BY MYRTLE REED

 LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN LATER LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN THE SPINSTER BOOK LAVENDER AND OLD LACE PICKABACK SONGS THE SHADOW OF VICTORY THE MASTER'S VIOLIN THE BOOK OF CLEVER BEASTS AT THE SIGN OF THE JACK-O'-LANTERN A SPINNER IN THE SUN LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITERARY MEN FLOWER OF THE DUSK OLD ROSE AND SILVER SONNETS TO A LOVER MASTER OF THE VINEYARD

[Illustration: "She was not looking at him now, but far across thevalley where the vineyard lay. "

_Chapter Four. _

_From the painting by Blendon Campbell_]

MASTER OF THEVINEYARD

BY MYRTLE REED

[Illustration]

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONSNew York and LondonThe Knickerbocker Press1910

COPYRIGHT, 1910BYMYRTLE REED McCULLOUGH

Published, September, 1910Reprinted, September, 1910 October, 1910

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

[Sidenote: Dedication]

TO

ALL WHO HAVE LOVED IN VAIN

[Sidenote: Contents]

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

 I--THE HILL OF THE MUSES 1

 II--BROWN ALPACA 14

 III--THE CRYSTAL BALL 29

 IV--APRIL'S SUN 45

 V--THE HOUSE OF THE BROKEN HEART 61

 VI--MORE STATELY MANSIONS 76

 VII--A LETTER AND A GUEST 91

 VIII--"WHOM GOD HATH JOINED" 106

 IX--A SPRING DAY 122

 X--A LITTLE BROWN MOUSE 137

 XI--THE HOUR OF THE TURNING NIGHT 154

 XII--ASKING--NOT ANSWER 170

 XIII--THE STAIN OF THE ROSE 185

 XIV--THE LIGHT BEFORE A SHRINE 200

 XV--THE INLAID BOX 215

 XVI--ONE LITTLE HOUR 230

 XVII--THE LAST TRYST 245

XVIII--STARBREAK 260

 XIX--IF LOVE WERE ALL 273

 XX--"THE LADY TRAVELLER" 288

 XXI--THE WEAVING OF THE TAPESTRY 302

 XXII--EACH TO HIS OWN WORK 315

XXIII--BETROTHAL 330

 XXIV--THE MINISTER'S CALL 345

 XXV--A WEDDING 359

Master of the Vineyard

I

The Hill of the Muses

[Sidenote: From the Top of the Hill]

The girl paused among the birches and drew a long breath of relief. Itwas good to be outdoors after the countless annoyances of the day; tofeel the earth springing beneath her step, the keen, crisp air bringingthe colour to her cheeks, and the silence of the woods ministering toher soul. 

From the top of the hill she surveyed her little world. Where the smallwhite houses clustered in the valley, far below her, she had spent herfive-and-twenty years, shut in by the hills, and, more surely, by theiron bars of circumstance. To her the heights had always meant escape, for in the upper air and in solitude she found detachment--a sort ofheavenly perspective upon the affairs of the common day. 

Down in the bare, brown valley the river lay asleep. Grey patches ofmelting snow still filled the crevices along its banks, and fragments ofbroken crystal moved slowly toward the ultimate sea. The late afternoonsun touched the sharp edges, here and there to a faint iridescence. "The river-god dreams of rainbows, " thought Rosemary, with a smile. 

[Sidenote: The Valley]

Only one house was near the river; the others were set farther back. Theone upon the shore was the oldest and largest house in the valley, severely simple in line and with a certain air of stateliness. Thebroad, Colonial porch looked out upon the river and the hills beyond it, while all around, upon the southern slope between the opposite hills andthe valley, were the great vineyards of the Marshs', that had descendedfrom father to son during the century that had elapsed since the housewas built. 

The gnarled and twisted vines scarcely showed now, upon the grey-brownbackground of the soil, but in a few places, where the snow had not yetmelted, the tangled black threads were visible. Like the framesurrounding a tapestry, great pines bordered the vineyard save on theside nearest the valley, for the first of the Marshs, who had plantedthe vineyard and built the house, had taken care to protect his vinesfrom the north-east storms. 

The clanging notes of a bell, mellowed by distance, came faintly fromthe valley below. Rosemary took out the thin, old watch that had beenher mother's and her mother's mother's before her, and set the hands atfour upon the pale gold dial. Then she drew up the worn gold chain thathung around her neck, under her gown, and, with the key that dangledfrom it, wound the watch. In an hour or so, probably, it would stop, butit was pleasant to hear the cheerful little tick while she waited. 

[Sidenote: The Red Ribbon]

The doors of the white schoolhouse in the valley burst open and the tideof exuberant youth rushed forth. Like so many ants, the children swarmedand scattered, their shrill voices sounding afar. Rosemary went to ahollow tree, took out a small wooden box, opened it, and unwoundcarefully a wide ribbon of flaming scarlet, a yard or more in length. Digging her heels into the soft earth, she went down to the lowest ofthe group of birches, on the side of the hill that overlooked thevalley, and tied the ribbon to a drooping bough. Then she went back tothe top of the hill, where a huge log, rolled against two trees, made acomfortable seat for two people. 

Five minutes of the allotted twenty had passed since Rosemary had sether watch. At twenty minutes past four, or, at the most, twenty-five, hewould come. For three years and more he had never failed to answer thesignal, nor, indeed, to look for it when he brushed the chalk from hisclothes and locked the door of the schoolhouse behind him. 

A kindly wind, in passing, took the ribbon and made merry with it. Inand out among the bare boughs of the birches it fluttered like a livingthing, and Rosemary laughed aloud, as she had not done for many days. The hill, the scarlet signal, and the man who was coming symbolised, toher, the mysterious world of Romance. 

[Sidenote: World of Romance]

Sometimes the birches were shy dryads, fleeing before the wrath of someunknown god. At other times, they were the Muses, for, as it happened, there were nine in the group and no others upon the hill. The vineyardacross the valley was a tapestry, where, from earliest Spring until thegrapes were gathered colour and light were caught and imprisoned withinthe web. At the bend in the river, where the rushes grew thickly, theriver-god kept his harp, which answered with shy, musical murmurings toevery vagrant wind. 

Again, the hill was a tower, and she a captive princess, who had refusedto marry except for love, and Love tarried strangely upon the way. Or, sometimes, she was the Elaine of an unknown Launcelot, safely guardinghis shield. She placed in the woods all the dear people of the books, held forever between the covers and bound to the printed page, wonderingif they, too, did not long for freedom. 

The path up the hill wound in and out among the trees, and so ithappened that Rosemary heard muffled footsteps before she saw himcoming. A wayfaring squirrel, the first of his family to venture out, scampered madly up a tree and looked down upon the girl withquestioning, fearful eyes. She rose from the log and looked up, with herhands outstretched in unconscious pleading. 

[Sidenote: He Comes]

"Oh, " she murmured, "don't be afraid of me!"

"I'm not, " answered a man's voice. "I assure you I'm not. "

"I wasn't speaking to you, " she laughed, as she went to meet him. 

"No?" he queried, flushed and breathless from the climb. "I wonder ifthere is anyone else for whom you wave red ribbons from your fortress!"

"Take it down, will you please?"

"Wait until I get three full breaths--then I will. "

She went back to the log while he awkwardly untied the ribbon, rolled itup, in clumsy masculine fashion, and restored it to the wooden box inthe hollow tree. "Aren't you cold?" he asked, as he sat down beside her. 

"No--I'm too vividly alive to be cold, ever. "

"But what's the use of being alive unless you can live?" he inquired, discontentedly. 

She sighed and turned her face away. The colour vanished from hercheeks, the youth from her figure. Pensively, she gazed across thevalley to the vineyard, where the black, knotted vines were blurredagainst the soil in the fast-gathering twilight. His eyes followed hers. 

[Sidenote: Rosemary]

"I hate them, " he said, passionately. "I wish I'd never seen a grape!"

"Were the children bad to-day?" she asked, irrelevantly. 

"Of course. Aren't they always bad? What's the use of caging up fiftylittle imps and making 'em learn the multiplication table when theydon't even aspire to the alphabet? Why should I have to teach 'em toread and write when they're determined not to learn? Why do I have togrow grapes when it would be the greatest joy of my life to know thatI'd never have to see, touch, taste, or even smell another grape in thisworld or the next?"

She turned toward him. A late Winter sunset shimmered in the west likesome pale, transparent cloth of gold hung from the walls of heaven, butthe kindly light lent no beauty to her face. Rosemary's eyes were greyand lustreless, her hair ashen, and almost without colour. Her featureswere irregular and her skin dull and lifeless. She had not even theindefinable freshness that is the divine right of youth. Her mouthdrooped wistfully at the corners, and even the half-discouraged dimplein her chin looked like a dent or a scar. 

The bare hands that lay listlessly in her lap were rough and red frommuch uncongenial toil. He looked at her for a moment, still absorbed inhimself, then, as he noted the pathos in every line of her face andfigure, the expression of his face subtly changed. His hand closedquickly over hers. 

[Sidenote: Their Moods]

"Forgive me, Rosemary--I'm a brute. I have no right to inflict my moodsupon you. "

"Why not? Don't I bring mine to you?"

"Sometimes--not often. "

"Let's get them out where we can look them over, " she suggested, practically. "What do you hate most?"

"Grapes, " he replied, readily, "and then children who aren't interestedin the alphabet. All day I've been saying: 'See the cat. Can the catrun? Yes, the cat can run. ' Of course they could repeat it after me, butthey couldn't connect it in any way with the printed page. I sympathisedstrongly with an unwashed child of philosophical German lineage whoinquired, earnestly: 'Teacher, what's the good of dat?'"

"What else do you hate?"

"Being tied up. Set down in one little corner of the world and beingobliged to stay in it. I know to a certainty just what's going to happento-morrow and next day and the day after that. Point out any day on thecalendar, months ahead, and I can tell you just what I'll be doing. Nothing is uncertain but the weather. "

[Sidenote: His Looks]

"Some people pray for anchorage, " she said. 

"I never have, " he flashed back. "I want the open sea--tide and tempestand grey surges, with the wind in my face and the thrill of danger in myheart! I want my blood to race through my body; I want to be hungry, cold, despairing, afraid--everything! God, how I want to live!"

He paced back and forth restlessly, his hands in his pockets. Rosemarywatched him, half afraid, though his mood was far from strange to her. He was taller than the average man, clean-shaven, and superbly built, with every muscle ready and even eager for use. His thirty years satlightly upon him, though his dark hair was already slightly grey at thetemples, for his great brown eyes were boyish and always would be. Inthe half-light, his clean-cut profile was outlined against the sky, andhis mouth trembled perceptibly. He had neither the thin, colourless lipsthat would have made men distrust him, nor the thick lips that wouldhave warned women to go slowly with him and to watch every step. 

With obvious effort, he shook himself partially free of his mood. "Whatdo you hate?" he asked, gently. 

"Brown alpaca, sassafras tea, the eternal dishes, the scrubbing, theendless looking for dust where dust would never dare to stay, and--" Shepaused, and bit her lips. 

[Sidenote: Always Fighting]

"Might as well go on, " he urged, with a smile. 

"I can't. It isn't nice of me. "

"But it's true. I don't know why you shouldn't hate your Grandmother andyour Aunt Matilda. I do. It's better to be truthful than nice. "

"Is it?"

"Sincerity always has a charm of its own. Even when two men arefighting, you are compelled to admire their earnestness and singlenessof purpose. "

"I wish you lived where you could admire Grandmother and Aunt Matilda. They're always fighting. "

"No doubt. Isn't it a little early for sassafras tea?"

"I thought so, but Grandmother said Spring was coming early this year. She feels it in her bones and she intends to be ready for it. "

"She should know the signs of the seasons, if anyone does. How old isshe now?"

"Something past eighty. "

"Suffering Moses! Eighty Springs and Summers and Autumns! Let me see--Iwas only twenty when I began with the grapes. If I live to be eighty, that means I've got to go to town sixty times to buy baskets, sell thecrop, and hire help--go through the whole process from Spring to frostsixty times, and I've only done it ten times. Fifty more! And when theimps who unwillingly learned their multiplication table from me aregrandparents on their own account, I'll still be saying: 'See the cat!Can the cat run? Yes, the cat can run. '"

[Sidenote: Slaves of the Vineyard]

"Why don't you sell the vineyard?" she asked, though her heart sank atthe mere suggestion. 

"Sell it? Why didn't the Ancient Mariner sell his albatross and take anice little trip around the world on the proceeds? Mother would die of abroken heart if I mentioned it to her. The Marsh family have been theslaves of that vineyard since the first mistaken ancestor went into thegrape business. We've fertilised it, pruned it, protected it, tied itup, sat up nights with it, fanned the insects away from it, hired peopleto pick the fruit and pack it, fed the people, entertained them, sentpresents to their wives and children--we've done everything! And whathave we had for it? Only a very moderate living, all the grapes we couldeat, and a few bottles of musty old wine. 

"Mother, of course, has very little to do with it, and, to her, it hascome to represent some sort of entailed possession that becomes moresacred every year. It's a family heirloom, like a title, or some veryold and valuable piece of jewelry. Other people have family plate andfamily traditions, but we've got a vineyard, or, to speak moretruthfully, it has us. "

[Sidenote: Happy Muses]

"Look at the Muses, " said Rosemary, after a silence. "Do you thinkthey've gone to sleep?"

The nine slender birches, that had apparently paused in their flightdown the hillside, were, indeed, very still. Not a twig stirred, and thewhite trunks were ghostly in the twilight. Seemingly they leaned towardeach other for protection and support; for comfort in the loneliness ofthe night. 

"Happy Muses, " he responded. "No vineyard to look after and no school toteach. "

"And no Grandmother, " continued Rosemary, "and no Aunt. Nor any dishesor brooms or scrubbing-brushes, or stoves that are possessed by evilspirits. "

Star-like, a single light appeared in the front window of the big whitehouse on the shore of the river. It was answered almost immediately byanother, far across the stream. 

"I like to watch the lights, " the girl went on. "The first one is alwaysin your house. "

"Yes, I know. Mother dislikes twilight. "

"Ours is the last--on account of the price of oil. "

"Here, " he said. "I almost forgot your book. And I brought you twocandles this time. You mustn't read by the light of one--you'll spoilyour eyes. "

[Sidenote: Saying Good-Night]

"Oh, Mr. Marsh! Thank you so much!"

"You're very welcome, Miss Starr. "

"Please don't. I like to have you call me Rosemary. "

"Then you must call me Alden. I've been telling you that for almost twoyears. "

"I know, but I can't make myself say it, somehow. You're so much olderand wiser than I. "

"Don't be vain of your youth. I'm only five years ahead of you, and, asfor wisdom, anybody could teach a country school in Winter and growgrapes the rest of the time. "

"I'm not so sure of that. Come, it's getting late. "

They went down the hill together, hand in hand like two children. Theyoung man's mood had changed for the better and he was whistlingcheerfully. They stopped at the corner where she must turn to go home. 

"Good-night, " she said. 

"Good-night, Rosemary. I wish I could come to see you sometimes. "

"So do I, but it's better that you shouldn't. "

"I don't see why you can't come over in the evenings occasionally. Ialways read to Mother and you might as well listen, too. I'd gladly takeyou home. "

"It would be lovely, " she sighed, "but I can't. "

"You know best, " he answered, shivering. "It's pretty cold up theremost of the time. "

[Sidenote: Lonely Heights]

"The heights are always cold, aren't they?"

"Yes, and they're supposed to be lonely, too. Good-night again. Let meknow how you like the book. "

Woman-like, she watched him as he went down the street. She liked theway his head was set upon his broad shoulders; she admired his long, swinging stride. When his figure was lost in the gathering darkness sheturned, regretfully, and went home. 

II

Brown Alpaca

[Sidenote: A Cheerless Room]

At seven o'clock, precisely, Grandmother Starr limped into thedining-room. It was one of her "lame" days, though sometimes she forgotwhich was her lame side, and limped irregularly and impartially witheither foot, as chanced to please her erratic fancy. 

A small lamp cast a feeble, unshaded light from the middle of the table, for the morning was dark, and the room smelled abominably of oil. Theflickering rays picked out here and there a bit of tarnished gold fromthe wall paper, and, as though purposely, made the worn spots in thecarpet unusually distinct. Meaningless china ornaments crowded themantel, but there was no saving grace of firelight in the small blackcavern beneath. A little stove, in one corner of the room, smokedindustriously and refused to give out any heat. 

"Rosemary, " said Grandmother Starr, fretfully, "I don't see why youcan't never learn to build a fire. Get me my shoulder shawl. "

[Sidenote: Cold and Cross]

The girl compressed her pale lips into a thin, tight line. She was tiredand her head ached, but she said nothing. She found the shawl, ofred-and-black plaid, and spread it over the old lady's shoulders. 

"I didn't say for you to put it on, " remarked Grandmother, sourly. "IfI'd wanted you to put it on me, I'd have said so. Guess I ain't so oldyet but what I can put on my own shawl. What I want it for is to wrap upmy hands in. "

"Where's my shawl?" demanded Aunt Matilda, entering the room at thatmoment. 

Rosemary found the other shawl, of blue-and-brown plaid, and silentlyoffered it to the owner. 

Aunt Matilda inclined her grey head toward Rosemary. "You can put it onme if you like. I ain't ashamed to say I'm cold when I am, and if Iwanted to wrap up my hands, I'd get my mittens--I wouldn't take a wholeshawl. "

"You ain't got no reason to be cold, as I see, " remarked Grandmother, sharply. "Folks what lays abed till almost seven o'clock ought to benice and warm unless they're lazy. P'r'aps if you moved around more, your blood would warm you. "

"Better try it, " Matilda suggested, pointedly. 

An angry flush mounted to Grandmother's temples, where the thin whitehair was drawn back so tightly that it must have hurt. "I've movedaround some in my day, " she responded, shrilly, "but I never got anythanks for it. What with sweepin' and dustin' and scrubbin' and washin'and ironin' and bringin' up children and feedin' pigs and cows andchickens and churnin' and waitin' on your father, it's no wonder I'm ahelpless cripple with the misery in my back. "

[Sidenote: Head of the House]

"Dried peaches again, " Matilda observed, scornfully, as Rosemary put asmall saucer of fruit before her. "Who told you to get dried peaches?"

"I did, if you want to know, " Grandmother snorted. "This is my house, ain't it?"

"I've heard tell that it was, " Matilda answered, "and I'm beginnin' tobelieve it. "

Miss Matilda was forty-six, but, in the pitiless glare of the odorouslamp, she looked much older. Her hair was grey and of uneven length, sothat short, straight hair continually hung about her face, without eventhe saving grace of fluffiness. Her eyes were steel-blue and cold, hernose large and her mouth large also. Her lips drooped at the corners andthere was a wart upon her chin. 

Grandmother also had a wart, but it was upon her nose. Being a friendlyand capable sort of wart, it held her steel-bowed spectacles at theproper angle for reading or knitting. During conversation, she peeredover her spectacles, and sometimes, to the discomfort of a sensitiveobserver, the steel frame appeared to divide her eyes horizontally. 

[Sidenote: All Wrong]

They were very dark, beady eyes, set close together. At times theygleamed with the joy of conflict, but they always expressed a certainmalicious cunning. With a single glance, she could make Rosemary feelmentally undressed. Had the girl's forehead been transparent, like thecrystal of a watch, with the machinery of thought and emotion fullyexposed to the eye of a master-mechanic, her sensation could not havediffered from the helpless awe her grandmother so easily inspired. 

Of course the breakfast was not right--it never was. The dried peacheswere too sweet for one and not sweet enough for the other. Grandmotherwanted her oatmeal cooked to a paste, but Aunt Matilda, whose teeth werebetter, desired something that must be chewed before it was swallowed, and unhesitatingly said so. The coffee was fated to please neither, though, as Rosemary found courage to say, you couldn't expect goodcoffee on Friday when the same grounds had been used ever since Sundaymorning. 

"I'd like to know what makes you so high and mighty all of a sudden, "said Grandmother. "Coffee's just like tea--as long as colour comes intoit when it's boiled, it's good. My mother always used the same groundsfor a week for a family of eight, and she didn't hear no complaints, neither. You ain't boiled this long enough--that's what's the matter. "

[Sidenote: The Common Task]

Aunt Matilda muttered something about "beggars being choosers, " andRosemary pushed her plate away wearily. She had not tasted herbreakfast. 

Grandmother arose and noisily blew out the lamp, regardless of the factthat Matilda had not finished eating. "Now, Rosemary, " she said, briskly, "after you get the dishes done and the kitchen cleaned up, Iwant you should go to the post-office and get my paper. When you comeback, you can do the sweepin' and dustin' down here and I can set in thekitchen while you're doin' it. Then you can make the beds and do theup-stairs work and then go to the store. By the time you're ready to goto the store, I'll have decided what you're to get. "

"And, " continued Aunt Matilda, pushing back her chair, "this afternoonyou can help me cut out some underclothes and get 'em basted together. "She never attempted any sort of housework, being pathetically vain ofher one beauty--her small, white hands. Even the family sewing she didunder protest. 

"Is the alpaca all gone?" asked Grandmother. 

"Yes, " Matilda replied. "I used the last of it patchin' Rosemary's dressunder the arms. It beats all how hard she is on her clothes. "

[Sidenote: A Question of Colour]

"I'll have to order more, " sighed the old lady. "I suppose the price hasgone up again. "

Rosemary's breath came and went quickly; her heart fluttered with asudden wildness. "Grandmother, " she pleaded, hesitatingly, "oh, AuntMatilda--just for this once, couldn't I have grey alpaca instead ofbrown? I hate brown so!"

Both women stared at her as though she had all at once gone mad. Thesilence became intense, painful. 

"I mean, " faltered the girl, "if it's the same price. I wouldn't ask youto pay any more. Perhaps grey might be cheaper now--even cheaper thanbrown!"

"I was married in brown alpaca, " said Grandmother. She used the tone inwhich royalty may possibly allude to coronation. 

"I was wearing brown alpaca, " observed Aunt Matilda, "the night theminister came to call. "

"Made just like this, " they said, together. 

"If brown alpaca's good enough for weddin's and ministers, I reckonit'll do for orphans that don't half earn their keep, " resumedGrandmother, with her keen eyes fixed upon Rosemary. 

"What put the notion into your head?" queried Aunt Matilda, with theair of one athirst for knowledge. 

[Sidenote: A Surprise Party]

"Why--nothing, " the girl stammered, "except that--when I was looking atmother's things the other day, up in the attic, I found some pinkribbon, and I thought it would be pretty with grey, and if I had a greydress----"

The other two exchanged glances. "Ain't it wonderful, " asked Matilda ofher mother, "how blood will tell?"

"It certainly is, " responded Grandmother, polishing her spectaclesvigorously with a corner of the plaid shawl. "Your ma, " she went on, toRosemary, "was wearin' grey when your pa brought her here to visit us. They was a surprise party--both of 'em. We didn't even know he wasplannin' marriage and I don't believe he was, either. We've alwaysthought your ma roped him into it, somehow. "

Rosemary's eyes filled with mist and she bit her lips. 

"She was wearin' grey, " continued Aunt Matilda; "light grey that wouldshow every spot. I told her it wasn't a very serviceable colour and shehad the impudence to laugh at me. 'It'll clean, won't it?' she says, just like that, and Frank says, right after her, 'Yes, it'll clean. ' Heknew a lot about it, he did. She had psychologised him. "

"You mean hypnotised, " interrupted Grandmother. "There ain't no suchword as 'psychologised. '"

[Sidenote: Resentment]

"Well, if there ain't, there ought to be. "

"The pink has come out in the blood, too, " Grandmother remarked, adjusting her spectacles firmly upon the ever-useful and unfailing wart. "She was wearin' pink roses on her bonnet and pink ribbon strings. Itwouldn't surprise me if it was the very strings what Rosemary has foundin the trunk and is layin' out to wear. "

"Me neither, " Matilda chimed in. 

"She was wearin' lace on her petticoats and high-heeled shoes, and allher handkerchiefs was fine linen, " Grandmother continued. "Maybe you'dlike some lace ruffles under your grey alpaca, wouldn't you, Rosemary?"

The girl got to her feet blindly. She gathered up the dishes with coldhands that trembled, took them out into the kitchen, and noiselesslyclosed the door. Her heart was hot with resentment, even though she hadheard the story, with variations, ever since she was old enough tounderstand it. 

"Poor little mother, " said Rosemary, to herself. "Dear little mother!Why couldn't you have taken me with you!"

As Grandmother had said, for the hundredth time and more, Frank Starrhad brought home his young wife unexpectedly. The surprise, in itself, was a shock from which she and Matilda had never recovered. Even now, they were fond of alluding to the years of ill-health directly caused byit, and of subtly blaming Rosemary for it. 

[Sidenote: An Orphan]

At the end of the third day, the young couple had departed hastily, thebride in tears. A year or so afterward, when Rosemary was born, thelittle mother died, having lived only long enough to ask that the babybe named "Rosemary"--Rose for her own mother and Mary for GrandmotherStarr. 

Stern, white-faced, and broken-hearted, Frank Starr brought his child tohis mother and sister, and almost immediately went West. Intermittentlyhe wrote briefly, sent money, gave insufficient addresses, or none atall, and, at length, disappeared. At the time his last letter waswritten, he had expected to take a certain steamer plying along theWestern coast. As the ship was wrecked and he was never heard fromagain, it seemed that Rosemary was an orphan, dependent upon hergrandmother and aunt. 

In their way, they were kind to her. She was sent to school regularly, and had plenty to eat and wear, of a certain sort. Every Spring, AuntMatilda made the year's supply of underclothing, using for the purposecoarse, unbleached muslin, thriftily purchased by the bolt. The brownalpaca and brown gingham, in which she and her grandmother and aunt hadbeen dressed ever since she could remember, were also bought by thepiece. The fashion of the garments had not changed, for one way ofmaking a gown was held to be as good as another, and a great dealeasier, if the maker were accustomed to doing it. 

[Sidenote: Year after Year]

So, year after year, Rosemary wore full skirts of brown alpaca, gatheredinto a band, and tight-fitting waists, boned and lined, buttoning downthe front with a row of small jet buttons. The sleeves were always long, plain, and tight, no matter what other people were wearing. A bit ofcheap lace gathered at the top of the collar was the only attempt atadornment. 

The brown ginghams were made in the same way, except that the waistswere not boned. The cheap white muslin, which served as Rosemary's bestSummer gown, was made like the ginghams. Her Winter hat was brown felt, trimmed with brown ribbon, her Summer hat was brown straw, trimmed withbrown ribbon, and her Winter coat was also brown, of some heavy materialwhich wore surpassingly well. 

For years her beauty-loving soul had been in revolt, but never beforehad she dared to suggest a change. The lump in her throat choked her asshe washed the dishes, heedless of the tears that fell into thedish-pan. But activity is a sovereign remedy for the blues, and by thetime the kitchen was made spotless, she had recovered her composure. She washed her face in cold water, dusted her red eyes with a bit ofcorn-starch, and put the cups and plates in their proper places. 

[Sidenote: Toiling Cheerfully]

She listened half-fearfully for a moment before she opened the door, dreading to hear the dear memory of her mother still under discussion, but Grandmother and Aunt Matilda were wrangling happily over thehair-wreath in the parlour. This was a fruitful source of argument whenall other subjects had failed, for Grandmother insisted that the yellowrose in the centre was made from the golden curls of Uncle HenryUnderwood's oldest boy, while Aunt Matilda was equally certain that ithad come from Sarah Starr's second daughter by her first husband. 

Throughout the day Rosemary toiled cheerfully. She swept, dusted, scrubbed, cooked, did errands, mailed the letter which made certainanother bolt of brown alpaca, built fires, and, in the afternoon, brought down the heavy roll of unbleached muslin from the attic. AuntMatilda cleared off the dining-room table, got out the worn newspaperpatterns, and had sent Rosemary out for a paper of pins before sheremembered that it was Friday, and that no new task begun on a Fridaycould ever be a success. 

So, while Rosemary set the table for supper, the other two harked backto the fateful day when Frank Starr brought his wife home. They were inthe next room, but their shrill voices carried well and Rosemary heardevery word, though she earnestly wished that she need not. 

[Sidenote: A Lucky Friday]

"It was Friday, too, if you'll remember, when Frank brought her, " saidAunt Matilda, indicating Rosemary by an inclination of her untidy head. 

"Then you can't say Friday's always unlucky, " commented Grandmother. "Itmay have been bad for us but it was good for her. Supposin' thatbutterfly had had her to bring up--what'd she have been by now?"

"She resembles her ma some, " answered Matilda, irrelevantly; "at leastshe would if she was pretty. She's got the same look about her, somehow. "

"I never thought her ma was pretty. It was always a mystery to me whatFrank saw in her. "

"Come to supper, " called Rosemary, abruptly. She was unable to bearmore. 

The meal was unexpectedly enlivened by Grandmother's discovery of awell-soaked milk ticket in the pitcher. From the weekly issue of _TheHousehold Guardian_, which had reached her that day, she had absorbed avast amount of knowledge pertaining to the manners and customs of germs, and began to fear for her life. At first, it was thought to beRosemary's fault, but upon recalling that for many years the ticket hadalways been left in the pitcher, the blame was shifted to the haplessmilkman. 

[Sidenote: At the Close of the Day]

Some discussion ensued as to what should be said to the milkman and whoshould say it, but Rosemary observed, with more or less reason, that ifhis attention was called to the error, he might want another ticket. Atlength it was decided to say nothing, and Grandmother personally assumedcharge of the ticket, putting it to dry between newspapers in the hopeof using it again. 

After supper, Rosemary washed the dishes, set the table for breakfast, and sat quietly, with her hands folded, until the others were ready togo to bed. She wrapped a hot brick in red flannel for each of them, putout the lamp, and followed them up-stairs. Rejoicing in the shelterafforded by a closed door, she sat in the dark, shivering a little, until sounds suggestive of deep slumber came from the two rooms beyond. 

Then she lighted the two candles that Alden Marsh had given her, andhurriedly undressed, pausing only to make a wry face at her unbleachedmuslin nightgown, entirely without trimming. She brushed her hair with aworn brush, braided it, tied it with a bit of shoestring, and climbedinto bed. 

After assuring herself of the best light possible, she unwrapped thelittle red book he had given her a few days before, and began to read, eagerly, one of the two wonderful sonnet sequences of which the Englishlanguage boasts:

 "Love's throne was not with these; but far above All passionate wind of welcome and farewell He sat in breathless bowers they dream not of;"

[Sidenote: Upon the Heights]

As by magic, the cares of the common day slipped away from her and herspirit began to breathe. Upon the heights she walked firmly now, and assurely as though she felt the hills themselves beneath her feet. 

 "Born with her life, creature of poignant thirst And exquisite hunger, at her heart Love lay Quickening in darkness, till a voice that day Cried on him and the bonds of birth were burst. "

And again:

 "Lo! it is done. Above the enthroning threat The mouth's mould testifies of voice and kiss, The shadowed eyes remember and foresee. Her face is made her shrine. Let all men note That in all years (Oh, love, thy gift is this!) They that would look on her must come to me. "

The divine melody of the words stirred her to the depths of her soul. Hunger and thirst ran riot in her blood; her heart surged with thefulness of its tides. 

[Sidenote: The Unknown Joy]

 "But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day; So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray, Up your warm throat to your warm lips, for this. .. . "

Rosemary put the book aside with shaking hands. "I wonder, " she thought, "how it would be if anyone should kiss me. Me, " she whispered; "not thewomen in the books, but the real me. "

The book slipped to the floor unheeded. She sat there in her uglynightgown, yearning with every fibre of her for the unknown joy. Theflickering light of the candles was answered by the strange fire thatburned in her eyes. At last her head drooped forward and, blind withtears, she hid her face in her hands. 

"Oh, dear God in Heaven, " she prayed, passionately. "Open the door ofthe House of Life to me! Send someone to love me and to take me away, for Christ's sake--Amen!"

III

The Crystal Ball

[Sidenote: A Function]

"Am I late, Lady Mother?"

Madame Marsh turned toward Alden with a smile. "Only five minutes, andit doesn't matter, since it's Saturday. "

"Five minutes, " he repeated. "Some clever person once said that thosewho are five minutes late do more to upset the order of the universethan all the anarchists. "

Madame's white hands fluttered out over the silver coffee service. "Onelump or two?" she inquired, with the sugar-tongs poised over his cup. 

"Two, please. "

Of course she knew, but she liked to ask. She had been at the table, waiting for him, since the grandfather's clock in the hall struck eight. 

In the old house on the shore of the river, breakfast was a function, luncheon a mild festivity, and dinner an affair of high state. Madameherself always appeared at dinner suitably clad, and, moreover, insistedupon evening clothes for her son. Once, years ago, he had protested atthe formality. 

[Sidenote: The Magic of Sunlight]

"Why not?" she had queried coldly. "Shall we not be as civilised as wecan?" And, again, when he had presented himself at the dinner hour inthe serviceable garb of every day, she had refused to go to the tableuntil he came down again, "dressed as a gentleman should be dressedafter six o'clock. "

The sunlight streamed into every nook and cranny of the room where theysat at breakfast. It lighted up the polished surfaces of old mahogany, woke forgotten gleams from the worn old silver, and summoned stray bitsof iridescence from the prisms that hung from the heavy giltchandeliers. 

