andthe doctors, watching the pair, let them do much as they pleased, onthe dreary theory that nothing Hannah did could hurt her now. Sometimes she had hours of severe pain, during which he remained withher, holding her hand, soothing her, and lifting her still great bulkin his thin arms with unexpected strength. In her better hours shetalked to him, telling him stories about the other patients, anecdotesof nurses and doctors, and mimicking several luckless victims to thelife. 

It was six weeks before Hannah died, very suddenly, and in one of herparoxysms of suffering. 'Rastus was with her at the end, as he hadbeen during the hard weeks preceding it. When he realized that all wasover, he left the room, sought an undertaker, had a brief but pregnantinterview with him, and then disappeared from the hospital and fromthe city as well. Where he went no one knew, though Dinah, wellnighfrantic, strove distractedly to learn. On the morning of Hannah'sfuneral he returned and assumed a leading part in that melancholyprocession, long after referred to as "de mos' scrumptuous bury-in'"in colored circles. Nothing had been omitted that she would havewished. Tall plumes nodded on the hearse, many carriages gathered inthe mourners, and close behind the silver-trimmed coffin which heldall that was left of Hannah. "Mistah Breckenridge" walked with leadensteps, his small face drawn with grief. Subsequently he drew most ofhis savings from the bank to pay the bills, and, having paid them, returned once more to his anxious family and the monotonous routine oflife at the Adelaide. 

Dinah welcomed him coldly, and went about her duties with her headhigh. She said no word of reproach, and it was not until several weekshad passed that it was borne in upon her that 'Rastus remainedoblivious not only to her just wifely resentment, but to most otherthings and emotions in life as well. He did his work, but he atelittle and slept less, and the flesh of his prosperous years seemed todrop from him even as the startled beholder gazed. In despair Dinahsought Haddon Brown and laid the case before him. 

"Dat man am suttinly gwine lose his min', " she sobbed, "ef he keep onlike he doin'. Den what gwine become of me and dat in'cen' chile!"

Young Brown casually and unostentatiously looked 'Rastus over, and wasnot satisfied with the survey. The janitor's lips were drawn, his eyeswere glassy, his clothes hung loosely on his shrunken little figure. He did his work as a manikin wound up for the purpose might have doneit. There was no spring, no energy, no snap. Mr. Brown waited afortnight, expecting some change. None coming, one Sunday morning heurged 'Rastus to go with him on a fishing trip, carry bait, fish if hewanted to, and make himself generally useful. With unrelieved gloom"Mistah Breckenridge" accepted the invitation, and the two left thecity behind them, and sought the peace of wood and stream and broad, overarching sky. 

When he had found the shaded nook that seemed most promising, youngBrown baited his hook, dropped it into the water, and gave himself upto pleasant reveries in which poor "Mistah Breckenridge" had no part. He had good-naturedly brought him out here for rest and change andsport and pure air, he told himself, but it was hardly to be expectedthat he should do more. He yawned, dozed, and surveyed his linewithout curiosity; beside him sat "Mistah Breckenridge, " every muscleof him tense, and a light in his eyes that was not nice to see. 

The spot they had chosen was a not infrequented one in the Bronxwoods, and at intervals the sound of human voices came to them and thelight colors of a woman's gown showed through the trees. Suddenly alaugh was borne to their ears--a woman's laugh; light, happy, irrepressible. Young Brown opened one eye. It sounded like the laughof a nice girl. He looked lazily in the direction whence it came. Thenclose by his side he heard a thud, a groan. His companion had pitchedfull length on the ground, and lay there crying with great, gaspingsobs, and tearing up the grasses by the roots. Brown gazed aghast, startled, sympathetic, understanding dimly, yet repelled by thisunmasculine outburst. He began to speak, but changed his mind andwaited, his eyes again on the bobbing cork of his line. 

"Mistah Breckenridge" cried a long time--a very long time, indeed, itseemed to young Brown, ill at ease and wholly unused to suchdemonstrations. Then he sat up, pulled himself together, and turned adistorted face toward the young man who had been so good a friend tohim. 

"You-all know, Mr. Brown, ah sure is ashamed, " he said, quietly, "butah feel bettah, an' ah guess hit done me good. Ah felt like ah couldkill someone when we come yeah, but ah feel differnt now. "

His voice trailed into silence. He restlessly pulled up dandelions andblades of grass around him, but his face had relaxed and he seemedcalm. Haddon Brown murmured something about a nervous strain, but theother did not seem to hear him. 

"Hit wuz dat lady laffin', " he said, suddenly. "You-all know how mahHannah use tuh laff. Mah gracious! Yuh could heah dat woman a mile!An' yuh know, " he proceeded, slowly, "hit done me lots o' good, MistahBrown, des to heah huh. Ahm a silen' man, an' ah doan laff much, butah liked hit in Hannah, ah suttinly did--mighty well. Hit des made dismo'nful ole wurl' seem a chee'ful place--hit did indeed. "

Brown said nothing. There was nothing in his mind that quite fittedthe occasion. "Mistah Breckenridge" ripped a few more dandelions offtheir stems and went on. 

"W'y, when dat woman lef me--when mah Hannah went away--ah use tuh goaftah night to de place whah she lived, jes' to heah huh laff again. Ah'd stan' out in d' dahk, an' ah'd see huh shadow on de cu'tin, an'den ah'd heah huh laff an' laff lak she always done, an' den--ah'dcome home! Ah done dat all dese yeahs sense mah Hannah lef me. Dinah'sall right. Ah ain' complainin' none 'bout Dinah. Ah mah'd huh caze ahwuz lonesome, an' she suttinly bin a good wife to me. Ahm goin' to wukfoh huh tell ah git back all the money ah spent on Hannah. Hit wusDinah's money, too. But"--he burst out again with a sudden long wail--"ah jes' doan see how ahm goin' tuh keep on livin in a worl' whah deyain't no Hannah!"

His grief gathered force as he gave it rein. He hurled himself down onthe ground again and tore at the grasses with his thin black hands. "Oh, ah want, ah want, _ah want tuh heah mah Hannah laff again!_" hecried, frenziedly. 

A fish nibbled at the bait on Brown's hook, changed his mind, flirtedhis fins, and swam away--a proof of the proverb about second thoughts. A bird in the branches of the tree above the two men burst intoecstatic song. But neither heard him. "Mistah Breckenridge" had buriedhis black face in the cool grass, his hot tears falling fast upon it. Beside him young Brown, brought face to face with elementalconditions, sat silent and thought hard. 

VIII

THE QUEST OF AUNT NANCY

It was in a stuffy compartment of a night train approaching Paris thatJessica and I were privileged to look upon Aunt Nancy for the firsttime. Her obvious age would soon have attracted our attention, nodoubt, and certainly the gallantry with which she carried her eightyyears could not long have escaped the observation of two such earneststudents of humanity as we believed ourselves to be. But thecharacteristic in her which at once caught my eye was her expression--a look of such keen alertness, such intense vitality, that even in themental stagnation that accompanies night travel I wondered what, inher surroundings, could explain it. 

The dingy carriage in which we sat was vaguely illuminated by an oillamp, the insufficient rays of which brought out effective high lightson the bald head of one audibly slumbering German on our side of thecompartment, and on the heavy face of a stout Frenchwoman who satopposite him, next to the old lady upon whom I was concentrating myattention. The latter, obviously an American, the two foreigners, andourselves, were the sole occupants of the compartment; and certainlyin the appearance of none of her four fellow-passengers was therejustification of the wide-awake intentness of the kind old eyes thatnow beamed on us through heavy, steel-rimmed spectacles. Pensively, asbefitted the weary wanderer, I marvelled. How could she look so alive, so wide awake, so energetic, at one o'clock in the morning?

The bald-headed man slept on. The stout woman removed a shell combfrom her back hair and composed herself for deeper slumber. Jessicapresented to my lambent gaze a visage which besought unspokensympathy, and mutely breathed a protest against travel in general andthis phase of it in particular. Jessica in the "still small hours" wasnever really gay. It was dimly comforting to one of my companionablenature to turn from her to the little old woman opposite me. In figureand dress she might have posed for one of Leech's drawings of ancientdames, so quaintly prim was she, so precise in their folds were herlittle black mantle and her simple black gown, so effective a frame toher wrinkled face was the wide black bonnet she wore. On her hands, demurely crossed in her lap, were black lace mitts. Moreover, she wasenveloped, so to speak, in a dim aroma of peppermint, the source ofwhich was even then slightly distending one faded cheek. IrrepressiblyI smiled at her, and at once a long-drawn sigh of pleasure floatedacross to me. In spontaneous good-fellowship she leaned forward. 

"It's a real comfortable journey, ain't it?" she whispered, soevidently torn between a passionate desire to talk and considerationfor the sleepers that my heart went out to her. 

"Well, if you mean this especial journey--" I hesitated. 

"Yes, I do, " she insisted. "The seats are real comfortable. Everythingis. " She threw out her mittened hands with a gesture that seemed toemphasize a demand for approval. "I wouldn't change a single thing. Some say it's hot; I don't think 'tis. I wouldn't mind, though, if'twas. We're gettin' a nice draught. "

I looked through the open window at the French landscape, bathed inthe glory of an August moon. 

"That, at least, is very satisfactory, " I admitted, cheerfully. 

She looked a little blank as she glanced around, and a queerexpression of responsibility settled over her features, blurring theirbrightness like a veil. 

"I see, " she said, slowly. "You mean France. Yes, 'tis nice, an'they's certainly a great deal to see in it. " She hesitated a moment, and then went on more rapidly. "You know, " she continued, in her high-keyed, sibilant whisper, "it's some different with me from what 'tiswith you. You can speak French. I heard you talkin' to the conductor. An' I suppose you've been here often, an' like it. But this is thefirst time _I've_ come over to Europe. I've always meant to, sometime, but things ain't been just so's I _could_ come. Now't I'm here, Ican't stay long, an' I must say I feel kind of homesick. There's somuch to see it jest makes my head swim. I come for a purpose--apurpose of my own--but now't I'm here, I want to do my duty an' seethings. I declare, " she added, shamefacedly, "I most hate to go tosleep nights, I'm so afraid I'll miss something an' hear about it whenI git back. "

I asked a conventional question, which evoked a detailed report of herjourneyings. By this time Jessica had opened one eye; the twoforeigners slept on peacefully. She had landed at Naples, the old ladytold me; and from her subsequent remarks I gathered that she had foundthe Italians as a people deficient in the admirable qualities ofcleanliness and modesty. She lamented, also, an over-preponderance ofart galleries, and the surprising slowness of the natives to graspintelligent remarks made in the English tongue. Aside from thesefailings, however, she had found Italy somewhat interesting, and shementioned especially the grotto at Capri and the ascent of Vesuvius. She added, casually, that few of her fellow-tourists had made thislatter excursion, as it was just after the severest eruptions, and theair had been full of dust and cinders. Jessica opened the other eye. Ibegan to experience vivid interest in the conversation. 

Rome, she further revealed, meant to her the Campagna and theCatacombs. On the former she had taken walks, and in the very bowelsof the latter she had seemingly burrowed for days, following somemysterious purpose of her own. Her favorite time for a promenade onthe Campagna, and one she paused to recommend to me, was at dusk, theplace then being quiet and peaceful, owing to the fact that tourists, foolishly fearing the fever, kept away from it after sunset. 

At this point Jessica sat up, arranged a pillow comfortably behind herback, and gave her undivided attention to the monologue. At last sheput a question. Was the lady travelling alone? The lady hastened toexplain that she was not. 

"My, no, " she said, briskly. "I'm a tourist--that's what they call'em, you know, when they're with a man. They's eighteen in our party, and the man that is takin' us is Mr. James George Jackson. He's realnice. He's in one of the other cars on this train, an' they's threegentlemen with him that belong to us, too. All the rest stayed inParis because they was tired. You see, " she added, explanatorily, "wedone Lourdes in two days, an' we took it off our time in Paris. Weain't got much time in Paris, anyhow, so we went an' come back atnight. I s'pose the rest thought it might be tryin' in the heat, sothey stayed behind an' went to Fontingblow yesterday an' up the Seento-day. But I saw the Black Forest when we was in Germany, an' theRhine, too, an' some of us walked from Binjen to Cooblens, so's wecould git the view real well. So I thought I'd let the French riveran' forest go, an' see Lourdes instead. "

Jessica interrupted here. 

"I beg your pardon, " she asked, earnestly, "but--have you really beentravelling two nights and sight-seeing two days in that fearful crushat Lourdes without any sleep?"

Our new friend nodded slowly, as one to whose attention the matter hadjust been directed. "Why, yes, that's so, " she conceded. "But I ain'ta bit tired. Old folks don't need much sleep, you know, an' I'm prettyold. I was eighty-one last June. "

Jessica dropped her pillow and sat up very straight, a slight flushupon her face. Our new friend prattled on until the lights of Parisappeared in the distance, and Jessica and I began to collect theimpressive array of impedimenta with which we had thoughtfullymultiplied the discomfort of travel. As we pulled down packages ofrugs and tightened various straps the bright eyes of the little oldwoman watched us unswervingly through her spectacles. Grasping firmlya stout and serviceable umbrella, she was ready to disembark. If shehad brought any baggage with her, which I doubted, it was evidently inthe fostering care of Mr. James George Jackson. 

"What hotel are you goin' to?" she asked, suddenly. "I know a realgood one. "

I told her it was the St. James et D'Albany, and her wrinkled facegrew radiant. 

"Well, now, I declare, " she cried, heartily, "ain't that nice! That'sjest where we're stayin', an' I'm as comfor'ble as I can be. I got aroom with a window that looks right into the Twilry Gardens. Mr. Jackson says that I must have the best they is, because I'm theoldest. 'Age before beauty, ' he says, an' none of the other ladiesminds a bit. They certainly are good to me. Of course, I don't say 'tI wouldn't like a more relishin' breakfast, because I would; an' Iain't got used to that waiter man comin' right into my room with histrays before I'm out of my bed, an' I never expect to. But _'tis_ agood hotel, an' the lady that runs it is real nice, if she _is_French. "

The train swung into the great station as she spoke, and a round, perspiring, and very grimy masculine face presented itself at the doorof our compartment. 

"Well, Aunt Nancy, " said the owner of this, with a sprightly effort atcheerfulness, "you alive yet? The rest of us are dead. You come rightalong with me now, and I'll whisk you up to the hotel in a cab. And ifyou take my advice, you'll go to bed and stay there for two days, after this experience. "

He tucked the old lady under his arm as he spoke, and she trotted offwith him in high good-humor, turning several times to nod and smile atus as she departed. 

At eight o'clock the following morning I was awakened by Jessica, whostood at my bedside light-heartedly reminding me of my self-imposedduty of going early to the station to attend to the luggage, which wehad omitted to do the night before. My replies to this suggestion, while they held Jessica's awe-struck attention for five minutes, wouldbe of no interest here. Bitterly I rose, reluctantly and yawningly Idressed. At nine I stood at the entrance of our hotel signallingsleepily for a cab, and wilting already under the heat of the Augustsun. While I waited, a tourist coach drew up at the curb. It wasgorgeous with red paint and conspicuous with large signs bearing thelettering "A VERSAILLES. " The driver remained on the box. The guide, evidently there by appointment and sharply on time, leaped to thesidewalk, glanced at his watch, snapped the case shut with a satisfiednod, and stood with his eyes on the hotel entrance. One tiny blackfigure came forth, greeted him with a blithe "Bongjure, " andintrepidly began the perilous ascent of the ladder he hastened toplace against the side of the coach for her convenience. It was AuntNancy, dressed as she had been the night before, but immaculatelyneat, and reflecting in her face the brightness of the morning. Igreeted her, and in her glad surprise at seeing me again she remainedsuspended between earth and heaven to talk to me, incidentallyrevealing the whole of two serviceable gaiters, the tiny ruffle of analpaca petticoat, and a long, flat section of gray-striped cottonhose. 

"Well, well, " she beamed. "Ain't this nice? Yes, I'm goin'. The restain't ready yet, but I've been awake sence five, so I thought I'd comeright down an' watch the coach fill up. The men ain't goin'--they'reso tired, poor dears. Onri, my waiter, says every last one of 'em isin bed yit. But some of the ladies that went up the Seen yesterday iscomin', so I guess we'll have a real nice party. We're goin' to seethe palace an' the Treenon first, an' then I'm goin' to the fair inthe village. Mr. Jackson says a French fair is real interestin', buthe ain't goin'. He said last night he had a great deal of work to doin his room to-day, an' he guessed we wouldn't none of us see him tilldinner. Do you know"--she lowered her voice mysteriously and cast anapprehensive eye about her as she went on--"Onri says Mr. Jackson'sasleep this very minute, an' it's most nine o'clock in the mornin'!"

These startling revelations were checked by the appearance of two ofher fellow-tourists, and I seized the opportunity afforded by thisinterruption to depart upon my uncongenial task. 

We did not see Aunt Nancy again until the morning of our third day inParis, when I ran across her in the galleries of the Luxembourg. Shewas settled comfortably in a bright-red upholstered seat near the mainentrance, and on her wrinkled face was an expression of perfect peace. 

"Well, I'm glad to see you resting at last, " was my greeting. 

"Yes, I'm restin', " she conceded. "I always do in the art galleries, "she added, simply, as I sat down beside her. "They've got thecomfort'blest chairs here of any, I think, though they was some niceones in Florence, too; an' in one of the places in Rome they was along seat where you could 'most lay down. I took a real nice napthere. You see, " she continued, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out ofone lace mitt, "I don't know much about pictures, _anyway_, but I comeright along with the others, an' when I git here I jest set down an'rest till they git through lookin' at 'em. I don't know what'sMichelangelo an' what _ain't_, an' 't seems to me it's too late tofind out now. "

Jessica appeared at this moment, and further revelations were checkedby greetings, followed almost immediately by our reluctant departureto keep an appointment. Before we left, however, we learned that theday at Versailles had been followed by an evening "at one of themFrench kafes where women sing, " and that fourteen hours of sight-seeing in Paris itself had dispelled the threatened ennui of thesecond day. 

Late that evening Mr. James George Jackson tottered to the side ofJessica in the corridor of the Hotel D'Albany and addressed her, wiping his brow as he did so. 

"It's the old lady, " he said--"Aunt Nancy Wheeler, you know. She askedme to ask you two ladies if you wouldn't like to join us in a drivethis evening. She wants to see how Paris looks at night, an' I've gotto show her. "

He swayed languidly against a pillar when we had accepted theinvitation, and groaned in reply to Jessica's tribute to the oldlady's activity. 

"She's active all right, " he remarked, grimly. "If there's anythingleft of _me_ after she gets through, it'll be because I've inherited aniron constitution from my mother. She's worn out every other man inthe party weeks ago. The worst of it is that I don't know why she doesit. She really doesn't care about anything; I'm sure of that. Butshe's got some object; so she goes from early morn till dewy eve, andof course some one's got to go with her; we can't let her wanderaround alone. Besides, what I'm afraid of is that she'll go all topieces some day--like the deacon's one-horse shay, you know, and therewon't be anything left but a little heap of alpaca clothes andcongress gaiters. She's worn out six pair of gaiters since westarted, " he added, with a wail. "I know, because I've had to buythem. _She_ hasn't had time. " He shook his head mournfully as hewandered away. 

Jessica and I bade Aunt Nancy an affecting farewell that night, as wewere leaving Paris the next day. For several weeks we heard no more ofher, but in Scotland we crossed her trail again. The Highlands werefull of rumors of an intrepid old dame who had "done" the lakes andthe Trossachs as apparently they had never been done before. Was shean American? She was. Eighty years old, dressed in black, with a bigbonnet, steel-rimmed spectacles, and gaiters? All was correct but thegaiters. Seemingly the gaiter supply had been exhausted by theconstant demand. She wore shoes with heavy soles and, our informantadded, happily, gray, striped stockings. From the rumors of herachievements on land and water, Jessica and I glanced apprehensivelyover the surface of Scotland, fearing to see it strewn with exhaustedboatmen, guides, and drivers; but apparently all her victims hadsurvived, though they bore as a souvenir of their experience with hera haggard and hunted look which Jessica declared she could detect fromthe top seat of the loftiest coach. 

Drifting down through Ireland we heard another echo of Aunt Nancy. Shehad ridden on horseback through the Gap of Dunloe, no difficult featin itself, and one achieved daily during Kallarney's tourist season byold ladies of various countries and creeds. In Aunt Nancy's case, however, it appeared that she had been able to enjoy that varietywhich is so gratifying a feature of human experience. Notwithstandingthe fact that she had never been on the back of a horse in her life, she unerringly selected the freshest and most frolicsome of the Irishponies as her mount. It appears further that she was finally lifted tothe saddle of this animal as the result of a distinct understandingbetween Mr. James George Jackson and her guide that the lattergentleman was not only to accompany the lady every foot of the route, but was meantime to cling valiantly to the bridle with both hands. Unfortunately, this arrangement, so deeply satisfying to all, was notratified by the mettlesome Irish pony; the result being that, afterthe guide had been swept off his feet by a sudden and unexpected liftof the animal's forelegs, Aunt Nancy and the pony continued theexcursion alone. Judging from the terse words of one of the observers, it must have been an exciting spectacle while it lasted, though itpassed all too rapidly beyond the line of the beholder's longingvision. 

"Ye c'u'dn't tell, " remarked this gentleman, sadly, in relating theaccident, "which was the harse an' which the auld lady, an' which theGap of Dunloe!"

Excited pursuers did not "catch 'em, " as they were urged to do by thefrenzied Mr. Jackson, but they were rewarded by finding variousportions of Aunt Nancy's wearing apparel scattered along the trail. Items: one black bonnet, one cape, one handkerchief, one pair ofsteel-rimmed spectacles. Apparently only those garments securelyfastened in place, such as shoes and lace mitts, had survived theexperience. Apparently, also, Aunt Nancy had made in almost unbrokensilence her exciting mountain ride. The exception seemingly occurredsomewhere in the Dark Valley, where a mountain woman, seeing her flyby, had thoughtlessly urged her to stop and buy a glass of goat'smilk. The woman's memory of the encounter was slightly vague, ithaving ended so abruptly, but she retained the impression that AuntNancy had expressed an unusual degree of regret at being unable toaccept her invitation. 

"'Twasn't till thin I saw the poor harse was crazy wid fright, an' theauld lady's close blowin' over his eyes, " added the mountain woman, sympathetically. "An' I couldn't do nathin', becuz, begorra, whin Ilifted me v'ice to call me big bye, the auld woman an' the harse washalf-way down the valley. "

Fortunately, five or six miles of this stimulating pace had ablighting effect on the wild Hibernian spirits of the pony, with theresult that he and his rider ambled at a most sedate gait into thespace where the row-boats were waiting their passengers for RossCastle, and where the remaining members of the party were expected tomeet. The remaining members of the party, for obvious reasons, werenot yet there; and the long delay before their arrival gave Aunt Nancytime to replace the missing articles of her apparel with garmentsborrowed from the woman at the refreshment booth, and to eat a heartyluncheon. Thus refreshed, she was ready for the fourteen-mile journeyin a row-boat to Ross Castle, which was the next item on the programmeof the day; and she made it that afternoon, notwithstanding the almosthysterical expostulations of Mr. James George Jackson. 

It was not until we sailed for America that we looked again into AuntNancy's dauntless eyes. She was the first passenger we saw when wereached the deck of the Columbia, and her joy in the encounter was asdeep as our own. We chatted for a moment, and then she darted off togreet various members of her party from whom side excursions hadtemporarily separated her. 

The sea was slumberously calm, bathed in hazy autumnal sunshine. Light-hearted men and women in white linen and pale flannel costumesstrolled about the decks explaining to one another what good sailorsthey were, and how they hoped the sea would not remain monotonouslysmooth. 

"One wants a little life and swing on a ship, " explained one fat, blond man on whose face we were even then looking, though we knew itnot, for the last time in seven sad days. To a unit the passengerspoured into the dining-saloon at the first call for luncheon. To aunit they consumed everything on the bill of fare. All was peace andappetite. 

That afternoon the sea roused herself drowsily, turned over, andyawned. The blue waves of the morning were gone. In their place werehuge, oily, black swells, which lazily lifted the _Columbia_, held hersuspended for a long minute, and then with slow, shuddering reluctancelet her down, down, down. An interesting young Scotchman who wassitting by Jessica's side on deck stopped suddenly in the midst of animpassioned tribute to the character of Robert Brace, looked in herface for an instant with eyes full of a horrible fear, and hastilyjoined a stout German in a spirited foot-race to the nearestcompanionway. A High-church English divine, who had met me half anhour before and had hastened to spare me future heartaches byexplaining at once that he was married, rose abruptly from his chairbeside me and wobbled uncertainly to the deck-rail, where he hungsuspended in an attitude of pathetic resignation. Thus recalled to thegrim realities of life, Jessica and I looked up and down the deck. Itwas deserted--deserted save for a little black figure that trottedrapidly past us, clutching occasionally at the empty air for supportas she was hurled from one side to the other of the glistening deck, but cheerful, undaunted, and happy. 

"I got to have some exercise, " panted Aunt Nancy, as she reclined foran instant in my lap, where a lurch of the ship had deposited her; "soI'm takin' a little walk. " She was still walking when Jessica and Iretreated hurriedly to our cabin. 

The days that followed are too sad to be described by the mostsympathetic pen. The sea, moved to her uttermost depths as she had notbeen in twenty-five years, resented fiercely the presence of theColumbia on her disturbed bosom. Madly she cast her from her; withfeline treachery she drew her back again, and sought to tear apart hermighty timbers. Groaningly, agonizingly, pluckily, the Columbia boreall--and revenged herself on her passengers. She stood on her head, and sent them, so to speak, into her prow. She rose up on her stern, and scattered them aft. She stood still and shuddered. She lay down onher left side until she had imperilled the heart action of everyperson on board; she rolled over on her right side and started brisklytoward the bottom of the sea. She recovered herself, leaped up anddown a few times to prove that she was still intact, and did it allover again. Meanwhile the passengers, locked below and sternlycommanded to keep to their cabins, held fast to the sides of theirberths and prayed fervently for death. 

Neither Jessica nor I was actively ill, but Jessica's indifference tofood and social intercourse was marked in the extreme. Stretched onher back in the berth opposite my own, she lay day and night withclosed eyes and forbidding demeanor, rousing herself only long enoughto repel fiercely any suggestion that she take nourishment. Also, shefurnished me with one life-long memory. From sheer ennui I ordered anddevoured at noon on the third day a large portion of steamed peachdumpling, with hard sauce. The look which Jessica cast first upon thisdish and then upon me will always, I think, remain the dominantfeature of my most troubled dreams. 

During this time I had not forgotten Aunt Nancy, though I am sureJessica had. Her cabin, however, while on the same deck as our own, was at the other end of the ship, and I had grave doubts of my abilityto cover safely the distance between. Finally I attempted it, and, aside from the slight incidents of blacking one eye in an unexpecteddiversion to the rail, and subsequently being hurled violently againstthe back of an axe nailed to the wall, I made the passage in safety. Aunt Nancy was not in her cabin, but a hollow groan from the upperberth betrayed the fact that her room-mate was. From this lady I wasunfortunately unable to extract any information. She seemed to feelthat I was mercifully sent to chloroform her out of existence, and herdisappointment over my failure to play this Samaritan role was sobitter that I was forced to withdraw lest she should utter thingsunbefitting a gentlewoman. 

Down the long corridor, as I groped my way back, something blew towardme like a wraith from the sea. It wore a gray, woolly bathrobe, a tinywisp of white hair fastened precariously with one hair-pin, and a pairof knitted bedroom slippers. It was Aunt Nancy, and we executed thenand there an intricate pas de deux in our common efforts to meet. Finally the Columbia ceased her individual evolutions long enough toenable us to grasp the passage-rail. 

"I've been in your cabin, " I explained, above the roar of wave andwind, as we stood facing each other. "I was afraid you were ill. "

Aunt Nancy looked almost pained at such a suspicion. 

"My, no, " she disavowed, hastily; "but there's them that is, " sheconceded. "I've been to see--let me see--thirty of 'em to-day--men an'women both. Poor Mr. Jackson's about the worst. I never SEE such asick man. I got this cracked ice for him, " she added, looking down atthe glass she was clasping to her bosom with her free hand. "I'd 'a'looked in on you, " she added, kindly, "if I hadn't been so busy, but Iheard you wa'n't neither of you sick. "

I explained with some effort that I felt comfortable as long as I laystill, but that as soon as I was on my feet, the motion--We partedhurriedly. 