With less graciousness, it revealed several places on the frame of themirror over the mantel, where the gold had fallen away and had beenreplaced by an inferior sort of gilding. By some subtle trickery withthe lace curtain that hung at the open window, it laid an arabesque ofdelicate shadow upon the polished floor. In the room beyond, whereMadame's crystal ball lay on the mahogany table, with a bit of blackvelvet beneath it, the sun had made a living rainbow that carried colourand light into the hall and even up the stairway. 

As she sat with her back to it, the light was scarcely less gentle withMadame. It brought silver into her white hair, shimmered along thesilken surface of her grey gown, and deepened the violet shadows in hereyes. It threw into vivid relief the cameo that fastened the lace at herthroat, rested for a moment upon the mellow gold of her wornwedding-ring as she filled Alden's cup, and paused reminiscently at thecorner of her mouth, where there had once been a dimple. 

[Sidenote: Tales of a Mirror]

Across the table, the light shone full upon Alden's face, but, man-like, he had no fear of it. Madame noted, with loving approval, how itillumined the dark depths of his eyes and showed the strength of hisfirm, boyish chin. Each day, to her, he grew more like his father. 

"A penny for your thoughts, " he said. 

Madame sighed. "It seems so strange, " she replied, after a pensiveinterval, "that I should be old and you should be young. You look somuch like your father sometimes that it is as though the clock hadturned back for him and I had gone on. You're older now than he was whenwe were married, but I need my mirror to remind me that I'm past mytwenties. "

"A woman and her mirror, " laughed Alden, helping himself to a crispmuffin. "What tales each might tell of the other, if they would!"

"Don't misunderstand me, dear, " she said, quickly. "It's not that I mindgrowing old. I've never been the unhappy sort of woman who desires tokeep the year for ever at the Spring. Each season has its ownbeauty--its own charm. We would tire of violets and apple-blossoms ifthey lasted always. Impermanence is the very essence of joy--the drop ofbitterness that enables one to perceive the sweet. "

[Sidenote: Over the Breakfast Cups]

"All of which is undoubtedly true, " he returned, gallantly, "but thefact remains that you're not old and never will be. You're merely a girlwho has powdered her hair for a fancy-dress ball. "

"Flatterer!" she said, with affected severity, but the delicate pinkflush that bloomed in her cheeks showed that she was pleased. 

"Will you drive to-day?" he asked, as they rose from the table. 

"I think not. I'm a hot-house plant, you know, and it seems coldoutside. "

"Have the new books come yet?"

"Yes, they came yesterday, but I haven't opened the parcel. "

"I hope they won't prove as disappointing as the last lot. There wasn'ta thing I could ask Rosemary to read. I'm continually falling back onthe old ones. "

"The old books are the best, after all, like the old friends and the oldways. "

Alden walked around the room restlessly, his hands in his pockets. Atlength he paused before the window overlooking the vineyard, on theother side of the valley. The slope was bare of snow, now; the vineswaited the call of Spring. 

[Sidenote: Alden's Revolt]

A soft footfall sounded beside him, then his mother put a caressing handupon his shoulder. "It's almost time to begin, isn't it?" she asked. Herbeautiful old face was radiant. 

Impatiently, he shook himself free from her touch. "Mother, " he began, "let's have it out once for all. I can't stand this any longer. "

She sank into the nearest chair, with all the life suddenly gone fromher face and figure. In a moment she had grown old, but presently, withan effort, she regained her self-command. "Yes?" she returned, quietly. "What do you wish to do?"

"Anything, " he answered, abruptly--"anything but this. I want to get outwhere I can breathe, where the sky fits the ground as far as you cansee--where it isn't eternally broken into by these everlasting hills. I'd like to know that dinner wouldn't always be ready at seveno'clock--in fact, I'd like sometimes not to have any dinner at all. Iwant to get forty miles from a schoolhouse and two hundred miles from agrape. I never want to see another grape as long as I live. "

He knew that he was hurting her, but his insurgent youth demanded itsright of speech after long repression. "I'm a man, " he cried, "and Iwant to do a man's work in the world and take a man's place. Justbecause my ancestors chose to slave in a treadmill, I don't have tostay in it, do I? You have no right to keep me chained up here!"

[Sidenote: Released]

The clock ticked loudly in the hall, the canary hopped noisily about hiscage and chirped shrilly. A passing breeze came through the open windowand tinkled the prisms that hung from the chandelier. It sounded likethe echo of some far-away bell. 

"No, " said Madame, dully. "As you say, I have no right to keep youchained up here. "

"Mother!" he cried, with swift remorse. "Don't misunderstand me!"

She raised her hand and motioned him to the chair opposite. "Yourlanguage is sufficiently explicit, " she went on, clearing her throat. "There is no chance for anyone to misunderstand you. I am very sorrythat I--I have not seen, that you have been obliged to ask for releasefrom an--unpleasant--position. Go--whenever you choose. "

He stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. "Mother! Oh, Mother!" hewhispered. "Do you really mean it? Where shall we go?"

"'We, '" she repeated. "Now I do misunderstand you. "

"Why, Mother! What do you mean? Of course we shall go together!"

Madame rose from her chair, with some difficulty. "You have said, " shewent on, choosing her words carefully, "that I had no right to keep youchained up here. I admit it--I have not. Equally, you have no right touproot me. "

[Sidenote: One's Own Choice]

"But, Mother! Why, I couldn't go without you, and leave you alone. Webelong together, you and I!"

The hard lines of her mouth relaxed, ever so little, but her eyes werevery dark and stern. "As much as we belong together, " she resumed, "webelong here. Dead hands built this house, dead hands laid out thatvineyard, dead hands have given us our work. If we fail, we betray thetrust of those who have gone before us--we have nothing to give to thosewho come. 

"I've seen, " she continued, with rising passion. "You were determinedfrom the first to fail!"

"Fail!" he echoed, with lips that scarcely moved. 

"Yes, for no man fails except by his own choice. You might have beenmaster of the vineyard, but you have preferred to have the vineyardmaster you. Confronted with an uncongenial task, you slunk away from itand shielded yourself behind the sophistry that the work was unworthy ofyou. As if any work were unworthy of a man!"

"I hate it, " he murmured, resentfully. 

"Yes, just as people hate their superiors. You hate it because you can'tdo it. Year by year, I have seen the crop grow less and less; year byyear I have seen our income decreasing. We are living now on less thanhalf of what we had when you took charge of the vineyard. Last year thegrapes were so poor that I was ashamed to use them for wine. And tothink, " she flashed at him, bitterly, "that the name of Marsh used tostand for quality! What does it mean now? Nothing--thanks to you!"

[Sidenote: The Name of Marsh]

The dull red rose to his temples and he cringed visibly. "I--I--" hestammered. 

"One moment, please, and then I shall say no more. This is between youand your own manhood, not between you and your mother. I put noobstacles in your path--you may go when and where you choose. I only askyou to remember that a man who has failed to do the work that liesnearest his hand is not likely to succeed at anything else. 

"It is not for you to say whether or not anything is worthy when it hasonce been given you to do. You have only to do it and make it worthy bythe doing. When you have proved yourself capable, another task will begiven you, but not before. You hate the vineyard because you cannotraise good grapes, you hate to teach school because you cannot teachschool well. You want to find something easy to do--something that willrequire no effort. "

"No, " he interrupted, "you're mistaken there. I want to do somethinggreat--I'm not asking for anything easy. "

[Sidenote: "I Belong Here"]

"Greatness comes slowly, " she answered, her voice softening a little, "and by difficult steps--not by leaps and bounds. You must learn themultiplication table before you can be an astronomer. None the less, itis your right to choose. "

"Then, granting that, why wouldn't you come with me?"

"Because it is also my right to choose for myself and I belong here. When I identified myself with the Marsh family, I did it in good faith. When I was married, I came here, my children were born here, your fatherand brother and sister died here, and I shall die here too. When you go, I shall do my best with the vineyard. "

She spoke valiantly, but there was a pathetic little quiver in her lipsas she said the last words. Alden stood at the window, contemplating thebroad acres bordered with pine. 

"Do not say _when_ I go, Mother--say _if_ I go. "

"I thought you had decided, " she murmured, but her heart began to beatquickly, nevertheless. 

"No, I haven't, but I'll decide in the course of the day. Good-bye forthe present. "

He stooped, kissed the cheek she turned to him, and went out, assuming acheerfulness he did not feel. Madame leaned back in her chair with hereyes closed, exhausted by the stress of emotion. The maid came in fororders, she gave them mechanically, then went into the living-room. Shewas anxious to be alone, but felt unequal to the exertion of climbingthe stairs. 

[Sidenote: The Pictured Face]

As the hours passed, she slowly regained her composure. It seemedimpossible that Alden should go away and leave her when they two werealone in the world, and, as he said, belonged together. More than everthat morning had he looked like his father. 

Old memories crowded thickly upon her as she sat there. Bits of herchildhood flashed back at her out of the eternal stillness, "even as thebeads of a told rosary. " Since the day she met Alden's father, everything was clear and distinct, for, with women, life begins withlove and the rest is as though it had never been. 

An old daguerreotype was close at hand in a table drawer. She opened theornate case tenderly, brushed the blue velvet that lined it, and kissedthe pictured face behind the glass. So much had they borne together, somuch had they loved, and all was gone--save this!

The serene eyes, for ever youthful, looked back at her across the years. Except for the quaint, old-fashioned look inseparable from an oldpicture, the face was that of the boy who had left her a few hours ago. The deep, dark eyes, the regular features, the firm straight chin, thelovable mouth, the adorable boyishness--all were there, shut in by bluevelvet and glass. 

[Sidenote: The Man She Loved]

Madame smiled as she sat there looking at it. She had always had her waywith the father--why should she doubt her power over the son? Supremelymaternal as she was, the sheltering instinct had extended even to theman she loved. He had been outwardly strong and self-confident, assured, self-reliant, even severe with others, but behind the bold exterior, asalways to the eyes of the beloved woman, had been a little, shrinking, helpless child, craving the comfort of a woman's hand--the sanctuary ofa woman's breast. 

Even in her own hours of stress and trial, she had feared to lean uponhim too much, knowing how surely he depended upon her. He was more thanforty when he died, yet to her he had been as one of her children, though infinitely dearer than any child could be. 

The quick tears started at the thought of the children, for the childishprattle had so soon been hushed, the eager little feet had been soquickly stilled. Alden was the first-born son, with an older daughter, who had been named Virginia, for her mother. Virginia would have beenthirty-two now, and probably married, with children of her own. Thesecond son would have been twenty-eight, and, possibly, married also. There might have been a son-in-law, a daughter-in-law, and three orfour children by this time, had these two lived. 

[Sidenote: The House of Memories]

So, through the House of Memories her fancy sped, as though borne onwings. Childish voices rang through the empty corridors and the fairypatter of tiny feet sounded on the stairs. One by one, out of theshadows, old joys and old loves came toward her; forgotten hopes andlost dreams. Hands long since mingled with the dust clasped hers oncemore with perfect understanding--warm lips were crushed upon hers withthe old ecstasy and the old thrill. Even the sorrows, from which thebitterness had strangely vanished, came back out of the darkness, notwith hesitancy, but with assurance, as though already welcomed by afriend. 

Alden did not come home to luncheon, so Madame made only a pretence ofeating. As the long afternoon wore away, she reproached herself bitterlyfor her harshness. There had been pain in the boy's eyes when he bent tokiss her--and she had turned her cheek. 

She would have faced any sort of privation for this one beloved son--theonly gift Life had not as yet taken back. Perhaps, after all, he knewbest, for have not men led and women followed since, back in Paradise, the First Woman gave her hand trustingly to the First Man?

[Sidenote: Visions in the Crystal Ball]

Long, slanting sunbeams, alight with the gold of afternoon, came intothe room by another window, and chanced upon the crystal ball. Madame'sface grew thoughtful. "I wonder, " she mused, "if I dare to try!"

She was half afraid of her own sorcery, because, so many times, thatwhich she had seen had come true. Once, when a child was ill, she hadgazed into the crystal and seen the little white coffin that, a weeklater, was carried out of the front door. Again, she had seen the visionof a wedding which was unexpectedly fulfilled later, when a passingcousin begged the hospitality of her house for a marriage. 

She drew her chair up to the table, made sure of the proper light, andleaned over the ball. For a time there was darkness, then confusedimages that meant nothing, then at last, clear and distinct as a flashof lightning, her own son, holding a woman in his arms. 

Madame pushed the ball aside, profoundly disturbed. Was the solution oftheir problem, then, to come in that way? And who was the woman?

In the dazzling glimpse she had caught no detail save a shimmering whitegown and her son's face half hidden by the masses of the woman's hair. Afaint memory of the hair persisted; she had never seen anything quitelike it. Was it brown, or golden, or--perhaps red? Yes, red--that wasit, and in all the circle of their acquaintance there was no woman withred hair. 

[Sidenote: Alden's Decision]

It was evident, then, that he was going away. Very well, she would gotoo. And when Alden had found his woman with the red hair, she wouldcome back, alone--of course they would not want her. 

She felt suddenly lonely, as though she had lived too long. For thefirst time, she forgot to light the candles on the mantel when the roombecame too dark to see. She had sat alone in the darkness for some timewhen she heard Alden's step outside. 

When he came in, he missed the accustomed lights. "Mother!" he called, vaguely alarmed. Then, again: "Mother! Where are you, Mother dear?"

"I'm here, " she responded, rising from her chair and fumbling along themantel-shelf for matches. "I'm sorry I forgot the candles. " The meresound of his voice had made her heart leap with joy. 

He was muddy and tired and his face was very white. "I know it's late, "he said, apologetically, "and I'll go up to dress right now. I--I'vedecided to--stay. "

His voice broke a little on the last word. Madame drew his tall headdown and kissed him, forgetting all about the crystal ball. "For yourown sake?" she asked; "or for mine?"

[Sidenote: An Unfair Advantage]

"For yours, of course. I'll try to do as you want me to, Lady Mother. Ihave nothing to do but to make you happy. "

For answer, she kissed him again. "I must dress, too, " she said. 

When they met at dinner, half an hour later, neither made any referenceto the subject that had been under discussion. Outwardly all was calmand peaceful, as deep-flowing waters may hide the rocks beneath. By thetime coffee was served, they were back upon the old footing ofaffectionate comradeship. 

Afterward, he read the paper while Madame played solitaire. When sheturned the queen of hearts, she remembered the red-haired woman whom shehad seen in the crystal ball. And they were not going away, after all!Madame felt that she had in some way gained an unfair advantage over thered-haired woman. There would be no one, now, to take her boy away fromher. 

And yet, when the time came for her to go, would she want Alden to liveon in the old house alone, looking after the hated vineyard and teachingthe despised school? At best, it could be only a few years more. 

Feeling her grave, sweet eyes upon him, Alden looked up from his paper. "What is it, Mother?"

"Dear, " she said, thoughtfully, "I want you to marry and bring me adaughter. I want to hold your son in my arms before I die. "

[Sidenote: Madame's Dream]

"Rather a large order, isn't it?" He laughed indifferently, and went onwith his reading. Madame laughed, too, as she continued her solitaire, but, none the less, she dreamed that night that the house was full ofwomen with red hair, and that each one was gazing earnestly into thedepths of a crystal ball. 

IV

April's Sun

[Sidenote: The Joy of Morning]

With a rush of warm winds and a tinkle of raindrops, Spring danced overthe hills. The river stirred beneath the drifting ice, then woke intomusical murmuring. Even the dead reeds and dry rushes at the bend of thestream gave forth a faint melody when swayed by the full waters beneath. 

The joy of morning was abroad in the world. Robins sang it, windswhispered it, and, beneath the sod, every fibre of root and treequivered with aspiration, groping through the labyrinth of darkness witha blind impulse toward the light. Across the valley, on the southernslope, a faint glow of green seemed to hover above the dark tangle ofthe vineyard, like some indefinite suggestion of colour, promising thesure beauty yet to come. 

Rosemary had climbed the Hill of the Muses early in the afternoon. She, too, was awake, in every fibre of body and soul. Springs had come andgone before--twenty-five of them--but she had never known one like this. A vague delight possessed her, and her heart throbbed as fromimprisoned wings. Purpose and uplift and aspiration swayed herstrangely; she yearned blindly toward some unknown goal. 

[Sidenote: The Family Religion]

She had not seen Alden for a long time. The melting ice and snow hadmade the hill unpleasant, if not impossible, and the annual sewing hadkept her closely indoors. She and Aunt Matilda had made the year'ssupply of underwear from the unbleached muslin, and one garment for eachfrom the bolt of brown-and-white gingham. Rosemary disdained to say"gown" or even "dress, " for the result of her labour was a garment, simply, and nothing more. 

Every third Summer she had a new white muslin, of the cheapest quality, which she wore to church whenever it was ordained that she should go. Grandmother and Aunt Matilda were deeply religious, but not according toany popular plan. They had their own private path to Heaven, and haddone their best to set Rosemary's feet firmly upon it, but with smallsuccess. 

When she was a child, Rosemary had spent many long, desolate Sundayafternoons thinking how lonely it would be in Heaven with nobody therebut God and the angels and the Starr family. Even the family, it seemed, was not to be admitted as an entity, but separately, according toindividual merit. Grandmother and Aunt Matilda had many a wordy battleas to who would be there and who wouldn't, but both were sadly agreedthat Frank must stay outside. 

[Sidenote: Rewards and Punishments]

Rosemary was deeply hurt when she discovered that Grandmother did notexpect to meet her son there, and as for her son's wife--the old ladyhad dismissed the hapless bride to the Abode of the Lost with a singlecomprehensive snort. Alternately, Rosemary had been rewarded for goodbehaviour by the promise of Heaven and punished for small misdemeanoursby having the gates closed in her face. As she grew older and began tothink for herself, she wondered how Grandmother and Aunt Matilda hadobtained their celestial appointment as gate-keepers, and reflected thatit might possibly be very pleasant outside, with the father and motherwhom she had never seen. 

So, of late years, religion had not disturbed Rosemary much. She paid noattention to the pointed allusions to "heathen" and "infidels" thatassailed her ears from time to time, and ceased to feel her young fleshcreep when the Place of Torment was described with all the power of twoseparate and vivid imaginations. Disobedience troubled her no longerunless she was found out, and, gradually, she developed a complicatedsystem of deception. 

When she was discovered reading a novel, she had accepted theinevitable punishment with outward submission. Naturally, it was noteasy to tear out the leaves one by one, especially from a borrowed book, and put them into the fire, saying, each time she put one in: "I willnever read another novel as long as I live, " but she had compelledherself to do it gracefully. Only her flaming cheeks had betrayed herreal feeling. 

[Sidenote: Forbidden Reading]

A week later, when she was locked in her room for the entire day, onaccount of some slight offence, she had wept so much over the sorrows ofJane Eyre that even Aunt Matilda was affected when she brought up thebread and milk for the captive's supper. Rosemary had hidden the bookunder the mattress at the first sound of approaching footsteps, but AuntMatilda, by describing the tears of penitence to the stern authoritybelow, obtained permission for Rosemary to come down-stairs, eat herbread and milk at the table, and, afterward, to wash the dishes. 

She continued to borrow books from the school library, however, andlater from Alden Marsh. When he learned that she dared not read atnight, for fear of burning too much oil, he began to supply her withcandles. Thus the world of books was opened to her, and many a midnighthad found her, absorbed and breathless, straining her eyes over the lastpage. More than once she had read all night and fallen asleep afterwardat the breakfast table. 

[Sidenote: Occasional Meetings]

Once, long ago, Alden had called upon her, but the evening was made sounpleasant, both for him and his unhappy hostess, that he never cameagain. Rosemary used to go to the schoolhouse occasionally, to sit andtalk for an hour or so after school, but some keen-eyed busy-body hadtold Grandmother and the innocent joy had come to an abrupt conclusion. Rosemary kept her promise not to go to the schoolhouse simply becauseshe dared not break it. 

The windows of the little brown house, where the Starrs lived, commandedan unobstructed view of the Marshs' big Colonial porch, in Winter, whenthe trees between were bare, so it was impossible for the girl to gothere, openly, as Mrs. Marsh had never returned Aunt Matilda's lastcall. 

Sometimes Alden wrote to her, but she was unable to answer, forstationery and stamps were unfamiliar possessions; Grandmother held thepurse-strings tightly, and every penny had to be accounted for. OnThursday, Rosemary always went to the post-office, as _The HouseholdGuardian_ was due then, so it happened that occasionally she received aletter, or a book which she could not return until Spring. 

At length, the Hill of the Muses became the one possible rendezvous, though, at the chosen hour of four, Rosemary was usually too weary toattempt the long climb. Moreover, she must be back by six to get supper, so one little hour was all she might ever hope for, at a time. 

[Sidenote: Far Above Her]

Yet these hours had become a rosary of memories to her, jewelled uponthe chain of her uneventful days. Alden's unfailing friendliness andsympathy warmed her heart, though she had never thought of him as apossible lover. In her eyes, he was as far above her as the fairy princehad been above Cinderella. It was only kindness that made him stoop atall. 

When the school bell, sounding for dismissal, echoed through the valleybelow, Rosemary hung her scarlet signal to the outstanding bough of thelowest birch, and went back to the crest of the hill to wait for him. She had with her the little red book that he had given her long ago, andwhich she had not had opportunity to return. 

She turned the pages regretfully, though she knew the poems almost byheart. Days, while she washed dishes and scrubbed, the exquisite melodyof the words haunted her, like some far-off strain of music. For thefirst time she had discovered the subtle harmonies of which the languageis capable, entirely apart from sense. 

Living lines stood out upon the printed page, glowing with a rapture alltheir own. 

[Sidenote: Thrilling Lines]

 "Now, shadowed by his wings, our faces yearn Together, "

she read aloud, thrilled by the very sound. 

 "Tender as dawn's first hill-fire, " . .. "What marshalled marvels on the skirts of May, " . .. "Shadows and shoals that edge eternity. " . .. 

"Oh, " she breathed, "if only I didn't have to give it back!"

 "Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all? One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand, -- One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand. "

"What, indeed?" thought Rosemary. What was she to Love, or what evermight she be?

 "But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day; So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray, Up your warm throat to your warm lips: for this" . .. 

Rosemary put the book down, face to face at last with self-knowledge. She would have torn down the flaming signal, but it was too late. If hewere coming--and he never had failed to come--he would be there verysoon. 

 * * * * *

Alden had closed his desk with a sigh as the last pair of restlesslittle feet tumbled down the schoolhouse steps. Scraps of paperlittered the floor and the room was musty and close in spite of two openwindows. From where he sat, he could see the vineyard, with itsperpetual demand upon him. Since his painful interview with his mother, he had shrunk, inwardly, from even the sight of the vineyard. It somehowseemed to have a malicious air about it. Mutely it challenged hismanhood, menaced his soul. 

[Sidenote: Uneventful Days]

He had accepted the inevitable but had not ceased to rebel. The comingyears stretched out before him in a procession of grey, uneventful days. Breakfast, school, luncheon, school, long evenings spent in reading tohis mother, and, from Spring to frost, the vineyard, with itsmultitudinous necessities. 

He felt, keenly, that his mother did not quite understand him. In fact, nobody did, unless it was Rosemary, whom he had not seen for weeks. Brave little Rosemary, for whom life consisted wholly of deprivations!How seldom she complained and how often she had soothed his discontent!

It was three years ago that she had come shyly to the schoolhouse andasked if she might borrow a book. He had known her, of course, beforethat, but had scarcely exchanged a dozen words with her. When he sawher, rarely, at church, Grandmother or Aunt Matilda was always with her, and the Starrs had had nothing to do with the Marshs for several yearspast, as Mrs. Marsh had been remiss in her social obligations. 

[Sidenote: A Growing Interest]

At first, Rosemary had been purely negative to him, and he regarded herwith kindly indifference. The girl's personality seemed as ashen as herhair, as colourless as her face. Her dull eyes seemed to see nothing, tocare for nothing. Within the last few months he had begun to wonderwhether her cold and impassive exterior might not be the shield withwhich she protected an abnormal sensitiveness. Now and then he hadlonged to awaken the woman who dwelt securely within the forbiddingfortress--to strike from the flint some stray gleams of soul. 

Of late he had begun to miss her, and, each afternoon, to look with alittle more conscious eagerness for the scarlet thread on the hill-topsignalling against the grey sky beyond. His interest in her welfare wasbecoming more surely personal, not merely human. During the Winter, though he had seen her only twice, he had thought about her a greatdeal, and had written to her several times without expecting an answer. 

The iron bars of circumstance which bound her, had, though lessnarrowly, imprisoned him also. It seemed permanent for them both, and, indeed, the way of escape was even more definitely closed for Rosemarythan for him. 

[Sidenote: A New Rosemary]

He sighed as he rose and brushed the chalk from his clothes. Throughforce of habit, he looked up to the crest of the Hill of the Muses as helocked the door. The red ribbon fluttered like an oriflamme against theblue-and-white of the April sky. His heart quickened its beat a littleas he saw it, and his steps insensibly hastened as he began to climb thehill. 

When he took her hand, with a word of friendly greeting, he noticed achange in her, though she had made a valiant effort to recover hercomposure. This was a new Rosemary, with eyes shining and the colourflaming in her cheeks and lips. 

"Spring seems to have come to you, too, " he said, seating himself on thelog beside her. "How well you look!"

The deep crimson mounted to her temples, then as swiftly retreated. "Better take down the ribbon, " she suggested, practically. 

"I've been watching a long time for this, " he resumed, as he folded itand restored it to its place in the hollow tree. "What have you beendoing?"

"All the usual dreary things, to which a mountain of sewing has beenadded. "

"Is that a new gown?"

She laughed, mirthlessly. "It's as new a gown as I'll ever have, " shereturned, trying to keep her voice even. "My wardrobe consists of anendless parade of brown alpaca and brown gingham garments, all madeexactly alike. "

[Sidenote: Thwarted on All Sides]

"Like a dozen stage soldiers, marching in and out, to create theillusion of a procession?"

"I suppose so. You know I've never seen a stage, much less a stagesoldier. "

Alden's heart softened with pity. He longed to take Rosemary to town andlet her feast her eyes upon some gorgeous spectacle; to see her sensesrun riot, for once, with colour and light and sound. 

"I feel sometimes, " she was saying, "as though I had sold my soul forpretty things in some previous existence, and was paying the penalty forit now. "

"You love pretty things, don't you?"

She turned brimming eyes toward him. "Love them?" she repeated, brokenly. "There aren't words enough to say how much!"

From a fresh point of view he saw her countless deprivations, bindingher, thwarting her, oppressing her on all sides by continual denial. Hisown rebellion against circumstances seemed weak and unworthy. 

"Whenever I think of you, " he said, in a different tone, "I feel ashamedof myself. I have freedom, of a certain sort, and you've never had achance to learn the meaning of the word. You're dominated, body andsoul, by a couple of old women who haven't discovered, as yet, that theearth is round and not flat. "

[Sidenote: Freedom]

"My soul isn't bound, " returned Rosemary, softly, "but it would havebeen, if it hadn't been for you. "

"I? Why, my dear girl, what have I done?"

"Everything. Think of all the books you've loaned me, all the candlesyou've given me--all the times you've climbed this steep hill just totalk to me for an hour and give me new strength to go on. "

"It's only selfishness, Rosemary. I knew you were here and I like totalk to you. Don't forget that you've meant something to me, too. Why, you're the only woman I know, except my mother. "

"Your mother is lovely, " she returned. "I wish I could go to see heronce in a while. I like to look at her. Even her voice is differentsomeway. "

"Yes, mother is 'different, '" he agreed, idly. "It's astonishing, sometimes, how 'different' she manages to be. We had it out the otherday, about the vineyard, and I'm to stay here--all the rest of my life, "he concluded bitterly. 

"I don't see why, if you don't want to, " she answered, half-fearfully. "You're a man, and men can do as they please. "

"It probably seems so to you, but I assure you it's very far from thetruth. I wonder, now and then, if any of us ever really do as we please. Freedom is the great gift. "

[Sidenote: Choosing]

"And the great loneliness, " she added, after a pause. 

"You may be right, " he sighed. "Still, I'd like to try it for a while. It's the one thing I'd choose. What would you take, if you could haveanything you wanted?"

"Do you mean for just a little while, or for always?"

"For always. The one great gift you'd choose from all that Life has togive. "

"I'd take love, " she said, in a low tone. She was not looking at himnow, but far across the valley where the vineyard lay. Her face waswistful in the half-light; the corners of her mouth quivered, ever solittle. 

Alden looked at her, then rubbed his eyes and looked at her again. Insome subtle way she had changed, or he had, since they last met. Neverbefore had he thought of her as a woman; she had been merely anotherindividual to whom he liked to talk. To-day her womanhood carried itsown appeal. She was not beautiful and no one would ever think her so, but she was sweet and wholesome and had a new, indefinable freshnessabout her that, in another woman, would have been called charm. 

It came to him, all at once, that, in some mysterious way, he andRosemary belonged together. They had been born to the same lot, and mustspend all their days in the valley, hedged in by the same narrowrestrictions. Even an occasional hour on the Hill of the Muses wasforbidden to her, and constant scheming was the price she was obliged topay for it. 

[Sidenote: The Book]

The restraint chafed and fretted him, for her as much as for himself. Itwas absurd that a girl of twenty-five and a man of thirty should nothave some little independence of thought and action. The silencepersisted and finally became awkward. 

"It's the book, " said Rosemary, with a forced laugh. She wasendeavouring to brush her mood away as though it were an annoyingcobweb. "I've grown foolish over the book. "

"I'm glad you liked it, " he returned, taking it from her. "I was sureyou would. What part of it did you like best?"

"All of it. I can't choose, though of course some of it seems morebeautiful than the rest. "

"I suppose you know it by heart, now, don't you?"

"Almost. "

"Listen. Isn't this like to-day?"

 "Spring's foot half falters; scarce she yet may know The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow; And through her bowers the wind's way still is clear. "

Rosemary got to her feet unsteadily. She went to the brow of the hill, on the side farthest from the vineyard, and stood facing the sunset. Scarcely knowing that she had moved, Alden read on:

 "But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day; So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss----"

[Sidenote: Alden Speaks]

A smothered sob made him look up quickly. She stood with her back tohim, but her shoulders were shaking. He dropped the book and went toher. 

A strange, new tenderness possessed him. "Rosemary, " he whispered, slipping his arm around her. "What is it--dear?"

"Nothing, " she sobbed, trying to release herself. "I'm--I'm tired--andfoolish--that's all. Please let me go!"

Something within him stirred in answer to the girl's infinite hunger, tothe unspoken appeal that vibrated through her voice. "No, " he said, withquiet mastery, "I won't let you go. I want to take care of you, Rosemary. Leave all that misery and come to me, won't you?"

Her eyes met his for an instant, then turned away. "I don'tquite--understand, " she said, with difficulty. 

"I'm asking you to marry me--to come to mother and me. We'll make thebest of it together. "

Her eyes met his clearly now, but her face was pale and cold. She wasopenly incredulous and frightened. 

[Sidenote: Her Birthright]

"I mean it, dear. Don't be afraid. Oh, Rosemary, can't you trust me?"

"Trust you? Yes, a thousand times, yes!"

He drew her closer. "And love me--a little?"

"Love you?" The last light shone upon her face and the colour surgedback in waves. She seemed exalted, transfigured, as by a radiance thatshone from within. 

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. "Kiss me, won't you, dear?"

And so, Rosemary came to her woman's birthright, in the shelter of aman's arms. 

V

The House of the Broken Heart

[Sidenote: Climbing in the Dark]

The road was steep and very dark, but some unseen Power compelled her toclimb. Dimly, through the shadow, she saw shafts of broken marbles andheard the sound of slow-falling waters. The desolation oppressed her, and, as she climbed, she pressed her hands tightly to her heart. 

She was alone in an empty world. All traces of human occupation had longsince vanished. Brambles and thorns grew thickly about her, and herbrown gingham dress was torn to shreds. Rosemary shuddered in her dream, for Grandmother and Aunt Matilda would be displeased. 

And yet, where were they? She had not seen them since she entered thedarkness below. At first she had been unable to see anything, for thedarkness was not merely absence of light but had a positive, palpablequality, it enshrouded her as by heavy folds of black velvet thatsuffocated her, but, as she climbed, the air became lighter and thedarkness less. 

[Sidenote: The Path in the Garden]

She longed to stop for a few moments and rest, but the pitiless Powercontinually urged her on. Bats fluttered past her and ghostly wingsbrushed her face, but, strangely, she had no fear. As her eyes becameaccustomed to the all-encompassing night, she saw into it for a littledistance on either side, but never ahead. 

On the left was a vast, empty garden, neglected and dead. The hedge thatsurrounded it was only a tangled mass of undergrowth, and the paths wereburied and choked by weeds. The desolate house beyond it loomed upwhitely in the shadow. It was damp and cold in the garden, but she wentin, mutely obeying the blind force that impelled her to go. 

She struggled up the path that led to the house, falling once into amass of thistles that pricked and stung. The broken marbles, as she sawnow, were statues that had been placed about the garden and had falleninto decay. The slow-falling water was a fountain that still murmured, choked though it was by the dense undergrowth. 

One of the steps that led to the house had fallen inward, so she put herknee on the one above that and climbed up. She tested each step of thelong flight carefully before she trusted herself to it. When she reachedthe broad porch, her footsteps echoed strangely upon the floor. Eachslight sound was caught up and repeated until it sounded like the treadof a marching army, vanishing into the distance. 

[Sidenote: The Desolate House]

The heavy door creaked on its hinges when she opened it. That sound, too, echoed and re-echoed in rhythmic pulsations that beat painfullyupon her ears, but, after she was once inside, all the clamour ceased. 

She could see clearly now, though it was still dark. A long, widestairway wound up from the hall, and there were two great rooms uponeither side. She turned into the wide doorway at the right. 

Windows, grey with cobwebs, stretched from floor to ceiling, but verylittle light came through them. The wall paper, of indistinguishablepattern, was partially torn from the walls and the hanging portionsswayed in the same current of air that waved the cobwebs. There was nofurniture of any description in the room, except the heavy, gilt-framedmirror over the mantel. It was cracked and much of the gilt frame hadfallen away. She went into the next room, then into the one beyond that, which seemed to stretch across the back of the house, and so through thedoor at the left of the room into the two on the other side of thehouse, at the left of the hall. 

In the centre of the largest room was a small table, upon which resteda small object covered with a dome-shaped glass shade, precisely likethat which covered the basket of wax flowers in Grandmother's parlour. Rosemary went to it with keen interest and leaned over the table to peerin. 

[Sidenote: The Broken Heart]

At first she could see nothing, for the glass was cloudy. She noted, with a pang of disgust, that the table-cover was made of brown alpaca, fringed all around by the fabric itself, cut unskilfully into shredswith the scissors. As she looked, the glass slowly cleared. 

The small object was heart-shaped and made of wax in some dull colourhalf-way between red and brown. At length she saw that it was broken andthe pieces had been laid together, carefully. Unless she had looked veryclosely she would not have seen that it was broken. 

Suddenly she felt a Presence in the room, and looked up quickly, withterror clutching at her inmost soul. A tall, grey figure, mysteriouslyshrouded, stood motionless beside her. Only the eyes were unveiled andvisible amid the misty folds of the fabric. 

The eyes held her strangely. They were deep and dark and burning withsecret fires. Hunger and longing were in their depths, and yet there wasa certain exaltation, as of hope persisting against the knowledge ofdefeat. 

Rosemary's terror gradually vanished. She felt an all-pervadingcalmness, a sense of acceptance, of fulfilment. 

[Sidenote: Not of One's Own Choice]

For a long time she stood there, transfixed by the eyes that never foran instant wavered from hers. They searched her inmost soul; they sawall things past and to come. They questioned her, challenged her, urgedsomething upon her, and yet she was not afraid. 

At last, with dry lips, she spoke. "Who are you?" She did not recognisethe sound of her own voice. 

"The Lord of Life, " the figure answered, in low, deep tones thatvibrated through the empty rooms like the swept strings of a harp. 

"And this is--?"

"The House of the Broken Heart. I live here. "

"Why?" she asked. 

"Not of my own choice. Why have you come?"

"Not of my own choice, " she repeated, dully. "I came because I had to. "

"They all do. That is why I myself am here. "

"Do--do many come?"

"Yes. "

Rosemary looked back over her shoulder, then lifted her eyes to those ofthe grey figure. "Then it is strange, " she said, "that I am here alone. "

"You are not alone. These rooms are full, but no one sees another inthe House of the Broken Heart. Each one is absorbed in his own grief tothe exclusion of all else. Only I may see them, with bowed heads, pacingto and fro. 

[Sidenote: Selfish Grief]

"On the stairway, " he went on, "is a young mother who has lost herchild. She goes up and down endlessly, thinking first she hears itcrying for her in the room above, and then in the room below. Herhusband sits at the foot of the stairs with his face hidden in hishands, but she has no thought for him. He has lost wife and child too. "

"Poor man!" said Rosemary, softly. "Poor woman!"

"Yonder is a grey-haired woman, reaping the bitterness that she hassown. There are a husband and wife who have always been jealous of oneanother, and will be, until the end of time. There is a girl who hastrusted and been betrayed, but she will go out again when her couragecomes back. Just behind you is a woman who has estranged her husbandfrom his family and has found his heart closed to her in the hour of hergreatest need. Coming toward you is a man who was cruel to his wife, andnever knew it until after she was dead. "

"But, " Rosemary asked, "is there no punishment?"

"None whatever, except this. The consciousness of a sin is its ownpunishment. "

[Sidenote: Some One Gift]

She stood there perplexed, leaning against the table. "Have all who arehere, then, sinned?"

"No, some have been sinned against, and a few, like yourself, have comein by mistake. "

"Then I may go?"

The Lord of Life bent his head graciously. "Whenever you choose. Youhave only to take your gift and depart. "

"Is there a gift here for me? Nobody ever gave me anything. "

"Some one gift is yours for the asking, and, because you have notsinned, you have the right to choose. What shall it be?"

"Love, " returned Rosemary, very wistfully. "Oh, give me love!"

The Lord of Life sighed. "So many ask for that, " he said. "They allconfuse the end with the means. What they really want is joy, but theyask for love. "

"Is there a greater joy than love?"

"No, but love in itself is not joy. It is always service and it may besacrifice. It means giving, not receiving; asking, not answer. "

"None the less, " said Rosemary, stubbornly, "I will take love. "

"They all do, " he returned. "Wait. "

He vanished so quickly that she could not tell which way he had gone. Asshe leaned against the table, the brown alpaca cover slipped back on themarble table and the glass case tottered. She caught it hurriedly andsaved it from falling, but the waxen pieces of the heart quiveredunderneath. 

[Sidenote: The Symbol of Hope]

The grey figure was coming back, muffled to the eyes as before, but hisfootsteps made no sound. He moved slowly, yet with a certain authority. He laid a letter on the table and Rosemary snatched it up eagerly. Itwas addressed to Mrs. Virginia Marsh. 

"That is not for me, " she said, much disappointed. "My name is RosemaryStarr. "

"It must have something to do with you, " he returned, unmoved. "However, I will keep it until the owner comes. "

"She doesn't belong here, " Rosemary answered, somewhat resentfully. "She's the dearest, sweetest woman in the world. She's Alden's mother. "

"The one who wrote it may be here, or coming, " he explained, patiently. "Sometimes it happens that way. There are many letters in this place. "

As he spoke, he placed a green wreath upon Rosemary's head and gave hera white lily, on a long stem. "Go, " he said, kindly. 

"But my gift?"

"Go and find it. Carry your symbol of Hope and wear your wreath of rue. You will come to it. "

"But where? How shall I go from here? I'm afraid I shall lose my way. "

[Sidenote: On the Upward Trail]

The stern eyes fixed themselves upon her steadily. "Do not question Lifetoo much, " he warned her. "Accept it. Have I not told you to go?"

Her fear suddenly returned. She went backward, slowly, toward the door, away from the table and the tall grey figure that stood by it, holdingthe letter addressed to Mrs. Virginia Marsh. When she was outside, shedrew a long breath of relief. It was daybreak, and grey lights on thefar horizon foreshadowed the sunrise. 

She ran down the steps, stumbling as she passed the broken one, and wenthurriedly down the weed-choked path. The broken marble statues weregreen with mould and the falling waters seemed to move with difficulty, like the breath of one about to die. The stillness of the place was vastand far-reaching; it encompassed her as the night had previously done. 

She soon found the trail that led upward, though she did not recognisethe point at which she had turned into the garden. She had no doubt, now, about the path she must take. It led up, up, through thorns andbrambles, past the crags upon which the first light shone, and aroundthe crest of the peak to--what? Drawing a long breath, Rosemary started, carrying her lily and wearing her wreath of rue. 

[Sidenote: The Coming Dawn]

The brown gingham hung in tatters and her worn shoes threatened to dropfrom her feet, but the divine fragrance of the lily she bore sustainedher as she climbed. She was glad she had chosen as she had, though hiswords still puzzled her. "It is always service, " she repeated, "and itmay be sacrifice. It means giving, not receiving; asking, not answer. "

"And yet, " she mused, "he said they all asked for it. I should havetaken the letter, " she continued, to herself. "Alden could have given itto his mother. "

It seemed strange to be thinking of him as "Alden" instead of "Mr. Marsh, " and yet it was supremely sweet. She felt the colour burning inher cheeks, for she knew, now, that he awaited her, somewhere on theheight. Had he not chosen Love too? Were they not to find it together?

Dull, prismatic fires glowed upon the distant clouds--dawn-jewels laidupon the breast of Night. Violet and blue mellowed into opal andturquoise, then, as the spectrum may merge into white light, a shaft ofsunrise broke from the mysterious East, sending a javelin of gloryhalf-way across the world. 

The first light lay upon the crags, then deepened and spread, penetrating the darkness below, which was no longer black, but duskypurple. Rosemary's heart sang as she climbed, and the fragrance of thelily thrilled her soul with pure delight. The path was smooth, now, andthorns no longer hurt her feet. The hand that held the lily, however, was bleeding, from some sharp thorn or projection of rock. 

[Sidenote: The Blood-Stained Lily]

She wiped her hand upon her torn dress, and, as she did so, a drop ofblood stained the lily. She tried to get it off, but all her effortswere fruitless. The crimson spread and darkened until half of the whitepetals were dyed. She noted, with a queer lump in her throat, that thelily was the same colour as the waxen heart that lay under the glasscase in the house she had so recently left. 

But she still held it tightly, though it was stained and no longerfragrant. Up somewhere in the sunrise Alden was waiting for her, and sheclimbed breathlessly. She was exhausted when she reached the summit, andthe wreath of rue pressed heavily upon her temples. 

She paused for a moment, realising that she had reached the end of herjourney. Rainbow mists surrounded the height, but, as she looked, theylifted. She was not surprised to see Alden standing there. He had beenhidden by the mists. 

With a little laugh of joy, Rosemary tried to run toward him, but herfeet refused to move. Then she called: "Alden!" and again, in a troubledtone: "Mr. Marsh!"

[Sidenote: Calling in Vain]

But only the echo of her own voice came back to her, for Alden did notmove. Strong and finely-moulded, his youth surrounded him like someradiant garment of immortality. Every line of his figure was eloquent ofhis lusty manhood, and his face glowed not only from the sunrise, butfrom some inner light. 

"Service, sacrifice. Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer. " Thewords reverberated through her consciousness like a funeral knell. Shedropped the stained lily and called again, weakly: "Alden!"

But, as before, he did not answer. His eyes were fixed upon a distantpoint where the coloured mists were slowly lifting. Rosemary, cold andstill, could only stand there and watch, for her feet refused to stir. 

Hungrily, she gazed upon him, but he did not see, for he was watchingthe drifting rainbow beyond. Then a cry of rapture broke from him and hestarted eagerly toward the insurmountable crags that divided him fromthe Vision. 

Rosemary saw it, too, at the same instant--a woman whose white gownshimmered and shone, and whose face was hidden by the blinding glory ofher sunlit hair. 

 * * * * *

She woke, murmuring his name, then rubbed her eyes. It took her severalminutes to realise that it was all a dream. She was in her own littleroom in the brown house, and the sun was peeping through the shutters. The holes in the rag carpet, the cheap, cracked mirror, the braided matin front of her washstand, and the broken pitcher all contrived toreassure her. 

[Sidenote: The Fair Future]

She sat up in bed, knowing that it was time to get up, but desperatelyneeding a few moments in which to adjust herself to her realities. Whathad happened? Nothing, indeed, since yesterday--ah, that dear yesterday, when life had begun! What could ever happen now, when all the future layfair before her and the miseries of her twenty-five years wereoverwhelmed by one deep intoxicating joy?

"Dreams, " thought Rosemary, laughing to herself. "Ah, what are dreams!"

She opened the shutters wide and the daylight streamed in. It was notfraught with colour, like the mists of her dream, but was the clear, sane light of every day. A robin outside her window chirped cheerily, and a bluebird flashed across the distant meadow, then paused on therushes at the bend of the river and swayed there for a moment, like someunfamiliar flower. 

"Rosemary!" The shrill voice sounded just outside her door. 

"Yes, Aunt Matilda, " she answered, happily; "I'm coming!"

She sang to herself as she moved about her room, loving the dear, common things of every day--the splash of cool water on her face andthroat, the patchwork quilt, and even the despised brown gingham, whichwas, at least, fresh and clean. 

[Sidenote: Service and Sacrifice]

"Service, " she said to herself, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving;asking, and not answer. I wonder if it's true!" For an instant she wasafraid, then her soul rallied as to a bugle call. "Even so, " shethought, "I'll take it, and gladly. I'll serve and sacrifice and give, and never mind the answer. "

She hurried down-stairs, where the others were waiting. "You're late, Rosemary, " said Grandmother, sourly. 

"Yes, I know, " laughed the girl, stooping to kiss the withered cheek. "I'm sorry! I won't let it happen again!"

Out in the kitchen, she sang as she worked, and the clatter of pots andpans kept up a merry accompaniment. She had set the table the nightbefore, as usual, so it was not long before she had breakfast ready. Hercheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining when she came in with theoatmeal. 

"This is for you, Aunt Matilda--it isn't cooked quite so much. This isfor you, Grandmother. It's nice and soft, for I soaked it over night. I'll have the eggs ready in just a minute. "

When she went out, the other two exchanged glances. "What, " askedGrandmother, "do you reckon has got into Rosemary?"

[Sidenote: What Has Happened?]

"I don't know, " returned Aunt Matilda, gloomily. "Do you suppose it'sreligion?"

"I ain't never seen religion affect anybody like that, have you?'

"No, I ain't, " Aunt Matilda admitted, after a moment's pondering. 

"She reminds me of her ma, " said Grandmother, reminiscently, "the dayFrank brought her home. "

VI

More Stately Mansions

[Sidenote: A New Point of View]

The new joy surged in every heart-beat as Rosemary went up the Hill ofthe Muses, late in the afternoon. Instinctively, she sought the place offulfilment, yearning to be alone with the memory of yesterday. 

Nothing was wrong in all the world; nothing ever could be wrong anymore. She accepted the brown alpaca and the brown gingham as she did thesordid tasks of every day. That morning, for the first time, it had beena pleasure to wash dishes and happiness to build a fire. 

Grandmother and Aunt Matilda had been annoyances to her ever since shecould remember. Their continual nagging had fretted her, their constantrestraint had chafed her, their narrowness had cramped her. To-day shesaw them from a new point of view. 

Grandmother was no longer a malicious spirit of evil who took delight inthwarting her, but a poor, fretful old lady whose soul was bound inshallows. And Aunt Matilda? Rosemary's eyes filled at the thought ofAunt Matilda, unloved and unsought. Nobody wanted her, she belonged tonobody, in all her lonely life she had had nothing. She sat and listenedto Grandmother, she did the annual sewing, and day by day resented morekeenly the emptiness of her life. It was the conscious lack that madethem both cross. Rosemary saw it now, with the clear vision that hadcome to her during the past twenty-four hours. 

[Sidenote: The Joy of Living]

She wanted to be very kind to Grandmother and Aunt Matilda. It was not aphilanthropic resolution, but a spontaneous desire to share her owngladness, and to lead the others, if she might, from the chill darknessin which they dwelt to the clear air of the heights. 

Oh, but it was good to be alive! The little birds that hopped from boughto bough chirped ecstatically, the nine silver-clad birches swayed andnodded in the cool wind, and the peaceful river in the valley belowsparkled and dimpled at the caress of the sun. The thousand sounds andfragrances of Spring thrilled her to eager answer; she, too, aspired andyearned upward as the wakened grass-blades pierced the sod and theviolets of last year dreamed once more of bloom. 

Yesterday she had emerged from darkness into light. She had been bornagain as surely as the tiny dweller of the sea casts off his shell. Theoutworn habitation of the past was forever left behind her, to be sweptback, by the tides of the new life, into some forgotten cave. 

 "Build thee more stately mansions, oh my soul, As the swift seasons roll. "

[Sidenote: The Same, Yet Different]

The words said themselves aloud. She had learned the whole poem longago, but, to-day, the beautiful lines assumed a fresh significance, forhad she not, by a single step, passed from the cell of self intocomradeship with the whole world? Was she not a part of everything andhad not everything become a part of her? What could go wrong when thefinite was once merged with the infinite, the individual with theuniversal soul?

She sat down on the log that Alden had rolled back against the twotrees, three years ago, when they had first begun to come to the Hill ofthe Muses for an occasional hour of friendly talk. Everything was thesame, and yet subtly different, as though seen from another aspect or inanother light. Over yonder, on the hillside farthest from the valley, hehad put his arm around her and refused to let her go. 

She remembered vividly every word and every look and that first shykiss. Of course they belonged together! How foolish they had been not tosee it before! Was she not the only woman he knew, and was he not theonly man to whom she could say more than "How do you do?" God had meantit so from the beginning, ever since He said: "Let there be light, andthere was light. "

[Sidenote: An Unwonted Shyness]

Dreaming happily, Rosemary sat on the fallen tree, leaning against thegreat oak that towered above her. The first pink leaves had come outupon the brown branches, and through them she could see the blue sky, deep as turquoise, without a single cloud. It seemed that she had alwaysbeen happy, but had never known it until this new light shone upon her, flooding with divine radiance every darkened recess of her soul. 

She went to the hollow tree, took out the wooden box, and unwound thescarlet ribbon. Yesterday, little dreaming of the portent that for onceaccompanied the signal, she had tied it in its accustomed place, andgone back, calmly to wait. The school bell echoed through the valley asshe stood there, her eyes laughing, but her mouth very grave. She hadtaken two or three steps toward the birches when an unwonted shynesspossessed her, and she hurried back. 

"I can't, " she said to herself. "Oh, I can't--to-day!"

So she restored it to its place, wondering, as she did so, why loveshould make such mysterious changes in the common things of every day. Won and awakened though she was, her womanhood imperatively demandednow that she must be sought and never seek, that she must not evenbeckon him to her, and that she must wait, according to her destiny, aswomen have waited since the world began. 

[Sidenote: Waiting]

Yet it was part of the beautiful magic of the day that presently heshould come to her, unsummoned save by her longing and his own desire. 

"Where is the ribbon?" he inquired, reproachfully, when he came withinspeaking distance. 

"Where it belongs, " she answered, with a flush. 

"Didn't you want me to come?"

"Of course. "

"Then why didn't you hang it up?"

"Just because I wanted you to come. "

Alden laughed at her feminine inconsistency, as he took her face betweenhis hands and kissed her, half-shyly still. "Did you sleep last night?"he asked. 

"Yes, but I had a horrible dream. I was glad to wake up this morning. "

"I didn't sleep, so all my dreams were wakeful ones. You're not sorry, are you, Rosemary?"

"No, indeed! How could I ever be sorry?"

"You never shall be, if I can help it. I want to be good to you, dear. If I'm ever otherwise, you'll tell me so, won't you?"

[Sidenote: Always]

"Perhaps--I won't promise. "

"Why not?"

"Because, even if you weren't good to me, I'd know you never meant it. "Rosemary's eyes were grave and sweet; eloquent, as they were, of herperfect trust in him. 

He laughed again. "I'd be a brute not to be good to you, whether I meantit or not. "

"That sounds twisted, " she commented, with a smile. 

"But it isn't, as long as you know what I mean. "

"I'll always know, " sighed Rosemary, blissfully leaning her head againsthis shoulder. "I'll always understand and I'll never fail you. That'sbecause I love you better than everything else in the world. "

"Dear little saint, " he murmured; "you're too good for me. "

"No, I'm not. On the contrary, I'm not half good enough. " Then, after apause, she asked the old, old question, first always from the lips ofthe woman beloved: "When did you begin to--care?"

"I must have cared when we first began to come here, only I was so blindI didn't know it. "

"When did you--know?"

"Yesterday. I didn't keep it to myself very long. "

[Sidenote: When Shall It Be?]

"Dear yesterday!" she breathed, half regretfully. 

"Do you want it back?"

She turned reproachful eyes upon him. "Why should I want yesterday whenI have to-day?"

"And to-morrow, " he supplemented, "and all the to-morrows to come. "

"Together, " she said, with a swift realisation of the sweetnessunderlying the word. "Yesterday was perfect, like a jewel that we canput away and keep. When we want to, we can always go back and look atit. "

"No, dear, " he returned, soberly; "no one can ever go back toyesterday. " Then, with a swift change of mood, he asked: "When shall webe married?"

"Whenever you like, " she whispered, her eyes downcast and her colourreceding. 

"In the Fall, then, when the grapes have been gathered and just beforeschool begins?"

He could scarcely hear her murmured: "Yes. "

"I want to take you to town and let you see things. Theatres, concerts, operas, parks, shops, art galleries, everything. If the crop is inearly, we should be able to have two weeks. Do you think you could crowdall the lost opportunities of a lifetime into two weeks?"

"Into a day, with you. "

He drew her closer. This sort of thing was very sweet to him, and thegirl's dull personality had bloomed like some pale, delicate flower. Hesaw unfathomed depths in her grey eyes, shining now, with theindescribable light that comes from within. She had been negative andcolourless, but now she was a lovely mystery--a half-blown windflower onsome brown, bare hillside, where Life, in all its fulness, was yet tocome. 

[Sidenote: What Will They Say?]

"Did you tell your Grandmother and Aunt Matilda?"

"No. How could I?"

"You'd better not. They'd only make it hard for you, and I wouldn't beallowed in the parlour anyway. "

Rosemary had not thought of that. It was only that her beautiful secretwas too sacred to put into words. "They'll have to know some time, " shetemporised. 

"Yes, of course, but not until the last minute. The day we're to bemarried, you can just put on your hat and say: 'Grandmother, and Aunty, I'm going out now, to be married to Alden Marsh. I shan't be back, sogood-bye. "

She laughed, but none the less the idea filled her with consternation. "What will they say!" she exclaimed. 

"It doesn't matter what they say, as long as you're not there to hearit. "

"Clothes, " she said, half to herself. "I can't be married in brownalpaca, can I?"

[Sidenote: The Difference]

"I don't know why not. We'll take the fatal step as early as possible inthe morning, catch the first train to town, you can shop all theafternoon to your heart's content, and be dressed like a fine lady intime for dinner in the evening. "

"Grandmother was married in brown alpaca, " she continued, irrelevantly, "and Aunt Matilda wore it the night the minister came to call. "

"Did he never come again?"

"No. Do you think it could have been the alpaca?"

"I'm sure it wasn't. Aunt Matilda was foreordained to be an old maid. "

"She won't allow anyone to speak of her as an old maid. She says she's aspinster. "

"What's the difference?"

"I think, " returned Rosemary, pensively, "that an old maid is a womanwho never could have married and a spinster is merely one who hasn't. "

"Is it a question of opportunity?"

"I believe so. "

"Then you're wrong, because some of the worst old maids I've ever knownhave been married women. I've seen men, too, who deserve the title. "

"Poor Aunt Matilda, " Rosemary sighed; "I'm sorry for her. "

"Why?"

[Sidenote: Alden's Mother]

"Because she hasn't anyone to love her--because she hasn't you. I'msorry for every other woman in the world, " she concluded, generously, "because I have you all to myself. "

"Sweet, " he answered, possessing himself of her hand, "don't forget thatyou must divide me with mother. "

"I won't. Will she care, do you think, because--" Her voice trailed offinto an indistinct murmur. 

"Of course not. She's glad. I told her this morning. "

"Oh!" cried Rosemary, suddenly tremulous and afraid. "What did she say?"

"She was surprised at first. " Alden carefully refrained from saying howmuch his mother had been surprised and how long it had been before shefound herself equal to the occasion. 

"Yes--and then?"

"Then she said she was glad; that she wanted me to be happy. She told methat she had always liked you and that the house wouldn't be so lonelyafter you came to live with us. Then she asked me to bring you to seeher, as soon as you were ready to come. "

The full tide overflowed in the girl's heart. She yearned toward Mrs. Marsh with worship, adoration, love. The mother-hunger made her faintwith longing for a woman's arms around her, for a woman's tears of joyto mingle with her own. 

[Sidenote: Madame's Welcome]

"Take me to her, " Rosemary pleaded. "Take me now!"

Madame saw them coming and went to the door to meet them. Rosemary wasnot at all what she had fancied in the way of a daughter-in-law, but, wisely, she determined to make the best of Alden's choice. Something inher stirred in answer to the infinite appeal in the girl's eyes. At thecrowning moment of her life, Rosemary stood alone, fatherless, motherless, friendless, with only brown alpaca to take the place of allthe pretty things that seem girlhood's right. 

Madame smiled, then opened her arms. Without a word, Rosemary went toher, laid her head upon the sweet, silken softness of the old lady'sshoulder, and began to cry softly. 

"Daughter, " whispered Madame, holding her close. "My dear daughter!Please don't!"

Rosemary laughed through her tears, then wiped her eyes. "It's only anApril rain, " she said. "I'm crying because I'm so happy. "

"I wish, " responded Madame, gently, with a glance at her son, "that Imight be sure all the tears either of you are ever to shed would betears of joy. It's the bitterness that hurts. "

[Sidenote: Tears]

"Don't be pessimistic, Mother, " said Alden, with a little break in hisvoice. Rosemary's tears woke all his tenderness. He longed to shield andshelter her; to stand, if he might, between her and the thousand pricksand stabs of the world. 

"We'll have tea, " Madame went on, brightly, ringing a silver bell as shespoke. "Then we shan't be quite so serious. "

"Woman's inevitable solace, " Alden observed, lounging about the roomwith his hands in his pockets. Man-like, he welcomed the change of mood. 

"I wonder, " he continued, with forced cheerfulness, "why people alwayscry at weddings and engagements and such things? A husband or wife isthe only relative we are permitted to choose--we even have very littleto say when it comes to a mother-in-law. With parents, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and cousins all provided by a generous butsometimes indiscriminating Fate, it seems hard that one's only choiceshould be made unpleasant by salt water. 

"Why, " he went on, warming to his subject, "I remember how a certainwoman angled industriously for months to capture an unsuspecting youngman for her daughter. When she finally landed him, and the ceremony cameoff to the usual accompaniment of Mendelssohn and a crowded church, Ifeared that the bridal couple might have to come down the aisle from thealtar in a canoe, on account of the maternal tears. "

[Sidenote: A Contrast]

"Perhaps, " suggested Rosemary, timidly, "she was only crying because shewas happy. "

"If she was as happy as all those tears would indicate, it's a blessedwonder she didn't burst. "

Madame smiled fondly at her son as she busied herself with the teathings. Rosemary watched the white, plump hands that moved so gracefullyamong the cups, and her heart contracted with a swift little pang ofenvy, of which she was immediately ashamed. Unconsciously, she glancedat her own rough, red hands. Madame saw the look, and understood. 

"We'll soon fix them, my dear, " she said, kindly. "I'll show you how totake care of them. "

"Really?" cried Rosemary, gratefully. "Oh, thank you! Do you supposethat--that they'll ever look like yours?"

"Wait and see, " Madame temporised. She was fond of saying that it tookthree generations of breeding to produce the hand of a lady. 

The kettle began to sing and the cover danced cheerily. Tiny clouds ofsteam trailed off into space, disappearing in the late afternoonsunshine like a wraith at dawn. Madame filled the blue china tea-potand the subtle fragrance permeated the room. 

[Sidenote: A Cup of Tea]

"Think, " she said, as she waited the allotted five minutes for it tosteep, "of all I give you in a cup of tea. See the spicy, sunlit fields, where men, women, and children, in little jackets of faded blue, pick itwhile their queues bob back and forth. Think of all the chatter thatgoes in with the picking--marriage and birth and death and talk ofhouses and worldly possessions, and everything else that we speak ofhere. 

"Then the long, sweet drying, and the packing in dim storehouses, andthen the long journey. Sand and heat and purple dusk, tinkle of bellsand scent of myrrh, the rustle of silks and the gleam of gold. Then theopen sea, with infinite spaces of shining blue, and a wake of pearl andsilver following the ship. Dreams and moonbeams and starry twilights, from the other side of the world--here, my dear, I give them all toyou. "

She offered Rosemary the cup as she concluded and the girl smiled backat her happily. This was all so different from the battered metaltea-pot that always stood on the back of the stove at Grandmother's, tobe boiled and re-boiled until the colour was gone from the leaves. Aldenwas looking into his cup with assumed anxiety. 

[Sidenote: In the Bottom of the Cup]

"What's the matter, dear?" asked his mother. "Isn't it right?"

"I was looking for the poem, " he laughed, "and I see nothing but astranger. "

"Coming?" she asked, idly. 

"Of course. See?"

"You're right--a stranger and trouble. What is there in your cup, Rosemary?"

"Nothing at all, " she answered, with a smile, "but a little bit ofsugar--just a few grains. "

Alden came and looked over her shoulder. Then, with his arm over theback of her chair, he pressed his cheek to hers. "I hope, my dear, thatwhenever you come to the dregs, you'll always have that much sweetnessleft. "

Rosemary, flushed and embarrassed, made her adieus awkwardly. "Comeagain very soon, dear, won't you?" asked Madame. 

"Yes, indeed, if I may, and thank you so much. Good-bye, Mrs. Marsh. "

"'Mrs. Marsh?'" repeated the old lady, reproachfully. Some memory of herlost Virginia made her very tender toward the motherless girl. 

"May I?" Rosemary faltered. "Do you mean it?"

Madame smiled and lifted her beautiful old face. Rosemary stooped andkissed her. "Mother, " she said, for the first time in her life. "DearMother! Good-bye!"

VII

A Letter and a Guest

[Sidenote: An Unexpected Missive]

"A letter for you, Mother, " Alden tossed a violet-scented envelope intothe old lady's lap as he spoke, and stood there, waiting. 

"For me!" she exclaimed. Letters for either of them were infrequent. Shetook it up curiously, scrutinised the address, sniffed at the fragrancethe missive carried, noted the postmark, which was that of the town nearby, and studied the waxen purple seal, stamped with indistinguishableinitials. 

"I haven't the faintest idea whom it's from, " she said, helplessly. 

"Why not open it and see?" he suggested, with kindly sarcasm. Hisassumed carelessness scarcely veiled his own interest in it. 

"You always were a bright boy, Alden, " she laughed. Another woman mighthave torn it open rudely, but Madame searched through her old mahoganydesk until she found a tarnished silver letter-opener, thus accordingdue courtesy to her unknown correspondent. 

Having opened it, she discovered that she could not read thehandwriting, which was angular and involved beyond the power of words toindicate. 

[Sidenote: A Woman's Writing]

"Here, " she said. "Your eyes are better than mine. "

Alden took it readily. "My eyes may be good, " he observed, after a longpause, "but my detective powers are not. The _m's_ and _n's_ are allalike, and so are most of the other letters. She's an economicalperson--she makes the same hieroglyphic do duty for both a _g_ and a_y_. "

"It's from a woman, then?"

"Certainly. Did you ever know a man to sprawl a note all over two sheetsof paper, with nothing to distinguish the end from the beginning? In thenature of things, you'd expect her to commence at the top of a sheet, and, in a careless moment, she may have done so. Let me see--yes, hereit is: 'My dear Mrs. Marsh. '"

"Go on, please, " begged Madame, after a silence. "It was just beginningto be interesting. "

"'During my mother's last illness, '" Alden read, with difficulty, "'shetold me that if I were ever in trouble, I should go to you--that youwould stand in her place to me. I write to ask if I may come, for I canno longer see the path ahead of me, and much less do I know the way inwhich I should go. 

[Sidenote: A Schoolmate's Daughter]

"'You surely remember her. She was Louise Lane before her marriage to myfather, Edward Archer. 

"'Please send me a line or two, telling me I may come, if only for aday. Believe me, no woman ever needed a friendly hand to guide her morethan

 "'Yours unhappily, "'EDITH ARCHER LEE. '"

"Louise Lane, " murmured Madame, reminiscently. "My old schoolmate! Ididn't even know that she had a daughter, or that she was dead. Howstrangely we lose track of one another in this world!"

"Yes?" said Alden, encouragingly. 

"Louise was a beautiful girl, " continued Madame, half to herself. "Shehad big brown eyes, with long lashes, a thick, creamy skin that somewayreminded you of white rose-petals, and the most glorious red hair youever saw. She married an actor, and I heard indirectly that she had goneon the stage, then I lost her entirely. "

"Yes?" said Alden, again. 

"Edith Archer Lee, " Madame went on. "She must be married. Think ofLouise Lane having a daughter old enough to be married! And yet--myVirginia would have been thirty-two now. Dear me, how the time goesby!"

[Sidenote: In Trouble]

The tall clock on the landing chimed five deep musical strokes, thecanary hopped restlessly about his gilt cage, and the last light of thesweet Spring afternoon, searching the soft shadows of the room, foundthe crystal ball on the table and made merry with it. 

"Time is still going by, " Alden reminded her. "What are you going todo?"

Madame started from her reverie. "Do? Why, she must come, of course!"

"I don't see why, " Alden objected, gloomily. "I don't like strangewomen. "

"It is not a question of what we like or don't like, my son, " shereturned, in gentle reproof. "She is in trouble and she needs somethingwe can give her. "

"When people are in trouble, they usually want either money or sympathy, or both. "

"Sometimes they only need advice. "

"There are lots of places where they can get it. Advice is as free assalvation is said to be. "

Madame sighed. Then she crossed the room, and put her hands upon hisshoulders. "Dear, are you going to be cross?"

His face softened. "Never to you, if I know it, but why should strangewomen invade the peace of a man's home? Why should a woman who writeslike that come here?"