On the morning of the sixth day Jessica turned over in her berth, removed from her spine a fork which had seemingly been there all theweek, regarded it with strong disfavor, and announced briefly that shewas going above. We went. The decks were still wet, and the steamer-chairs were securely lashed in place. The sky was gray and lowering, but the sea had sulkily subsided, showing its continued resentment ofthe whole experience only in the upheaval of an occasional wave whichbroke over the ship-rail and perished at our feet. As the hourspassed, pale wraiths appeared at the companionways, supported oneanother feebly to the nearest chairs, sank into them, and veiled theirfaces from one another's gaze. They seemed the ghosts of the happy menand women who had come on board the Columbia six long days ago. Languidly as the hours passed they revived and confided to one anotherthe simple record of the voyage. No, they had not been ill. It was, indeed, singular how few of them had been disturbed by the voyage, though they had all noticed that it was rough. But they had beeninjured by being knocked about or thrown from their berths, or theyhad been caring for friends or relatives who were ill. Several of thempaused at my side on their way to and from their cabins to indulge inthese artless confidences. It remained, however, for Aunt Nancy tomake the most interesting of all. 

She came along the deck about five in the afternoon and dropped withserene satisfaction into the empty steamer-chair at my right. She wasfully dressed in the inevitable black, even to her wide bonnet. With asigh of pleasure she folded her mittened hands and began to talk. 

"It's been real interestin', " she said. "I must say I'm 'most sorry tohave it over. I want to go to Europe again in two years; I ain'treally enjoyed this trip very much; but when I come again I think I'lllike it better, now that I know it. But of course at my age one can'treally be sure one can come again. "

She sank into silence for a moment, looking down at the mittened handsin her lap. Then her face brightened, and she turned to me again withher old, alert eagerness of expression. 

"I dunno why I shouldn't come, though, " she added, cheerfully. "I'mreal well. Before I left home I was some worried. I didn't seem to beas strong as I used to be. That's why I come--to build up my healthan' git strong. Lots of folks has wondered why I come, I guess, an'that was it, though I ain't told no one till now. I guess I didimprove, too, for the stewardess told me with her own lips only thismornin' that she thought I was a healthy woman. But of course, " sheadded, with lowly humility, "I can't do what I did when I was young. "

I was speechless. The Columbia paused on the top of a wave, hesitateda moment, and sailed unsteadily onward. With eyes filled with a solemncontent, Aunt Nancy gazed out over the cold, wet sea. 

IX

THE HENRY SMITHS' HONEYMOON

When Jacob West suggested to Henry Smith that the latter's honeymoonshould be spent in New York, Mr. Smith's ruddy countenance paled atthe audacity of the words, and Miss Maria Tuttle, his fiancee, gaspedaudibly for breath. Unconsciously they clasped hands, as if better tomeet together the rude shock of the moment; and seated side by side onthe rustic bench which adorned the small veranda of the Tuttlehomestead, they gazed helplessly at the speaker. Slowly and with thestiffness of age Jacob sat down on the steps below them and looked upat their startled faces with a twinkle in his dim old eyes. Hisenjoyment of the moment was intense. 

"Why not?" he demanded, cajolingly and argumentatively. "Ain't yeh oldenough t' have a good time? Ain't yeh waited long enough? Ain't yeh"--he turned directly to Maria--"bin nursin' yer poor mother fer sixyears past an' wearin' yerself out, an' ain't yeh bin sewin' day an'night fer three months, ever sence she died, t' git ready t' marryHenry?" He drew a long breath of gratification over the respectfulsilence which greeted these adroit points, and went on with hortatorysympathy. "Yeh bin a good daughter, Maria. They ain't no better inClayton Centre. Yeh deserve th' best they is. Now be good t' yerselfan' Henry. Let him take yeh to New York an' give yeh a good time onthe weddin' tower. "

Miss Tuttle blushed faintly. She was forty-five, and looked ten yearsolder. She was a tired, worn out, faded little woman, drained of heryouth and vitality by the hourly exactions of the fault-findinginvalid mother whom she had so recently laid away in the church-yardwith unselfish filial tears. But there was something attractive in thesweet patience of her thin face, and the look in her brown eyes as sheturned them on her faithful middle-aged lover was one of the trumpcards her sex has played since Eve first used it as she accompaniedAdam to the gate out of paradise. In her embarrassment she laughed alittle, consciously. 

"Mebbe Henry don't want to go, " she began. "He ain't said nothingabout New York. "

Henry whirled abruptly till he faced her on the rustic seat. 

"Go! You bet I want to go!" he ejaculated, with fervor. "Don't I just--you bet I do. Say, Maria"--he fumbled nervously with the thin hand hestill held in his own--"say, let's go. "

Jacob West cackled delightedly. "That's the talk!" he cried, his thin, high tones taking on a shriller note in his excitement. "You jest doit, Henry! You make her! Neither of yeh'll be sorry, I swan!"

They sat silent, reflecting, and the old fellow rose slowly andpainfully, instinctive delicacy telling him that, having done hispart, it behooved him to leave them alone to solve for themselves thequestion he had raised. It was hard to go, but he went, chucklingreminiscently as he recalled the excited look on their faces andpictured the lively debate which would follow his departure. 

It was a warm October evening, and the little village lay silent underthe early stars. A light wind sang a droning lullaby in the grove ofpines back of the Tuttle home, and a few belated birds twitteredsleepily in near-by trees. Unconsciously Maria voiced the subtle charmof the hour when she spoke. 

"I dunno, Henry, " she said, lingeringly--"I dunno's I feel to go. Seems like we ought to be content to stay right here, where it's soquiet an' restful. "

Her eyes roamed lovingly down the garden paths, lingering on trees andshrubs planted by Tuttle hands now a part of earth themselves. "I'm soglad you're comin' here, " she sighed, happily. "I don't b'lieve youknow yet how glad I am, Henry--not t' leave the old place. "

He waived the discussion of this side interest, already settledbetween them. 

"It'll be jest as nice when we come back from New York, " he argued, logically, "an' jest as quiet. "

The feminine intellect beside him took another tack on the sea ofuncertainty with which old Jacob had surrounded it. 

"Mebbe we can't afford it, " she hazarded. "Prices is very high in NewYork, Henry. Joseph Hadley's daughter went there four years ago withher aunt, and she told me with her own lips they had to pay a dollar aday for their room at the hotel, without no meals. The hotel manwanted seventy-five cents apiece for dinner, so they paid it once aday an' the rest of the time they went into lunch-rooms an' had milkan' crackers. But with one dollar for the room, and another dollar 'n'a half for dinner, an' the crackers an' milk besides, they spent 'mosttwenty dollars the very first week. They had to come right straighthome, 'n' they'd meant to stay two weeks. "

Henry Smith's strong jaw set rather obstinately. 

"I guess we won't have to come home till we git ready, " he remarked, easily, "an' I guess we'll git our three meals a day, too. I don't seemyself eatin' no milk an' crackers, nor you, neither. I guess I 'ain'tbin savin' all these years, with a good carpenter business, withoutgittin' somethin' ahead. Say, 'Ria"--it was he who blushed now, hisround face close to hers--"yeh can have anything yeh want. I'm thatglad t' git yeh at last, I'd spend all I have!"

Her thin hand responded for an instant to the pressure of his and thencoyly withdrew itself. She had few words at any time and none inmoments of emotion, but he knew her and was satisfied. 

"You've bin so good, Henry, " she said, at last; "you've bin awfulpatient all these years. Fur's I'm concerned, I'd as lief stay here'sanywhere, but if you want to go t' New York, I--I--want to do what yehsay. "

"Then we'll go, " he said, quietly; and the great question was settled. 

When Mr. And Mrs. Henry Smith arrived in New York on the evening oftheir wedding-day, it is doubtful which of them was the more dazed andfrightened by the bustle and confusion at the Grand Central station. Maria had at least the support of her husband's nearness to sustainher, and the comparative peace of mind of the one who, though facinguntoward conditions, is without personal responsibility; but Henryexperienced, in addition to his self-distrust, a sickening fear offailure in her presence. He was conscious of two dominant thoughts. Whatever happened, he must take care of his wife and spurn theadvances of agreeable strangers. Also he and she must be transportedby hack to the hotel they had chosen, without parting with the savingsof years for the ride. He had heard of the extortions of cabmen. Hebargained fiercely with a too-zealous independent who had alreadygrasped his hand-bag and was leading the way to his cab, past the moreinexpensive cabs supplied by the railroad company. 

"You don't git one cent more'n two dollars for taking us, I can tellyou that, " announced Henry Smith, firmly but breathlessly, as heclimbed clumsily into the cab after his wife. The hotel was in thefifties, and the cabman had intended to charge a dollar for the ride. He promptly protested against Mr. Smith's offer, however, inquiringanxiously if the gentleman wished an honest cabman's family to gosupperless to bed. It appeared that the gentleman was indifferent tothe fate of the cabman's family. 

"You'll do it for two dollars or you'll let us git out, " was his finalword. As one overcome by superior force, the cabman yielded, climbedsulkily to his perch, and, bestowing a large, comprehensive wink uponthe by-standers, started for the hotel his fare had indicated. Mr. Smith's spirits rose. Obviously, in this triumph he had demonstratedhis fitness to cope with all the other grinding monopolies of NewYork. He smiled proudly at his wife as they drove toward Broadway, andhis confidence grew as he discovered that he recognized the TimesBuilding at the first glance and could also recognize the Hotel Astorby its resemblance to the picture of it in the Clayton Centre Weekly. At one point in their progress up-town the cab was caught in a crushof vehicles and Mrs. Henry Smith was privileged, for the first time inher life, to listen to the untrammelled conversation of New Yorkcabmen on an occasion when they set their moral shoulders againstcongested traffic, knowing that it helps THEM, at all events. Sheshuddered and clung to Henry's arm. It was all too plain that theywere in the vortex of godlessness, but even as the realization of thiswas borne to her on the winged speech of the driver, Mrs. Smith wasconscious of an inward thrill. It was awful, but it was life--not lifeas lived in Clayton Centre, but certainly a life that already gainedin excitement and interest from that fact. Unconsciously craning herthin neck farther out of the cab window, she drank in with a fearfuljoy the roar and excitement of Broadway, the shouts of drivers, theclang of trolley-cars. Her faded eyes gleamed as she saw the brilliantlights of the great thoroughfare whose illuminated signs met herglance at every turn. 

Arrived at the hotel, the cabman accepted the two dollars, dumped thebride's trunk on the sidewalk, and drove off with an alacrity designedto prevent any further discussion of rates. Mr. Smith surrendered hishand-bag to the bell-boy who was reaching out impatient hands for it, grasped his wife's arm, and, following his small guide, walked firmlyinto the presence of the hotel clerk. It was a trying moment for himas he dragged that aloof personality down to his level, but detailswere arranged with surprising ease, barring so strange a lack ofsympathy. As soon as he had expressed his few and simple wishes hefound himself and his wife being guided to a lift, and with wonderfulsimplicity put in possession of a comfortable room on the third floor. Here the shades were drawn down, a pitcher of ice-water was hospitablyplaced on the stand, and a cheery fire was started on the smallhearth. Over this last extravagance the bride faintly demurred, butHenry silenced her with his simple grandeur of insistence. It was acool November evening, and he had noticed that she shivered in herthin wrap as they drove up-town. 

"I jest intend makin' yeh comfortable, " he announced, masterfully. 

It was something of an ordeal to go down to dinner half an hour later, but they met it bravely, walking stiffly into the crowded dining-room, and looking to neither the right nor the left as they followed theheadwaiter to their places. The discovery that they had exclusivepossession of a small table was a matter of joyful surprise to themboth, on which they freely commented. The daintiness of the linen, thegleam of silver, the perfection of the service, and the soft glow ofcandles under silk shades, filled their simple country souls with awe. It suggested unconjectured expense with a tang of wickedness as well. Off in an alcove, screened by palms, an orchestra played withconsiderate softness. Mr. Smith smiled a large, expansive smile andleaned back in his chair. The moment was perfect. His apprehensionswere over for the time. Maria was with him, she was his, and he wasgiving her all this. Could an Astor or a Vanderbilt offer more to thewoman of his heart? Henry Smith looked at the plush and gilding abouthim, and read his answer. 

He experienced a rude awakening. A silent waiter stood beside him, offering for his inspection an elaborate menu. The letters dancedbefore his eyes as Henry looked at them. What did they mean, anyhow, and how did one pick out what one wanted, he wondered. Or, perchance, was one expected gracefully to consume everything? His momentary self-sufficiency died on the instant, and sickening fears of making amistake before Maria's eyes again overcame him. A great longing filledhim to appear to advantage, to do the thing properly, whatever it was. On a sudden inspiration he leaned toward the waiter. 

"Say, " he said, confidentially, "you jest bring us two good dinners--the best of everything you've got--and I'll make it all right withyeh. " He surveyed the waiter's face anxiously as he spoke, his ownclearing as it remained quietly respectful. 

"Very well, sir; certainly, sir, " said the servant, promptly. "Oystersfirst, sir, I suppose, and a little green-turtle soup; a bit of fish, perhaps--we've some very nice sole in to-day, sir; a bird--thepartridge and grouse are excellent, sir; a salad, and an ice. Anywine, sir? No, sir? Yes, sir. " He was gone, and Mr. Smith wiped hisperspiring brow. Maria was gazing at him with simple love and trust. 

"I declare, Henry, " she murmured, "you do it all just 's if you'd be'ndoin' it every day of your life. Where'd you learn?"

Mr. Smith made a vague gesture repudiating the charge, but his faceshone and he sat straighter in his chair. He dared not boast, for heknew there were crucial moments coming, but so far there had been nocatastrophes and his courage grew with each achievement. When Marialooked doubtfully at her oysters, and, joyfully recognizing them, wondered audibly why they were not made into a stew instead of beingpresented in this semi-nude condition, he was able, after a piercingglance at near-by tables, to set her right with easy authority. 

"They eat 'em this way in New York, " he said, swallowing one himselfand endeavoring, with indifferent success, to look as if he liked it. Maria followed his example, rather gingerly and not as one whoventures on a new joy. Her interest remained equally vague when thesoup and fish successively appeared. When the partridge was served, however, with bread sauce and French pease and currant jelly, thegratifying experience of finally "having something really on theplate" moved her to alert appreciation, and she proceeded to eat herdinner with an expression of artless and whole-souled relief. She wasable to point out to Henry, as a bit of prandial small-talk, that theorchestra was playing "Nancy Brown"--a classic ditty whose notes hadreached even Clayton Centre. It was at this stimulating point of thedinner, also, that she felt privileged for the first time to removeher gloves, glance at the other tables and the clothes of the women, and talk freely to her husband. Hitherto she had "conversed" underpressure. 

The waiter, offering her a second helping of jelly, saw, shining inher hair, several grains of rice. The discovery exhilarated but didnot surprise him. His mien was one of fatherly interest five minuteslater as he presented a small bottle for Mr. Smith's inspection. 