"Don't blame her for her handwriting--she can't help it. "

"I don't blame her; far from it. On the contrary, I take off my hat toher. A woman who can take a plain pen, and plain ink, and do suchdazzling wonders on plain paper, is entitled to sincere respect, if notadmiration. "

[Sidenote: An Invitation]

Smiling, Madame went to her desk, and in a quaint, old-fashioned script, wrote a note to Mrs. Lee. "There, " she said, as she sealed it. "I'veasked her to come to-morrow on the six o'clock train. I've told her thatyou will meet her at the station, and that we won't have dinner untilhalf-past seven. That will give her time to rest and dress. If you'lltake it to the post-office now, she'll get it in the morning. "

Alden shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly, kissed his mother, andwent out. He wondered how he would recognise the "strange woman" whenshe arrived on the morrow, though few people came on the six o'clocktrain, or, for that matter, on any train. 

"Might write her a little note on my own account, " he mused. "Ask her totake off her right shoe and hold it in her left hand, or something ofthat sort. No, that isn't necessary. I'll bet I could go into a crowd ofa thousand women and pick out the one who wrote that letter. "

The scent of violet still haunted him, but, by the time he had postedhis mother's note, he had forgotten all about it and was thinking ofRosemary. 

[Sidenote: Planning for the Guest]

Madame, however, was busy with plans for her guest's comfort. She tookdown her best hand-embroidered linen sheets, shaking out the lavenderthat was laid between the folds, selected her finest towels anddresser-covers, ransacked three or four trunks in the attic for an oldpicture of Louise Lane, found a frame to fit it, laid out freshcurtains, had the shining silver candlesticks cleaned again, and openedwide every window of the long-unused guest-room to give it a night'sairing. 

Downstairs, she searched through the preserve-closet for dainties totempt an unhappy woman's appetite, meanwhile rejoicing with housewifelypride in her well-stocked shelves. That evening, while Alden read thepaper, she planned a feast for the next night, and mended, withfairy-like stitches, the fichu of real lace that she usually wore withher lavender silk gown. 

"Is it a party?" queried Alden, without looking up from his paper. 

"Yes. Isn't company a party?"

"That depends. You know three are said to be a crowd. "

"Still inhospitable, dear?"

"Only mildly so. I contemplate the approaching evil with resignation, ifnot content. "

"You and I have lived alone so long that we've got ourselves into a rut. Everyone we meet may give us something, and receive something from usin return. "

[Sidenote: Best Things for Strangers]

"I perceive, " said Alden, irrelevantly, "that the Lady Mother is goingto be dressed in her best when the guest arrives. "

A pale pink flush mantled the old lady's fair cheeks. At the moment shelooked like a faded rose that had somehow preserved its sweetness. 

"Why not?" she asked. 

"Why do we always do for strangers what we do not willingly do for ourown flesh and blood?" he queried, philosophically. "You love me betterthan anything else in the world, yet you wouldn't put on that lavendergown twice a year, just for me alone. The strange woman may feast hereyes upon it the moment she enters the house. She'll eat from the bestchina, sleep between embroidered sheets, and, I have no doubt, drink thewine that Father put away the day I was born, to be opened at mywedding. "

"Not at your wedding, my son, but the day you found the woman youloved. " Then, after a long pause, she added, shyly: "Shouldn't it beopened now?"

"It'll keep, " the young man grunted. "After lying for thirty years amongthe cobwebs, a few more weeks or months or years, as the case may be, won't hurt it. Besides, I don't expect to have any wedding. I'm merelygoing to be married. Might as well let the strange woman have it. "

[Sidenote: Old Wine]

Alden's father had, as he said, put away on the day he was born all thewine that was then ready to be bottled. The baby girl had been welcomedgladly, especially as she had her mother's eyes, but the day the secondAlden Marsh was born, the young father's joy had known no bounds. He hadgone, at dusk, to the pale little mother, and, holding her in his arms, had told her about the wine. 

"I've put it all away, " he had said, "for the boy. He's to open it theday he finds the woman he loves as I love you. "

The shelf in the storeroom, where he had placed it, had never beendisturbed, though dust and cobwebs lay thickly upon it and Madame hadalways prided herself upon her immaculate housekeeping. It grieved herinexpressibly because Alden cared so little about it, and had for it, apparently, no sentiment at all. To her it was sacred, like some rarewine laid aside for communion, but, as she reflected, the boy's fatherhad died before he was much more than a child. 

"Don't you remember your father at all?" asked Madame, with a sigh. 

"I can't say that I do--that is, not before he died. " The casket and thegloom of mourning had made its own vivid impression upon the child'ssensitive mind. One moment stood out quite clearly, but he forebore tosay so. It was when his mother, with the tears raining down her face, had lifted him in her arms and bade him look at the man who lay in thecasket, oh, so cold and still. 

[Sidenote: The Passing of the Father]

"Say good-bye to Father, dear, " she had sobbed. "Is Father gone away?"he had asked, in childish terror, then she had strained him to herheart, crying out: "Just for a little while! Oh, if I could only believeit was for just a little while!"

The rest had faded into a mist of sadness that, for a long time, had noteven begun to lift. When he found his mother in tears, as he often didafter that, he went away quietly, knowing that she longed for "Father, "who had gone away and never returned. Later, he used to sit on the topstep of the big Colonial porch--a fragile little figure--waiting, through the long Summer afternoons, for the father who did not come. 

Once, when his mother was so absorbed in her grief that she did not hearhim come into the room, he had laid a timid, trembling hand upon herknee, saying: "Mother, if you will tell me where Father is, I will goand bring him back. " But, instead of accepting the offer, she had caughthim to her breast, sobbing, with a sudden rush of impassioned prayer:"Dear God, no--not that!"

Time, as always, had done his merciful healing, which, though slow, isdivinely sure. Madame was smiling, now, at some old memory that had comemysteriously out of the shadow, leaving all bitterness behind. She hadfinished mending the lace and had laid it aside. Alden took it up, awkwardly, and looked at it. 

[Sidenote: Tired and Unhappy]

"This for the strange woman, " he said, teasingly, "and plain black orgrey silk for me, though I am fain to believe that you love me best. Whyis it?"

"Because, " she responded, playfully, "you know me and love me, evenwithout fuss and frills. For those who do not know us, we must put ourbest foot forward, in order to make sure of the attention our real meritdeserves. "

"But doesn't immediately command--is that it?"

"I suppose so. "

"What must I wear to the train--my dress suit?"

"Don't be foolish, son. You'll have plenty of time to dress after youget home. "

"Shall I drive, or walk?"

"Take the carriage. She'll be tired. Unhappy women are always tired. "

"Are they tired because they're unhappy, or unhappy because they'retired? And do they get unhappier when they get more tired, or do theyget more tired when they get unhappier?"

[Sidenote: The Arrival]

"Don't ask me any more conundrums to-night. I'm going to bed, to get mybeauty sleep. "

"You must have had a great many, judging by the results. "

Madame smiled as she bent to kiss his rough cheek. "Good-night, my dear. Think of some other pleasant things and say them to-morrow night to Mrs. Lee. "

"I'll be blest if I will, " Alden muttered to himself, as his motherlighted a candle and waved her hand prettily in farewell. "If all thedistressed daughters of all mother's old schoolmates are coming here, tocry on her shoulder and flood the whole place with salt water, it's timefor me to put up a little tent somewhere and move into it. "

By the next day, however, he had forgotten his ill-humour and was at thestation fully ten minutes before six o'clock. As it happened, only onewoman was among the passengers who left the train at that point. 

"Mrs. Lee?" he asked, taking her suit-case from her. 

"Yes. Mr. Marsh?"

"Yes. This way, please. "

"How did you know me?" she inquired, as she took her place in the worncoupé that had been in the Marsh stables for almost twenty years. 

"By your handwriting, " he laughed, closing the door. 

[Sidenote: With Bag and Baggage]

A smile hovered for a moment around the corners of her mouth, thendisappeared. 

"Then, too, " he went on, "as you were the only woman who got off thetrain, and we were expecting you, I took the liberty of speaking toyou. "

"Did you ask the man to have my trunk sent up?"

"Trunk!" echoed Alden, helplessly. "Why, no! Was there a trunk?"

She laughed--a little, low rippling laugh that had in it an undertone ofsadness. There was a peculiar, throaty quality in her voice, like amuted violin or 'cello. "Don't be so frightened, please, for I'm notgoing to stay long, really. I'm merely the sort of woman who can't stayover night anywhere without a lot of baggage. "

"It--it wasn't that, " he murmured. 

"Yes, it was. You don't need to tell me polite fibs, you know. How farare we from the house?"

"Not as far, " returned Alden, rallying all his forces for one supremeeffort of gallantry, "as I wish we were. "

She laughed again, began to speak, then relapsed into silence. Furtively, in the gathering shadow, he studied her face. She was paleand cold, the delicate lines of her profile conveyed a certain aloofnessof spirit, and her mouth drooped at the corners. Her hat and veilcovered her hair, but she had brown eyes with long lashes. Very longlashes, Alden noted, having looked at them a second time to make sure. 

[Sidenote: A Child of the City]

The silence became awkward, but he could think of nothing to say. Shehad turned her face away from him and was looking out of the window. "How lovely the country is, " she said, pensively. "I wish sometimes Inever had to step on a pavement again. "

"Do you have to?" he asked. 

"Yes, for I'm over-civilised. Like the god in Greek mythology, I needthe touch of earth occasionally to renew my strength, but a very briefcontact is all-sufficient. I'm a child of the city, brought up on smokeand noise. "

"You don't look it, " he said, chiefly because he could think of nothingelse to say. 

Madame herself opened the door for them, with the old-fashionedhospitality which has an indefinable charm of its own. "How do you do, my dear, " she said, taking the hand the younger woman offered her. Inthe instant of feminine appraisement, she had noted the perfectlytailored black gown, the immaculate shirtwaist and linen collar, and thediscerning taste that forbade plumes. The fresh, cool odour of violetspersisted all the way up-stairs, as Madame chattered along sociably, eager to put the guest at her ease. 

Below, they heard Alden giving orders about the trunk, and Mrs. Leesmiled--a little, wan ghost of a smile that Madame misunderstood. 

[Sidenote: Resting]

"You don't need to dress, if you're tired, " she suggested, kindly, "though we always do. Come down just as you are. "

Mrs. Lee turned to the dainty little woman who stood before her, arrayedin shining lavender silk. The real-lace fichu was fastened at the waistwith an amethyst pin and at her throat she wore a string of silverbeads. Her white hair was beautifully dressed, and somewhere, among thesmooth coils and fluffy softness, one caught the gleam of a filigreesilver comb. 

"Not dress?" she said. "Indeed I shall, as soon as my trunk comes. Thatis, " she added, hastily, "if there's anyone to hook me up. "

"There is, " Madame assured her. "I'll leave you now to rest. We dine athalf-past seven. "

The sweetness of the lavender-scented room brought balm to Edith Lee'stired soul. "How lovely she is, " she said to herself, as she noted themany thoughtful provisions for her comfort, "and how good it is to behere. "

A silver-framed photograph stood on her dressing-table, and she pickedit up, wondering who it might be. The hair and gown were old-fashioned, and the face seemed old-fashioned also, but, in a moment, she hadrecognised her mother. 

[Sidenote: The Newcomer in Green]

Tenderness for the dead and the living filled her heart. How dear it wasof Madame to have placed it there--this little young mother, justbudding into womanhood! It had been taken long before she had known ofEdith, or had more than dreamed of love. 

The arrival of the trunk compelled her to brush away a few foolishtears. She did not stop to unpack, but only took out the dinner gownthat lay on top. 

Promptly at half-past seven, she went down into the living-room, whereAlden and his mother were waiting to receive her. Madame smiled withpure delight at the vision that greeted her, but the young man forgothis manners and stared--stared like the veriest schoolboy at the tall, stately figure, clad in shimmering pale green satin that rippled abouther feet as she walked, brought out a bit of colour in her cheeks andlips, deepened the brown of her eyes, and, like the stalk and leaves ofa tiger-lily, faded into utter insignificance before the burnishedmasses of her red-gold hair. 

VIII

"Whom God Hath Joined"

[Sidenote: A Fortunate Woman]

Breakfast had been cleared away and Alden, with evident regret, had goneto school. Madame gave her orders for the day, attended to a bit ofdusting which she would trust no one else to do, gathered up the weeklymending and came into the living-room, where the guest sat, idly, robedin a gorgeous negligée of sea-green crêpe which was fully as becoming asher dinner-gown had been the night before. 

Madame had observed that Mrs. Lee was one of the rarely fortunate womenwho look as well in the morning as in the evening. Last night, in theglow of the pink-shaded candles, she had been beautiful, and thismorning she was no less lovely, though she sat in direct sunlight thatmade a halo of her hair. 

The thick, creamy skin, a direct legacy from Louise Lane, needed neitherpowder nor rouge, and the scarlet lips asked for no touch of carmine. But the big brown eyes were wistful beyond words, the dark hollowsbeneath spoke of sleepless nights, and the corners of the sweet mouthdrooped continually, in spite of valiant efforts to smile. 

[Sidenote: Why She Came]

"I think I should have known you anywhere, " Madame began. "You look somuch like your mother. "

"Thank you. It was dear of you to put her picture on my dressing-table. It seemed like a welcome from her. "

Madame asked a few questions about her old schoolmate, receivingmonosyllabic answers, then waited. The silence was not awkward, but ofthat intimate sort which, with women, precedes confidences. 

"I suppose you wonder why I came, " the younger woman said, after a longpause. 

"No, " Madame replied, gently, "for you told me in your note that youwere troubled and thought I could help you. "

"I don't know why I should have thought of you especially, though I havenever forgotten what mother told me about coming to you, if I were introuble, but two or three days ago, it came to me all at once that I waswandering in a maze of darkness and that you could show me the way out. "

"I hope I may, " the old lady murmured. "I shall be very glad to, if Ican. What has gone wrong?"

"Everything, " she returned, her brown eyes filling with mist. "Of courseit's my husband. It always is, isn't it?"

[Sidenote: Running Away]

"I don't know why it should be. Is he cruel to you?"

"No, that is, he doesn't beat me or anything of that sort. He isn'tcoarse. But there's a refined sort of cruelty that hurts worse. I--Icouldn't bear it any longer, and so I came away. "

"Was he willing for you to come?"

"I didn't ask him. I just came. "

Madame's glasses dropped from her aristocratic nose in astonishment. "Why, my dear Mrs. Lee! How could you!"

"Edith, please, if you will, " she answered, wiping her eyes. Then shelaughed bitterly. "Don't be kind to me, for I'm not used to it and itweakens my armour of self-defence. Tell me I'm horrid and have done withit. "

"Poor child, " breathed Madame. "Poor, dear child!"

For a few moments the young woman bit her lips, keeping back the tearsby evident effort. Then, having gained her self-control, she went on. 

"I'm twenty-eight, now, " she said. "I remember mother used to say shealways had her suspicions of a woman who was willing to tell the truthabout her age. "

"Sounds just like her, " commented Madame, taking up a dainty lavendersilk stocking that had "run down" from the hem. 

"I've been married six years, but it seems like twenty. Almost from thefirst, there has been friction between us, but nobody knows it, exceptyou--unless he's told his friends, and I don't think he'd do that. We'veboth had a preference for doing the family laundry work on thepremises. "

[Sidenote: Marital Troubles]

"What?" queried Madame, missing the allusion. 

"Not washing our soiled linen in public, " Edith explained. "While I livewith my husband as his wife, we stand together before the world as faras it is in my power to manage it. I do not intentionally criticise himto anyone, nor permit anyone to criticise him. I endeavour to lookahead, protect him against his own weakness or folly, and, as far as awoman's tact and thought may do, shield him from the consequences of hisown mistakes. I lie for him whenever necessary or even advisable. I havetried to be, for six years, shelter, strength, comfort, courage. And, "she concluded bitterly, "I've failed. "

"How so?"

"We live in the same house, but alien and apart. We talk at the table astwo strangers might in a crowded restaurant or hotel, that is, when he'sthere. I dare not ask people to dinner, for I never know whether he'scoming or not. He might promise faithfully to come, and then appear atmidnight, without apology or excuse. "

[Sidenote: All Sorts of Subterfuges]

"He supports you, " suggested Madame, glancing at the sea-green crêpe. 

"Yes, of course. That is, the question of money hasn't arisen betweenus, one way or another. I have no children, father and mother left meplenty of money, and I don't mind using it in any way that seemsadvisable. In fact, if I had to, I'd rather pay the household bills thanbeg for money, as many a wife is compelled to do--or, for that matter, even ask for it. It isn't as if I had to earn it myself, you know. If Ihad to, I'd probably feel differently about it, but, as it is, moneydoesn't matter between us at all. 

"Friends of mine, " she resumed, "have to resort to all sorts ofsubterfuges. I know women who bribe the tradespeople to make their billslarger than they should be and give them the difference in cash. I knowmen who seem to think they do their wives a favour by paying for thefood they themselves eat, and by paying their own laundry bills. Then, every once in a while, I see in some magazine an article written by aman who wonders why women prefer to work in shops and factories, ratherthan to marry. It must be better to get a pay-envelope every Saturdaynight without question or comment, than it is to humiliate your immortalsoul to the dust it arose from, begging a man for money to pay for thedinner he ate last night, or for the price of a new veil to cover upyour last year's hat. "

[Sidenote: Defiance]

"All this, " said Madame, threading her needle again, "is new to me. Ilive so out of the world, that I know very little of what is going onoutside. "

"Happy woman! Perhaps I should be happy, also, since this particularphase of the problem doesn't concern me. Money may not be your bestfriend, but it's the quickest to act, and seems to be favourablyrecognised in more places than most friends are. For the size of it, acheck book is about the greatest convenience I know of. "

The brown eyes were cold now, and their soft lights had become aglitter. The scarlet mouth was no longer sweet and womanly, but set intoa hard, tight line. Colour burned in her cheeks--not a delicate flush, but the crimson of defiance, of daring. She was, as she sat there, aliving challenge to Fate. 

"Is he happy?" queried Madame. 

"I suppose so. His ideal of a wife seems to be one who shall arrange andorder his house, look after his clothing, provide for his materialcomfort, be there when he comes, sit at the head of his table, dressedin her best, when he deigns to honour dinner with his presence, ask noquestions as to his comings or goings, keep still if he prefers to readeither the morning or evening paper while he eats, and to refrain fromannoying him by being ill, or, at least, by speaking of illness. 

[Sidenote: Quiet Rebuke]

"I saw, once, a huge cocoa-husk door-mat, with the word 'Welcome' on itin big red letters. I've been sorry ever since that I didn't buy it, forit typified me so precisely. It would be nice, wouldn't it, to have atyour front door something that exactly indicated the person inside, likethe overture to a Wagner opera, using all the themes and _motifs_ thatwere coming? That's what I've been for six years, but, if a worm willturn, why not a wife?"

"If you'll excuse me for saying so, " Madame answered, in a tone of quietrebuke, "I don't think it was quite right to come away without lettinghim know you were coming. "

"Why not?"

"He'll wonder where you are. "

"I've had plenty of opportunity to wonder where he was. "

"But what will he think, when he finds out you have gone?"

"He may not have noticed it. I have competent servants and they'll lookafter him as well or better than I do. If I had left a wax figure in thelibrary, in one of my gowns, with its back to the door and its head bentover a book, I could have been well on my way to China before I wasmissed, or, rather, that I was among those not present. If he has foundit out, it has been by the application of the same inductive methods bywhich I discover that he's not coming home to dinner. "

[Sidenote: Do You Love Him?]

"Do you love him?" In the answer to that question lay Madame's solutionof all difficulties, past and to come. To her, it was the divine reagentof all Life's complicated chemistry; the swift turning of the prism, with ragged edges breaking the light into the colours of the spectrum, to a point where refraction was impossible. 

"I did, " Edith sighed, "but marriage is a great strain upon love. "

The silvery cadence of Madame's laughter rang through the house andechoed along the corridor. As though in answer, the clock struck ten, the canary sang happily, and a rival melody came from the kitchen, incracked soprano, mercifully muted by distance and two closed doors. 

"See what you've started, " Edith said. "It's like the poem, where themagic kiss woke the princess, and set all the clocks to going and thelittle dogs to barking outside. Don't let me talk you to death--I'vebeen chattering for considerably over an hour, and, very selfishly, ofmy own affairs, to the exclusion of everything else. "

"But your affairs interest me extremely, I wish I knew of some way tohelp you. "

"In the last analysis, of course, it comes to this--either go on andmake the best of it, or quit. "

[Sidenote: The Marriage Vow]

"Not--not divorce, " breathed Madame. Her violet eyes were wide withhorror. 

"No, " Edith answered, shortly, "not divorce. Separation, possibly, butnot divorce, which is only a legal form permitting one to marry again. Personally, I feel bound by the solemn oath I took at the altar, 'untildeath do us part, ' and 'forsaking all others keep thee only unto me solong as we both shall live. ' All the laws in the country couldn't makeme feel right with my own conscience if I violated that oath. "

"If the marriage service were changed, " Madame said, nodding herapproval, "it might be justified. If one said, at the altar, 'Untildeath or divorce do us part, ' or 'Until I see someone else I likebetter, ' there'd be reason for it, but, as it is, there isn't. Andagain, it says, 'Those whom God hath joined let no man put asunder. '"

"Those whom God hath joined no man can put asunder, " Edith retorted, "but did God do it? It doesn't seem right to blame Him for all thepitiful mistakes that masquerade as marriage. Mother used to say, " sheresumed, after a little, "that when you're more miserable without a manthan you think you ever could be with him, it's time to marry him, andwhen you're more miserable with him than you think you ever could bewithout him, it's time to quit. "

[Sidenote: Envious Women]

"And, " suggested Madame, "in which class do you belong?"

"Both, I think--that is, I'm miserable enough to belong to both. I'munhappy when he's with me and wretched when he isn't. As he mostlyisn't, I'm more wretched than unhappy. In the small circle in which Imove, I'm considered a very fortunate woman. 

"Women who are compelled to be mendicants and who do not know that Ihave a private income, envy me my gowns and hats, my ability to ask afriend or two to luncheon if I choose, and the unfailing comfort of ataxicab if I'm caught in the rain. They think, if they had my gowns andmy grooming, that they could win and keep love, which seems to be aboutall a woman wants. But these things are, in reality, as useless aspainting the house when the thermometer is below zero and you need afire inside to warm your hands by. I have imported gowns and real laceand furs and jewels and all the grooming I'm willing to take, but mysoul is frozen and starved. 

"My house, " she went on, "isn't a mansion, but it has all the comfortsanyone could reasonably require. As far as my taste can discover, it'sartistic and even unusual. The dinner my cook sends up every night isas good, or better than any first-class hotel can serve, though it maynot be quite so elaborate. 

[Sidenote: The One Thing Lacking]

"I myself am not so bad to look at, I am well dressed, and never untidy. I am disgustingly well, which is fortunate, for most men hate a sickwoman. If I have a headache I don't speak of it. I neither nag nor fretnor scold, and I even have a few parlour tricks which other peopleconsider attractive. For six years, I have given generously and from afull heart everything he has seemed to require of me. 

"I've striven in every way to please him, adapting myself to his tastes. I've even been the sort of woman men call 'a good fellow, ' admiringlyamong women and contemptuously among themselves. And, in return, I havenothing--not even the fairy gold that changes to withered leaves whenyou take it into the sunshine. "

"You seem to have a good deal, dear--youth and health and strength andsufficient income. How many women would be glad to have what you have?"

"I want love, " cried Edith, piteously. "I want someone to care forme--to be proud of me for what I am and the little things I can do! If Ipainted a hideous dog on a helpless china plate, I'd want someone tothink it was pretty. If I cooked a mess in the chafing-dish or on thestove, I'd want someone to think it was good, just because I did it! IfI embroidered a red rose on a pink satin sofa cushion, or painted aWinter scene on a wooden snow-shovel and hung it up in the parlour, I'dwant someone to think it was beautiful. If I wrote a limerick, I'd wantsomeone to think it was clever. I want appreciation, consideration, sympathy, affection! I'm starving for love, I'm dying for it, and I'd goacross the desert on my knees for the man who could give it to me!"

[Sidenote: Kisses Classified]

"Perhaps he cares, " said Madame, consolingly, "and doesn't show it. "

"You can tell by the way a man kisses you whether he cares or not. If hedoesn't kiss you at all, he doesn't care and doesn't even mind yourknowing it. If he kisses you dutifully, without a trace of feeling, and, by preference, on your cheek or neck, he doesn't care but thinks heought to, and hopes you won't find out that he doesn't. But, if hecares--ah, how it thrills you if he cares!"

Madame's violet eyes grew dim. "I know, " she said, brokenly, "for I hadit all once, long ago. People used to say that marriage changes love, but, with us, it only grew and strengthened. The beginning was no morethe fulness of love than an acorn is the oak tree which springs from it. We had our trials, our differences, and our various difficulties, butthey meant nothing. 

[Sidenote: It May Come]

"I've had almost all the experiences of life, " she continued, clearingher throat. "The endless cycle of birth and death has passed on its waythrough me. I've known poverty, defeat, humiliation, doubt, grief, discouragement, despair. I've had illness and death; I've borne childrenonly to lose them again. I've worked hard and many times I've had towork alone, but I've had love, though all I have left of it is a sunkengrave. "

"And I, " answered Edith, "have had everything else but love. Believe me, I'd take all you've had, even the grave, if I could have it once. "

"It may come, " said Madame, hopefully. 

Edith shook her head. "That's what I'm afraid of. "

"How so? Why be afraid?"

"You see, " she explained, "I'm young yet and I'm not so desperatelyunattractive as my matrimonial experiences might lead one to believe. Ihaven't known there was another man on earth except my husband, but hispersistent neglect has made me open my eyes a little, and I begin to seeothers, on a far horizon. Red blood has a way of answering to red blood, whether there are barriers between or not, and if I loved another man, and he were unscrupulous----"

"But, " objected the older woman, "you couldn't love an unscrupulousman. "

[Sidenote: Like the Circus]

"Couldn't I? My dear, when I see the pitiful specimens of manhood thatwomen love, the things they give, the sacrifices they make, the neglectand desertions they suffer from, the countless humiliations they striveto bear proudly, I wonder that any one of us dares to look in themirror. 

"It's the eternal woman-hunger for love that makes us what we are, compels us to endure what we do, and keeps us all door-mats with'Welcome' printed on us in red letters. Eagerly trustful, we keep onbuying tickets to the circus, and never discover until we're old andgrey, that it's always exactly the same entertainment, and we'readmitted to it, each time, by a different door. 

"Sometimes we see the caged wild animals first, and again, we arrive atthe pink-lemonade stand; or, up at the other end, where the trapezesare, or in the middle, opposite the tank. Sometimes the band plays andsometimes it doesn't, but all you need in order to be thoroughlydisillusioned is to stay to the concert, which bears about the samerelation to the circus that marriage does to your anticipations. "

"Are you afraid, " laughed Madame, "that you'll buy another ticket?"

"No, but I'll find it, or somebody will give me a pass. I'm too young tostay to the concert and there's more of life coming to me still. I onlyhope and pray that I'll manage to keep my head and not make the fatal, heart-breaking mistake of the women who go over the precipice, wavingdefiance at the social law that bids them stay with the herd. "

[Sidenote: Mixed Metaphors]

"Your metaphors are mixed, " Madame commented. "Concerts and circuses, and herds, and precipices and door-mats. I feel as though you hadpresented me with a jig-saw puzzle. "

"So I have. Is my life anything more than that? I don't even know thatall the pieces are there. If they would only print the picture on thecover of the box, or tell us how many pieces there are, and give us morethan one or two at a time, and eternity to solve it in, we'd stand somechance, perhaps. "

"More mixed metaphors, " Madame said, rolling up the mended stockings. 

A maid came into the dining-room and began to set the table forluncheon. Edith rose from her chair and came to Madame. The dark hollowsunder her eyes were evident now and all the youth was gone from her faceand figure. 

"Well, " she said, in a low tone, "what am I to do?"

It was some little time before Madame answered. "I do not know. Thesemodern times are too confused for me. The old way would have been towait, to do the best one could, and trust God to make it right in Hisown good time. "

[Sidenote: Invited to Stay]

Edith shook her head. "I've waited and I've done the best I could, andI've tried to trust. "

"No one can solve a problem for another, but, I think, when it's time toact, one knows what to do and the way is clearly opened for one to doit. Don't you feel better for having come here and talked to me?"

"Yes, indeed, " said the young woman, gratefully. "So much was right--I'msure of that. The train had scarcely started before I felt more at peacethan I had for years. "

"Then, dear, won't you stay with me until you know just what to do?"

Edith looked long and earnestly into the sweet old face. "Do you meanit? It may be a long time. "

"I mean it--no matter how long it is. "

Quick tears sprang to the brown eyes, and Edith brushed them aside, halfashamed. "It means more trunks, " she said, "and your son----"

"Will be delighted to have you with us, " Madame concluded. 

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. " Madame was not at all sure, but she told her lie prettily. 

"Then, " said Edith, with a smile, "I'll stay. "

IX

A Spring Day

[Sidenote: Alden's Idea of a Trunk]

With the tact that seems the birthright of the gifted few, Mrs. Leeadjusted herself to the ways of the Marsh household. Some commotion hadbeen caused by the arrival of four more trunks, of different shapes andsizes, but after they had been unpacked and stored, things went onsmoothly. 

Alden's idea of a trunk had hitherto been very simple. To him, it wasonly a substantial box, variation in size and in exterior finish beingthe only possible diversions from the original type. When it fell to hislot, on a Saturday morning, to superintend the removal of Mrs. Lee'sempty trunks to the attic, he discovered the existence of hat trunks, dresser trunks, and wardrobe trunks, cannily constructed with huge wartson all sides but the one the trunk was meant to stand upon. 

"Why so scornful?" a sweet voice asked, at his elbow. 

"I'm not scornful, " he returned. "I'm merely interested. "

[Sidenote: In the Hall]

"You're fortunate, " she smiled, "to be so easily interested. "

"We're out of the world here, you know, and unfamiliar varieties of thetrunk species make me feel much as Crusoe did when he came upon a humanfootprint in the sand. "

"I wonder, " mused Mrs. Lee, "how he really did feel. It must have beendramatic beyond all words. "

She sat down on the window-seat in the hall and leaned back against thecasement of the open window. The warm Spring wind, laden with the sweetscent of growing things, played caressingly about her neck and carriedto Alden a subtle fragrance of another sort. Her turquoise-blue silkkimono, delicately embroidered in gold, was open at the throat andfastened at the waist with a heavy golden cord. Below, it opened over awhite petticoat that was a mass of filmy lace ruffles. Her tiny feetpeeped out beneath the lace, clad in pale blue silk stockings andfascinating Chinese slippers that turned up at the toes. 

From above came discordant rumblings and eloquent, but smothered remarkson the general subject of trunks. Mrs. Lee laughed. "They're trying tomake the wardrobe-trunk stand up on the wrong end, and it won't. "

"How do you know that's it?"

"Because I've heard the same noises and the same general trend ofconversation all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific and backagain. The farther west you go, the more accomplished the men are in theart of profanity. "

[Sidenote: Sounds from the Attic]

"Is it an art? I thought it came naturally. "

"It does, to some, but you have no idea what study and constant practicecan do in developing a natural gift. "

The sunlight illumined her hair into a mass of spun gold that sparkledand gleamed and shone. It made golden lights in her brown eyes, caressedthe ivory softness of her skin, and deepened the scarlet of her lips. 

"Listen, " she said. "Isn't it awful?"

"No, " returned Alden, "it isn't. In fact, I don't know of any sound I'drather hear than your trunks being put into our attic. "

A faint suggestion of a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, thenvanished. "Well done, " she said. "You have atoned nobly for your dismaythe night I came, when you found I'd brought a trunk. "

"I wish you wouldn't, " he replied, awkwardly. "It wasn't that. "

"Such a small trunk, " she went on, mercilessly. "Just a plain littlesteamer trunk that you can put under a bed. The kind you can ask acabman to take down to the cab for you. A little trunk that a woman canalmost carry herself! Only room for one gown, one hat, and a few toiletarticles!"

[Sidenote: Always Too Late]

The golden lights in her eyes were dancing and her hair shimmered in thesun. Alden sat down at the farthest end of the window-seat and lookedout upon the vineyard, faintly green, now, with the new leaves. The twomen descended from the attic and went down the back stairs. 

"How did Robinson Crusoe feel when he saw the footprint?" he asked, determined to get away from the unlucky subject of trunks. 

"I don't know, " Edith answered, "for I wasn't there. He must have beensurprised and frightened and pleased all at once. How interesting itmust be to have something happen to you that never happened to anybodybefore!"

"But it's all happened before, " he objected. "Is there anything newunder the sun?"

"It's been new, at one time or another. We're always too late, that'sall. Somebody ate the first oyster and somebody went to sleep first andsomebody wore the first false hair. 

"No, " she continued, with a rose-pink flush mantling her face, "I don't. If I did, I wouldn't mind saying so, but Nature gave me quantities ofit, so why should I borrow more? Besides, I don't believe there is anymore like it, so I couldn't, anyway. "

"No, " he returned, thoughtfully, "I don't believe there is any more likeit, either. Your wish to be first in something is surely gratified, forthere never was such hair as yours and never will be again. "

[Sidenote: Red Hair and Auburn]

"Mother's was like it. "

He shook his head. "No, it wasn't. I never saw your mother, but I knowbetter than that. "

"Ask your mother. There she is now. "

Madame appeared at the head of the stairs, on the way to her room, todress for luncheon. She paused to smile at the two who sat on thewindow-seat, then would have gone straight on had not Edith called toher. 