"Champagne, sir, " he murmured. "Not too dry for the lady's taste, sir. Thought you'd like a glass--special occasion, sir--"

His eloquence died away under the startled look in the bride's eyes, but the groom met his happy suggestion with warm approval. 

"Jest the thing, " he said, heartily. "It'll do you good, Maria. Doctors give it when people ain't well, so you can take it 'thout anyfear. 'N' I guess you're feelin' pretty well, ain't you?" he grinned, broadly, over this flash of humor. 

He motioned to the waiter to fill her glass, and that worthy did soand retired behind her to give his courteous attention to the effect. 

They drank their champagne, and a faint color came to Maria's palecheeks. It was really a nice place, this hotel, she decided, and thefurnishing of this room was such as palaces might cope with in vain. She had heard of their glories; now she could guess what those glorieswere. The voices of other guests chatting around her mingled with themusic; Clayton Centre seemed very remote. At last she was seeing life. 

She felt no embarrassment as they left the table. They strolled slowlydown the dining-room and out into the palm-lined corridor on whoseplush chairs handsome men and beautifully dressed women sat andchatted with surprising volubility and ease. Intrepidly the newcomersseated themselves side by side where they could listen to the musicand watch the strange beings in this strange world. They were out ofit all, and even in the exhilaration of the moment they knew it; buttheir aloofness from others added to the charm of the evening bydrawing them closer together. They gloried in the joint occupation oftheir little island of happiness. For a long time they sat there, forMaria could not be torn away. The music, the costumes and beauty ofthe women, the delicate perfumes, the frequent ringing of bells, thehurrying back and forth of bell-boys and hotel servants, wereindescribably fascinating to her. 

The next morning Mr. Smith, sternly recalling himself to the materialside of life, had a brief but pregnant chat with the clerk. He and hiswife wished to stay a few days at the hotel, he intimated, but itwould be advisable, before making their plans, to go somewhat into thequestion of expense. How much, for instance, was their dinner lastnight. He had signed a check, but his memory was hazy as to theamount. His brain reeled when the clerk, having looked it up, gave himthe figures--$10. 85. 

"Good Lord!" gasped Mr. Henry Smith. "I guess we'd better go back to-day ef it's goin' to be THAT much!"

He was too limp mentally to follow for a time the clerks remarks, butlight gradually broke upon him. He could henceforth take table d'hotemeals, paying sixty cents each for breakfast and luncheon for himselfand his wife, and one dollar each for their dinner. That would be onlyfour dollars and forty cents a day for all meals--and would make thehotel bills much less than if one ordered by card, unless one was--er--familiar with the prices. It was much less trouble, too. Mr. Smithgrasped the point and expansively shook the clerk's hand. His reliefwas so great that he urged that youth to have a cigar, and the youthin return volunteered information as to points of interest tostrangers in New York. 

"Better do the town to-day, " he suggested. "Just go round and get ageneral view--Broadway, Fifth Avenue, the shops, and all that. Thento-night you'd better go to the play. I think you'd enjoy 'The WhiteCat' as much as anything. "

Armed with definite information as to the most direct route toBroadway, Mr. Smith sought his bride. He found her in the corridor, watching the people come and go, her thin face flushed and animated. 

"Oh, Henry, " she cried, eagerly, "I declare I'm having the mostinterestin' time! Those folks over there--you know, the ones that hasthe room next to ours--ain't spoke to each other sence breakfast. Doyou think they've quarrelled, the poor dears?"

He gave but perfunctory attention to "the poor dears, " his duties asprospective cicerone filling his thoughts. Maria's face fell as heoutlined their plans for the day. 

"Well, if you feel to go, Henry, " she said, doubtfully, "but it's SOinterestin' here. I feel 's if I knew all these folks. I wish we couldstay here this mornin', anyhow, 'n' not git out in those dreadfulcrowded streets jest yet. "

He sat down beside her with a promptness which evoked a startledshriek from an absorbed young person reading near them. 

"Then we'll stay right here, " he announced, kindly. "We're here, 'Ria, to do jest what you want, an' we're goin' to do it. "

She gave him an adoring look, and under its radiance Mr. Smithpromptly forgot the small claims of Broadway. Siberia with Maria in itwould have blossomed like the rose for Henry Smith, and the wide, cheerful corridors of the Berkeley were far removed from Siberia'satmosphere. Side by side and blissfully happy, they whiled the morninghours away. After luncheon Henry again tentatively touched on sight-seeing. 

"'Tain't far, " he said. He consulted the slip of directions the clerkhad given him, and went on expansively, "We take the cross-town lineat Fifty-ninth Street, transfer to a Broadway car--"

Maria shivered. "My, Henry, " she quavered, "that sounds dreadfulmixed. I'm afraid we'll get lost. "

Henry's own soul was full of dark forebodings, and he inwardlywelcomed the respite her words gave him. 

"Well, then, don't let's go, " he said, easily, "till to-morrow, anyhow. We got plenty o' time. We'll stay here, an' to-night we'll goto see a play. "

Like the morning, the afternoon passed sweetly. Henry made thediscovery that the hotel cafe at the right of the reception-room was apopular resort for men guests of the hotel, and his researches intotheir pleasures led to an introduction to a Manhattan cocktail. Hereturned to Maria's side an ardent convert to her theory that thehotel was the pleasantest place in New York. Subsequently, as hesampled a Martini, one or two men chatted with him for a moment, giving him a delightful sense of easy association with his peers. Maria, in the mean time, had formed a pleasing acquaintance with theparlor maid, and had talked freely to several little children. It waswith reluctance that they tore themselves away from the corridor longenough to go in to dinner. 

The table d'hote dinner, served in another room, was much lesselaborate than the banquet of the night before, but neither of themrealized the difference. Good in itself, to them it was perfection, and Maria recognized almost as old friends familiar faces of fellowhotel guests at the tables around her. When the question of thetheatre came up she was distinctly chilling. 

"We'll go if you want to, Henry, " she said, "but the band's goin' toplay all evening, an' the maid said some of the young folks has got upa dance in the little ball-room. Wouldn't you like to see it?"

Henry decided that he would. He had, in fact, no rabid wish to see aplay, and the prospect of piloting Maria safely to the centre of thetown and home was definitely strenuous. He drank another cocktailafter dinner, smoked a cigar with a Western travelling man, exchangedsage views on politics with that gentleman, and happily spent theremainder of the evening by his Maria's side, watching the whirlingyoung things in the small ball-room. The happiest of them were sad, indeed, compared with Henry Smith. 

The next morning the cheerful voice of the clerk greeted him as hecame from the dining-room. 

"Where to-day, Mr. Smith?" inquired that affable youth. "How about theHorse Show? You surely ought to look in on that. " He wrote on a cardexplicit directions for arriving at the scene of this diversion, andMr. Smith, gratefully accepting it, hastened to his bride's side. Hefound her full of another project. 

"Oh, Henry, " she cried, "they's going to be a lecture here in thehotel this mornin', by a lady that's been to Japan. All the money shegets for tickets will go to the poor. I guess she'll ask as much astwenty-five cents apiece, but I think we better go. "

Sustained by a cocktail, and strengthened by the presence of hisMaria, Mr. Smith attended the lecture, cheerfully paying two dollarsfor the privilege, but refraining from dampening his wife's joy bymentioning the fact. In the afternoon he broached the Horse Show. Maria's face paled. To her it meant an exaggerated county fair, withits attendant fatigue. 

"You go, Henry, " she urged. "You jest go an' enjoy yourself. I feeltoo tired--I really do. I'd rather stay home--here--an' rest. We don'treally have to do nothing we don't want to, do we?"

Honest Henry Smith, whose working-day in Clayton Centre began at fivein the morning and ended at six at night, and whose evenings wereusually spent in the sleep of utter exhaustion, found himself relaxingdeliciously under her words. It was good, very good, to rest, and toknow they didn't HAVE to do things unless they wished. 

"I won't, neither, go alone, " he announced. "I ain't anxious to go. I'd ruther stay here with you. We'll go some other time. "

The white-capped maid smiled as she passed them; the palms nodded asto old friends. The seductive charms of the Berkeley corridors againwrapped them round. 

"Going to see some of the pictures to-day?" asked the clerk, on thethird morning, cheerfully doing his duty by the strangers as heconceived it. "Better go to Central Park first and the MetropolitanMuseum, then to the private exhibitions. Here's the list. Take across-town car to Fifth Avenue, and a 'bus to Eighty-first Street, andafter the Park a Fifth Avenue 'bus will drop you at the other places. "

Apprehension settled over Henry Smith, rudely disturbing his lotos-eater's sense of being. He felt almost annoyed by this well-meaningbut indefatigable young man who seemed to think folks should begadding all the time. His manner was unresponsive as he took theaddresses. 

"I'll see what my wife says, " he remarked, indifferently. 

His wife said what he believed and hoped she would say. 

"We ain't goin' home till to-morrow afternoon, " she observed, "an' wecan see Central Park to-morrow mornin' if we want to. They's a womanhere that does up hair for fifty cents, an' I thought if yeh didn'tmind, Henry, I'd have her do mine--"

Henry urged her to carry out this happy inspiration. "She can't makeyeh look any nicer, though, " he added, gallantly. Then, as Mariasurrendered herself and their room to the hairdresser's ministrations, he visited the bar, chatted with his friend the clerk, and smoked agood cigar. Afterward he selected a comfortable chair in the corridorwhere he was to meet Maria, stretched his long legs, dozed, and foundit good to be alive. 

A befrizzled Maria, whose scant hair stood out in startling Marcelwaves, confronted him at luncheon-time. A sudden inspiration shook himto his depths. 

"Don't you want to go down-town and have your picture took?" he urged. "Let's have ours done together. "

Maria was proof against even this lure. She had a better idea. 

"They's a photograph man right here in the hotel, " she chirped, joyously. "He's next to the flower-shop, an' we can go right inthrough that little narrow hall. "

They went, subsequently carrying home with them as their choicesttreasure the cabinet photograph for which they had posed side by side, with the excitement of New York life shining in their honest eyes. Inthe evening the clerk suggested a concert. 

"It's a fine one, at Carnegie Hall, right near here, " he urged, cheerfully, "and Sembrich is to sing, with the Symphony Orchestra. Youcan get in for fifty cents if you don't mind sitting in the gallery. You really ought to go, Mrs. Smith; you would enjoy it. "

Mrs. Smith turned upon him an anxious eye. 

"How far did you say 'twas?" she asked, warily. 

"Oh, not ten minutes' ride. You take the car here at the corner--"

But the mention of the car blighted the budding purpose in Maria'ssoul. 

"I feel real tired, " she said, quickly, "but if my husband wants togo--"

Her husband loudly disavowed any such aspiration. 

"We got a long journey before us to-morrow, " he said, "an' I guess webetter rest. "

They rested in the Berkeley corridor, amid the familiar sights andscenes. The following morning found them equally disinclined forsight-seeing. Seated in their favorite chairs, they watched thethrongs of happy people who came and went around them. Henry had addedto the list of his acquaintances two more travelling men and the boyat the news-counter. His wife had heard in detail the sad story of herchambermaid's life, and a few facts and surmises about fellow-guestsat the hotel. 

Maria drew a long sigh when, after they had paid their bill the nextday and bade farewell to the clerk and other new friends, they climbedinto the cab which was to take them to the station. 

"My, but it was interestin'!" she said, softly; adding, with entireconviction, "Henry, I 'ain't never had such a good time in my hulllife! I really 'ain't!"

"Neither have I, " avowed Henry, truthfully. "Wasn't it jest bully!"

On the train a sudden thought occurred to Mrs. Smith. 

"Henry, " she began, uneasily, "s'pose any one asks what we've SEEN inNew York. What'll we tell 'em? You know, somehow we didn't seem t' gittime t' see much. "

Henry Smith was equal to the emergency. 

"We'll say we seen so much we can't remember it, " he said, shamelessly. "Don't you worry one bit about that, Maria Smith. I'vealways heard that weddin' couples don't never really see nothin' ontheir weddin' towers, anyhow--they gad an' gad, an' it don't do nogood. We was wiser not to try!"

 X

THE CASE OF KATRINA

My memory of Katrina goes back to the morning when, at the tender ageof ten, she was violently precipitated into our classroom. The motivepower, we subsequently learned, was her brother Jacob, slightly olderthan Katrina, whose nervous system had abruptly refused the ordeal ofaccompanying her into the presence of the teacher. Pushing the doorajar until the opening was just large enough to admit her, he thrusther through, following her fat figure for a second with one anxiouseye and breathing audibly in his excitement. The next instant thecheerful clatter of his hob-nailed boots echoed down the hall, followed by a whoop of relief as he emerged upon the playground. 

It was Katrina's bearing as she stood, thus rudely projected into ourlives, endeavoring to recover her equilibrium, and with thirty pairsof eyes fixed unswervingly upon her, that won my heart and Jessica's. Owing to a fervid determination of our teacher to keep us well inview, we sat in the front row, directly facing her. Having, even inour extreme youth, a constitutional distaste to missing anything, weundoubtedly stared at Katrina longer and harder than any of theothers. We smiled, too, largely and with the innocent abandon ofchildhood; and Katrina smiled back at us as if she also tasted asubtle flavor of the joke, lost to cruder palates. Then she shiftedher tiny school-bag from one hand to the other, swept the room with athoughtful glance, and catching sight of frantic gestures I wasmaking, obeyed them by walking casually to an empty seat across frommy own, where she sat down with deepening dimples and an air offinality. 

Several moments subsequently our teacher, Miss Merrill, arousedherself from the trance into which she apparently had been thrown bythe expeditiousness with which this incident was accomplished, andcoming to Katrina's side, ratified the arrangement, incidentallylearning the new pupil's name and receiving from her hand a card, written by the principal and assigning her to our special grade. Butlong before these insignificant details were completed, Jessica and Ihad emptied Katrina's bag, arranged her books in her desk, lent her apencil she lacked, indicated to her the boy most to be scorned andshunned, given her in pantomime the exact standing of Miss Merrill inthe regard of her pupils, and accepted in turn the temporary loan ofthe spruce-gum with which she had happily provided herself. At recessthe acquaintance thus auspiciously begun ripened into a warmfriendship, and on the way home from school that night we made acovenant of eternal loyalty and love, and told one another the storiesof our lives. 