"Mrs. Marsh! Isn't my hair exactly like my mother's?"

Madame came to her, turned the shining head a little more toward thesun, and patted the fluffiness caressingly. "No, " she said, "though yourmother had glorious hair, it was nothing like this. Hers was auburn andsmooth, yours is reddish-gold--almost copper-coloured--and fluffy. Besides, you must have nearly twice as much of it. "

"There, " said Alden, "I told you so. "

"But, " persisted Edith, "if it's really copper-coloured, it's common. Look at the lady on the copper cent, for instance. "

"The lady on the copper cent, " returned Alden, "is a gentleman who wearsfeathers. "

"But under his feathers he has hair the colour of this. "

"He may not have any hair at all. "

[Sidenote: What's the Matter with Her?]

They both laughed, and Madame smiled, though she did not quiteunderstand what they were talking about. She was still smiling when shereached her own room, for she found it very pleasant to have Ediththere, and was delighted to have Alden come to a realising sense of hisduties as host. 

He had, indeed, conducted himself admirably ever since Mrs. Lee'sarrival, though he had been very quiet and reserved at first. With sometrepidation, she had told him that she had invited the guest to remainindefinitely, tactfully choosing a moment after an unusually gooddinner, when they chanced to be alone. 

Alden had taken it calmly, betraying no outward sign of any sort ofemotion. "What's the matter with her?" he had asked, curiously. "What'sshe in trouble about?"

"If she wants you to know, my son, she will tell you herself, " Madamehad replied, in a tone of gentle rebuke. "I have no right to violate herconfidence. "

He shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. "You don't need to squelch melike that, Mother. I don't know that I care, particularly. I was merelymaking conversation. "

"Refined conversation is not made of impertinences, " Madame suggested. The words were harsh, but the tone was kind. 

"Don't stab me with epigrams, please, for I don't believe I deserveit. "

[Sidenote: Dream-Children]

Madame recalled every word they had said as she took down her afternoongown of black silk, and began to sew frills of real lace in the neck andsleeves. She was glad he had been pleasant about it, for it seemed muchmore like living, someway, to have another woman in the house. 

If Virginia had lived--she, too, had brown eyes, but her hair was brownalso. She would have been four years older than Edith was now, and, undoubtedly, married. All Madame's feminine ancestors for generationsback had been married. The only spinster in the family, so far as Madameknew, had remained true to the memory of a dead lover. 

"Some women are born to be married, some achieve marriage, and othershave marriage thrust upon them, " Madame said to herself, unconsciouslyparaphrasing an old saying. Virginia would have been meant for it, too, and, by now, there would have been children in the old house, patteringback and forth upon the stairs, lisping words that meant no more thanthe bubbling of a fountain, and stretching up tiny hands that lookedlike crumpled rose-petals, pleading to be taken up and loved. 

These dream-children tugged strangely at the old lady's heart-strings inher moments of reverie. Even yet, after Rosemary came--but they wouldnot be like her own flesh and blood, as a daughter's children alwaysare. Poor Rosemary! How miserable she was at home, and how little shewould need to make her happy! To think that she dared not tell herGrandmother and Aunt that she was engaged to Alden! Madame's cheeks grewwarm with resentment in the girl's behalf. Motherless, friendless, alone, with Life's great cup of wonder in her rough, red hands!

[Sidenote: "Fussed Over"]

A tap at the door made her start. "Come in!" she called. 

It was Edith, trig and tailor-made, in dark green, with a crisp whitelinen shirtwaist, an immaculate collar, and a dashing green tie. 

"Mr. Marsh has invited me to go for a drive after luncheon, " she said, "and he asked me to come and see if you weren't almost ready. May I doyour hair for you?"

Madame submitted, not because she cared to have her hair done, butbecause she liked to be "fussed over, " as she put it. There wassomething very pleasant in the touch of Edith's cool, soft hands. 

"You're--you're not going to change the way I do it, are you?" sheasked, a little anxiously. 

"No, indeed! I wouldn't change it for anything. It suits you just as itis. "

"I'm glad you think so, for I've always worn it like this. Aldenwouldn't know me if I became fashionable. "

[Sidenote: It Isn't Right]

"He doesn't look a bit like you, " said Edith, irrelevantly. 

"No, but he's the living image of his father, and I'm very glad. Itkeeps me from--from missing him too much, " Madame's voice broke a littleon the last words. 

"It must be lovely to be missed, " said Edith, quickly. "Now I----"

"Dear, haven't you told him yet?"

"He's probably discovered it by this time. Still, I don't know--I'veonly been away a week. "

"It isn't right, " said Madame, decidedly. "You must let him know whereyou are. "

"Why? I never know where he is. "

"That doesn't make any difference. Two wrongs never make one perfectright. If you do your part, things will be only half wrong, instead ofentirely so. "

"I'll do whatever you think best, " said Edith, humbly. "I came to youbecause I could think for myself no longer. I'll write him a note beforeluncheon, if you say so, and post it this afternoon. "

"I do say so. "

Therefore luncheon waited for a few moments, to Alden's secretimpatience, until Edith came down with her note. She offered it toMadame, doubtfully. "Want to see it?"

"No, dear. I'll trust you. "

She sealed it with shamefaced gladness that Madame had not availedherself of the opportunity. She was quite sure that her counsellor wouldnot approve of the few formal lines which were all she had been able tomake herself write. 

[Sidenote: On the Way to the Post-Office]

After luncheon, when Alden assisted her into Madame's decrepit phaeton, and urged the superannuated horse into a wildly exciting pace of threemiles an hour, she asked to be driven to the post-office. 

"Thank you, " said Alden, "for alluding to it as a drive. It's more likea walk. "

"It isn't exactly like going out in a touring car, " she admitted, "butit's very pleasant, nevertheless. It gives you time to look at thescenery. "

"Also to photograph it if you should so desire. You don't even need tolimit yourself to snap-shots. A time-exposure is altogether possible. "

When they reached the post-office, Alden took her note, and went throughthe formality of tying the horse. He glanced at the superscription, notbecause he was interested in her unknown correspondent, but because thehandwriting claimed his attention. Through the delicate angular traceryhe made out the address: "Mr. William G. Lee. " The street and numberwere beyond his skill in the brief time he had at his command. 

"So, " he said, when he came back, "you're Mrs. William G. I trust youdon't call him 'William'?"

[Sidenote: Mrs. William G. ]

"No--he's the sort of William who is always known as 'Billy. '"

"Good! That speaks well for him. "

Alden began to wonder, as he alternately coaxed and threatened the horsetoward the river-road, what manner of man she had married. Someone, undoubtedly, with the face and figure of Apollo, the courtesy ofChesterfield, and the character of a saint. "It was good of him, " hesaid, gratefully, "to let you come to us. "

Edith bit her lips and turned her face away. "I was glad to come, " sheanswered, after a pause. For a moment she trembled upon the verge of aconfidence, then summoned all her conversational powers to the rescue. 

She began with the natural beauty of the country through which they weredriving, observed that the roads were better adapted to a horse than toan automobile, noted the pleasant situation of the Marsh house on theriver shore, veered for a moment to the subject of good roads in France, came back to the blue reflection of the sky upon the smooth surface ofthe river, admired the situation of the vineyard, said that Madame'sphaeton was extremely comfortable, and concluded by asking if it wasn'talmost time for apple-blossoms. 

[Sidenote: "I Just Knew!"]

"All of which means, " said Alden, quietly, "that you're unhappilymarried. "

"How do you know?" demanded Edith, crimson with surprise andmortification. "Did--did your mother tell you?"

"No, she didn't--most decidedly she didn't. I just know, that's all. "

"How? Do I betray myself so completely as that?"

He answered her question by another. "How did you know, the night youcame, that I was surprised and not altogether pleased by the fact thatyou had brought a trunk? Were my manners as bad as all that?"

"Why, no--I just knew. "

"And how did you know, this morning, when we were sitting on thewindow-seat, that I was wondering whether or not you wore false hair?"

"Why--I just knew. "

"That's it, exactly. "

"How long have you--known?"

"Ask me something easier than that, " he laughed, endeavouring to relievea situation that threatened to become awkward. Following his lead, shebegan to ask questions about the vineyard, and, when he told her hefeared he knew very little about his work, suggested that he should readup on vine-culture and make it the best-paying vineyard in the State. 

[Sidenote: An Afternoon Drive]

"Has mother been talking to you?" he demanded, turning to her quickly. 

"About the vineyard? No. But, if it's your work, why not do it betterthan anybody else does it?"

Alden looked at her long and earnestly. The golden lights of her eyeswere thrown into shadow now, for it was afternoon and they were drivingeast. Her answering smile gave him confidence, courage. Moreover, itchallenged him in some subtle way he could not analyse. It dared him, asit were, to make the best of the vineyard--and himself. 

"Thank you, " he said, at length. "I believe--I will. "

The divine moment passed, and, for the remainder of the drive, theytalked commonplaces. But the fresh air from the hills, the freedom ofthe wind-swept spaces, the steady aspiration of everything that lived, brought the colour to Edith's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes, andministered secretly to her soul. When she went in, she looked happierthan she had since she came. Madame saw it and was glad, but wisely saidnothing. 

She came down at dinner-time in a black lace gown trimmed with spanglesthat glittered when she moved. It was cut away slightly from therounded, ivory throat, and the white arms were bare to the elbow. Theupper parts of the sleeves were made of black velvet ribbon, latticedinto small diamond-shaped openings through which the satin texture ofthe skin showed in the candlelight. She wore no rings, except theslender circlet of gold that had been put on her finger at the altar, six years ago. 

[Sidenote: A Sense of Foreboding]

Conversation at dinner proceeded slowly, but on pleasant lines. Edithseemed preoccupied, and, at times, Alden relapsed into long silences. Madame noted that they scarcely spoke to each other, and was vaguelytroubled, for she liked Edith, and wanted Alden to like her too. 

After dinner, Edith played cribbage with Madame and Alden read thepaper. When Madame had won three games, in rapid succession, Edith saidgood-night. Alden, from the depths of his paper, murmured theconventional response. 

 * * * * *

That night he started from his sleep with a sense of foreboding. He satup and listened, but there was no sound. Not even the wind moving ashutter, nor a swaying branch tapping at his window--not a footfall, noran echo, nor a breath. 

The tall clock on the landing struck four. The silvery strokes died awayinto a silence that was positive, rather than negative. The sense offoreboding still persisted; moreover, he was conscious that someone elsewas awake also. 

[Sidenote: A Mysterious Perception]

Was it his mother? Was she ill? No--he was sure of that. Was it Edith?Yes, that was it. She was awake, and had been awake all night. Moreover, she was crying. 

His heart throbbed with tender pity. He yearned to comfort her, toassure her that whatever was wrong must eventually be made right. Why, from the crown of her beautiful head to the turned-up toe of her blueChinese slipper, Edith had been made for joy--and for love. 

Out of the darkness came a sudden mysterious perception. She knew shehad awakened him, and had smiled at the knowledge. A sense of wearinessquickly followed, then a restful silence which carried no thought withit. 

He lay back on his pillow and waited, with his eyes closed, until hefelt that she was asleep. Then he slept also. 

X

A Little Brown Mouse

[Sidenote: A Letter for Rosemary]

Rosemary peered into the letter box and saw that _The HouseholdGuardian_ was there. On one Thursday it had failed to appear and she hadbeen unable to convince Grandmother of her entire innocence in thematter. Even on the following day, when she brought it home, in theoriginal wrapping, she felt herself regarded with secret suspicion. Asit never had failed to come on Thursday, why should it, unless Rosemary, for some reason best known to herself, had tampered with the UnitedStates Mail?

There was also a letter, and Rosemary waited eagerly for the postmasterto finish weighing out two pounds of brown sugar and five cents' worthof tea for old Mrs. Simms. She pressed her nose to the glass, andsquinted, but the address eluded her. Still, she was sure it was forher, and, very probably, from Alden, whom she had not seen for ten days. 

[Sidenote: Ways and Means]

She felt a crushing sense of disappointment when she saw that it was notfrom Alden, but was addressed in an unfamiliar hand. Regardless of thedeference she was accustomed to accord a letter, she tore it openhastily and read:

 "MY DEAR ROSEMARY:

 "Can you come to tea on Saturday afternoon about four? We have a guest whom I am sure you would like to meet. 

 "Affectionately, your

 "MOTHER. "

The words were formal enough, and the quaint stateliness of thehandwriting conveyed its own message of reserve and distance but thesignature thrilled her through and through. "Mother!" she repeated, in awhisper. She went out of the post-office blindly, with the preciousmissive tightly clasped in her trembling hand. 

Would she go? Of course she would, even though it meant facingGrandmother, Aunt Matilda, and all the dogs of war. 

As the first impulse faded, she became more cautious, and began toconsider ways and means. It was obviously impossible to wear browngingham or brown alpaca to a tea-party. That meant that she must somehowget her old white muslin down from the attic, iron it, mend it, andfreshen it up as best she could. She had no doubt of her ability to doit, for both old ladies were sound sleepers, and Rosemary had learned tostep lightly, in bare feet, upon secret errands around the house atnight. 

[Sidenote: Secret Longings]

But how could she hope to escape, unobserved, on Saturday afternoon?And, even if she managed to get away, what of the inevitable return? Whynot, for once, make a bold declaration of independence, and say, calmly:"Grandmother, I am going to Mrs. Marsh's Saturday afternoon at four, andI am going to wear my white dress. " Not "May I go?" or "May I wear it?"but "I am going, " and "I am going to wear it. "

At the thought Rosemary shuddered and her soul quailed within her. Sheknew that she would never dare to do it. At the critical moment hercourage would fail her, and she would stay at home. Perhaps she couldwear the brown gingham if it were fresh and clean, and she pinned at herthroat a bow of the faded pink ribbon she had found in her mother'strunk in the attic. And, if it should happen to rain Saturday, or evenlook like rain, so much the better. Anyhow, she would go, even in thebrown gingham. So much she decided upon. 

Yet, with all her heart, she longed for the white dress, the only thingshe had which even approached daintiness. An old saying came back to herin which she had found consolation many times before. "When aninsurmountable obstacle presents itself, sometimes there is a way aroundit. " And, again, "Take one step forward whenever there is a foothold andtrust to God for the next. "

[Sidenote: A Bit of News]

That night, at supper, Aunt Matilda electrified Grandmother with a bitof news which she had jealously kept to herself all day. 

"The milkman was telling me, " she remarked, with an assumed carelessnesswhich deceived no one, "that there's company up to Marshs'. "

Grandmother dropped her knife and fork with a sharp clatter. "You don'ttell me!" she cried. "Who in creation is it?"

"I was minded to tell you before, " Aunt Matilda resumed, withtantalising deliberation, "but you've had your nose in that fool paperall day, and whenever I spoke to you you told me not to interrupt. Literary folks is terrible afraid of bein' interrupted, I've heard, so Ilet you alone. "

"I didn't know it was anything important, " murmured Grandmother, apologetically. 

"How could you know, " questioned Matilda, logically, "before I'd toldyou what it was?"

There being no ready answer to this, Grandmother responded with a snort, which meant much or little, as one might choose. A dull red burned onher withered cheeks and she had lost interest in her supper. OnlyRosemary was calm. 

[Sidenote: A Play-Actin' Person]

"As I was sayin', " Matilda went on, after an aggravating silence, "there's company up to Marshs'. "

"Seems to me, " Grandmother grunted, "that she'd better be payin' up thecalls she owes in the neighbourhood than entertainin' strangers. " Thisshaft pierced a vulnerable spot in Matilda's armour of self-esteem, forshe still smarted under Madame Marsh's neglect. 

"The milkman says it's a woman. Her name's Mis' Lee. She come a week agoand last Saturday she was to the post-office, and up the river-road allthe afternoon in that old phaeton with young Marsh. "

Rosemary's heart paused for a moment, then resumed its beat. 

"She's a play-actin' person, he says, or at any rate she looks like one, which amounts to the same thing. She's brought four trunks with her--onerespectable trunk, same as anybody might have, one big square trunk thatlooks like a dog-house, and another big trunk that a person could moveinto if there wasn't no other house handy, and another trunk that waspacked so full that it had bulged out on all sides but one, and when Jimand Dick took it up into the attic there wasn't but one side they couldset it on. And whiles they was findin' a place to set it, she and youngMarsh was laughin' down in the hall. "

[Sidenote: Servant's Gossip]

"Who is she?" demanded Grandmother. "Where did she come from? How longis she goin' to stay? Where'd Mis' Marsh get to know her?"

"The milkman's wife was over last Monday, " Matilda continued, "to helpwith the washin', and she says she never see such clothes in all herborn days nor so many of 'em. They was mostly lace, and she had twowhite petticoats in the wash. The stocking was all silk, and she saidshe never see such nightgowns. They was fine enough for best summerdresses, and all lace, and one of 'em had a blue satin bow on it, andwhat was strangest of all was that there wa'n't no place to get into'em. They was made just like stockin's with no feet to 'em, and if shewore 'em, she'd have to crawl in, either at the bottom or the top. Shesaid she never see the beat of those nightgowns. "

"Do tell!" ejaculated Grandmother. 

"And her hair looks as if she ain't never combed it since the day shewas born. The milkman says it looks about like a hen's nest and ispretty much the same colour. He see her on the porch for a minute, andall he could look at was that hair. And when he passed 'em on theriver-road after they come from the post-office, he couldn't see herhair at all, cause she had on a big hat tied on with some thin lightblue stuff. He reckoned maybe her hair was a wig. "

[Sidenote: Discussing the Stranger]

"I'd know whether 'twas a wig or not, if I saw it once, " Grandmothermuttered. "There ain't nobody that can fool me about false hair. "

"I guess you ain't likely to see it, " retorted Matilda, viciously. "Allwe'll ever hear about her'll be from the milk folks. "

"Maybe I could see her, " ventured Rosemary, cautiously. "I could put onmy best white dress and go to see Mrs. Marsh, to-morrow or next day, after I get the work done up. I could find out who she was and all abouther, and come back and tell you. "

For an instant the stillness was intense, then both women turned to her. "You!" they said, scornfully, in the same breath. 

"Yes, " said Grandmother, after an impressive pause, "I reckon you'll beputtin' on your best dress and goin' up to Marshs' to see a play-actin'woman. "

"You'd have lots to do, " continued Aunt Matilda, "goin' to see a womanwhat ain't seen fit to return a call your Aunt made on her more'n fiveyears ago. "

"Humph!" Grandmother snorted. 

"The very idea, " exclaimed Aunt Matilda. 

What had seemed to Rosemary like an open path had merely led to aninsurmountable stone wall. She shrugged her shoulders good-humouredly. "Very well, " she said, "I'm sure I don't care. Suit yourselves. "

[Sidenote: One Step Forward]

She began to clear away the supper dishes, for, though the others hadeaten little, they had apparently finished. Out in the kitchen, she sangas she worked, and only a close observer would have detected a tremor inthe sweet, untrained soprano. "Anyway, " thought Rosemary, "I'll put onthe flat-irons. "

The fire she had built would not go out for some hours. She had usedcoal ruinously in order to heat the oven for a special sort oftea-biscuit of which Grandmother was very fond. While the fire was goingout, it would heat the irons, and then----

"One step forward whenever there is a foothold, " she said to herself, "and trust to God for the next. "

That night, as fortune would have it, Grandmother and Aunt Matildaelected to sit up late, solving a puzzle in _The Household Guardian_ forwhich a Mission rocker was offered as a prize. It was long past teno'clock when they gave it up. 

"I dunno, " yawned Aunt Matilda, "as I'm partial to rockers. "

"Leastways, " continued Grandmother, rising to put her spectacles on themantel, "to the kind they give missionaries. I've seen the things theysend missionaries more'n once, in my time. "

[Sidenote: More than One Way]

By eleven, the household slept, except Rosemary. As silently as a ghost, she made her way to the attic, brought down the clean white muslin, and, with irons scarcely hot enough, pressed it into some semblance offreshness. She hung it in her closet, under the brown alpaca of twoseasons past, and went to sleep, peacefully. 

Bright and early the next morning the Idea presented itself. Why not puton the white gown with one of the brown ones over it and take off thebrown one when she got there? Mrs. Marsh would understand. 

Rosemary laughed happily as she climbed out of bed. Surely there wasmore than one way of cheating Fate! That afternoon, while the otherstook their accustomed "forty winks, " she brought down the faded pinkribbon that had been her mother's. That night she discovered thatneither of the brown ginghams would go over the white muslin, as theyhad shrunk when they were washed, but that the alpaca would. There wasnot even a bit of white showing beneath the skirt, as she had discoveredby tilting her mirror perilously forward. 

She was up early Saturday morning, and baked and swept and dusted tosuch good purpose that, by three o'clock, there was nothing more thatanyone could think of for her to do until it was time to get supper. Shehad put the white gown on under the alpaca when she dressed in themorning, as it was the only opportunity of which she was at all sure. 

[Sidenote: Hung in the Balance]

Grandmother and Aunt Matilda were nodding in their chairs. The kitchenclock struck the half hour. Finally, Rosemary spoke. 

"Is there anything either of you would like me to get at the store?"

"No, " said Grandmother. 

"No, " echoed Aunt Matilda. Then she added: "Why? Were you thinkin' ofgoin' out?"

"I thought I would, " said Rosemary, with a yawn, "if there was nothingmore for me to do. It's such a nice day, and I'd like a breath of freshair. "

For a moment, Fate hung in the balance, then Grandmother said, generously: "Go on, Rosemary, and get all the fresh air you want. You'veworked better'n common to-day. "

"I should think you'd be tired enough to stay home and rest, " AuntMatilda commented, fretfully, but the door had closed on the last word, and Rosemary was gone. 

 "But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day; So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray Up your warm throat to your warm lips--"

[Sidenote: Rosemary Meets Edith]

The beautiful words sang themselves through her memory as she sped on. She had forgotten about the guest for the moment, remembering with joythat almost hurt, the one word "Mother, " and the greater, probable joythat overshadowed it. Of course he would be there! Why not, when he knewshe was coming to tea--and when they had a guest, too? The girl's heartbeat tumultuously as she neared the house, for through it, in greattides, surged fear, and ecstasy--and love. 

Madame herself opened the door. "Come in, dear!"

"Oh, Mrs. Marsh! Please, just a minute!"

"Mrs. Marsh again? I thought we were mother and daughter. Edith!" shecalled. Then, in the next moment, Rosemary found herself in theliving-room, offering a rough, red hand to an exquisite creature whoseemed a blurred mass of pale green and burnished gold, redolent ofviolets, and who murmured, in a beautifully modulated contralto: "How doyou do, Miss Starr! I am very glad to meet you. "

The consciousness of the white gown underneath filled Rosemary's eyeswith tears of mortification, which Madame hastened to explain. "It's rawand cold still, " she said, "in spite of the calendar. These keen Springwinds make one's eyes water. Here, my dear, have a cup of tea. "

[Sidenote: An Uncomfortable Afternoon]

Rosemary took the cup with hands that trembled, and, while she sippedthe amber fragrance of it, struggled hard for self-possession. Madameignored her for the moment and chatted pleasantly with Edith. Then Aldencame in and shook hands kindly with Rosemary, though he had beensecretly annoyed when he learned she was coming. Afterward, he had a badquarter of an hour with himself while he endeavoured to find out why. Atlast he had shifted the blame to Edith, deciding that she would thinkRosemary awkward and countrified, and that it would not be pleasant forhim to stand by and see it. 

However, the most carping critic could have found no fault with Edith'smanner. If she felt any superiority, she did not show it. She accordedto Rosemary the same perfect courtesy she showed Madame, and, apparently, failed to notice that the girl had not spoken since themoment of introduction. 

She confined the conversation wholly to things Rosemary must have beenfamiliar with--the country, the cool winds that sometimes came when onethought it was almost Summer, the perfect blend of Madame's tea, thequaint Chinese pot, and the bad manners of the canary, who seemed totake a fiendish delight in scattering the seed that was given him toeat. 

[Sidenote: Looking into the Crystal Ball]

Rosemary merely sat in the corner, tried to smile, and said, asrequired, "Yes, " or "No. " Alden, pitying her from the depths of hisheart and yet secretly ashamed, tried unsuccessfully, now and then, todraw her into the conversation. 

Edith drained her cup, affected disappointment at finding no strayleaves by which she might divine the future, then went to Rosemary, andtook the empty cup which she sat holding with pathetic awkwardness. 

"You have none, either, Miss Starr, " she said, sweetly. "Suppose we trythe crystal ball? I've been wanting to do it ever since I came, but wasafraid to venture, alone. "

Rosemary, her senses whirling, followed her over to the table, where theball lay on its bit of black velvet. 

"How do you do it?" asked Edith, of Madame. 

"Just get into a good light, shade your eyes, and look in. "

"That's easy, " Edith said. She bent over the table, shaded her eyes withher white, beautifully-kept hands, and peered into the crystallinedepths. "There's nothing here, " she continued, somewhat fretfully, toAlden, "except you. By some trick of reflection, I could see you asplainly as though it were a mirror. You try, Miss Starr. "

Madame's heart contracted suddenly as she remembered the day she hadlooked into the crystal ball, and had seen not only Alden, but a womanwith flaming red hair, clasped closely in his arms. "It's all nonsense, "she tried to say, but her stiff lips would not move. 

[Sidenote: A Black Cloud]

Rosemary left the table and went back to her corner. "What did you see?"queried Edith. "Did you have any better luck than I did?"

"No, " Rosemary answered, with a degree more of self-possession than shehad shown previously. "There was nothing there but a black cloud. "

The task of keeping up the conversation fell to Edith and Alden, forMadame had unconsciously withdrawn into herself as some small animalsshut themselves into their shells. All were relieved, though insensibly, when Rosemary said she must go. 

Alden went into the hall with her, to help her with her coat and hat, and, as opportunity offered, to kiss her twice, shyly, on her cheek. Hewanted to go part way home with her, but Rosemary refused. 

"You'd better not, " she said, "but thank you just as much. "

"Won't you even let me go to the corner with you?"

"No, " said Rosemary, with trembling lips, "please don't. "

So she went on alone, while Alden returned to the living-room. Edithwas saying to Madame: "Poor little brown mouse! How one longs to take agirl like that and give her all the pretty things she needs!"

[Sidenote: Edith's Desire for Rosemary]

Madame took the crystal ball, wrapped it in its bit of velvet, and putit on the highest shelf of the bookcase, rolling it back behind thebooks, out of sight. 

"Why do you do that, Mother?" asked Alden, curiously. "Because, "returned Madame, grimly, "it's all nonsense. I won't have it around anymore. "

Alden laughed, but Edith went on, thoughtfully: "I'd like to do her hairfor her, and see that all her under-things were right, and then put herinto a crêpe gown of dull blue--a sort of Chinese blue, with a greatdeal of deep-toned lace for trimming, and give her a topaz pendant setin dull silver, and a big picture hat of ecru net, with a good deal ofthe lace on it, and one long plume, a little lighter than the gown. "

"I would, too, " said Alden, smiling at Edith. He did not in the leastknow what she was talking about, but he knew that she felt kindly towardRosemary, and was grateful for it. 

Rosemary, at home, went about her duties mechanically. There was afar-away look in her eyes which did not escape the notice of Grandmotherand Aunt Matilda, but they forebore to comment upon it as long as sheperformed her tasks acceptably. At supper she ate very little, and thatlittle was as dust and ashes in her mouth. 

[Sidenote: Heartburns]

Before her, continually, was a heart-breaking contrast. She, awkward, ugly, ill at ease in brown alpaca made according to the fashion of tenor fifteen years ago, and Mrs. Lee, beautiful, exquisite, dainty to herfinger-tips, richly dowered with every conceivable thing that sheherself lacked. 

"Mother, " said Rosemary, to herself. "Oh, Mother!" She did not mean Mrs. Marsh, but the pretty, girlish mother who had died in giving birth toher. She would have been like Mrs. Lee, or prettier, and she would haveunderstood. 

Her heart smarted and burned and ached, but she got through the eveningsomehow, and, at the appointed time, stumbled up to her own room. 

Why should she care because another woman was prettier than she, knewmore, and had more? Were there not many such in the world, and had shenot Alden? Accidentally, Rosemary came upon the cause of her pain. 

Of course she had Alden, for always--unless--then, once more, reassurance came. "She's married, " said Rosemary, smiling back at thewhite, frightened face she saw in the mirror. "She's married!"

[Sidenote: The Comforting Thought]

The thought carried with it so much comfort that presently Rosemaryslept peacefully, exhausted, as she was, by the stress of the afternoon. "She's married, " was her last conscious thought, and a smile lingeredupon her lips as she slept. She had not enough worldly wisdom to knowthat, other things being equal, a married woman may be a dangerousrival, having the unholy charm of the unattainable, and the sanction ofanother man's choice. 

XI

The Hour of the Turning Night

[Sidenote: Awake in the Night]

The darkness was vibrant, keen, alive. It throbbed with consciousness, with mysterious fibres of communication. There was no sense of apresence in the room, nor even the possibility of a presence. It wasvague, abstract, yet curiously definite. 

Edith woke from a troubled dream with a start. For a moment she layquietly and listened, not afraid, but interested, as though upon thethreshold of some new experience. The scurrying feet of mice made aghostly patter in the attic, above her room, and a vagrant wind, inpassing, tapped at her window with the fairy-like fingers of the vinethat clung to the wall. 

Otherwise all was still, and yet the darkness trembled with expectancy. Something hitherto unknown seemed to have entered her consciousness, some thought, emotion, instinct, or what? Wide awake, staring intospace, she lay there, wondering, waiting, not in the least frightened, but assured of shelter and of peace. 

[Sidenote: Another Personality]

Gradually she had lost consciousness of her body. She had relaxedcompletely and her mind soared, free. She moved one foot, cautiously, tosee whether her body was still there, and smiled when she was reassuredby the cool smoothness of the linen sheet, and the other warm littlefoot she touched in moving. 

Somewhere, in this same darkness, was another personality. Of so muchshe eventually became sure. It was not in the room, perhaps not even inthe house, but for someone else, somewhere, was this same sense--ofcommunication? No, but rather the possibility of it. 

Someone else had also lost consciousness of the body. Another mind, released for the moment from its earthly prison, sought communion withhers. Was this death, and had she wakened in another world? She movedher foot again, pressed her hand to the warm softness of her breast, felt her breath come and go, and even the steady beating of her heart. Not death, then, only a pause, in which for once the body, clamorous andimperious with its thousand needs, had given way to the soul. 

The curious sense of another personality persisted. Was this otherperson dead, and striving mutely for expression? No, surely not, forthis other mind was on the same plane as hers, subject to the sameconditions. Not disembodied entirely, but only relaxed, as she was, this other personality had wakened and found itself gloriously free. 

[Sidenote: A New Self]

A perception of fineness followed. Not everyone was capable of this, andthe conviction brought a pleasant sense of superiority. Above the sordidworld, in some higher realm of space and thought, they two had met, andsaluted one another. 

For the first time Edith thought of her body as something separate fromherself, and in the light of a necessary--or unnecessary--evil. This newself neither hungered nor thirsted nor grew weary; it knew neither coldnor heat nor illness; pain, like a fourth dimension, was out of itscomprehension, it required neither clothes nor means of transportation, it simply went, as the wind might, by its own power, when and where itchose. 

Whose mind was it? Was it someone she knew, or someone she was yet tomeet? And in what bodily semblance did it dwell, when it was housed inits prison? Was it a woman, or a man? Not a woman--Edith instantlydismissed the idea, for this sense of another personality carried withit not the feeling of duality or likeness, but of difference, of divinecompletion. 

Some man she knew, or whom she was to know, freed for the moment fromhis earthly environment, roamed celestial ways with her. She wascertain that it was not lasting, that, at the best, it could be of verybrief duration, and this fact of impermanence was the very essence ofits charm, like life itself. 

[Sidenote: Who Was the Man?]

The clock down-stairs began to strike--one, two, three--four. It was thehour of the night when life is at its lowest, the point on the flamingarc of human existence where it touches the shadow of the unknown, softening into death or brightening into life according to the swing ofthe pendulum. Then, if ever, the mind and body would be apart, Ediththought, for when the physical forces sink, the spirit must rise to keepthe balance true. 

Who was the man? Her husband? No, for they were too far apart to meetlike this. She idly went over the list of her men acquaintances--oldschoolmates, friends of her husband's, husbands of her friends, as onemight call the roll of an assembly, expecting someone to rise and answer"Here. "

Yet it was all in vain, though she felt herself on the right track andapproaching a definite solution. The darkness clung about her like aliving thing. It throbbed as the air may when a wireless instrumentanswers another, leagues away; it was as eloquent of communication as anetwork of telephone and telegraph wires, submerged in midnight, yetladen with portent of life and death. 

She sat up in bed, straining every nerve to the point where all sensesunite in one. "Who are you?" Her lips did not move, but the thoughtseemed to have the sound of thunder in its imperious demand. Tangledfibres of communication noiselessly wove themselves through thedarkness, and again all her soul merged itself into one question--"Who?For God's sake, who?"

[Sidenote: The Answer]

Then, after a tense instant of waiting, the answer flashed upon her, vivid as lightning: "Alden Marsh!"

And swiftly, as though in response to a call, a definite, consciousthought from the other personality presented itself: "Yes? What wouldyou have of me?"