Jessica's and mine were distressingly matter-of-fact. We were bothsupplied with the usual complement of parents, brothers, and sisters, and, barring the melancholy condition that none of them, of course, understood our complex natures, we had nothing unusual to chronicle. But Katrina's recital was of an interest. She was, to begin with, anorphan, living with two brothers and an old uncle in a large andgloomy house we had often noticed as it stood with its faded backturned coldly to Evans Avenue. Seemingly her pleasures and friendswere few. Once a month she went to the cemetery to put flowers on herfather's and mother's graves. Katrina herself seemed uncertain as towhether this pilgrimage properly belonged in the field of pleasure orthe stern path of duty; but Jessica and I classified it at once, anddropped an easy tear. We hoped her uncle was grim and stern, and didnot give her enough to eat. This, we felt, would have made themelancholy picture of Katrina's condition most satisfyingly complete. But when we sought eagerly for such details, Katrina, with shamelessindifference to dramatic possibilities, painted for us an unromantic, matter-of-fact old German, kind to her when he remembered herexistence, but submerged in his library and in scientific research. Wefurther learned that they ate five meals a day at Katrina's home, with"coffee" and numerous accompaniments in between. Moreover, Katrina'sschool-bag bulged at the sides with German cakes of various shapes andcomposition. Our stern disapproval of these was tempered in time bythe fact that she freely shared them with us. We were not surprised todiscover also, though these revelations came later, that the oldhouse-keeper had difficulty in keeping buttons on the child's frocks, and that Katrina was addicted to surreptitious consumption of largecucumber pickles behind her geography in school hours. These weresmall faults of an otherwise beautiful nature, and stimulating to ouryouthful fancy in the possibilities they suggested. Unquestioningly weaccepted Katrina as a being to be loved, pitied, and spared the rudershocks of life. Lovingly we sharpened her pencils, cheerfully wecovered her books, unenthusiastically but patiently we wrote hercompositions; for Katrina's mind worked slowly, and literature wasobviously not her forte. In return, Katrina blossomed and existed andshed on us the radiance of a smile which illumined the dim school-roomeven as her optimistic theories of life leavened our infant pessimism. 

Time swept us on, out of childhood school-rooms into the dignifiedshades of the academy, and Katrina developed from a fat little girlwith yellow braids into a plump young person with a rather ordinarycomplexion, some taste in dress, and a really angelic smile. As apossible explanation of her lack of interest in intellectual pursuits, she explained to us that she continued to attend school only becauseher uncle suggested nothing else. Whatever the reason, we were glad tohave her there; and though we still did most of her work, and shecarefully refrained from burdening her mind with academic knowledge, the tie between us was strengthened, if anything, by the fact. Jessicaand I were already convinced that more was being put into us than twosmall heads could hold. It was a grateful as well as a friendly taskto pass the surplus on to Katrina. 

When we were seventeen, Jessica and I were told that we were to besent East to college, and Katrina's uncle, first stimulating thoughtby pushing his spectacles back upon his brow, decided that she wasalready sufficiently burdened by education, and that the useful artsof the _Hausfrau_ should engage her attention forthwith. She shouldkeep house for him and her brothers, he announced, until she carriedout her proper mission in life by marrying and having babies. Withthis oracular utterance he closed further discussion by buryinghimself once more in his library, while Katrina came to tell us hisdecision. 

She had looked forward to the pleasing social aspects of college life, so she seemed slightly disappointed, did Katrina, and the end of hernose held certain high lights. But aside from this evidence of sorrowshe made no protest against the peremptory masculine shaping of herfuture. Stricken to the heart, Jessica and I stormed, begged, implored, wept. Katrina opposed to our eloquence the impassive frontof a pink sofa-cushion. 

"My uncle says it, " she sighed, and was silent. 

Jessica and I were not the natures to remain inactive at such acrisis. We appealed to her brothers, who promptly declined to expressany opinion in the matter beyond a general conviction that their unclewas right in all things. Baffled, we proceeded to beard the uncle inhis den. We found him wearing worn carpet slippers, a faded dressing-gown, a serene expression, and an air of absorption in science whichdid not materially lift at our approach. He listened to us patiently, however, greeting our impassioned climaxes with long-drawn "ach so's, "which Jessica subsequently confided to me brought to birth in her thefirst murderous impulse of a hitherto blameless life. Once weexperienced high hopes, when Jessica, whose conscience had seeminglynot accompanied us to the conference, dwelt feelingly on Katrina'sunusual intellectual achievements at the academy. Her uncle grew verygrave at this, and his "ach so's" rolled about in the bare old librarylike echoes of distant thunder. 

"Ach, that is bad, " he sighed; "I did not think it; I was careless. Ishould have taken her away sooner, is it not so? But she will quicklyforget--yes, yes. " His face cleared. "It will do her no harm, " he wenton. "It is not good that the women know too much. _Kirche, Kinder, undKuchen_--that is best for them. Ach, yes. "

There being obviously little to gain by prolonging this painfuldiscussion, Jessica and I bore our outraged sensibilities to thecalming atmosphere of our homes. And in due time, our trunks beingpacked and our farewells said, we departed to apply our thirsty lipsto the fountain of knowledge flowing at the Eastern college, leavingKatrina to embark upon her domestic career. 

Time and distance, we reminded Katrina, could be bridged by letters, and Katrina responded nobly to the hint. She wrote every day at first, and we consumed most of our waking hours in inditing our replies. There seemed, indeed, little else to engage our attention in acommunity which was experiencing great difficulty in recalling ournames and was in heathen darkness as to our brilliant achievements atthe academy. As time passed, however, we grew more busy. For a fewmonths the necessity of asserting our individuality to an extent whichwould at least prevent our being trodden upon in the halls engaged ourattention, and after that a conscientious imitation of loved ones inthe Junior class occupied much time. 

The great news of Katrina's engagement fanned into a fierce flame thewarm embers of our friendship. Oh, joy, oh romance, oh, young, younglove! We wrote Katrina forty pages of congratulations, and Katrinacoyly but fully replied. We could almost see her rosy blushes as shebent over the pages of her long letters to us. Her future lord was aGerman, a professor in the Lutheran college in our native city, and, it seemed, though Katrina dwelt but lightly on the fact, somewhat pastthe first fine flush of youth. So much Katrina naively conveyed to us, with the further information that the wedding was to be early inFebruary, because Professor von Heller, the happy bridegroom, seemedunaccountably to be in haste, and had bought a home, to which he wasanxious to take her. 

There was much in all this to arouse our girlish enthusiasm; thecharms of our beloved Juniors paled into temporary insignificance aswe followed Katrina's love-affair. We could not go home for thewedding, for reasons which seemed sufficient to the faculty, and thiswas a bitter blow. But we spent more than we could afford on thewedding-present we sent Katrina, and we still occupied most of ourwaking hours writing to her. 

The wedding, according to Katrina's account, was in the nature of abrilliant social function. She found time during her honeymoon towrite us lengthy accounts of its splendors. She obviously had takenconsiderable satisfaction in the presence of the entire faculty ofProfessor von Heller's college and in the effect of her gown, whichwas of white satin, with orange-blossoms. She also sent us a box ofher wedding-cake, some of which we ate and upon the rest of which weconscientiously slumbered, experiencing horrible nightmares. Then, asthe weeks passed, her letters became less frequent, and we, in turn, whirling in the maelstrom of spring examinations, gave to her paradisethe tribute of an occasional envious thought and respected her happysilence. 

When we went home for our summer vacation our first caller, mostproperly, was Katrina. She was a subdued, rather chastened Katrina, whose thoughtful, slightly puzzled expression might have suggested tomaturer minds that some, at least, of the vaunted joys of domesticlife had thus far escaped her. She urged us to come to her at once--the next day, in fact--and we accepted her invitation with thealacrity it deserved. We could not dine with her, we explained, asJessica's sister had thoughtlessly made another engagement for us; butwe would come at two and remain until after five, unbosoming ourselvesof the year's experiences in a long talk and listening to the wisdomthat flowed from Katrina's lips. 

The next day was very beautiful, and Jessica and I, casting off ahaunting suspicion of our individual unimportance which we had notquite succeeded in leaving behind us at college, expanded joyfully, and lent ourselves to the charms of a sunlit world. The Lutheran fountof knowledge was on the edge of the city, and Katrina's home was ashort distance beyond it. It was quite a country place, this home, over the big, bare lawn of which an iron dog fiercely mounted guard. Aweather-beaten house confronted us, with a cold, forbiddingexpression. We felt chilled as we opened the gate, but Katrinapresented herself at the first click of its latch, and her welcome wasso hospitable and eager that our temporary constraint vanished. Simultaneously we fell upon her neck; loudly we assured her of ourenvious delight; noisily we trooped into her hall. As we entered it, alarge, cheerful room confronted us. Through its open door we could seesoft, leather-covered easy-chairs and big windows overlooking distanthills. Jessica started toward this, but Katrina checked her with agentle touch. 

"Not there, " she said, gravely; "that is my husband's study, and hemay come in any moment. _This_ is our sitting-room. "

She opened another door as she spoke, and we followed her dazedlyacross the threshold into a space which, properly utilized, might havemade a comfortable single sleeping-room. It was quite seven feet bynine and had one window, looking out on a dingy barn. The paintedfloor was partly covered by a rug. Katrina's zither stood stiffly in acorner, three chairs backed themselves sternly against the wall. Katrina indicated two of these, and dropped on the third with herradiant smile. 

"We use this as the sitting-room, " she remarked, casually, "because myhusband needs plenty of light and space when he works. Oh, my deargirls!" she broke out; "you don't know how glad I am to see you! Tellme everything that has happened since we met--all about college andyour friends there. "

As she spoke, there was the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall, followed by the noisy opening and shutting of a door. The pushingabout of chairs in the next room and the drop of a heavy body into oneof them suggested that the professor was at home and in his study. Katrina corroborated this surmise. 

"My husband, " she murmured, with a little blush. "He is early to-day. "

The words were drowned by a roar. 

"Katrina, " bellowed a bass voice of startling depth, "bring myslippers!"

Katrina rose on the instant. 

"You will excuse me?" she said, hastily. "Talk till I come back. "

We did not talk, having some abysmal suspicion that if we talked wemight say something. I gazed steadily at a little German picture onthe wall--one I had given our hostess years before--and Jessica hummeda college-song under her breath. We heard Katrina's feet fly up-stairs, down again, and into the study. Almost immediately shereturned to us, her cheeks pink from her exertions. 

"Now, " she began, "I want to hear all about it--the nicest teachers, the chums who have taken my place. "

The voice in the next room boomed out again. 

"Ka-tri-na!" it bellowed. "My pipe! It is up-stairs. "

Katrina departed for the pipe. Jessica and I indulged in the luxury ofa long, comprehending gaze into the depths of each other's eyes. Katrina returned, and we all talked at once; for five minutesreminiscences and confidences flowed with the freedom of a mountainstream after a thaw. 

"Ka-tri-na!"

Katrina sat still. She was listening to the end of Jessica's beststory, but one willing foot went forward tentatively. 

"Ka-tri-na!" Katrina should have heard that call though she lay withfolded hands beside her mother 'neath the church-yard mould. 

"Katrina, get me Haeckel's _Wonders of Life!_"

Katrina got it, by the simple and effective process of going into theroom where the professor sat and taking it from its shelf. We heardthe soft murmur of her voice, fallowed by the rumble of his. When shereturned to us, Jessica finished her story in the chastened spiritwhich follows such an interruption, and there were ten minutes oftalk. We forgot the bare little room; old memories softly enfolded us;the Katrina we knew and loved dominated the situation. 

"Ka-tri-na!"

Katrina's soft lips were not smiling now, but she rose at once, andwith a murmured apology left the room. We heard the suggestion of therest of her task as she closed the door. 

"Where is that box of pens I got last week?"

Apparently their lurking-place was a distant one; Katrina's absencewas long. When she returned, she volunteered to show us the house. Wesurmised that her desire was to get away from the sound of thatsummoning voice, and even as we rose we realized the futility of suchan effort. 

The dining-room, into which she led us for cake and tea, was almostcomfortable. Its furniture, dark, serviceable oak, was a gift, Katrinatold us, from her uncle. Twice as she served the tea she responded toa summons from the professor's study. Once he desired a handkerchief, and the second time he wished an important letter posted at once. Hiswife went out to the rural box which adorned the fence in front of thehouse and cast the envelope into its yawning mouth. Returning, sheshowed us her kitchen, an immaculate spot, the floor of which wasevidently scrubbed by her own hands, for she mentioned that sheemployed no servant. 

"Hans thinks we do not need one, " she added, simply. 

To the right of the dining-room was a fine, bright, cheerful room, full of shelves on which stood innumerable jars and bottles of evilodor. 

"My husband's laboratory, " announced Katrina, proudly. "He has to havelight and air. "

Up-stairs there was a bedroom containing a huge double bed; acompanion room off this was evidently used by the professor as adressing-room and store-room. His clothes and several startling Germantrunks filled it. There were other rooms, but not one of themcontained a rug or a piece of furniture. Slowly, convincingly, theknowledge entered our sentimental little hearts that Katrina's solerefuge for herself and her friends was the tiny, so-called "sitting-room" down-stairs. She continued to show us about with housewifelypride. So far as we could see, her unconsciousness of her wrongs wascomplete. She was wholly untouched by self-pity. 

"Do you mean to say--" began Jessica, warmly, and then suddenlyrealized that she herself could not say it. It was as well, for therewas no opportunity. Even as Katrina was beginning to explain that herhusband did not think it necessary to complete the furnishing of thehouse for a year or two, he summoned her to his side by a megaphonicdemand for water to thin his ink. His impatience for this overcame hisobvious aversion to exertion, and he came into the hall to take itfrom her hand as we descended the stairs. She introduced him to us, and he bowed gravely and with considerable dignity. He had a massivehead, with iron-gray, curling hair, and near-sighted eyes, whichpeered at us vaguely through large, steel-rimmed spectacles. Hesurveyed us, not unpleasantly, but wholly without interest, noddedagain, partly to himself and partly to us, as if our appearance hadconfirmed some dark surmise of his own, took the water from Katrina'shand, grunted an acknowledgment, and retreated to his fastness in thestudy. He had not spoken one articulate word. Even Katrina, smilingher untroubled smile, seemed to feel that something in the situationdemanded a word of comment. 

"He is not at ease with girls, " she murmured, gently. "He has taughtonly boys, and he does not understand women; but he has a kind heart. "

Jessica and I ruminated thoughtfully upon this tribute as we wentaway. We had learned through the innocent prattle of our hostess'sbusy tongue that she desired a garden, but that Hans thought it awaste of time; that she had suggested open plumbing, and that Hansdeclined to go to the expense; that she saw little of her brothersnowadays, as Hans did not approve of them; that her old friends cameto see her rarely since her marriage, as, for some reasonunaccountable to Katrina, they seemed not to like her husband. Wewaited until we were out of sight of the house, and then seatedourselves gloomily on a wayside rock under a sheltering tree. A robin, perched on a branch above our heads, burst into mocking song. The sunstill shone; I wondered how it could. 

"Well, of all the selfish beasts and unmanageable brutes!" Jessicabegan, hotly. Jessica's language was frequently too strong forelegance, and even at this exciting moment my sense of duty forced meto call the fact to her attention. I moreover, essayed judiciousweighing of the situation as the most effective means of cooling heroff. 

"If the secret of happiness is work, as most authorities agree, " Ireminded Jessica, "Professor von Heller's wife ought to be thehappiest bride in this country. "

Jessica turned one disgusted glance upon me, rose with dignity, andmoved haughtily down the road to a street-car which was bumping itsway toward us on its somewhat uneven track. 

"Oh, well, if you are going to be funny over a tragedy in which one ofyour dearest friends is a victim, " she observed, icily, "we will notdiscuss the matter. But I, for one, have learned a lesson: I know_now_ what matrimony is. "

I had a dim sense that even this experience, interesting and educativethough it was, could not be fairly regarded as a post-graduate coursein matrimonial knowledge, and I ventured to say so. 

Jessica set her teeth and declined to discuss the matter further, resolutely turning the conversation to the neutral topic of a cat-birdwhich was mewing plaintively in a hedge behind us. Late that night, however, she awoke me from my innocent slumbers with a request forknowledge as to the correct spelling of _irrevocable_ and_disillusionment_. She was at her desk, writing hard, with her browsknit into an elaborate pattern of cross-stitching. I knew the moment Ilooked upon her set young face that the missive was to Arthur TownsendJennings, the brother of a classmate, whose letter urging her to "waitfive years" for him Jessica had received only that morning. It wasquite evident, even to the drowsiest observation, that Jessica was notpromising to wait. 

Jessica's pessimism on the subject of matrimony dated from that hour, and grew with each day that followed. Coldly, even as she had turnedfrom the plea of Arthur Townsend Jennings, did she turn from all othersuitors. She grew steadily in charm and beauty, and her opportunitiesto break hearts were, from the susceptible nature of man, of an almoststartling frequency. Jessica grasped each one with what seemed even tomy loyal eyes diabolical glee. She was an avenging Nemesis, hot on thetrail of man. Grave professors, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton Juniorsand Seniors, loyal boy friends of her youth who came in manhood to laytheir hearts at her feet--all of these and more Jessica sent forthfrom her presence, a long, stricken procession. "I know _now_ whatmatrimony is, " was Jessica's battle-cry. If, in a thoughtless partisanspirit, I sought to say a good word for one of her victims, pointingout his material advantages or his spiritual graces, or both, Jessicaturned upon me with a stern reminder. "Have you forgotten Katrina?"she would ask. As I had not forgotten Katrina, the question usuallysilenced me. 

For myself, I must admit, Jessica's Spartan spirit had its effect asan example. Left alone to work out the problem according to myelemental processes, I might possibly have arrived at the conclusionthat Katrina's domestic infelicity, assuming that it existed, need notnecessarily spread a sombre pall over the entire institution ofmatrimony. But Jessica's was a dominant personality, and I was easilyinfluenced. In my humble way I followed her example; and though, lacking her beauty and magnetism, the havoc I wrought was vastly lessthan hers, I nevertheless succeeded in temporarily blighting the livesof two middle-aged professors, one widower in the dry-goods line, andthe editor of a yellow newspaper. This last, I must admit, my heartyearned over. I earnestly desired to pluck him from the burning, so tospeak, and assist him to find the higher nature of which he hadapparently entirely lost sight. There was something singularlypleasing to me in the personality of this gentleman, but Jessica wouldhave none of him. I finally agreed to be a maiden aunt to him, and, this happy compromise effected, I was privileged to see himfrequently. If at any time I faltered, quoting him too often on thepolitical problems of the day, or thoughtlessly rereading his lettersin Jessica's presence, she reminded me of Katrina. I sighed, andresumed the mantle, so to speak, of the maiden aunt. Unlike Katrina, Inever had been good at running errands, and now, in my early thirties, I was taking on stoutness: it was plain that the risk of matrimony wasindeed too great. 

For we had been growing older, Jessica and I, and many things more orless agreeable had happened to us. We had been graduated with highhonors, we had spent four years abroad in supplementary study, and wehad then returned to the congenial task of bringing education up todate in our native land. We taught, and taught successfully; and ourgirls went forth and married, or studied or taught, and came back toshow us their babies or their theses, according to the character oftheir productiveness. We fell into the routine of academic life. Occasionally, at longer intervals as the years passed, an intrepidman, brushing aside the warnings of his anxious friends, presentedhimself for the favor of Jessica, and was sternly sent to join thelong line of his predecessors. Life was full, life in its way wasinteresting, but it must be admitted that life was sometimes ratherlonely. My editor, loyal soul that he was, wrote regularly, and cameto see me twice a year. Professor Herbert Adams, a victim long atJessica's feet, made sporadic departures from that position, and thenhumbly returned. These two alone were left us. Jessica acquired threegray hairs and a permanent crease in her intellectual brow. 

During all these changing scenes we had not seen Katrina. Under nocircumstances, after that first melancholy visit, would we willinglyhave seen her again. At long intervals we heard from her. We knewthere were three fat babies, whose infant charms, hithertounparalleled, were caricatured in snapshots sent us by their proudmother. Jessica looked at these, groaned, and dropped them into thedark corners of our study. Our visits home were rare, and there hadbeen no time in any of them for a second call at the home of Professorvon Heller. Seven years after our return from Europe, however, Jessicadecided that she needed a rest and a summer in her native air. Moreover, she had just given Professor Adams his final _conge_, and hehad left her in high dudgeon. I sapiently inferred that Jessica hadfound the experience something of a strain. As Jessica acted asexpeditiously in other matters as in blighting lives, I need hardlyadd that we were transported to our home town with gratifyingdespatch. We had stepped from the train at the end of our journeybefore a satisfactory excuse for remaining behind had occurred to me, and it was obviously of little avail to mention it then. Twenty-fourhours after the newspapers had chronicled the exciting news of ourarrival, Katrina called on us. 

We gasped as we looked at her. Was this, indeed, Katrina--this rosy, robust, glowing, radiant German with shining eyes and with vitalityflowing from her like the current of an electric battery? I looked atJessica's faded complexion, the tired lines in her face, the whitethreads in her dark hair, and my heart contracted suddenly. I knew howI looked--vastly more tired, more faded than Jessica, for I hadstarted from a point nearer to these undesirable goals. We three wereabout the same age. There were six months at the most between us. Whowould believe it to look at us together?

Katrina seized us in turn, and kissed us on both cheeks. To me therewas something life-giving in the grasp of her strong, firm hands, inthe touch of her cool, soft lips. She insisted that we come to see herand at once. When would we come? We had no excuse now, she pointedout, and if we needed a rest, the farm--her home--was the best placein the world for rest. With a faint access of hope I heard her. Thefarm? Had she, then, moved? No, she was still in the same place, Katrina explained, but the city had lurched off in another direction, leaving her and Hans and the children undisturbed in their peacefulpastoral life. 

"Ka-tri-na!"

I almost jumped, but it was only a memory, helped on by my vividfancy. I had tried to picture the peaceful pastoral life, but all thatresponded was the echo of that distant summons. Jessica, however, wasexplaining that we would come--soon, very soon--next week--yes, Tuesday, of course. Jessica subsequently inquired of me, with thestrong resentment of the person who is in the wrong, how I expectedher to get us out of it. It was something that had to be done. Obviously, she said, it was one of those things to do and have donewith. 

She discoursed languidly about Katrina in the interval between thepromise and the visit. 

"Well! Of course she's well, " drawled Jessica. "She's the kind thatwouldn't know it if she wasn't well. For the rest, she's phlegmatic, has no aspirations, and evidently no sensitiveness. All she asks is towait on that man and his children, and from our glimpse of Hans we cansafely surmise that he is still gratifying that simple aspiration. Heavens! don't let's talk about it! It's too horrible!"

Tuesday came, and we made our second visit to Katrina's--fourteenyears to a month from the time of our first. Again the weather wasperfect, but the years and professional cares had done their fatalwork, and our lagging spirits refused to respond to the jocund call ofthe day. Again we approached, with an absurd shrinking, the bleak oldhouse. The bleak old house was not there; nay, it was there, buttransformed. It was painted red. Blossoming vines clambered over it;French windows descended to meet its wide verandas; striped awningssheltered its rooms from the July sun. The lawns, sloping down to aclose-clipped hedge, were green and velvety. The iron dog was gone. Agreat hammock swung in the corner of the veranda, and in it tumbled afat, pink child and a kitten. The fat child proved that all was not adream. It was Katrina reborn--the Katrina of that first day in school, twenty years and more ago. Rather unsteadily we walked up the gravelpath, rather uncertainly we rang the bell. A white-capped maid usheredus in. Yes, Frau von Heller was at home and expecting the ladies. Would the ladies be gracious enough to enter? The ladies would. Theladies entered. 

The partition between two of the rooms had been taken down and theentire floor made over. There was a wide hall, with a great living-room at the right. As we approached it we heard the gurgle of a baby'slaugh, Katrina's answering ripple, and the murmur of a bass voicebuzzing like a cheerful bumblebee. Our footsteps were deadened by thethick carpet, and our entrance did not disturb for a moment thepleasing family tableau on which we gazed. The professor was standingwith his baby in his arms, his profile toward the door, facing hiswife, who was laughing up at him. The infant had grasped a handful ofhis father's wavy gray hair and was making an earnest and gratifyinglysuccessful effort to drag it out by the roots. Von Heller's face, certainly ten years younger than when we saw it last, was alight withpride in this precocious offspring. Seeing us, he tossed the baby onhis shoulder, holding it there with one accustomed arm, and came tomeet us, his wife close by his side. They reached us together, but itwas the professor who gave us our welcome. This time he needed nointroduction. 

"My wife's friends, Miss Lawrence and Miss Gifford, is it not?" Hesmiled, extending his big hand to each of us in turn, and giving ourhands a grip the cordiality of which made us wince. "It is a pleasure. But you will excuse this young man, is it not?" He lowered the baby tohis breast as he spoke, while his wife fell upon our necks inhospitable greeting. "He has no manners, this young man, " added thefather, sadly, when Katrina had thus expressed her rapture in ourarrival. "He would yell if I put him down, and he has lungs--ach, buthe has lungs!"

He busied himself drawing forth chairs for us, apparently quiteunhampered by his small burden. We contemplated the baby and saidfitting things. He had cheeks like beefsteaks and eyes that stuck outof his head with what appeared to be joyful interest in hissurroundings Katrina exclaimed over a sudden discovery:

"But you haven't taken off your hats!" she cried. "Hans, give the babyto Gretchen and take my friends' wraps and hats up to the guest-room. I don't want Miss Lawrence to climb stairs. "

The professor obediently summoned the nurse, dropped the baby, burdened himself with our garments, and ambled off with the tread of apeaceful elephant. When he returned, with the eager look of aretriever waiting for another stick, his wife promptly met his hopes. 

"Arrange the easy-chair for Miss Lawrence, dear, " she said, comfortably, "and put an ottoman under her feet. I want her to restwhile she is here. "

The professor did it, while we gazed. He also inquired feelingly as tothe state of Jessica's health, showed a sympathy almost human in herreplies, and placed a pillow behind her back. Subsequently, duringthat call, he did these things:

He answered the telephone half a dozen times, faithfully repeating tohis wife the messages of her various friends, and carrying hers back, as she declined to be torn from us long enough to talk to themherself. 

He rounded up the remaining two children and presented them for ourinspection, straightening his son's shoulders with an experiencedhand, and tying with consummate skill the bow on his little girl'shair. 

He went to the stable and ordered the family carriage, that we mightdrive later in the afternoon. 

He searched for and found the morning newspaper, thoughtlessly droppedin the waste-paper basket by the maid, and he read aloud to us aparagraph to which Katrina had referred chronicling the achievementsof a classmate of ours. He brought to Katrina, at different times andfrom remote parts of the house, one white shawl, six photographs ofthe children, an essay written by their son, aged ten, two books, abib to meet a sudden need of the baby, and Katrina's address-book. Hedid these things, and he did them cheerfully, and with theunmistakable ease of frequent repetition. I glanced at Jessica. Theexpressions of incredulity and amazement to which she had freelyyielded during the first half-hour of our call had given way to a lookof deep reflection. 

Subsequently Katrina showed us her home. The room that had been theprofessor's study was now part of the large general living-room. Thelaboratory was now Katrina's personal sitting-room. Through its Frenchwindows we saw Katrina's garden blossoming like the rose. Jessicaasked the present location of the professor's study and laboratory. She subsequently admitted to me that she should not have done it, butthat to leave the house without the information would have been aphysical and moral impossibility. Katrina looked at her vaguely, asone seeking to recall a fleeting moment of the long-dead past; but theprofessor responded with gratified alacrity. 

"But you shall see them!" he cried. "Surely, yes;" and like a jovialschool-boy he led us up to the third floor. There, indeed, was hisstudy--a hall bedroom, much crowded by his desk and easy-chair; andoff it, in a closet, were his beloved bottles and chemicals. I felt athrob of sympathy for the professor, but he was evidently blissfullyignorant of any reason for such a sentiment. 

"The _Mutterchen_ and the babies need the rest, " he smiled, complacently. "They must not climb too many stairs--no;" and he ledthe way back to comfort with unconsciousness of the painful contrastbetween past and present conditions that made Jessica and me carefullyrefrain from meeting each other's eyes. The children, when they espiedhim upon our return, uttered shrieks of joy. The baby sprang to hisarms, the little boy swarmed up his leg. The picture of Professor vonHeller as a perfectly trained husband and father was complete. 

In silence, after our prolonged farewells, Jessica and I left thehouse. In silence we entered the trolley-car; in silence we rode home. At last I voiced a sudden suspicion. 

"Do you think, " I asked, hopefully, "that it was all a--a--well, thatshe persuaded him to do it just this once, for our edification?"

Jessica shook her head. 

"I thought so, at first, " she conceded, slowly. "That in itself wouldhave been a miracle--one I'd never believe if I hadn't seen it withthese eyes. But everything disproves the theory. Do you think shecould have trained those children to advance and retreat like a Casinoballet? On the contrary, it's evident that they literally live on him. They've worn the creases off his trousers! Didn't you notice where thecreases left off and the sliding-place of the babies began?"