Edith lay back among her pillows, as the clock struck the half hour. Thebody, as though resentful of denial, urged itself swiftly upon her now. Her heart beat tumultuously, her hands shook, she thrilled from head tofoot with actual physical pain. The darkness no longer seemed alive, butnegative and dead, holding somewhere in its merciful depths the promiseof rest. 

Utterly exhausted, she closed her eyes and slept, to be roused by a tapat her door. 

"Yes, " she answered, drowsily, "come in!"

Madame came in, pulled up the shades and flooded the room with sunshine. "I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, dear, but I was afraid you were ill. I've been here twice before. "

[Sidenote: Aroused from Sleep]

Edith sat up and rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Half-past nine. "

"Oh, I'm so sorry! You mustn't spoil me this way, for I do want to getup to breakfast. Why didn't you call me?"

Madame sat down on the side of the bed and patted Edith's outstretchedhand with affectionate reassurance. "You're to do just as you please, "she said, "but I was beginning to worry a bit, for you've been the soulof punctuality. "

"Did--" Edith closed her lips firmly upon the instinctive question, "Didhe miss me?" She dismissed it as the mere vapouring of a vacant brain. 

"Did what?" asked Madame, helpfully. 

"Did you miss me?"

"Of course. Alden did too. The last thing he said before he went toschool was that he hoped you were not ill. "

"That was nice of him. " Edith put a small pink foot out of bed on theother side and gazed at it pensively. Madame laughed. 

"I don't believe you've grown up, " she said. "You remind me of a smallchild, who has just discovered her toes. Do you want your breakfast uphere?"

"No, I'll come down. Give me half an hour and I'll appear before you, clothed and in my right mind, with as humble an apology for my sins asI'm able to compose in the meantime. "

[Sidenote: Call of the Wander-Lust]

She was as good as her word, appearing promptly at the time she had set, and dressed for the street. After doing justice to a hearty breakfast, she said that she was going out for a walk and probably would not beback to luncheon. 

"My dear!" exclaimed Madame. "You mustn't do that. I'll have luncheonkept for you. "

"No, please don't, for I really shan't want any. Didn't you observe mybreakfast? Even a piano-mover couldn't think of eating again beforeseven, so let me go a-gypsying till sunset. "

Madame nodded troubled acquiescence, and, with a laugh, Edith kissed hergood-bye. "I'm subject to the Wander-lust, " she said, "and when the callcomes, I have to go. It's in my blood to-day, so farewell for thepresent. "

Madame watched her as she went down the street, the golden quill on hergreen hat bidding jaunty defiance to the wind. As she had said, she feltthe call at times, and had to yield to its imperative summons, butto-day it was her soul that craved the solace of the open spaces and thewind-swept fields. 

As she dressed, she had tried to dismiss last night's experience as amere fantasy of sleep, or, if not an actual dream, some vision hailingfrom the borderland of consciousness, at the point where the sensesmerge. Yet, even as she argued with herself, she felt the utter futilityof it, and knew her denials were vain in the face of truth. 

[Sidenote: Roaming through the Village]

She dreaded the necessity of meeting Alden again, then made a wry faceat her own foolishness. "Ridiculous, " she said to herself, "preposterous, absurd!" No matter what her own nightmares might be, heslept soundly--of course he did. How could healthy youth with a clearconscience do otherwise?

For an hour or more, she kept to the streets of the village, with thesublime unconsciousness of the city-bred, too absorbed in her ownthoughts to know that she was stared at and freely commented upon bythose to whom a stranger was a source of excitement. Her tailored gown, of dark green broadcloth, the severe linen shirtwaist, and her simplehat, were subjects of conversation that night in more than one humblehome, fading into insignificance only before her radiant hair. Thegeneral opinion was that it must be a wig, or the untoward results ofsome experiment with hair-dye, probably the latter, for, as thepostmaster's wife said, "nobody would buy a wig of that colour. "

The school bell rang for dismissal, and filled her with sudden panic. After walking through the village all the morning to escape luncheonwith Alden, it would be disagreeable to meet him face to face almost atthe schoolhouse door. Turning in the opposite direction, she walkedswiftly until she came to a hill, upon which an irregular path straggledhalf-heartedly upward. 

[Sidenote: The Finding of the Red Book]

So Edith climbed the Hill of the Muses, pausing several times to rest. When she reached the top, she was agreeably surprised to find acomfortable seat waiting her, even though it was only a log rolled backagainst two trees. She sank back into the hollow, leaned against thesupporting oak, and wiped her flushed face. 

Others had been there before her, evidently, for the turf was wornaround the log, and there were even hints of footprints here and there. "Some rural trysting place, probably, " she thought, then a gleam ofscarlet caught her attention. A small red book had fallen into thecrevice between the log and the other tree. "_The House of Life_, " shemurmured, under her breath. "Now, who in this little villagewould--unless----"

The book bore neither name nor initials, but almost every page wasmarked. As it happened, most of them were favourite passages of her own. "How idyllic!" she mused; "a pair of young lovers reading Rossetti on ahill-top in Spring! Could anything be more pastoral? I'll take it backto the house and tell about it at dinner. "

[Sidenote: Mutually Surprised]

She welcomed it as a sure relief from a possible awkward moment. "I knewI was right, " she said to herself, as she turned the pages. "To-day wasset aside, long ago, for me to go a-gypsying. "

The clear air of the heights and the sunlit valley beneath her gave hera sense of proportion and of value which she realised she had sadlyneeded. Free from the annoyances of her daily life, she could look backupon it with due perspective, and see that her unhappiness had beenlargely caused by herself. 

"I can't be miserable, " she thought, "unless I'm willing to be. "

She sat there for a long time, heedless of the passing hours. She wasroused from her reverie by a muffled footstep and an involuntaryexclamation of astonishment. 

"Why, how do you do, Miss Starr?" said Edith, kindly, offering awell-gloved hand. "Are you out gypsying too?"

"Yes, " Rosemary stammered. Her eyes were fixed upon the small red bookthat Mrs. Lee held in her other hand. 

"See what I found, " Edith went on, heedlessly. "Rossetti's _House ofLife_, up here. Boy Blue must have brought it up to read to Bo-Peep inthe intervals of shepherding. There may not be any such word as'shepherding, ' but there ought to be, I love to make words, don't you?"

[Sidenote: Shrines Laid Bare]

"Yes, " said Rosemary, helplessly. She had thought Alden had the book, but had forgotten to make sure, and now the most precious hours of herlife had been invaded and her shrines laid bare. Was it not enough forthis woman to live in the same house with Alden? Need she takepossession of the Hill of the Muses and the little book which had firstawakened her, then brought them together? Resentful anger burned in hercheeks, all the more pitiful because of Mrs. Lee's utterunconsciousness, and the impossibility of reparation, even had sheknown. 

"Sit down, " Edith suggested. "You must be tired. It's a long climb. "

"Did--did you come up here to--to meet anyone?" The suspicion brokehotly from Rosemary's pale lips. 

Edith might have replied that she came up to avoid meeting anyone, butshe only said, with cool astonishment: "Why, no. Why should I?"

There was no answer to that. Indeed, thought Rosemary, flounderinghelplessly in a sea of pain, there was no reason. Was she not in thesame house with him, day in and day out?

"She's married, " Rosemary said to herself with stern insistence, tryingto find comfort in the thought, but comfort strangely failed now. Another suspicion assailed her and was instantly put into headlongspeech. "Is your husband dead, or are you divorced?"

[Sidenote: Too Late]

Mrs. Lee turned quickly. She surveyed the girl calmly for an instant, entirely unable to translate her evident confusion; then she rose. 

"Neither, " she returned, icily, "and if there are no other personalquestions you desire to ask me, I'll go back. "

Rosemary kept back the tears until Mrs. Lee was out of sight. "She'smarried, " she sobbed, "and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced, sowhy--oh, why?" The pain unreasonably persisted, taking to itself a freshhold. She had offended Mrs. Lee and she would tell Alden, and Aldenwould be displeased and would never forgive her. 

If she were to run after her, and apologise, assuring her that she hadnot meant the slightest offence, perhaps--. She stumbled to her feet, but, even as she did so, she knew that it was too late. She longed withall the passion of her desolate soul for Alden's arms around her, foronly the touch of his hand or the sound of his voice, saying: "Rosemary!Rosemary dear!" But it was too late for that also--everything came toolate!

 * * * * *

By the time she reached the foot of the hill Edith had understood andpardoned Rosemary. "Poor child, " she thought. "Think of her loving him, and actually being jealous of me! And, man-like, of course, he's nevernoticed it. For her sake, I hope he won't. "

[Sidenote: Like a Nymph]

She waited to gather a spray or two of wild crab-apple blossoms, thenwent home. She did not see Alden, but stopped to exchange a few wordswith Madame, then went on up-stairs. The long walk had wearied her, butit had also made her more lovely. After an hour of rest and a coolshower, she was ready to dress for dinner. 

She chose a dinner-gown of white embroidered chiffon that she had notyet worn. It was cut away a little at the throat and the sleeves came tothe elbow. She was not in the mood for jewels, but she clasped a stringof pearls around her perfect throat, and put the crab-apple blossoms inher hair. The experiment was rather daring, but wholly successful, asshe took care to have green leaves between her hair and the blossoms. 

When she went down, Madame and Alden were waiting for her, Alden inevening clothes as usual and Madame in her lavender gown. 

"You look like a nymph of Botticelli's, " commented Alden, with a smile. There was no trace of confusion, or even of consciousness in his manner, and, once again, Edith reproached herself for her foolishness. 

[Sidenote: "Don't Leave Me Alone"]

Dinner was cheerful, though not lively. Once or twice, Edith caughtAlden looking at her with a strange expression on his face. Madamechattered on happily, of the vineyard and the garden and the smallhousehold affairs that occupied her attention. 

Afterward, Alden read the paper and the other two played cribbage. Itwas only a little after nine when Madame, concealing a yawn, announcedthat she was tired and would go to bed, if she might be excused. 

Edith rose with alacrity. "I'll come, too, " she said. "It's astonishinghow sleepy it makes one to be outdoors. "

"Don't, " Madame protested. "We mustn't leave him entirely alone. You cansleep late to-morrow morning if you choose. "

"Please don't leave me alone, Mrs. Lee, " pleaded Alden, rather wickedly. 

"All right, " Edith answered, accepting the inevitable as gracefully asshe might. "Shall I play solitaire while you read the paper?"

"If you like, " he replied. 

Madame took her candle and bade them good-night. As she went up-stairs, Edith said, with a pout: "I wish I were going to bed too. "

"You can't sleep all the time, " he reminded her. The paper had slippedto the floor. "Mother tells me that you slept this morning untilhalf-past nine. "

[Sidenote: The Souvenir of Rural Lovers]

"Yes--but--. " She bit her lips and the colour rose to her temples. Shehastily shuffled the cards and began to play solitaire so rapidly thathe wondered whether she knew what cards she was playing. 

"But, " he said, "you didn't sleep well last night. Was that what youwere going to say?"

Edith dropped her cards, and looked him straight in the face. "I sleptperfectly, " she lied. "Didn't you?"

"I slept just as well as you did, " he answered. She thought she detecteda shade of double meaning in his tone. 

"I had a long walk to-day, " she went on, "and it made me sleepy. Look, "she continued, going to the mantel where she had left the book. "Seewhat I found on top of a hill, in a crevice between an oak and a logthat lay against it. Do you think some pair of rural lovers left itthere?"

"Possibly, " he replied. If the sight of the book he had loaned Rosemaryawoke any emotion, or even a memory, he did not show it. "Sit down, " hesuggested, imperturbably, "and let me see if I can't find a sonnet thatfits you. Yes, surely--here it is. Listen. "

She rested her head upon her hand and turned her face away from him. Inhis smooth, well-modulated voice, he read:

[Sidenote: Alden Reads a Sonnet]

HER GIFTS

 High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal Some wood-born wonder's sweet simplicity; A glance like water brimming with the sky Or hyacinth-light where forest shadows fall; Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthral The heart; a mouth whose passionate forms imply All music and all silence held thereby; Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal; A round reared neck, meet column of Love's shrine To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary; Hands which forever at Love's bidding be, And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:-- These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o'er. Breathe low her name, my soul, for that means more. 

Her heart beat wildly and her colour came and went, but, withdifficulty, she controlled herself until he reached the end. When sherose, he rose also, dropping the book. 

"Mrs. Lee--Edith!"

"Yes, " she said, with a supreme effort at self-command, "it is a prettyname, isn't it?" She was very pale, but she offered him her hand. "Ireally must go now, " she continued, "for I am tired. Thank you--andgood-night. "

Alden did not answer--in words. He took the hand she offered him, heldit firmly in his own, stooped, and kissed the hollow of her elbow, justbelow the sleeve. 

XII

Asking--Not Answer

[Sidenote: No Guarantee]

"She's married, and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced. She'smarried and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced. " Rosemary keptsaying it to herself mechanically, but no comfort came. Through the longnight, wakeful and wretched, she brooded over the painful differencebetween the woman to whom Alden had plighted his troth and the beautifulstranger whom he saw every day. 

"She's married, " Rosemary whispered, to the coarse unbleached muslin ofher pillow. "And when we're married--" ah, it would all be differentthen. But would it? In a flash she perceived that marriage itselfguarantees nothing in the way of love. 

Hurt to her heart's core, Rosemary sat up in bed and pondered, while thetears streamed over her cheeks. She had not seen Alden since Mrs. Leecame, except the day she had gone there to tea, wearing her white muslinunder her brown alpaca. There was no way to see him, unless she wentthere again--the very thought of that made her shudder--or signalledfrom her hill-top with the scarlet ribbon. 

[Sidenote: Hugging her Grief]

And, to her, the Hill of the Muses was like some holy place that hadbeen profaned. The dainty feet of the stranger had set themselves uponher path in more ways than one. What must life be out in the world, whenthe world was full of women like Mrs. Lee, perhaps even more beautiful?Was everyone, married or not, continually stabbed by some heart-breakingdifference between herself and another?

Having the gift of detachment immeasurably beyond woman, man mayseparate himself from his grief, contemplate it calmly in its variousphases, and, with a mighty effort, throw it aside. Woman, on thecontrary, hugs hers close to her aching breast and remorselessly turnsthe knife in her wound. It is she who keeps anniversaries, walks incemeteries, wears mourning, and preserves trifles that sorrowfully haveoutlasted the love that gave them. 

If she could only see him once! And yet, what was there to say or whatwas there to do, beyond sobbing out her desolate heart in the shelter ofhis arms? Could she tell him that she was miserable because she had comeface to face with a woman more beautiful than she; that she doubted hisloyalty, his devotion? From some far off ancestor, her woman's dower ofpride and silence suddenly asserted itself in Rosemary. When he wantedher, he would find her. If he missed her signal, fluttering from thebirch tree in the Spring wind, he could write and say so. Meanwhile shewould not seek him, though her heart should break from loneliness anddespair. 

[Sidenote: Worn and Weary]

Craving the dear touch of him, the sound of his voice, or even the sightof his tall well-knit figure moving along swiftly in the dusk, shecompelled herself to accept the situation, bitterness and all. Acrossher open window struck the single long deepening shadow that precedesdaybreak, then grey lights dawned on the far horizon, paling the starsto points of pearl upon dim purple mists. Worn and weary, Rosemary sleptuntil she was called to begin the day's dreary round of toil, asmechanical as the ticking of a clock. 

Cold water removed the traces of tears from her cheeks, but her eyeswere red and swollen. The cheap mirror exaggerated her plainness, whilememory pitilessly emphasised the beauty of the other woman. As shedressed, the thought came to her that, no matter what happened, shecould still go on loving him, that she might always give, whether or notshe received anything at all in return. 

"Service, " she said to herself, remembering her dream, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer. " If this indeed was love, shehad it in fullest measure, so why should she ask for more?

[Sidenote: Waiting for Breakfast]

"Rosemary!"

"Yes, " she called back, trying hard to make her voice even, "I'mcoming!"

"It beats all, " Grandmother said, fretfully, when she rushedbreathlessly into the dining-room. "For the life of me I can'tunderstand how you can sleep so much. "

Rosemary smiled grimly, but said nothing. 

"Here I've been settin', waitin' for my breakfast, since before six, andit's almost seven now. "

"Never mind, " the girl returned, kindly; "I'll get it ready just asquickly as I can. "

"I was just sayin', " Grandmother continued when Aunt Matilda came intothe room, "that it beats all how Rosemary can sleep. I've been up sincehalf-past five and she's just beginnin' to get breakfast, and here youcome, trailin' along in with your hair not combed, at ten minutes tobreakfast time. I should think you'd be ashamed. "

"My hair is combed, " Matilda retorted, quickly on the defensive. 

"I don't know when it was, " Grandmother fretted. "I ain't seen it combedsince I can remember. "

"Then it's because you ain't looked. Any time you want to see mecombin' my hair you can come in. I do it every morning. "

[Sidenote: Fluffy Hair]

Grandmother laughed, sarcastically. "'Pears like you thought you was oneof them mermaids I was readin' about in the paper once. They're halffish and half woman and they set on rocks, combin' their hair andsingin' and the ships go to pieces on the rocks 'cause the sailors areso anxious to see 'em they forget where they're goin'. "

"There ain't no rocks outside my door as I know of, " Matilda returned, "and only one rocker inside. "

"No, nor your hair ain't like theirs neither. The paper said their hairwas golden. "

"Must be nice and stiff, " Matilda commented. "I'd hate to have my hairall wire. "

Grandmother lifted her spectacles from the wart and peered through themcritically. "I dunno, " she said, "as it'd look any different, except forthe colour. The way you're settin' now, against the light, I can seebristles stickin' out all over it, same as if 'twas wire. "

"Fluffy hair is all the style now, " said Matilda, complacently. 

"Fluffy!" Grandmother grunted. "If that's what you call it, I reckonit'll soon go out. It might have been out for fifteen or twenty yearsand you not know it. I don't believe any self-respectin' woman would lether hair go like that. Why 'n the name of common sense can't you take ahair brush and wet it in cold water and slick it up, so's folks can seethat it's combed? Mine's always slick, and nobody can't say that itisn't. "

[Sidenote: Grandmother's Disappointment]

"Yes, " Matilda agreed with a scornful glance, "it is slick, what thereis of it. "

Grandmother's head burned pink through her scanty white locks and hereyes flashed dangerously. Somewhat frightened, Matilda hastened tochange the subject. 

"She wears her hair like mine. "

"She?" repeated Grandmother, pricking up her ears, "Who's she?"

"You know--the company up to Marshs'. "

"Who was tellin' you? The milkman, or his wife?"

"None of 'em, " answered Matilda, mysteriously. Then, lowering her voiceto a whisper, she added: "I seen her myself!"

"When?" Grandmother demanded. "You been up there, payin' back your owncall?"

"She went by here yesterday, " said Matilda, hurriedly. 

"What was I doin'?" the old lady inquired, resentfully. 

"One time you was asleep and one time you was readin'. "

"What? Do you mean to tell me she went by here twice and you ain't nevertold me till now?"

"When you've been readin', " Matilda rejoined, with secret delight, "you've always told me and Rosemary too that you wan't to be disturbedunless the house took afire. Ain't she, Rosemary?"

[Sidenote: If Anything's Important]

"What?" asked the girl, placing a saucer of stewed prunes at each placeand drawing up the three chairs. 

"Ain't she always said she didn't want to be disturbed when she wasreadin'?" She indicated Grandmother by an inclination of her frowsyhead. 

"I don't believe any of us like to be interrupted when we're reading, "Rosemary replied, tactfully. She disliked to "take sides, " and alwaysavoided it whenever possible. 

"There, " exclaimed Matilda, triumphantly. 

"And the other time?" pursued Grandmother. Her eyes glittered and hercheeks burned with dull, smouldering fires. 

"You was asleep. "

"I could have been woke up, couldn't I?"

"You could have been, " Matilda replied, after a moment's thought, "butwhen you've been woke up I ain't never liked to be the one what did it. "

"If it's anything important, " Grandmother observed, as she began to eat, "I'm willin' to be interrupted when I'm readin', or to be woke up whenI'm asleep, and if that woman ever goes by the house again, I want tobe told of it, and I want you both to understand it, right here andnow. "

[Sidenote: Have You Seen Her?]

"What woman?" queried Rosemary. She had been busy in the kitchen and hadnot grasped the subject of the conversation, though the rumbling of ithad reached her from afar. 

"Marshs' company, " said both voices at once. 

"Oh!" Rosemary steadied herself for a moment against the back of herchair and then sat down. 

"Have you seen her?" asked Grandmother. 

"Yes. " Rosemary's answer was scarcely more than a whisper. In herwretchedness, she told the truth, being unable to think sufficiently tolie. 

"When?" asked Aunt Matilda. 

"Where?" demanded Grandmother. 

"Yesterday, when I was out for a walk. " It was not necessary to go backof yesterday. 

"Where was she?" insisted Grandmother. 

"Up on the hill. I didn't know she was there when I went up. She was atthe top, resting. "

"Did she speak to you?" asked Aunt Matilda. 

"Yes. " Rosemary's voice was very low and had in it all the weariness ofthe world. 

"What did she say?" inquired Grandmother, with the air of the attorneyfor the defence. The spectacles were resting upon the wart now, and shepeered over them disconcertingly. 

[Sidenote: What Does She Look Like?]

"I asked you what she said, " Grandmother repeated distinctly, after apause. 

"She said: 'How do you do, Miss Starr?'"

"How'd she know who you were?"

"There, there, Mother, " put in Aunt Matilda. "I reckon everybody inthese parts knows the Starr family. "

"Of course, " returned the old lady, somewhat mollified. "What else didshe say?"

"Nothing much, " stammered Rosemary. "That is, I can't remember. She saidit was a nice day, or something of that sort, and then she went backhome. She didn't stay but a minute. " So much was true, even though thatminute had agonised Rosemary beyond words. 

"What does she look like?" Grandmother continued, with deep interest. 

"Not--like anybody we know. Aunt Matilda can tell you better than I can. She saw her too. "

Accepting modestly this tribute to her powers of observation, AuntMatilda took the conversation out of Rosemary's hands, greatly to herrelief. The remainder of breakfast was a spirited dialogue. Grandmother's doubt on any one point was quickly silenced by thesarcastic comment from Matilda: "Well, bein' as you've seen her and Ihaven't, of course you know. "

[Sidenote: Under the Ban]

Meanwhile Rosemary ate, not knowing what she ate, choking down her foodwith glass after glass of water which by no means assuaged the innerfires. While she was washing the breakfast dishes the other two werediscussing Mrs. Lee's hair. Grandmother insisted that it was a wig, asplay-actresses always wore them and Mrs. Lee was undoubtedly aplay-actress. 

"How do you know?" Matilda inquired, with sarcastic inflection. 

"If she ain't, " Grandmother parried, "what's she gallivantin' around thecountry for without her husband?"

"Maybe he's dead. "

"If he's dead, why ain't she wearin' mourning, as any decent womanwould? She's either a play-actress, or else she's a divorced woman, ormaybe both. " Either condition, in Grandmother's mind, was the seal ofsocial damnation. 

"If we was on callin' terms with the Marshs, " said Matilda, meditatively, "Mis' Marsh might be bringin' her here. "

"Not twice, " returned Grandmother, with determination. "This is myhouse, and I've got something to say about who comes in it. I wouldn'teven have Mis' Marsh now, after she's been hobnobbin' with the likes ofher. "

After reverting for a moment to the copper-coloured hair, which might ormight not be a wig, the conversation drifted back to mermaids and theseafaring folk who went astray on the rocks. Aunt Matilda insisted thatthere were no such things as mermaids, and Grandmother triumphantly dugup the article in question from a copy of _The Household Guardian_ morethan three months old. 

[Sidenote: Working Faithfully]

"It's a lie, just the same, " Matilda protested, though weakly, as one inthe last ditch. 

"Matilda Starr!" The clarion note of Grandmother's voice would have madethe dead stir. "Ain't I showed it to you, in the paper?" To questionprint was as impious as to doubt Holy Writ. 

Rosemary was greatly relieved when Mrs. Lee gave way to mermaids in theeternal flow of talk. She wondered, sometimes, that their voices did notfail them, though occasionally a sulky silence or a nap produced a briefinterval of peace. She worked faithfully until her household tasks wereaccomplished, discovering that, no matter how one's heart aches, one cando the necessary things and do them well. 

Early in the afternoon, she found herself free. Instinct and remorselesspain led her unerringly to the one place, where the great joy had cometo her. She searched her suffering dumbly, and without mercy. If sheknew the reason why!

"She's married, and her husband isn't dead, and they're not divorced. "Parrot-like, Rosemary repeated the words to herself, emphasising eachfact with a tap of her foot on the ground in front of her. Then a newfear presented itself, clutching coldly at her heart. Perhaps they weregoing to be divorced and then----

[Sidenote: Something Snapped]

Something seemed to snap, like the breaking of a strained tension. Rosemary had come to the point where she could endure no more, andmercifully the pain was eased. Later on, no doubt, she could sufferagain, but for the moment she felt only a dull weariness. In thebackground the ache slumbered, like an ember that is covered with ashes, but now she was at rest. 

She looked about her curiously, as though she were a stranger. Yet, atthe very spot where she stood, Mrs. Lee had stood yesterday, her browneyes cold with controlled anger when she made her sarcastic farewell. When she first saw her, she had been sitting on the log, where Aldenusually sat. Down in the hollow tree was the wooden box that held thered ribbon. Shyly, the nine silver birches, with bowed heads, had turneddown the hillside and stopped. Across, on the other side of the hill, where God hung His flaming tapestries of sunset from the high walls ofHeaven, Rosemary had stood that day, weeping, and Love had come tocomfort her. 

[Sidenote: Another Standard]

None of it mattered now--nothing mattered any more. She had reached theend, whatever the end might be. Seemingly it was a great pause of souland body, the consciousness of arrival at the ultimate goal. 

When she saw Alden, she would ask to be released. She could tell him, with some semblance of truth, that she could not leave Grandmother andAunt Matilda, because they needed her, and after they had done so muchfor her, she could not bring herself to seem ungrateful, even for him. The books were full of such things--the eternal sacrifice of youth toage, which age unblushingly accepts, perhaps in remembrance of somesacrifice of its own. 

He had told her, long ago, that she was the only woman he knew. Now hehad another standard to judge her by and, at the best, she must fall farshort of it. Some day Alden would marry--he must marry, and have a homeof his own when his mother was no longer there to make it for him, andshe--she was not good enough for him, any more than Cinderella was goodenough for the Prince. 

The fact that the Prince had considered Cinderella fully his equalhappily escaped Rosemary now. Clearly before her lay the one thing to bedone: to tell him it was all a mistake, and ask for freedom before heforced it upon her. He had been very kind the other day, when she hadgone there to tea but, naturally, he had seen the difference--must haveseen it. 

[Sidenote: Rosemary's Few Days of Joy]

Of course it would not be Mrs. Lee--Rosemary could laugh at that now. Her jealousy of an individual had been merely the recognition of a type, and her emotion the unfailing tribute inferiority accords superiority. Married, and her husband not dead, nor divorced--manifestly it could notbe Mrs. Lee. 

She longed to set him free, to bid him mate with a woman worthy of him. Some glorious woman, Rosemary thought, with abundant beauty and radianthair, with a low, deep voice that vibrated through the room like somestringed instrument and lingered, in melodious echoes, like music thathas ceased. She saw her few days of joy as the one perfect thing she hadever had, the one gift she had prayed for and received. This much couldnever be taken away from her. She had had it and been blessed by it, andnow the time had come to surrender it. What was she, that she might hopeto keep it?

 "Lo, what am I to Love, the Lord of all One little shell upon the murmuring sand, One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand--"

The moment of shelter became divinely dear. Already, in her remembrance, she had placed a shrine to which she might go, in silence, when thingsbecame too hard. She would have written to Alden, if she had had a sheetof paper, and an envelope, and a stamp, but she had not, and dared notface the torrent of questions she would arouse by asking for it. 

[Sidenote: No One Came]

Her face transfigured by a passion of renunciation, Rosemary reachedinto the hollow tree for the wooden box, and, for the last time unwoundthe scarlet ribbon. She tied it to the lowest bough of the birch whenthe school bell rang, and went back to wait. Without emotion, she framedthe few words she would say. "Just tell him it's all a mistake, thatthey need me and I mustn't leave them, and so good-bye. And if he triesto kiss me for good-bye--oh, he mustn't, for I couldn't bear that!"

So Rosemary sat and waited--until almost dark, but no one came. Aldenhad, indeed, hurried home to have afternoon tea with his mother andEdith. He had almost forgotten the oriflamme that sometimes signalled tohim from the top of the hill, and seldom even glanced that way. 

In the gathering dusk, Rosemary took it down, unemotionally. It seemedonly part of the great denial. She put it back into the box, and hid itin the tree. 

"Service, " she said to herself, as she went home, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer. And this is love!"

XIII

The Stain of the Rose

[Sidenote: Put Aside]

Alden had put Rosemary aside as though in a mental pigeon-hole. If vaguethoughts of her came now and then to trouble him, he showed no sign ofit. As weeks and months had sometimes passed without a meeting, whyshould it be different now? Moreover, he was busy, as she must know, with the vineyard and school, and a guest. 

He had ordered several books on the subject of vine-culture, and wasreading a great deal, though a close observer might have noted longintervals in which he took no heed of the book, but stared dreamily intospace. He saw Edith at the table, and in the evenings, and occasionallyat afternoon tea--a pleasant custom which she and Madame never failed toobserve, --but she seemed to make it a point not to trespass upon hisdaylight hours. 

The apple blossoms had gone, blown in fragrant drifts afar upon fieldand meadow. The vineyard lay lazily upon its southern slope, basking inthe sun. Sometimes a wandering wind brought a fresh scent of lustyleaves or a divine hint of bloom. 

[Sidenote: Alden's Feast]

The old-fashioned square piano, long silent, was open now, and had beenput in order. In the evenings, after dinner, Edith would play, dreamily, in the dusk or by the light of one candle. The unshaded light, shiningfull upon her face, brought out the delicacy of her profile and alluredstray gleams from the burnished masses of her hair. In the soft shadowsthat fell around her, she sat like St. Cecilia, unconscious of self, andof the man who sat far back in a corner of the room, never taking hiseyes from her face. 

Wistfulness was in every line of her face and figure, from the smallwhite-shod foot that rested upon the pedal to the glorious hair thatshimmered and shone but still held its tangled lights safely in itssilken strands. The long line from shoulder to wrist, the smooth, satinytexture of the rounded arm, bare below the elbow, the delicate hands, sobeautifully cared-for, all seemed eloquent with yearning. 

Alden, from his safe point of observation, feasted his soul to the full. The ivory whiteness of her neck shaded imperceptibly into the creamylace of her gown. Underneath her firm, well rounded chin, on the leftside, was a place that was almost a dimple, but not quite. There was areal dimple in her chin and another at each corner of her mouth, wherethe full scarlet lips drooped a little from sadness. Star-like, herbrown eyes searched the far shadows and sometimes the flicker of thecandle brought a dancing glint of gold into their depths. And as always, like a halo, stray gleams hovered about her head, bent slightly forwardnow and full into the light, throwing into faint relief the shortstraight nose, and the full, short upper lip. 

[Sidenote: Edith at the Piano]

Smiling, and wholly unconscious, it was as though she pleaded with theinstrument to give her back some half-forgotten melody. Presently thestrings answered, shyly at first, then in full soft chords that sang andcrooned through the dusk. Alden, in his remote corner, drew a longbreath of rapture. The ineffable sweetness of her pervaded his house, not alone with the scent of violets, but with the finer, more subtlefragrance of her personality. 

She wore no jewels, except her wedding ring--not even the big, blazingdiamond with which her husband had sealed their betrothal. She had astring of pearls and a quaint, oriental necklace set with jade, andsometimes she wore one or two turquoises, or a great, pale sapphire setin silver, but that was all. Out of the world of glitter and sparkle, she had chosen these few things that suited her, and was content. 

[Sidenote: Madame in the Moonlight]

From another corner came the sound of slow, deep breathing. Outside thecircle of candlelight, Madame had fallen asleep in her chair. The fullJune moon had shadowed the net curtain upon the polished floor and laidupon it, in silhouette, an arabesque of oak leaves. It touched Madame'ssilvered hair to almost unearthly beauty as she leaned back with hereyes closed, and brought a memory of violets and sun from thegold-tasselled amethyst that hung on her breast. The small slender handslay quietly, one on either arm of her chair. A white crêpe shawl, heavywith Chinese embroidery, lay over her shoulders, --a gift from Edith. ASummer wind, like a playful child, stole into the room, lifted the deepsilk fringe of the shawl, made merry with it for a moment, then tinkledthe prisms on the chandelier and ran away again. 

The fairy-like sound of it, as though it were a far, sweet bell, chimedin with Edith's dreamy chords and brought her to herself with a start. She turned quickly, saw that Madame was asleep, and stopped playing. 

"Go on, " said Alden, in a low tone. "Please do. "

"I mustn't, " she whispered, with her finger on her lips. "Your mother isasleep and I don't want to disturb her. "

"Evidently you haven't, " he laughed. 

"Hush!" Edith's full, deep contralto took on an affected sternness. "You mustn't talk. "

[Sidenote: Edith's Room]

"But I've got to, " he returned. "Shall we go outdoors?"

"Yes, if you like. "

"Don't you want a wrap of some sort?"