I reluctantly admitted that this detail had escaped my observation. Jessica sighed. 

"Incredible as it is, " she summed up, "it's all true. It's the realthing. "

"It opens quite a vista, " I observed, thoughtfully. "If you would likeProfessor Adams's present address, I can give it to you. He is in theAdirondacks with his sister Mollie, and I had a letter from her thismorning. "

Jessica looked at me and urged me not to be vulgar. Her thoughtfulexpression did not lift. 

"If Katrina can do _that_ with _that_ man, " I murmured, reflectively, as we entered the house, "I really believe you could work wonders withAdams. He would probably do the cooking and marketing--"

"If you're so impressed, " remarked Jessica, in incisive tones, "Iwonder you don't yield to the prayers and tears of your editor man. "

My reply made Jessica sink into a hall chair which was fortunately athand. 

"I am going to, " I said, placidly. And I did. 

Jessica's nature being less womanly and yielding than mine, hersurrender was a matter of longer time. In the interval I quite forgother unimportant affairs, being wholly absorbed in the reallyextraordinary values of my own. Two weeks before the reopening ofcollege, my reformed yellow journalist, who had come West to spend hisbrief vacation with me, was seated by my side one evening studying theadmirable effect of a ring he had just placed on my finger. It issingular how fraught with human interest such moments can be, andEdward and I failed to hear Jessica as she opened the door. She lookedover our heads as she spoke to me, Her face was rather red, but hervoice and manner expressed a degree of indifference which I amconvinced no human being has ever really felt on any subject. 

"Did you say that you could give me Mollie Adams's address?" askedJessica. 

XI

BART HARRINGTON, GENIUS

The assistant Sunday editor of the New York "Searchlight" was busy. This was not an unusual condition, but it frequently includedunusually irritating features. His superior, Wilson, the Sundayeditor, was a gentleman with a high brow and a large salary, who, having won a reputation as "a Napoleon of Journalism, " hadsuccessfully cultivated a distaste for what he called "details. " Hisspecialty was the making of suggestions in editorial council, incheery expectation that they would be carried out by his associates--an expectation so rarely realized that Mr. Wilson's visage had almosta habit of hurt wonder. "Details" continued to absorb the activity ofthe Sunday "Searchlight" office, and Maxwell, the assistant editor, attended to them all, murmuring bitterly against his chief as helabored. 

On this special morning, moreover, he was receiving telephonedbulletins of the gradual disintegration of his biggest "special, "scheduled for the coming Sunday edition, which was to tell withsympathetic amplitude of a beautiful French maiden who had drownedherself because some young man no longer loved her. The activereporter assigned to the case had telephoned first his discovery thatthe girl never had a lover, but cheerily suggested that this explainedher suicide as well as the earlier theory, and wasn't so hackneyed, sagely adding that he would get the story anyhow. Subsequently he hadrung up the office to report, with no slight disgust, that there wasno suicide to explain, as the girl was not dead. She had merely goneto visit friends in the country, and the people in the house, missingher, had decided that the peaceful waters of the Hudson--

Maxwell hung up the receiver with a few crisp remarks addressed tospace, and absorbed in awestruck silence by a young woman at the otherend of the room who eased her type-writing labor by pausing to hearthem fully. It was at this inauspicious moment that the card of Mr. Bart Harrington was brought in by an office boy. Maxwell surveyed itwith strong disfavor. 

"Who is he?" he asked, regarding the office boy severely. 

The office boy avowed deprecatingly that he didn't know. 

"He 'ain't never been here before, " he submitted, in extenuation. "Hesays he's got a Sunday story, "

Maxwell resigned himself to the waste of five minutes of precioustime. 

"Show 'm in, " he commanded, testily. He sat down at his desk andturned toward the door an expression that reminded callers of thevalue of time and the brevity of life. Mr. Harrington, who hadfollowed the boy through the door with conviction of these two things, dropped into a chair beside the editor's desk and surveyed Maxwellwith a smile so young, so trustful, and withal so engaging, thatunconsciously the stern features of that functionary relaxed. Nevertheless, he was not jarred out of his routine. 

"Got your story with you, Mr. Harrington?" he asked, briskly, holdingout his hand for the manuscript. "If you'll leave it, I'll read--"Harrington interrupted him with an impressive shake of his head. Thenhe settled back in his chair, crossed one leg comfortably over theother, plunged his hands deep in the pockets of his very shabbyovercoat, and continued to regard the editor with his singularlyboyish, dimpling smile. With one swift glance Maxwell took him in, from the broken boot on the foot he was gently swinging to and fro tothe thick, curly locks on his handsome head. He had a complexion likea girl's, a dimple in each cheek, and a jaw like a bull-dog's. He wasall of six feet tall, and his badly made clothes could not whollyconceal the perfect lines of his figure. He was about twenty-two yearsold, Maxwell decided, and, notwithstanding his dimples, hiscomplexion, his youth, and his smile, he conveyed a vivid impressionof masculinity and strength. He was wholly self-possessed, and hismanner suggested that the business which had brought him where he waswas of such urgent value and importance that the busy world itselfmight well hush its noisy activities long enough to hear of it. To hisown great surprise, Maxwell waited until his caller was prepared tospeak. 

Harrington shook his head again slowly. Then he tapped his foreheadwith the second finger of his right hand. 

"I have it heah, " he said, slowly, referring evidently to the brow hehad indicated, and speaking with a slight drawl and the stronglymarked accent of the Southern mountaineer. "I 'lowed I wouldn't writeit till I knew you-all wanted it. I'd like to tell it. Then if--"

Maxwell nodded, and glanced at his watch. 

"Fire away, " he said, elegantly. "But be as quick as you can, please. This is closing day and every minute counts. "

Harrington smiled his ingenuous smile. It was a wistful smile--not ahappy one--but it seemed, somehow, to illumine the office. Maxwellreflected irritably that there was something unusually likable aboutthe fellow, but he wished he'd hurry up and get out. From force ofhabit his fingers grasped a blue pencil on his desk, and he began tofumble nervously among the manuscripts that lay before him. Harringtonsettled back more firmly in his chair, and the swinging of his tornboot was accelerated a trifle, but his voice when he spoke was full ofquiet confidence. 

"It's a good thing, suh, " he said, "and I can tell you-all about it ina sentence. I'm goin' to commit suicide to-day, an' I agree to writethe experience foh you, up to the last minute, if you-all will have meburied decently. I don't cayah to be shovelled into the Pottah'sField. "

Maxwell dropped the blue pencil and wheeled to look at him. Then hisface hardened. 

"It's a pretty bad joke, " he said, "or a bum sort of bid for charity. In either case you can't waste any more of my--"

But Harrington had sprung to his feet, his blond young face black withpassion. 

"Damn you!" he hissed, thrusting his head down close to the other'sand clinching his fists. "How dahe you-all say I lie o' ask charity?I'd see you-all in hell befoah I'd take a cent of youah damned money. 'Ain't you got brains enough in youah haid to see that I've got to theend of mah rope?"

Maxwell was a clever man, educated in the world's university. He knewtruth when he met it, and he knew human nature. 

"Sit down, " he said, quietly, "and tell me about it. I'm sorry I spokeas I did, but you must admit that your proposition was ratherstartling. "

Harrington sat down, still breathing hard in his excitement, butevidently making a resolute effort to control himself. 

"That's why I brought it heah, " he said, answering the other's lastwords, "You-all like stahtlin' things, don't you? That's what youprint. I'm offerin' you a straight bahgain, suh--a businessproposition. If you-all don't want it, say so. "

Maxwell smiled in his turn, but there was nothing ironic in the smile, nor in the look he turned on his fellow-man. 

"It's not quite as simple as you seem to think, " he explained, gently. "But tell me more about it. What led to this decision? What makes youthink suicide is the only way out of your troubles? That's a part ofthe story, you know. Let me have that first, in a few words. 

"It can be told, suh, in three, " said the Southerner. His smile hadreturned. His voice was the cool voice of one who discussed abstractthings. "I'm a failyuh. This wold 'ain't no use foh failyuhs. I'vegiven myself all the time and chances I dese'ved, but I cayn't winout, so I've got to _git_ out. The's no one to ca'e. I've no kin, noons dependin' on me in any way. As foh me, I'm ti'ed; life ain't wuththe effo't. "

Maxwell regarded him. 

"You don't look like a quitter, " he said, thoughtfully. 

The boy's face blazed again, but he kept his temper. 

"To quit means to give somethin' up, " he said, doggedly. "I ain'tgivin' anythin' up. I 'ain't got anythin' to give up. Life withoutwo'k, o' interest, o' fren's, o' ambition, o' love--that ain't livin'!If you-all evah tried it, you'd know. I 'ain't been so chee'ful inyeahs as I've been sence I made up my mind to 'quit, ' as you-all callit. "

"You've got health, haven't you?" demanded Maxwell. "Yes. "

Maxwell brought his hand down on the desk with an air of finality. 

"Then you've got everything. Do you mean to tell me that a fellow likeyou can't earn enough to support himself? If you do, you're talkingrot. "

Harrington took this with his wide, guileless grin. He was notoffended now, for he felt the friendly interest and sympathy under theother's words. His voice when he replied was gentler. 

"I ain't sayin' I can't keep body an' soul together, foh maybe I can, "he conceded. "But I'm sayin' _that_ ain't _life_. I'm sayin' I ain'tbeen fitted fo' wo'k. I 'ain't been educated. I've lived in a log-cabin down in the Virginia mountains all man life. I left thah sixweeks ago, after mah mother died. She was the last of ouah family butme. I 'ain't never been to school. She taught me to read in the Bible, an' to write. I 'ain't nevah read anotheh book except the Bible andMistah Shakespeah's poems, an' Mistah Pluta'ch's _Lives of Great Men_. I know them by hea't. I don't know whe' she got them o' whe' she camefrom. She was different from othah mountain women. I've been No'th sixweeks, and I've tried ha'd to find a place whah I could fit in, butth' ain't none. Men must be trained fuh wo'k; I ain't trained. Icayn't go back, foh the's no one thah, an' I hate the mountains. "

Maxwell's reply was brief and to the point. 

"Think you could learn to run our elevator without killing us all?" heinquired. "Well, you've got to. You've been talking awful guff, youknow. Now you're going to work, right here. We need a new man. The onewe have has been drunk three days. You're going to run the elevatorand get fifteen dollars a week to begin with. Here's your first week'ssalary in advance. I'll arrange about the job with the superintendent. I'll give you some books, and you can educate yourself. When you'reabove elevator work we'll give you something better. You'll probablyhave my job inside of a year, " he ended, jocosely. 

The hand of the mountaineer stretched out to him trembled as Maxwellgrasped it. 

"You ah the only white man I've found in the No'th, " said theSoutherner, breathlessly. "I'll make good, as they say up heah. But Idon't know how I can thank you. "

"Don't try, " said Maxwell, brusquely. "Be here at eight in themorning. By nine there will be a few callers I may want you to throwdown the shaft. "

Thus began the connection between the _Searchlight_ and BartHarrington, subsequently its most popular employe. Before the week wasover all the reporters and most of the editors had casually soughtfrom Maxwell some details concerning his protege, but had receivedfew. Harrington was a new man, and he came from the Virginiamountains, and was most obliging and altogether engaging. This was allthe information acquired even by the indefatigable Miss Mollie Merk, whose success in extracting from individuals information it was theirdearest desire to conceal had made her a star member of the_Searchlight's_ staff. It was to Miss Merk, however, that Harringtonannounced his first important discovery. Leaning across her desk oneevening after his successor had taken the "car, " the new elevator mantouched a subject much upon his mind. 

"I got wet the othah day, " he began, conversationally, "an' mahlandlady let me go to the kitchen to dry mah clothes. I obse'ved as Isat by huh stove that the lid of the wash boilah kept liftin' up, allby itself, an' then I saw 'twas raised by the steam of the hot watahinside. I kep' thinkin' 'bout it, an' it seems to me thah's an ideathah, a soht of ene'gy, you know, that might be used in big ways. Imus' think it out. "

Mollie Merk looked at him, vague memories of one James Watts stirringuneasily in her brain. 

"There's a good deal written about steam, " she said, sympathetically. "I'll bring you a book on it. "

She did, for Harrington was already high in her regard; and quitepossibly the volume killed in that youth's aspiring soul the germ of abeautiful hope. But he was to the fore very soon with a discovery ofequal weight. This time his confidant was Maxwell. 

"Why is it, " he asked that busy citizen one evening, "that when I getin the bathtub the water rises highah? Ain't the' some principle the'that is impo'tant? As I think it ovah--"

Maxwell hurriedly assured him that there was, and the volume on steamwas followed by a treatise on specific gravity, which gave Mr. Harrington food for reflection for several days. Nevertheless, thediscovery that others had been before him did not depress him in theleast. He gave the Sunday editor an insight into his views on oneoccasion when that gentleman was able to convince him that IsaacNewton and not Bart Harrington had discovered the law of gravitationwhile watching an apple fall from a tree. 

"I obse'ved it, too, suh, " argued Harrington, sturdily, defending hisposition as a scientific discoverer. "Of co'se I see the fo'ce ofyou'h rema'k that the othah man was _first_. That is unfo'tunate fohme. But does it affect the value of _my_ discovery? It does not, suh. "

"There's a good deal in it, " Wilson conceded to Maxwell, after he haddelightedly repeated this conversation. "Of course, the fellow has anunusual mind. It's a pity he's always a few hundred years behind thetime, but, as he hints, that needn't dim our admiration for thequality of his brain fibre. "

Maxwell laughed uneasily. 

"I can't make up my mind, " he admitted, in his turn, "whether he's agenius or a plain fool. He lost his dinner last night explaining to mehow the power of Niagara could be applied to practical uses. He washorribly depressed when I told him it not only could be, but was. Ilet him talk, though, to see what his ideas were, and they were verypractical. "

"I call that mighty encouraging, " said the chief, optimistically. "He's getting down to modern times. After he has discovered thetelephone and telegraph and cable and wireless telegraphy he maytackle telepathy and give us something new. "

But Harrington indulged in an unexplained digression at this point. Hediscovered literature and became acquainted with the works of oneCharles Dickens, of whose genius he made himself the sounding trumpet-call for the ears of an indifferent world. 