"Yes. Wait a moment, and I'll get it. "

"No--tell me where it is, and I'll go. "

"It's only a white chiffon scarf, " she said. "I think you'll find ithanging from the back of that low rocker, near the dressing-table. "

He went up-stairs, silently and swiftly, and paused, for a moment, atEdith's door. It seemed strange to have her permission to turn the knoband go in. He hesitated upon the threshold, then entered the sweetdarkness which, to him, would have meant Edith, had it been blown to himacross the wastes of Sahara. 

How still it was! Only the cheery piping of a cricket broke theexquisite peace of the room; only a patch of moonlight, upon thepolished floor, illumined the scented dusk. He struck a match, andlighted one of the candles upon the dressing-table. 

The place was eloquent of her, as though she had just gone out. Thecarved ivory toilet articles--he could have guessed that she would nothave silver ones, --the crystal puff box, with a gold top ornamented onlyby a monogram; no, it was not a monogram either, but interlacedinitials trailing diagonally across it; the mirror, a carelesslycrumpled handkerchief, and a gold thimble--he picked up each articlewith a delightful sense of intimacy. 

[Sidenote: A Man's Face]

Face down upon the dressing-table was a photograph, framed in dull greenleather. That, too, he took up without stopping to question thepropriety of it. A man's face smiled back at him, a young, happy face, full of comradeship and the joy of life for its own sake. 

This, then, was her husband! Alden's heart grew hot with resentment atthe man who had made Edith miserable. He had put those sad lines underher eyes, that showed so plainly sometimes when she was tired, made hersweet mouth droop at the corners, and filled her whole personality withthe wistfulness that struck at his heart, like the wistfulness of alittle child. 

This man, with the jovial countenance, and doubtless genial ways, hadthe right to stand at her dressing-table, if he chose, and speculateupon the various uses of all the daintiness that was spread before him. He had the right and cared nothing for it, while the man who did care, stood there shamefaced, all at once feeling himself an intruder in asacred place. 

He put the photograph back, face down, as it had been, took the scarf, put out the light, and went back down-stairs. He stopped for a momentin the hall to wonder what this was that assailed him so strangely, thispassionate bitterness against the other man, this longing to shelterEdith from whatever might make her unhappy. 

[Sidenote: On the Veranda]

The living-room was dark. In her moonlit corner, Madame still slept. From where he stood, he could see the dainty little lavender-clad figureenwrapped in its white shawl. There was no sign of Edith in the room, sohe went out upon the veranda, guessing that he should find her there. 

She had taken out two chairs--a favourite rocker of her own, and thestraight-backed, deep chair in which Alden usually sat when he wasreading. The chairs faced each other, with a little distance betweenthem. Edith sat in hers, rocking, with her hands crossed behind herhead, and her little white feet stretched out in front of her. 

Without speaking, Alden went back for a footstool. Then he turned Edith, chair and all, toward the moonlight, slipped the footstool under herfeet, laid the fluttering length of chiffon over her shoulders, andbrought his own chair farther forward. 

"Why, " she laughed, as he sat down, "do you presume to change myarrangements?"

"Because I want to see your face. "

[Sidenote: Effect of Moonlight]

"Didn't it occur to you that I might want to see yours?"

"Not especially. "

"My son, " she said, in her most matronly manner, "kindly remember that awoman past her first youth always prefers to sit with her back towardthe light. "

"I'm older than you are, " he reminded her, "so don't be patronising. "

"In years only, " she returned. "In worldly wisdom and experience and allthe things that count, I'm almost as old as your mother is. Sometimes, "she added, bitterly, "I feel as though I were a thousand. "

A shadow crossed his face, but, as his figure loomed darkly against themoon, Edith did not see it. The caressing glamour of the light revealedthe sad sweetness of her mouth, but presently her lips curved upward ina forced smile. 

"Why is it?" she asked, "that moonlight makes one think?"

"I didn't know it did, " he replied. "I thought it was supposed to havequite the opposite effect. "

"It doesn't with me. In the sun, I'm sane, and have control of myself, but nights like this drive me almost mad sometimes. "

"Why?" he asked gently, leaning toward her. 

"Oh, I don't know, " she sighed. "There's so much I might have that Ihaven't. " Then she added, suddenly: "What did you think of my husband'spicture?"

[Sidenote: Edith's Husband]

The end of the chiffon scarf rose to meet a passing breeze, then fellback against the softness of her arm. A great grey-winged night mothfluttered past them. From the high bough of a distant maple came thefrightened twitter of little birds, wakeful in the night, and the soft, murmurous voice of the brooding mother, soothing them. 

"How did you know?" asked Alden, slowly. 

"Oh, I just knew. You were looking at my dressing-table first, and youpicked up the picture without thinking. Then, as soon as you knew who itwas, you put it down, found the scarf, and came out. "

"Do you love him?"

"No. That is, I don't think I do. But--oh, " she added, with a sharpindrawing of her breath, "how I did love him!"

"And he--" Alden went on. "Does he love you?"

"I suppose so, in his way. As much as he is capable of caring foranything except himself, he cares for me. "

She rose and walked restlessly along the veranda, the man following herwith his eyes, until she reached the latticed end, where a climbingcrimson rose, in full bloom, breathed the fragrance of some far Persiangarden. Reaching up, she picked one, on a long, slender stem. 

[Sidenote: The Crimson Rose]

Alden appeared beside her, with his knife in his hand. "Shall I take offthe thorns for you?"

"No, I'm used to thorns. Besides, the wise ones are those who acceptthings as they are. " She thrust the stem into her belt, found a pin fromsomewhere, and pinned the flower itself upon the creamy lace of hergown. 

"It's just over your heart, " he said. "Is your heart a rose too?"

"As far as thorns go, yes. "

She leaned back against one of the white columns of the porch. She wasfacing the moonlight, but the lattice and the rose shaded her withfragrant dusk. 

"Father and Mother planted this rose, " Alden said, "the day they weremarried. "

"How lovely, " she answered, without emotion. "But to think that the rosehas outlived one and probably will outlive the other!"

"Mother says she hopes it will. She wants to leave it here for me and myproblematical children. The tribal sense runs rampant in Mother. "

"When are you and Miss Starr going to be married?" asked Edith, idly. 

Alden started. "How did you know?" he demanded, roughly, possessinghimself of her hands. "Who told you--Mother, or--Miss Starr?"

[Sidenote: Mutual Understanding]

"Neither, " replied Edith, coldly, releasing herself. "I--just knew. Ibeg your pardon, " she added, hastily. "Of course it's none of myaffair. "

"But it is, " he said, under his breath. Then, coming closer, he took herhands again. "Look here, Edith, there's something between you and me--doyou know it?"

"How do you mean?" She tried to speak lightly, but her face was pale. 

"You know very well what I mean. How do you know what I think, what Ido, what I am? And the nights--no, don't try to get away from me--fromthat first night when I woke at four and knew you were crying, to thatother night when you knew it was I who was awake with you, and all thenights since when the tide of time has turned between three and four!I've known your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams, as you've known mine!

"And the next day, " he went on, "when you avoid me even with your eyes;when you try to hide with laughter and light words your consciousness ofthe fact that the night before you and I have met somewhere, in somemysterious way, and known each other as though we were face to face! Canyou be miserable, and I not know it? Can I be tormented by a thousanddoubts, and you not know it? Could you be ill, or troubled, or evenperplexed, and I not know, though the whole world lay between us? Answerme!"

[Sidenote: Oblivious of Time and Space]

Edith's face was very white and her lips almost refused to move. "Oh, Boy, " she whispered, brokenly. "What does it mean?"

"This, " he answered, imperiously. "It means this--and now!"

He took her into his arms, crushing her to him so tightly that shealmost cried out with the delicious pain of it. In the rose-scentedshadow, his mouth found hers. 

Time and space were no more. At the portal of the lips, soul met soul. The shaded veranda, and even the house itself faded away. Only thisnew-born ecstasy lived, like a flaming star suddenly come to earth. 

Madame stirred in her sleep. Then she called, drowsily: "Alden! Edith!"No one answered, because no one heard. She got up, smothering a yawnbehind her hand, wondered that there were no lights, waited a moment, heard nothing, and came to the window. 

The moon flooded the earth with enchantment--a silvery ocean of lightbreaking upon earth-bound shores. A path of it lay along theveranda--opal and tourmaline and pearl, sharply turned aside by theshadow of the rose. 

Madame drew her breath quickly. There they stood, partly in the duskand partly in the light, close in each other's arms, with the mistysilver lying lovingly upon Edith's hair. 

[Sidenote: Pledges of Love]

She sank back into a chair, remembering, with vague terror, the visionshe had seen in the crystal ball. So, then, it was true, as she mighthave known. Sorely troubled, and with her heart aching for them both, she crept up-stairs. 

 * * * * *

"Boy, " whispered Edith, shrinking from him. "Oh, Boy! The whole worldlies between you and me!"

His only answer was to hold her closer still, to turn her mouth again tohis. "Not to-night, " he breathed, with his lips on hers. "God has givenus to-night!"

White and shaken, but with her eyes shining like stars, at last shebroke away from him. She turned toward the house, but he caught her andheld her back. 

"Say it, " he pleaded. "Say you love me!"

"I do, " she whispered. "Oh, have pity, and let me go!"

"And I, " he answered, with his face illumined, "love you with all myheart and soul and strength and will--with every fibre of my being, fornow and for ever. I am yours absolutely, while earth holds me, and evenbeyond that. "

[Sidenote: What Matters]

Edith looked up quickly, half afraid. His eyes were glowing withstrange, sweet fires. 

"Say it!" he commanded. "Tell me you are mine!"

"I am, " she breathed. "God knows I am, but no--I had forgotten for themoment!"

She broke into wild sobbing, and he put his arm around her with infinitetenderness. "Hush, " he said, as one might speak to a child. "What hasbeen does not matter--nothing matters now but this. In all the ways ofHeaven, you are mine--mine for always, by divine right!"

"Yes, " she said, simply, and lifted her tear-stained face to his. 

He kissed her again, not with passion, but with that same indescribabletenderness. Neither said a word. They went into the house together, hefound her candle, lighted it, and gave it to her. 

She took it from him, smiling, though her hands trembled. Back in theshadow he watched her as she ascended, with a look of exaltation uponher face. Crimson petals were falling all around her, and he saw thestain of the rose upon her white gown, where he had crushed it againsther heart. 

Neither slept, until the tide of the night began to turn. Swiftly, toher, through the throbbing, living darkness, came a question and acall. 

[Sidenote: Peace]

"Mine?"

Back surged the unmistakable answer: "Thine. " Then, to both, camedreamless peace. 

XIV

The Light before a Shrine

[Sidenote: Madame Reproaches Herself]

Edith did not appear at breakfast. Alden seemed preoccupied, ate butlittle, and Madame, pale after a sleepless night, ate nothing at all. Furtively she watched her son, longing to share his thoughts and warnhim against the trouble that inevitably lay ahead. 

Woman-like, she blamed the woman, even including herself. She knew thatwhat she had seen last night was not the evidence of a mere flirtationor passing fancy, and reproached herself bitterly because she had askedEdith to stay. 

And yet, what mother could hope to shield her son against temptation inits most intoxicating form? For his thirty years he had lived in thevalley, practically without feminine society. Only his mother, and, oflate, Rosemary. Then, star-like upon his desert, Edith had arisen, young, beautiful, unhappy, with all the arts and graces a highlyspecialised civilisation bestows upon its women. 

[Sidenote: Looking Back]

Madame's heart softened a little toward Edith. Perhaps she was notwholly to blame. She remembered the night Edith had endeavoured toescape a tête-à-tête with Alden and she herself had practically forcedher to stay. Regardless of the warning given by the crystal ball, inwhich Madame now had more faith than ever, she had not only givenopportunity, but had even forced it upon them. 

Looking back, she could not remember, upon Edith's part, a word or evena look that had been out of place. She could recall no instance in whichshe had shown the slightest desire for Alden's society. Where anotherwoman might have put herself in his way, times without number, Edith hadkept to her own room, or had gone out alone. 

On the contrary, Madame herself had urged drives and walks. Frequentlyshe had asked Alden to do certain things and had reminded him of thecourtesy due from host to guest. Once, when she had requested him totake Edith out for a drive, he had replied, somewhat sharply, that hehad already invited her and she had refused to go. 

Murmuring an excuse, Alden left the table and went out. Madame wasrather glad to be left alone, for she wanted time to think, not as onethinks in darkness, when one painful subject, thrown out of perspective, assumes exaggerated proportions of importance, but in clear, sanesunlight, surrounded by the reassuring evidences of every-day living. 

[Sidenote: Madame's View of the Case]

Obviously she could not speak to either. She could not say to Alden: "Isaw you last night with Edith in your arms and that sort of thing willnot do. " Nor could she say to Edith: "My dear, you must remember thatyou are a married woman. " She must not only wait for confidences, butmust keep from them both, for ever, the fact that she had accidentallystumbled upon their divine moment. 

After long thought, and eager to be just, she held Edith practicallyblameless, yet, none the less, earnestly wished that she would go home. She smiled whimsically, wishing that there were a social formula inwhich, without offence, one might request an invited guest to depart. She wondered that one's home must be continually open, when other placesare permitted to close. The graceful social lie, "Not at home, " hadnever appealed to Madame. Why might not one say, truthfully: "I am sorryyou want to see me, for I haven't the slightest desire in the world tosee you. Please go away. " Or, to an invited guest: "When I asked you tocome I wanted to see you, but I have seen quite enough of you for thepresent, and would be glad to have you go home. "

[Sidenote: A Wearisome Day]

Her reflections were cut short by the appearance of Edith herself, wanand weary, very pale, but none the less transfigured by secret joy. Hereyes, alight with mysterious fires, held in their starry depths a worldof love and pain. In some occult way she suggested to Madame a lightburning before a shrine. 

Edith did not care for breakfast but forced herself to eat a little. Sheresponded to Madame's polite inquiries in monosyllables, and her voicewas faint and far away. Yes, she was well. No, she had not slept untilalmost morning. No, nothing was making her unhappy--that was, nothingnew. After all, perhaps she did have a headache. Yes, she believed shewould lie down. It was very kind of Madame but she did not believe shewanted any luncheon and certainly would not trouble anyone to bring itup. 

Yet at noon, when Madame herself appeared with a tempting tray, Edithgratefully accepted a cup of coffee. She was not lying down, but wassitting in her low rocker, with her hands clasped behind her head andthe photograph of her husband on the dressing-table before her. 

"Yes, " she said, in answer to Madame's inquiring glance, "that's myhusband. It was taken just about the time we were married. "

[Sidenote: On the Stroke of Seven]

Madame took the picture, studied it for a moment, then returned it toits place. She made no comment, having been asked for none. 

"Won't you lie down, dear?"

"Yes, I believe I will. "

"Truly?"

"Yes--I promise. "

With a sad little smile she kissed Madame, closed the door, and turnedthe key in the lock. The old lady sighed as she went down with the tray, reflecting how impossible it is really to aid another, unless thebarrier of silence be removed. 

At four, she had her tea alone. No sound came from up-stairs, and Aldenneither returned to luncheon nor sent word. When he came in, a littlepast six, he was tired and muddy, his face was strained and white, and, vouchsafing only the briefest answers to his mother's solicitude, wentstraight to his room. 

Exactly upon the stroke of seven, both appeared, Alden in eveningclothes as usual, and Edith in her black gown, above which her face wasdeathly white by contrast, in spite of the spangles. She wore noornaments, not even the string of pearls about her bare throat. 

"You look as though you were in mourning, my dear, " said Madame. "Let meget you a red rose. "

[Sidenote: Things to Be Said]

She started toward the veranda, but, with a little cry, Edith caught herand held her back. "No, " she said, in a strange tone, "roses are--notfor me!"

The dinner-gong chimed in with the answer, and the three went outtogether. Neither Alden nor Edith made more than a pretence of eating. Edith held her head high and avoided even his eyes, though more thanonce Madame saw the intensity of his appeal. 

Afterward he took his paper, Madame her fancy work, and Edith, attempting to play solitaire, hopelessly fumbled her cards. Madame madea valiant effort to carry on a conversation alone, but at length themonologue wearied her, and she slipped quietly out of the room. 

Edith turned, with a start, and hurriedly rose to follow her. Aldenintercepted her. "No, " he said, quietly. "There are things to be saidbetween you and me. "

"I thought, " Edith murmured, as she sank into the chair he offered her, "that everything was said last night. "

"Everything? Perhaps, but not for the last time. "

She leaned forward, into the light, put her elbows upon the table, andrested her head upon her clasped hands, as though to shade her eyes. "Well?" she said, wearily. 

"Look at me!"

[Sidenote: Vows and the Law]

Her hands trembled, but she did not move. He leaned across the table, unclasped her hands gently, and forced her to look at him. Her eyes wereswimming with unshed tears. 

"Darling! My darling! Have I made you unhappy?"

"No, " she faltered. "How could you?"

He came to her, sat down on the arm of her chair, slipped his arm aroundher, and held her close against his shoulder. "Listen, " he said. "Youbelong to me, don't you?"

"Absolutely. "

"Could you--could you--make yourself free?"

"Yes, as you mean it, I could. "

"Then--when?"

"Never!" The word rang clear, tensely vibrant with denial. 

"Edith! What do you mean?"

Releasing herself she stood and faced him. "This, " she said. "At thealtar I pledged myself in these words: 'Until death do us part, ' and'Forsaking all others, keep thee only unto me so long as we both shalllive. ' Isn't that plain?"

"The law, " he began. 

"Law!" repeated Edith. "Why don't you say perjury, and be done with it?"

"Dearest, you don't understand. You----"

"I know what I said, " she reminded him, grimly. "I said 'For better orworse, ' not 'for better' only. "

[Sidenote: What of Miss Starr?]

"You promised to love and to honour also, didn't you?"

Edith bowed her head. "I did, " she answered, in a low tone, "and I have, and, God helping me, I shall do so again. "

"Have I no rights?" he asked, with a sigh. 

He could scarcely hear the murmured answer: "None. "

"Nor you?"

She shook her head sadly, avoiding his eyes, then suddenly turned andfaced him. "What of your own honour?" she demanded. "What of MissStarr?"

"I have thought of that, " he replied, miserably. "I have thought ofnothing else all day. "

Edith leaned back against the table. "What, " she asked, curiously, "wereyou planning to do?"

The dull colour rose to his temples. "Go to her, " he said, with his faceaverted, "tell her the truth like a man, and ask for freedom. "

She laughed--the sort of laugh one hears from a woman tossing indelirium. Madame heard it, up-stairs, and shuddered. 

"Like a man!" Edith repeated, scornfully. 

"Say it, " he said, roughly. "Like a cad, if that's what you mean. "

She laughed again, but with a different cadence. "Ask yourself first, "she continued, "and then be honest with me. How would you feel?"

[Sidenote: Suppose There Is Another Woman]

He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. "I admit it, but I'm willing to paythe price. I'll feel like a cad all the rest of my life, if I must, inorder to have you. "

"If a man has no self-respect, " she retorted, "what can he expect fromhis----"

"Wife, " breathed Alden, in a rapturous whisper. "Oh, Edith, say youwill!"

She turned away, for she could not force herself to meet his eyes. Herlittle white hands clasped the edge of the table tightly. 

"Have you thought of this?" he continued. "Suppose, for him, there isanother woman----"

"There isn't, " she denied. "I know that. "

"Perhaps not in the sense you mean, but if he were free----?"

Edith drew a long breath. "I never thought of that. "

Steadily the man pursued his advantage. "There must be some reason forhis treating you as he does--for making you miserable. If, for any causewhatever, he wanted his freedom, would it make--any difference to you?"

She tapped her foot restlessly upon the floor. The atmosphere wassurcharged with expectancy, then grew tense with waiting. Alden's eyesnever swerved from her face. 

[Sidenote: What Right?]

"Have you any right, through principles of your own, which I thoroughlyunderstand and respect, to keep a man bound who desires to be free?"

She swayed back and forth unsteadily. Alden assisted her to her chairand stood before her as she sat with her elbows upon her knees, her facehidden in her hands. With the precise observation one accords to triflesin moments of unendurable stress, he noted that two of the hooks whichfastened her gown at the back of her neck had become unfastened and thatthe white flesh showed through the opening. 

"If, " said Alden, mercilessly, "he longs for his freedom, and the lawpermits him to take it, have you the right to force your principles uponhim--and thus keep him miserable when he might otherwise be happy?"

The clock in the hall struck ten. The sound died into silence and theremorseless tick-tick went on. Outside a belated cricket fiddled bravelyas he fared upon his way. The late moon flooded the room with light. 

"Have you?" demanded Alden. He endeavoured to speak calmly, but hisvoice shook. "Answer me!"

Edith leaned back in her chair, white and troubled. "I don't know, " shemurmured, with lips that scarcely moved. "Before God, I don't know!"

[Sidenote: Advantages of a Letter]

The man went on pitilessly. "Don't you think you might find out? Beforeyou condemn yourself and me to everlasting separation, don't you thinkyou might at least ask him?"

"Yes, " said Edith, slowly. "I might ask him. I'll go----"

"No, you needn't go. Can't you write?"

"Yes, " she returned. "I can write. "

All the emotion had gone from her voice. She said the words asmeaninglessly as a parrot might. 

"A letter has distinct advantages, " remarked Alden, trying to speaklightly. "You can say all you want to say before the other person has achance to put in a word. "

"Yes, " she agreed, in the same meaningless tone. "That is true. "

"When, " queried Alden, after a pause, "will you write?"

"To-morrow. "

He nodded his satisfaction. "Tell him, " he suggested, "that you loveanother man, and----"

"No, " she interrupted, "I won't tell him that. I'll say that I've triedmy best to be a good wife, that I've tried as best I knew to make himhappy. I'll say I've--" she choked on the word--"I'll say I've failed. I'll tell him I can do no more, that I do not believe I can ever do anybetter than I have done, and ask him to tell me frankly whether or nothe prefers to be free. That's all. "

[Sidenote: How Different?]

"That isn't enough. You have rights----"

"We're not speaking of my rights, " she said, coldly. "We're speaking ofhis. "

A silence fell between them, tense and awkward. The open gate betweenthem had turned gently upon its hinges, then closed, with a suggestionof finality. The clock struck the half hour. Outside, the cricket stillchirped cheerily, regardless of the great issues of life and love. 

"Come outside, " Alden pleaded, taking her hand in his. 

"No, " she said, but she did not withdraw her hand. 

"Come, dear--come!"

He led her out upon the veranda where the moon made far-reaching shadowswith the lattice and the climbing rose, then returned for chairs, thesame two in which they had sat the night before. She was the first tobreak the pause. 

"How different it all is!" she sighed. "Last night we sat here in themoonlight, just where we are now. In twenty-four hours, everything haschanged. "

 "The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul. "

he quoted softly. 

[Sidenote: When They Knew]

"When did you--know?" she asked. 

"The night I read Rossetti to you and kissed your arm, do you remember?It rushed upon me like an overwhelming flood. When did you know?"

"I think I've always known--not the fact, exactly, but the possibilityof it. The first night I came, I knew that you and I could care a greatdeal for each other--not that we ever would, but merely that we might, under different circumstances. In a way, it was as though a set offamiliar conditions might be seen in a different aspect, or in adifferent light. "

"From the first, " he said, "you've meant a great deal to me, in everyway. I was discontented, moody, restless, and unhappy when you came. That was mainly responsible for----"

He hesitated, glanced at her, accepted her nod of understanding, andwent on. 

"I've hated the vineyard and the rest of my work. God only knows howI've hated it! It's seemed sometimes that I'd die if I didn't get awayfrom it. Mother and I had it out one day, and finally I decided to stay, merely to please her. Because I had nothing more to do than to make herhappy, I determined to make the best of things. You've made me feelthat, in a way, it's myself that's at stake. I want to take it and makeit widely known among vineyards, as it has been--for my own sake, andfor yours. "

[Sidenote: A Corner Turned]

Edith leaned toward him, full into the light. Her face, still pale, wasrapt--almost holy. To him, as to Madame earlier in the day, she somehowsuggested the light before a shrine. "Thank you, " she said. The low, full contralto tones were vibrant with emotion. 

There was a pause. As though a light had been suddenly thrown upon onegroping in darkness, Alden saw many things. His longing for Edith, whileno less intense, became subtly different. He seemed to have turned acorner and found everything changed. 

"Dear, " he went on, "there's something wonderful about this. I've--" hestopped and cleared his throat. "I mean it's so exquisitely pure, sotranscendently above passion. Last night, when I had you in my arms, itwasn't man and woman--it was soul and soul. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I know. Passion isn't love--any more than hunger is, but anearth-bound world seldom sees above the fog of sense. "

"I could love you always, " he returned, "and never so much as touch yourhand or kiss you again. "

She nodded, smiling full comprehension. Then she asked, briefly: "Whywrite?"

"Merely because we belong to one another in a divine sense, and marriageis the earthly sanction of it--or ought to be. If you and I were bothfree, and I thought marriage would in any way change this, I--I wouldn'task you to marry me. "

[Sidenote: The Shadow Rose]

Rising from her chair, she bent over, kissed him on the forehead, wentto the lattice, picked another rose, and came back. "See, " she said, standing in the light; "life and beauty and joy--all in a rose. "

"And love, " he added. 

"And love. " She held it at arm's length. Sharply defined, the shadowfell upon the white floor of the veranda, perfect in line. 

"And there, " she continued, "is the same thing in another form. It isstill a rose--anyone can see that. Only the colour and fragrance aregone, but one can remember both. To-morrow I'll write, and find outwhich we're to have--the rose, or the shadow of the rose. "

"It's chance, " he said, "like the tossing of a coin. "

"Most things are, " she reminded him. "Did you ever stop to think whatdestinies attend the opening or closing of a door?"

He made no answer. "Good-night, " she said, with a smile. 

"Good-night, my beloved. " His face was illumined with "the light thatnever was on sea or land, " but he did not even attempt to touch herhand. 

XV

The Inlaid Box

[Sidenote: Beauty]

"'Beauty, '" read Grandmother Starr, with due emphasis upon every word, "'is the birthright of every woman, '" She looked up from the pages of_The Household Guardian_ as she made this impressive announcement. Rosemary was busy in the kitchen, and Miss Matilda sat at the otherwindow mending a three-cornered tear in last year's brown alpaca. 

"'The first necessity of beauty is an erect carriage, '" she continued. 

"That lets us out, " commented Matilda, "not havin' any carriage at all. "

"Frank used to say, " said Grandmother, irrelevantly, "that he always hadhis own carriage until his Pa and me got tired of pushin' it. "

"What kind of a carriage is an erect carriage?" queried Matilda, bitingoff her thread. 

"I ain't never heard tell of 'em, " replied Grandmother, cautiously, "butI should think, from the sound of it, that it was some kind that was tobe driv' standin' up. "

[Sidenote: The Power of Ages]

"Then I've seen 'em. "

"Where?" Grandmother lowered her spectacles to the point where theyrested upon the wart and peered disconcertingly at Matilda. The upperpart of the steel frames crossed her eyeballs horizontally, giving heran uncanny appearance. 

"At the circus, when Pa took us. After the whole show was over they hadwhat they called a chariot race, and women driv' around the tent inlittle two-wheeled carts, standin' up. "

"Matilda Starr! 'Tain't no such thing!"

Matilda shrugged her shoulders with an air of finality. "All right, " shereturned, with cold sarcasm, "as long as you see it and I didn't. "

"'Beauty has been the power of the ages, '" Grandmother continued, takingrefuge once more in _The Household Guardian_. "'Cleopatra and Helen ofTroy changed the map of the world by their imperial loveliness. '"

"I didn't know imps was lovely, " Matilda remarked, frowning at theresult of her labours. "I reckon I'll have to set a piece in at thecorner, where it's puckerin'. "

"Ain't I always told you that the only way to mend a three-cornered tearwas to set a piece in? Some folks never get old enough to learnanything. Even Frank's wife would have known better'n that. "

[Sidenote: Cleopatra]

"Never mind Frank's wife, " returned Matilda, somewhat hurriedly. "Lether rest in her grave and go on readin' about the lovely imps. "

"It doesn't say imps is lovely. It says 'imperial loveliness. '"

"Well, ain't that the same thing?"

"No, it ain't. Imperial means empire. "

"Then why ain't it spelled so? Imperial begins with an _i_ and so doesimp, and, accordin' to what I learned when I went to school, empirebegins with an _e_. "

There seemed to be no adequate reply to this, so Grandmother went on:"If Cleopatra's nose had been an inch longer, where would Egypt havebeen now?"

"Where 'tis, I reckon, " Matilda returned, seeing that an answer wasexpected. 

"No, it wouldn't. "

"Why not?"

"I don't know why not, but if it wouldn't have made no difference, theman that wrote the piece wouldn't have asked about it. "

"Well, then, let him answer it himself, as long as he knows. "

"'Wars have been fought over beautiful women, '" Grandmother resumed, "'and will continue to be till the end of time. '"

"What about Egypt?" interrupted Matilda. 

"I ain't come to that yet. Let me alone, can't you? 'Every mother shouldbegin with her child almost from the moment of birth. Projecting earscan be corrected by the wearing of a simple cap, and a little dailyattention to the nose in the way of gentle pinching with the fingers, will insure the proper shape. This of course, must be done while thecartilage is easily pushed into the proper position. '"

[Sidenote: The Paper's Circulation]

"While the what?" Matilda demanded. 

"Cart-i-lage. It means before the child has outgrown its buggy. 'Teethand complexion are to be considered later, but must be looked aftercarefully. Every woman should bear in mind the fact that a goodcomplexion comes from the inside. '"

"The man what wrote that piece ain't got the slightest idea of what he'stalkin' about. "

Grandmother transfixed Matilda with an icy stare. Then, turning to thelast page of the paper, she read, with due attention to emphasis: "'_TheHousehold Guardian_ is read every week in more than one million homes. Averaging five people to each family, this means that five millionpeople, every Thursday, are eagerly watching for the regular issue of_The Household Guardian_. ' If he don't know what he's talkin' about, whyare five million people waitin' for the paper? Answer me that, MatildaStarr, if you can!"

"There ain't five in every family, " Matilda objected. "That means the Paand Ma and three children. "

[Sidenote: Well Groomed]

"Maybe not. Maybe it's the Ma and Pa and two children and an Aunt or anUncle or some other of the family connection. "

"Well, even if there's only two children, if their Ma is makin' 'em capsto hold back their ears and pinchin' their noses regular, she ain't gotno time to have her own nose flattened out against the glass lookin' for_The Household Guardian_. "

"'If, however, through ignorance or the press of other occupations, '"Grandmother resumed, clearing her throat, "'this early care has not beengiven, every woman, no matter what her circumstances are, may at leastbe well-groomed. '"

Matilda giggled hysterically. 

"What's the matter now?" queried Grandmother, with interest. 

"I was just thinkin' about the erect carriage and the groomin'. The manwhat wrote that piece seems to think a woman is a horse. Reckon I'll getmyself a curry-comb. "

"It might improve the looks of your hair some if you did, " the old ladyobserved, caustically. "'No woman is so poor that she cannot take thetime to attend to her personal appearance, nor so rich that she canafford to neglect it. The hair should be shampooed at--Continued on pagesixty-seven. '"

"The hair should be what?"

"'Shampooed at least once a month. '"

[Sidenote: Face Massage]

"What's that?"

"Don't interrupt, " commanded the old lady, with the dull red burning onher withered cheeks. "Here I am readin' to you and tryin' to improveyour mind and all the time you're interruptin' me. "

"Only to ask questions, " Matilda returned, with affected submission. "IfI'm to have my mind improved I want it well done. "

"'In the intervals it should be frequently brushed, and the regularweekly face massage'--that's printed wrong--'the regular weekly facemessage should not be neglected. '"

"What's a face message?" asked Matilda, curiosity overcoming prudence. 

"Anything that's said to anybody, I suppose. Now don't speak to meagain. 'The nails must also be taken care of and one or two visits to agood manicure will show any woman how it is to be done. The implementsare not expensive and will last----'"

"What's a manicure?"

"Some kind of a doctor, I reckon, --'and will last a long time. A fewsimple exercises should be taken every night and morning to preserve thefig--Continued on page seventy. '"

"Preservin' figs ain't any particular exercise, " Matilda observed, shaking out the mended skirt. "You can do most of it settin' down. "

"'Preserve the figure, '" Grandmother continued with emphasis. "'Soapand hot water may be used on the face if a good cold cream is wellrubbed into the pores immediately afterward. '"

[Sidenote: Cucumber Milk]

"Vanilla or lemon?" Matilda asked. 

"It doesn't say ice-cream, it just says cold cream. 'Cucumber milk isexcellent for freckles or tan, and----'"

"I reckon I won't hear no more, " said Matilda. Her lips were compressedinto a thin tight line. "I can stand the carriages that are to be driv'standin' up, and the lovely imps and the nose pinchin' and the caps forthe ears, but when it comes to goin' out every mornin' to milk thecucumbers, I don't feel called on to set and listen to it. The man whatwrote that piece was as crazy as a loon, and if five million people readhis paper every week, four million, nine hundred and ninety-ninethousand and nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em know it. I ain't sayin'who's the one that don't. "

She sailed majestically out of the room with her head held high, and herfrowsy grey hair bristling with indignation. Grandmother's lower jawdropped in amazement for a moment, then she returned to the paper. "Milkin' the cucumbers don't seem quite right, " she said to herself, "but there it is in print, as plain as day. "

For the first time her faith in the printed word wavered. "Maybethere's some special kind of cucumber, " she mused, "that gives milk. Weused to hear 'em called cowcumbers. Why'd they be called that if theydidn't give milk? There's only the two kinds as far as I know--the tameand wild, and the wild ones--" The light of pure intellectual joy dawnedupon the puzzled old face. "Of course. Don't I remember the white stickyjuice inside the wild ones? That's it! Wait till I tell Matilda!"