"The's a book called _David Coppe'field_, " he confided to Maxwell onenight when he had lingered for a chat with his benefactor. "It'sgreat, suh. You should read it sometime, Mistah Maxwell; you wouldappreciate its wo'th. " He outlined the plot then and there, andMaxwell good-naturedly listened, finding his compensation in theenthusiast's original comments on character and situation. This, however, established a bad precedent, and Maxwell was subsequentlyobliged to hear a careful synopsis of _Little Dorrit, Old CuriosityShop, _ and _Oliver Twist_, in quick succession, followed by thesomewhat painful recitation of most of Gray's _Elegy in a CountryChurchyard_--for Harrington was now entering the daisied field ofpoetry. 

It was at this point that Maxwell felt himself constrained to give hisprotege a few words of advice, the city editor having objected to anenforced hearing of the plot of _Ivanhoe_, and Mollie Merk havingadmitted that she had climbed six flights of stairs twice a day for aweek in preference to hearing the final eighteen stanzas of _ParadiseLost_. 

Maxwell explained the situation to his friend as gently as he couldone morning when Harrington had interrupted a talk between himself anda distinguished Western editor who was spending a few days in NewYork. 

"You see, old man, " he ended, kindly, "this is a big, new world toyou, but the rest of us have been living in it all our lives. We'vetaken in these things you're discovering--or we've had them driveninto us at school. So--er--they're not new, and while we appreciatethem we haven't got time to go over them all again. When you get up tomodern fiction--the things people are reading to-day--"

With one expressive gesture of the hand Mr. Harrington demolishedmodern fiction. 

"_I_ 'ain't got time foh that, Mistah Maxwell, " he said, respectfully. "I read one, and I regret to say, suh, that it was too much. I havelooked into othe's, but I go no fu'thah. I have tried to open to yougentlemen the great wo'ks I have discove'ed, an' youah reply is thatyou-all have read them, suh. I am surprised. Do you give one glance ata picture an' nevah look again? Do you listen once to music, o' mustit be something new and mode'n ev'ry time? Last night I heard thecomposition of a musician named Beethoven, who, I have learned, hasbeen dead foh yeahs. Yet people still listen to his notes. Why don'tthey read these books of Mistah Dickens and Mistah Scott and MistahShakespeah?"

Maxwell murmured feebly that a few did. A fitting response toHarrington's arraignment somehow eluded him, and before he had foundthe words he wanted an unexpected interruption came from the Westerneditor, who had been listening to the conversation with almost painfulinterest. 

"Mr. Harrington, " he asked, abruptly, "can you write?"

Harrington looked surprised and boyishly injured. 

"Yes, suh, " he replied, stiffly. "I can read and write. "

"Oh, of course, of course, " explained the other, hastily. "I don'tmean that. Can you write for the press? Have you tried to writeanything for other people to read?"

Harrington's characteristic smile flashed forth. 

"I have submitted sev'al ahticles to Mistah Maxwell, " he said, withsome dignity, "but thus far I have not been fo'tunate enough---"

Maxwell drew a little package of manuscripts from a pigeon-hole in hisdesk and handed them to the visitor without a word. They spoke forthemselves. The latter glanced through them, frowning. Maxwellreturned to his work. Harrington waited. At last the Westerner handedthe papers back to his Eastern colleague, shaking his head as he didso. 

"These won't do at all, " he said, decidedly, "but they confirm myimpression that this man can write something worth while. " Headdressed himself to Maxwell now, discussing Harrington asimpersonally as if he were absent, but from time to time his keen eyesreturned to the Southerner's face. 

"Here's a man, " he began, didactically, "who is hundreds of yearsbehind the times. But please remember that he would have been Watts, Newton, and several other discoverers if he had existed before them. He's as much of a pilgrim on this earth to-day as if he were a visitorfrom another planet. But he has an extraordinary type of mind and verygood taste--a strong, ignorant, instinctive feeling for the best. Ifhe would write a series of short articles giving his point of view tothe busy men and women of to-day, they should be 'good stuff'--a sortof artistic voice crying in the commercial wilderness, don't you see. You or some one else may have to put them into shape, until he catchesthe idea, but he will catch it all right. He's clever enough. If youwant to try him, and it turns out as I think it will, I'll buy thematerial for simultaneous publication in Chicago. What do you say?"

"Agreed, " said Maxwell, briefly. "I think you're right. We'll try it, anyhow. I guess we won't have much trouble persuading Harrington tofavor us with the opportunity of examining his manuscript. " He smiledas he glanced at the other. Harrington's eyes were shining. His words, when he spoke, came breathlessly. 

"I'll have the first copy ready in the mo'ning, Mistah Maxwell, " hepromised. "And I reckon, " he added, straightening his splendidshoulders--"I reckon I'll give up the elevatah, suh. "

Maxwell laughed in high good-humor. 

"Oh yes, " he agreed, "I guess we'll have to give you a successorthere, in any event. However this experiment turns out, it's time youhad something better than that. "

Harrington's first paper was signed "A Visitor from Mars, " and Maxwellmarvelled as he read it. It was not a great production, and it wasfull of small faults; but there was an indescribable naivete and charmabout it to which its quaint, old-time style added the final touch. Harrington's studies of what he called "the olden masters" had notbeen in vain. Late the next evening, in the peace of his small Harlemflat, Maxwell submitted the manuscript to his wife for criticism. Hepassed it over without comment, desiring the unprejudiced opinion ofthe intelligent general reader, and Mrs. Maxwell read it twice, verycarefully, before she handed it back. When she did there was a mistover her bright brown eyes. 

"The darling thing!" she cried. "Who wrote it, Bob? It's as clever asit can be, and yet there's something about it that makes me feel queerand choky. It's--it's"--her face brightened--"it's something like thefeeling I had when little Bobbie wrote me his first letter, that timeI went home to take care of mother. One almost expects to see thewords staggering down one side of the page in dear little, crooked, printed letters. It's the manuscript of a grown-up, sophisticatedbaby. "

Maxwell took the copy from her, well pleased at this conjugalconfirmation of his own impression. 

"It's Harrington's, " he explained, "and he's not sophisticated enoughto hurt anybody yet. But he's going to make a success of this job--there's no doubt of that. I'll ask him to come up to dinner to-morrownight and go over the stuff with me a bit. I don't want to do it inthe office. "

The Western editor was equally enthusiastic the following day. He wasalso glowing pleasantly in the confirmation of his own keenness ofintuition. 

"You wouldn't have seen what you had here, " he explained to Maxwell, unnecessarily. "This is pretty much like genius. This fellow will bewriting his autobiography some day, and perhaps he'll remember hishumble discoverers. Meantime, don't you spoil his work by trying toedit it. Let it alone. It's all right. "

The column of "The Visitor from Mars" grew to two columns, and becamea strong feature of the Sunday _Searchlight_. Harrington, now inpossession of a fair weekly income and unlimited leisure, bought newclothes, rented a sitting-room, bedroom, and bath in a comfortablebachelor apartment-house, and spent his days browsing in libraries, where he read omnivorously. Incidentally, he discovered not only thetelephone, telegraph, and other inventions predicted by the Sundayeditor, but a locomotive fire-box which had received some favor amongrailroad officials for ten years, and a superb weapon of destructionwhich had been used in the Japanese army for six. 

"He's getting on!" cried Wilson, delightedly, when Maxwell recountedthese small disappointments in an otherwise inspiring onward career. "He's learned to dress like a gentleman, speak like a gentleman, andlook like a gentleman, and he has also learned that there have been afew active minds in the world before his came. Give him time. He'll dosomething big yet. "

Harrington promptly verified this prediction by falling in love, whichhe did on a scale and with an abandon unprecedented in the history ofPark Row. It was a tempestuous upheaval for the emotional Southerner, and every other interest in his life retired to the remotestbackground and remained there, unseen and unsuspected. His choice fellon a woman reporter of the _Searchlight_, a quiet, refined young girl, whose journalistic activities were confined to reports of meetings ofwomen's clubs and the descriptions of other social events. For herBart Harrington commanded the morning stars to sing together, anddared the dazzled sun to look upon her like. To him she was Laura, Beatrice, Juliet, Francesca--the essence of all the loves of all theages in one perfect form. During their brief engagement he called forher in a cab each morning, and drove her to her home each night. Hewould have laid a carpet of flowers for her from the office to thecurb had it been practicable. Also, he discovered Keats and Shelleyand Byron and Swinburne, and quoted them until the office boys, whoalone remained to listen to him, demanded that increase of salaryjustly attached to increased nervous strain. Swinburne, Harringtonpromptly decided, he did not like. There was an earthiness in hisverse, he explained to Maxwell, a material side, wholly lacking in thelove of the right man for the right woman--in other words, in his ownlove for Miss Evans. He wrote a column about this kind of love in hisMars department, and a hundred thousand men read it with gurgles ofwarm appreciation and quoted it at dinner the next night. Then hemarried Miss Evans and became interested in the price of coal andother household supplies. His absorption in these topics was almostfeverish. He talked about them morning, noon, and night. His interestin literature flickered and died out. To Maxwell, his first and stillhis best friend, he finally confided his dilemma. 

"You see, old man, " he began, one morning about six months after thewedding, "we've discovered, Clara and I, that the least we can live onin New York is fifty dollahs a week. And you see I'm only gettingforty. It's serious, isn't it? But Clara says that if we buy all ouahcanned goods at Lacy's---"

Maxwell stopped him with a gesture of desperation. 

"Harrington, if you say another word I shall go crazy, " he announced, with the calmness of despair. "We'll give you fifty dollars a week. Now consider that settled, and for God's sake get your mind off it. Ifyou don't look out you'll be writing about coal and canned goods inyour Mars column. What are you going to write this week, anyhow?" hedemanded, with sudden suspicion. 

Harrington looked guilty. 

"I thought I'd say something about how prices have advanced, " hefaltered. "Clara says that two yeahs ago--" But Maxwell had taken himby the shoulders. 

"No, you don't!" he shouted, fiercely. "You'll keep on writing aboutliterature and life and lily-pads and love--that's what you'll do. Ifyou don't, you'll lose your job. Don't you dare to introduce a single-dollar sign or canned tomato into those columns, " he added, warningly, as he returned to his work. 

Harrington's look of reproach as he went out haunted him for days--solong, in fact, that he bore with extraordinary patience a confidencethat gentleman favored him with several months later. He came to theoffice one morning wearing an expression oddly combined of pride andshame, in which first one and then the other predominated. For a longtime he discussed apartments and janitors and domestic supplies, andMaxwell humored him. Then he said:

"I've been an awful ass, Maxwell, but that's no reason why I shouldkeep on being one, is it? I've got to tell you something impo'tant, and I'm going to do it now. I can't write any more about literatuah ofthe past and lily-pads of the present, as you would say. Who ca'esabout 'em? _I_ don't. The wo'ld to-day is interested in the life ofto-day. Men think about theah wo'k and theah incomes and theah homesand theah wives and theah children, and that's _all_ they think about. And women think about men, and that's all _they_ think about. And heahI'm writing all the time about literatuah--literatuah. " He turned theword over in his mouth and ejected it with supreme contempt. 

As once before, Maxwell was silent in the presence of simple truth. Herallied, however, and voiced a protest. 

"I suppose you haven't lost interest in earning your living, " hesuggested, ironically. "How do you intend to do that if you give upthis job?"

Harrington flushed a little, and cleared his throat nervously beforehe spoke. Then he drew a paper from his pocket, and as his fingerstouched it his face cleared and happy pride beamed from him. 

"I've got something else, " he said, simply. "I waited to see how itwould tu'n out befoah I told you. It's quite a story. You see, " hewent on expansively, settling back in his chair, and swinging his footwith the characteristic swing of the boy of two years before--"yousee, Clara needed a hat-pin, the kind that would stay in and keep ahat _on_. None of them do, Clara said. So I made one foh huh, andClara's brothah saw it and thought it was a good thing. He's a lawyer, you know. He showed it to some man with money, and they took it up andwe patented it, and now we've got a facto'y and we're selling it. It's--it's making lots of money. " He turned an apologetic eye on hisfriend and continued, more firmly: "They gave me twenty thousanddollahs down and twenty pe' cent, of the stock, and a block of stockfoh you, because I insisted on that. I want you in on my luck. Heah itis. E. W. Hubbard is the chief backah, and he says this is wuth tenthousand dollahs. He says every woman in Ame'ica will be wearing oneof ouah hat-pins this time next yeah. "

He laid the certificate on the table as he spoke, and for a momentMaxwell sat staring at it, speechless. He knew Hubbard--a rich, shrewdfinancier, and no leader of forlorn-hopes. If Hubbard was in the thingthe thing was all right. But a _hat-pin_! Maxwell looked at thecertificate and thought of the hat-pin, and reviewed the Harrington ofthe past two years, and felt a horrible desire to laugh and to cry. Then he pushed the paper toward the inventor. 

"It's awfully good of you, old man, " he said, huskily. "But of courseI can't take this. There's no reason why you should give me tenthousand dollars, you know. "

Harrington laughed--a queer little laugh. 

"Ain't they a reason?" he asked, lapsing in his earnestness into thecareless grammar he had almost overcome. "Well, I guess I know moahthan any one else 'bout _that_. Do you remembah the fifteen dollahsyou lent me the day I came heah? Well, suh, I was sta'ving. I hadn'teaten fo' two days, an' I couldn't get wo'k, an' I couldn't beg. That's why I meant to kill myself. That money saved me. Now heah'sthis thing. It ain't money. It's an _idea_. It's an idea out of myhaid, an' that haid wouldn't be heah at all if it wasn't fo' you. You've given me mah chance. What I've done ain't much, but it'sbrought results, and results ah the things that count. So we'll justcall it interest, if you don't mind. I think it's goin' to be wuthwhile. An' you know, " he added, almost timidly, "we ah friends--ahn'twe, you and I?"

Maxwell wrung his hand. Then he picked up the certificate, folded it, and put it carefully into his pocket. 

"Thanks, old man, " he said, quietly. "It's the biggest thing that'sever come my way, and I'll take it--from my friend. "

Later, when Harrington had taken his jubilant departure, Maxwellrelated the incident to his chief. Wilson listened with flatteringattention. At the end he nodded sympathetically. 

"He's all right, " he said, "and you needn't worry about him. He's gotone quality left that sets him far enough apart from the rabble of to-day. " He looked keenly at the young man as he added, suddenly: "Of allthe fellows you've ever helped, Maxwell--and I know you've helped alot in one way or another--has any one of them before to-day evershown you any gratitude?"

Maxwell shook his head. "Don't remember any, " he admitted. "But Ididn't expect any, and don't want any. "

"And you don't get it, " ended the older man, with a sigh. "It's therarest thing in life. So make the most of it this time, my boy. Onedoesn't often meet a visitor from Mars!"

THE END