[Sidenote: Grandmother Sees the Stranger]

Triumphantly she returned to _The Household Guardian_, and, in her newallegiance, read every line of every advertisement before folding itcarefully and putting it away with the others. "Good for freckles andtan, " she said to herself, meditatively, "but it didn't say nothin'about warts. Maybe that'll be in next week's paper. "

While she sat looking out of the window a woman passed, walking soslowly that Grandmother had plenty of time to observe her. As thestranger turned her head neither to the right nor the left, the oldlady's intense scrutiny was attended by no embarrassment. 

From the fragmentary description that had come her way, she at oncerecognised Mrs. Lee--the tall, straight figure in a gown of pale greenlinen, the dainty, regular features, and the crown of wonderful hair, radiating sunlit splendour, as she wore no hat. 

[Sidenote: Ready Money]

A letter in her hand betrayed the object of her passing. "She's goin' tothe post-office, " Grandmother mused, "and if she comes back this way, I'll see her again. Matilda ain't seen her but twice and then she had ahat on. "

Mrs. Lee did, indeed, come back that way, but gave no sign that she saw, or even felt, the presence of the keen observer in the window of thelittle brown house. Grandmother hoped that Matilda was not peering froman upper window. Perhaps she would tell her immediately, and perhaps shewouldn't. While she was considering this point, Rosemary came in, wipingher hands upon her apron, and announced that she was ready to go to thestore. 

Rapidly giving a list of the articles desired, Grandmother rose from herchair, lifted her skirts, and from some safe inner pocket, drew out ablack bag, which was evidently fastened around her waist with a string. This bag contained another, closely wrapped. Inside was a much wornleather "wallet, " from which Grandmother extracted a two-dollar bill andsome pennies. 

"Run along, Rosemary. I reckon that'll be enough. "

Rosemary obeyed, privately wondering for the thousandth time whence cameGrandmother's money. Neither she nor Matilda had ever dared to ask, butwhen the supply gave out, the old lady always produced a twenty-dollargold piece from the magic bag. 

[Sidenote: It Seemed Odd]

When she returned from her errand, Aunt Matilda was nowhere to be seen, and Grandmother, nodding in her chair by the window, had not beenawakened by the opening and closing of the door. Rosemary wentup-stairs, and, from sounds that penetrated the hall through the closeddoor of Aunt Matilda's room, inferred that she also was taking anafternoon nap. 

If she could only write to Alden, and tell him he was free! Night afternight she had pondered over ways and means. It seemed odd that in ahouse where there was always plenty to eat and to wear, of a certainsort, stationery and stamps should be practically unknown. Grandmotherhad used the last sheet of paper and the last envelope when she orderedthe bolt of brown alpaca, and with stern suspicion held Rosemary toaccount for every penny with which she was entrusted. 

If she had paper and an envelope, perhaps she might ask the storekeeperto send the note up with the Marshs' groceries, or, better yet, shemight go up to the house herself very early some morning or very latesome night and slip it under the front door. In that way, she would besure he received it. Rosemary brightened as she saw that a stamp wouldnot really be necessary after all. 

[Sidenote: Rosemary Takes Possession of the Box]

If only, among her mother's things in the attic, there might be anenvelope! She could use brown wrapping paper to write upon, if worstcame to worst--the storekeeper might even give her a small, fresh pieceof the pale yellow sort. Rosemary knew every separate article in thetrunk, however, even the inlaid box to which the key was missing. Shehad never dared to ask for the key, much less to break open the box, butto-day, the courage of desperation sustained her and she ran quicklyup-stairs. 

Long afternoon sunbeams, sweet with June, came into the attic, and madefairy gold of the dust as they entered the room. It had none of thecharm which belongs to every well-regulated attic; it was merely astorehouse, full of cobwebs and dust. A few old trunks were storedthere, all empty save the small hair-cloth trunk which held Rosemary'smother's few possessions that had outlived her. 

She opened it, found the box, and discovered that she had forgotten thescissors with which she intended to break the lock. She wondered whethershe might safely risk the trip down-stairs after the scissors, orwhether it would be better to take the box with her and hide it in herroom. Before she had made up her mind, she heard a slow, heavy treadupon the stair. 

She could not go down and she did not wish to be found with thebox--indeed, she dared not. She cowered back under the eaves and layflat on the floor behind the trunk, just as Grandmother came into theattic. 

[Sidenote: Hidden Gold]

For a moment the old lady paused, her keen eyes searching the room asthough she felt a presence which she did not see. Rosemary lay veryquietly upon the floor, though fearing that the loud beating of herheart might be heard in the stillness. 

Reassured, and not in the least lame, Grandmother went to the brickchimney that came up through the attic, and mounted a decrepit chair. She scratched and pried at a certain brick with her scissors, thenremoved it quietly. Reaching in, she drew out a black bag, whence came asound of tinkling metal. Rosemary, peering around the corner of thetrunk, could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses. 

Grandmother took out a twenty-dollar gold piece, restored the bag to itsplace, put the brick back, and went down-stairs with the quiet, stealthymovement of a cat. 

Presently Rosemary went down-stairs also, with the box, stopping toleave it in her own room. Cold with excitement, she trembled when shewent into the kitchen and began to make preparations for supper. Sheheard warring voices in the sitting-room, then Grandmother came to thekitchen door. 

[Sidenote: The Old Photograph]

"Oh, " she said. "So you came in the back way. I didn't hear you come in. Reckon I must have been asleep. "

Rosemary did not answer. She longed to be alone in her own room with theinlaid box, which now assumed a mystery and portent it had never hadbefore, but it was almost midnight before, by the flickering light of acandle-end, she broke it open, smothering the slight sound with thepatchwork quilt. 

She hoped for stationery, but there was none. It contained an oldphotograph and a letter addressed to Grandmother Starr. Rosemary leanedto the light with the photograph, studying it eagerly. It was old andfaded, but the two were still distinct--a young woman in an elaboratewedding gown, standing beside a man who was sitting upon an obviouslyuncomfortable chair. 

The man, in a way, resembled Grandmother Starr; the lady looked likeRosemary, except that she was beautiful. "Father!" cried Rosemary, in anagonising whisper. "Mother!" Face to face at last with those of her ownblood, dead though they were!

The little mother was not more than two or three and twenty: the bigstrong father was about twenty-five. She had never been shown thepicture, nor had even guessed its existence. Since she was old enough tothink about it all, she had wondered what her father and mother lookedlike. 

[Sidenote: Her Father's Letter]

Thrilled with a new, mysterious sense of kinship, she dwelt lovinglyupon every line of the pictured faces, holding the photograph safelybeyond the reach of the swift-falling tears. She was no longerfatherless, motherless; alone. Out of the dust of the past, like somestrangely beautiful resurrection, these two had come to her, richlydowered with personality. 

It was late when she put down the picture and took up the letter, whichwas addressed to Grandmother Starr. She took it out of the envelope, unfolded the crackling, yellowed pages, and read:

 "Dear Mother;

 "Since writing to you yesterday that I was going up north on the _Clytie_, I have been thinking about the baby, and that it might be wise to provide for her as best I can in case anything should happen to me. So I enclose a draft for eleven thousand five hundred dollars made payable to you. I have realised on my property here, but this is all I have aside from my passage-money and a little more, and, if I land safely, I shall probably ask you to return at least a large part of it. 

 "But, if the ship should go down, as I sincerely hope it won't, she will be sure of this, for her clothing and education. In case anything should happen to her, of course I would want you and Matilda to have the money, but if it doesn't, give Rosemary everything she needs or wants while the money lasts, and oh, mother, be good to my little girl!

 "Your loving son, "Frank. "

[Sidenote: The Truth of the Matter]

In a flash of insight Rosemary divined the truth. The gold hidden behindthe loose brick in the chimney was hers, given to her by her deadfather. And she had not even a postage stamp!

But swiftly her anger died away in joy--a joy that surged and thrilledthrough her as some white, heavenly fire that warmed her inmost soul. Not alone, but cared for--sheltered, protected, loved. "Oh, " breathedRosemary, with her eyes shining; "Father, dear father--my father, takingcare of me!" Then, in her thought, she added, without dreaming ofirreverence, "I think God must be like that!"

XVI

One Little Hour

[Sidenote: The Two Faces]

When she awoke in the morning it was with a bewildering sense of change. Something had happened, and, in the first moment, she was not quite surewhether a dream had not boldly overstepped the line into daylight. Thefaded photograph, propped up on the table at the head of her bed, atonce reassured her, and Rosemary smiled, with a joy so great that it wasalmost pain tugging at the fibres of her heart. 

To an outsider, perhaps, the two faces would have been common enough, but one of love's divinest gifts is the power to bestow beauty whereverit goes. The old man, bent with years, with the snows of his fourscorewinters lying heavily upon his head, may seem an object of kindly pityas he hobbles along with crutch or cane, going oh, so slowly, where oncehis feet were fain to run from very joy of living. The light may be gonefrom his faded eyes, his dull ears may not respond to question or call, but one face, waiting at a window, shall illumine at the sight of him, and one voice, thrilling with tenderness, shall stir him to eageranswer. 

[Sidenote: Beauty the Twin of Love]

Or a woman, worn and broken, her rough hands made shapeless by toil, mayseem to have no claim to beauty as the word is commonly understood. Sleepless nights, perchance, have dimmed her eyes, suffering andsacrifice have seamed and marked her face, but those to whom she hasgiven herself see only the great nobleness of her nature, the royalty ofher soul. For the beauty of the spirit may transfigure its earth-boundtemple, as some vast and grey cathedral with light streaming from itsstained glass windows, and eloquent with chimes and singing, may breatheincense and benediction upon every passer-by. 

And so, for those to whom love has come, beauty has come also, butmerely as the reflection in the mirror, since only love may see andunderstand the thing itself. Purifying, uplifting, and exalting, makingsense the humble servant and not the tyrannical master, renewing itselffor ever at divine fountains that do not fail, inspiring to freshsacrifice, urging onward with new courage, redeeming all mistakes withits infinite pardon; this, indeed is Love, which neither dies nor growsold. And, since God himself is Love, what further assurance do werequire of immortality?

Upon the two in the faded picture the most exquisite mystery of lifehad wrought its transfiguration. Vaguely conscious of the unfamiliar anduncomfortable chair in which he sat, the young man looked out uponRosemary, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, with anall-embracing, all-understanding love. It came to her with a sense ofsurprise that father was only a little older than she was; he hadpaused, and she, receiving the gift of life from him, had gone on. Andthe little mother, brave in her white satin, with her long veil trailingdown from her wreath of orange blossoms; she too, loved Rosemary;indeed, with a holy deepening of her soul, she loved the whole world. 

[Sidenote: Effects of the Picture]

The picture must have been taken very soon after the ceremony. Rosemaryfancied that they had gone to the photographer's with one or more of thewedding guests, while the revelry and feasting still went on. And yet, so soon, into the woman's eyes had come the look of wistfulness, almostof prayer, as though she had suddenly come face to face with theknowledge that love, like a child, is man's to give and woman's to keep, to guard, to nourish, to suffer for, and, perhaps, last of all, to lose. 

The mother-hunger woke in Rosemary a strange longing. What joy to servethis little mother, to whom her child was as unknown then as now! Whatecstasy to uncoil the smooth strands of brown hair, take the whiteshoes from the tiny feet, destined to tread the unfamiliar ways of pain;to breathe the soft sweetness of her neck and arms! The big, strongfather, lovably boyish now, appealed to her with a sense of shelter, forvaliantly he stood, or had tried to stand, between his child and theworld, but, from the other came something more. 

[Sidenote: Above Everyday Cares]

"I think, " said Rosemary, to herself, "that she must have kissed mebefore she died. "

That day she went about her tasks as might a dweller from anotherplanet, who had set his body to carry on his appointed duties, while hisspirit roamed the blue infinite spaces between the day-stars and thesun. Early in the afternoon she left the house, without asking whethershe might go, or saying when she would be back. She even had theaudacity to leave the luncheon dishes piled in the sink, and unwashed. 

At the foot of the Hill of the Muses, she paused, then shook her head. She could never go there again, though the thought of Alden now broughtno anguish--only a great sadness. A mocking smile curled her lips at thememory of her futile struggles toward stationery and a stamp, that shemight set him free. How could he be more free than he was, untroubled, doubtless, by even the thought of her?

She began to perceive, though dimly, the divinity that shapes ourhumblest affairs. In the search for an envelope, she had found herfather and mother, as was doubtless meant from the beginning. Surely shehad never needed them more than she did now! If it had been meant forher to have stationery, and to set Alden free in that way, it would havebeen mysteriously provided--she was certain of that. 

[Sidenote: A Clear Path]

She saw, too, that the way upon which we are meant to go is alwaysclear, or at least indicated, at the time we are meant to take it; thatguidance is definitely felt through the soul's own overpoweringconviction. The struggle and the terror fell away from her like agarment she had cast aside, and for the moment she emerged into freedomas before she had come into love. 

Deep in her heart she still loved Alden, but unselfishly. This newRosemary asked nothing for herself, she only longed to give, thoughfreedom might be her best gift to him. Harm could come to her onlythrough herself; the burning heart and the racked soul had been underthe dominion of Fear. 

She took the path up along the river, that lay half asleep and crooningdrowsily to the little clouds that were mirrored upon its tranquilbreast. Tiny blue pools among the rushes at the bend in the stream gaveback glints of sapphire and turquoise, with now and then a glimmer ofgold. Sometimes, upon a hidden rock, the river swirled and rippled, breaking murmurously into silver and pearl, but steadily beneath, inspite of all outward seeming, the current moved endlessly toward itssea-born destiny, as Man himself unto the Everlasting. 

[Sidenote: Pleasures of the Valley]

Singing among the far hills, and rushing downward in a torrent ofecstatic life, the river had paused in the valley to rest, dreaming, perchance, of the long cool shadows in the uplands, the far altar-firesof daybreak. There were pleasant things to do in the valley, to lie atfull length, basking in the sun, to hum a bit of the old music, to touchgently the harp-strings of the marsh grass and rushes, dimpling withpleasure at the faint answer, to reflect every passing mood of cloud andsky, even to hold the little clouds as a mother might, upon its deep andtender bosom. There were lily-pads to look after, too, bird-shadows andiridescent dragon flies, sunset lights to deepen and spread afar, and, at night, all the starry hosts of heaven to receive and give back, inluminous mist, to the waiting dusk. 

Dawn came to the river while the earth still slept; it was day upon thewaters while night lingered upon the shore. And, too, long after theabundant life of field and meadow was stilled in dreamless peace, pastthe power of the fairy lamp-bearers to stir or to annoy, the river layawake and watchful, as some divinely appointed guardian of the Soul ofThings. 

[Sidenote: Murmur of Voices]

The peace of it came to Rosemary, as she walked, with the sense ofhealing, of balm. She saw plainly how Grandmother had wronged her, everyday of her life, but set resentment aside, simply, as something that didnot belong to her. The appointed thing came at the appointed time in theappointed way--there was no terror save her own fear. Outside herselfwas a mass of circumstance beyond her control, but, within herself, wasthe power of adjustment, as, when two dominant notes are given, thechoice of the third makes either dissonance or harmony. 

Tired, at last, for she had walked far upstream into the hills, Rosemarysat down upon a convenient rock to rest. The shores were steep, now, butjust beyond her was a little cleft between two hills--a pleasant, sunnyspace, with two or three trees and a great rock, narrowing back into athicket. She went on, after a few moments, down the slope to the levelplace, lay at full length upon the thick turf, and drank thirstily fromthe river. 

In a moment, she heard the slow splash of oars, and the murmur ofvoices, both low and deep, though one evidently belonged to a man andone to a woman. Boats were infrequent upon the river, and, not caring tobe seen, she stepped back into the thicket until it should pass. 

[Sidenote: Mute and Frightened]

The voices came nearer and nearer, the man's full-toned and vaguelyfamiliar, the woman's musical, vibrant, and, in a way, familiar too. 

A single powerful stroke brought the boat into view, as it rounded thecurve. It was Alden and Edith. The girl stepped back still farther intothe sheltering thicket, repressing the cry of astonishment that rose toher lips. Acutely self-conscious, it seemed that the leaves were noprotection; that she stood before them helpless, unconcealed. 

Trembling, she sat down on a low, flat stone, for she had suddenlybecome too weak to stand. Much to her dismay, Alden swung the head ofthe boat toward the shore. They were going to land!

Mute and frightened, she watched him as he assisted her to the shore, saw him return to the boat for a basket covered with a white cloth, anddraw the oars up to the bank. 

Rosemary instantly comprehended the emotions of an animal in a trap. Shescarcely dared to breathe, much less move. Unwilling to listen, she puther fingers in her ears and turned her head away, but presently theposition became so strained and uncomfortable that she had to give itup. Their voices were plainly audible. 

[Sidenote: A Picnic]

"I thought I heard a rustle behind that thicket, " said Edith. She waslovely in her gown of pale green linen, and carried a white linenparasol instead of wearing a hat. 

"It's a bird, or a squirrel, " he assured her. "Nobody ever comes here. "

"Are we nobody?"

"Indeed not--we're everybody. The world was made just for us two. "

"I wish I could believe you, " Edith returned, sadly. Then she added, with swift irrelevance: "Why do people always take hard-boiled eggs topicnics?"

"To mitigate the pickles, " he responded. "There always are pickles--see?I knew Mother would put some in. "

"Wine, too, " commented Edith, peering into the basket. "Why, it's almosta party!"

Alden's face took on a grave, sweet boyishness. "I did that myself, " hesaid. "Mother didn't know. Wait until I tell you. The day I was born, myfather set aside all the wine that was that day ready for bottling. There wasn't much of it. All these years, it's been untouched on oneparticular shelf in the storeroom, waiting, in dust and cobwebs. Atsunset he went to Mother, and told her what he had done. 'It's for theboy, ' he said. 'It's to be opened the day he finds the woman he loves asI love you. '"

"And--" Edith's voice was almost a whisper. 

[Sidenote: The Time Has Come]

"The time has come. I may have found her only to lose her again, butshe's mine--for to-day. "

He filled two small glasses, and, solemnly, they drank. The light moodvanished as surely as though they had been in a church, at some unwontedcommunion. Behind the leafy screen, Rosemary trembled and shook. Shefelt herself sharply divided into a dual personality. One of her wasserene and calm, able to survey the situation unemotionally, as thoughit were something that did not concern her at all. The other was adeeply passionate, loving woman, who had just seen her life's joy takenfrom her for ever. 

Alden, leaning back against the rock near which they sat, was looking atEdith as a man looks at but one woman in all his life. To Rosemary, trembling and cold, it someway brought a memory of her father's face, inthe faded picture. At the thought, she clenched her hands tightly andcompressed her lips. So much she had, made hers eternally by a grave. Noone could take from her the thrilling sense of kinship with those whohad given her life. 

Edith looked out upon the river. Her face was wistful and as appealingas a child's. "Found, " she repeated, "though only to lose again. "

"Perhaps not, " he answered, hopefully. "Wait and see. "

[Sidenote: Never Again]

"Life is made of waiting, " she returned, sadly--"woman's life alwaysis. " Then with a characteristically quick change of mood, she added, laughingly: "I know a woman who says that all her life, before she wasmarried, she was waiting for her husband, and that since her marriage, she has noticed no difference. "

Alden smiled at the swift anti-climax, then his face grew grave again. He packed the few dishes in the basket, rinsed the wine glasses in theriver, brought them back, and gave one to Edith. 

"We'll break the bottle, " he said, "and the glasses, too. They shallnever be used again. "

The shattered crystal fell, tinkling as it went. The wine made a deep, purple stain upon the stone. He opened his arms. 

"No, " whispered Edith. "It only makes it harder, when----"

"Beloved, have you found so much sweetness in the world that you canafford to pass it by?" She did not answer, so he said, pleadingly:"Don't you want to come?"

She turned toward him, her face suddenly illumined. "I do, with all mysoul I do. "

"Then come. For one little hour--for one dear hour--ah, dearest, come!"

Rosemary averted her face, unable to bear it. When she turned hermiserable eyes toward them again, allured by some strange fascinationshe was powerless to analyse, Edith was in his arms, her mouth crushedto his. 

[Sidenote: Yours Alone]

"Dear, dearest, sweetheart, beloved!" the man murmured. "I love you so!"

There was a pause, then he spoke again. "Do you love me?"

"Yes, " she breathed. "A thousand times, yes!"

"Say it, " he pleaded. "Just those three words. "

"I love you, " she answered, "for everything you have been and everythingyou are and everything you are going to be, for always. I love you witha love that is yours alone. It never belonged to anybody else for themerest fraction of a second, and never can. It was born for you, livesfor you, and will die when you need it no more. "

"Ah, " he said, "but I need it always. I've wanted you all my life. "

"And will, " she sighed, trying to release herself. 

"Edith! Don't! I can't bear it! Take the golden hour as the glitteringsands of eternity sweep past us. So much is yours and mine, out of allthat is past and to come. "

"As you wish, " she responded. Then, after another pause, she said:"Don't you want to read to me?"

Rosemary, dumb and hopeless, saw them sit down, close together, and leanagainst the rock, where the sunlight made an aureole of Edith's hair. He slipped his arm around her, and she laid her head upon his shoulder, with a look of heavenly peace upon her pale face. Never had the contrastbetween them been more painful than now, for Edith, with love in hereyes, was exquisite beyond all words. 

[Sidenote: The Red Book Again]

Alden took a small red book out of his pocket. With a pang, Rosemaryrecognised it. Was nothing to be left sacred to her? She longed to breakfrom her hiding-place, face them both with stern accusing eyes, snatchthe book which meant so much to her--ask for this much, at least, tokeep. Yet she kept still, and listened helplessly, with the bloodbeating in her ears. 

In his deep, musical voice, Alden read once more: _Her Gifts_. "That, "he said, softly, "was the night I knew. "

"Yes, " Edith answered. "The night I found the book and brought it home. "

Rosemary well remembered when Edith had found the book. Her strangesense of a dual self persisted, yet, none the less, her heart beat hardwith pain. 

He went on, choosing a line here and there as he turned the markedpages, but avoiding entirely some of the most beautiful sonnets becauseof their hopelessness. At last, holding her closer, he began:

[Sidenote: Suiting the Action to the Word]

 "On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear I lay, and spread your hair on either side, And see the new-born woodflowers bashful-eyed Look through the golden tresses here and there. On these debatable borders of the year Spring's foot half falters; scarce she yet may know The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow; And through her bowers the wind's way still is clear. "

"Oh!" breathed Rosemary, with her hands tightly clenched. "Dear God, have pity!"

Heedlessly, Alden went on:

 "But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day; So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray, Up your warm throat to your warm lips; for this----"

He dropped the book, lifted Edith's chin and kissed her throat, then hermouth. She laid her hand upon his face. "Dear and lonely andhungry-hearted, " she said; "how long you wanted me!"

"Yes, " he murmured, "but I've found you now!"

How long they sat there, Rosemary never knew, for her senses weredulled. She did not hear their preparations for departure, but saw theboat swinging out into the current, with the sunset making golden gloryof the river and of Edith's hair. When the sound of the oars ceased, sherose, numb and cold, and came out into the open space. She steadiedherself for a moment upon the rock against which they had leaned. 

[Sidenote: Another Thought]

"Service, " she said to herself, "and sacrifice. Giving, and notreceiving. Asking--not answer. " Yet she saw that, even now, this couldbe neither sacrifice nor denial, because it was something she had neverhad. 

She laughed, a trifle bitterly, and went on home, another thoughtkeeping time with her footsteps. "The appointed thing comes at theappointed time in the appointed way. There is no terror save my ownfear. "

XVII

The Last Tryst

[Sidenote: A Double Self]

The shrill voices in the sitting-room rose higher and higher. Since theday Grandmother had read the article upon "Woman's Birthright" toMatilda, the subject of Mrs. Lee's hair had, as it were, been drowned incucumber milk. When Rosemary came in from the kitchen, they appealed toher by common consent. 

"Rosemary, have you ever heard of anybody taking a stool and a pail andgoin' out to milk the cucumbers before breakfast?" This from AuntMatilda. 

"Rosemary, ain't you seen the juice of wild cucumbers when they spittheir seeds out and ain't it just like milk, only some thicker?" Thisfrom Grandmother. 

"I don't know, " Rosemary answered, mechanically. The queer sense of adouble self persisted. One of her was calm and content, the other wasrebellious--and hurt. 

"Humph!" snorted Grandmother. 

"Humph!" echoed Aunt Matilda

[Sidenote: Going for the Paper]

"It's Thursday, " Grandmother reminded her, "and I heard the mail traincome in some time ago. You'd better leave the sweepin' an' go and get mypaper. "

"Yes, do, " Aunt Matilda chimed in, with a sneer. "I can't hardly waitfor this week's paper, more'n the other sufferin' five million can. Maybe there'll be a pattern for a cucumber milkin' stool in this week'spaper; somethin' made out of a soap-box, with cucumber leaves andblossoms painted on it with some green and yellow house paint thathappens to be left over. And, " she continued, "they'd ought to be a pailtoo, but I reckon a tin can'll do, for the cucumbers I've seen so fardon't look as if they'd be likely to give much milk. We can paint thecan green and paste a picture of a cucumber on the outside from the seedcatalogue. Of course I ain't got any freckles, but there's nothin' likehavin' plenty of cucumber milk in the house, with hot weather comin'on. "

Grandmother surveyed Matilda with a penetrating, icy stare. "You've gotfreckles on your mind, " she said. "Rosemary, will you go to thepost-office and not keep me waiting?"

The girl glanced at her brown gingham dress, and hesitated. 

"You're clean enough, " Grandmother observed, tartly. "Anybody'd thinkyou had a beau waitin' for you somewheres. "

[Sidenote: Young People's Calls]

She flushed to her temples, but did not speak. Her face was still redwhen she went out, wearing a brown straw hat three Summers old. 

"The paper says, " Grandmother continued, "that a blush is becomin' tosome women, but Rosemary ain't one that looks well with a red face. Doyou suppose she has got a beau?"

"Can't prove it by me, " Matilda sighed, looking pensively out of thewindow. "That Marsh boy come to see her once, though. "

"He didn't come again, I notice, no more'n the minister did. "

"No, " Matilda rejoined, pointedly, with a searching glance atGrandmother, "and I reckon it was for the same reason. When young folkscomes to see young folks, they don't want old folks settin' in the roomwith 'em all the time, talkin' about things they ain't interested in. "

"Young folks!" snorted Grandmother. "You was thirty!"

"That ought to be old enough to set alone with a man for a spell, especially if he's a minister. "

"I suppose you think, " the old lady returned, swiftly gathering herammunition for a final shot, "that the minister was minded to marry you. I've told you more 'n once that you're better off the way you are. Marriage ain't much. I've been through it and I know. "

[Sidenote: Face to Face]

With that, she sailed triumphantly out of the room, closing the doorwith a bang which had in it the sound of finality. Poor Miss Matildagazed dreamily out of the window, treasuring the faint, fragrant memoryof her lost romance. "If Rosemary has got a beau, " she said to herself, "I hope she won't let Ma scare him away from her. "

At the post-office, Rosemary met Alden, face to face. She blushed andstammered when he spoke to her, answered his kindly questions inmonosyllables, and, snatching _The Household Guardian_ from theoutstretched hand of the postmaster, hurried away. 

Presently he overtook her. "Please, Rosemary, " he said, "give me just aminute. I want to talk to you. I haven't seen you for a long time. "

"Yes?" She stopped, but could not raise her eyes to his face. 

"I can't talk to you here. Come on up the hill. "

"When?" The girl's lips scarcely moved as she asked the question. 

"Now. Please come. "

"I'll--I'll have to go home first, with this, " she replied, indicatingthe paper. "Then I'll come. "

"All right. I'll go on ahead and wait for you. Shall I tie the redribbon to the tree?" He spoke thoughtlessly, meaning only to bepleasant, but the girl's eyes filled. She shook her head decisively andneither of them spoke until they reached the corner where she must turn. 

[Sidenote: Waiting for Rosemary]

"Good-bye, " she said. 

"Auf wiedersehen, " he replied, lifting his hat. "Don't be long. "

Always, before, it had been Rosemary who waited for him. Now he sat uponthe log, leaning back against the tree, listening to the chatter of thesquirrels and the twitter of little birds in the boughs above him. Itwas not yet noon, and the sunlight made little dancing gleams ofsilver-gilt on the ground between the faint shadows of the leaves. Hewaited for her in a fever of impatience, for in his pocket he had aletter for Edith, addressed in a dashing masculine hand. 

Not so long ago, in this same place, he had asked Rosemary to marry him. Now he must ask her to release him, to set him free from the bondage hehad persisted in making for himself. He made a wry face at the thought, unspeakably dreading the coming interview and, in his heart, despisinghimself. 

Rosemary did not keep him waiting long. When she came, she was flushedand breathless from the long climb--and something more. She sank downupon the seat he indicated--her old place. 

[Sidenote: The Hour of Reckoning]

"It's been a long time since we were here last, " Alden observed, awkwardly. 

"Has it?" The grey eyes glanced at him keenly for a moment, then swiftlyturned away. 

"I've--I've wanted to see you, " Alden lied. 

"I've wanted to see you, " she flashed back, telling the literal truth. 

Alden sighed, for there was tremulous passion in her tone--almostresentment. He had treated her badly, considering that she was hispromised wife. She had been shamefully neglected, and she knew it, andthe hour of reckoning had come. 

For the moment he caught at the straw the situation seemed to offer him. If they should quarrel--if he could make her say harsh things, it mightbe easier. Instantly his better self revolted. "Coward!" he thought. "Cad!"

"I've wanted to see you, " Rosemary was saying, with forced calmness, "totell you something. I can't marry you, ever!"

"Why, Rosemary!" he returned, surprised beyond measure. "What do youmean?"

The girl rose and faced him. He rose, too, awkwardly stretching out hishand for hers. She swerved aside, and clasped her hands behind herback. 

[Sidenote: It's All a Mistake]

"I mean what I said; it's plain enough, isn't it?"

"Yes, " he answered, putting his hands in his pockets, "it's perfectlyplain. If I've done anything to hurt or offend you in any way, I--I'msorry. " So much was true. He was sorry for Rosemary and had never beenmore so than at that very moment. "You'll give me a reason, won't you?"he continued. 

"Reason?" she repeated, with a bitter laugh. "Oh, I have plenty ofreasons!" His heart sank for a moment, then went on, evenly. "It's all amistake--it's never been anything but a mistake. I couldn't leaveGrandmother and Aunt Matilda, you know. They need me, and I shouldn'thave allowed myself to forget it. "

"Yes, " Alden agreed, quickly, "I suppose they do need you. I wasselfish, perhaps. "

Hot words came to her lips but she choked them back. For an instant shewas tempted to tell him all she had seen and heard a few days before, toaccuse him of disloyalty, and then prove it. Her face betrayed heragitation, but Alden was looking out across the valley, and did not see. In his pocket the letter for Edith lay consciously, as though it werealive. 

"It isn't that you don't love me, is it?" he asked, curiously. Hismasculine vanity had been subtly aroused. 

[Sidenote: They Part]

Rosemary looked him straight in the face. She was white, now, to thelips. "Yes, " she lied. "It is that more than anything else. "

"Why, my dear girl! I thought----"

"So did I. We were both mistaken, that is all. "

"And you really don't love me?"

"Not in the least. "

Alden laughed--a little mirthless, mocking laugh. It is astonishing, sometimes, how deeply a man may be hurt through his vanity. Rosemary hadturned away, and he called her back. 

"Won't you kiss me good-bye?" he asked, with a new humility. 

Then Rosemary laughed, too, but her laugh was also mirthless. "No, " sheanswered, in a tone from which there was no appeal. "Why should I?"Before he realised it, she was gone. 

He went back to the log and sat down to think. This last tryst withRosemary had been a surprise in more ways than one. He had been afraidthat she would be angry, or hurt, and she had been neither. He had cometo ask for freedom and she had given it to him without asking, becauseshe could not leave Grandmother and Aunt Matilda, and because she didnot love him. He could understand the first reason, but the latterseemed very strange. Yet Rosemary had looked him straight in the faceand he had never known her to lie. He had a new emotion toward her; notexactly respect, but something more than that. 

[Sidenote: A Letter for Edith]

Then, with a laugh, he straightened his shoulders. He had what hewanted, though it had not come in the way he thought it would. If he hadbeen obliged to ask her to release him, he would have felt worse than hedid now. The letter in his pocket, heavy with portent, asserted itselfimperiously. He hurried home, feeling very chivalrous. 

Edith, cool and fresh in white linen, with one of the last of the redroses thrust into her belt, was rocking on the veranda, with a book inher lap which she had made no pretence of reading. Two or three emptychairs were near her, but Madame was nowhere to be seen. Alden handedher the letter. "I'm free!" he said, exultantly. 

Edith smiled, then, with shaking hands, tore open the letter. Aldeneagerly watched her as she turned the closely written pages, but herface was inscrutable. She read every word carefully, until she reachedthe signature. Then she looked up. 

"I'm not, " she said, briefly. She tossed the letter to him, and wentinto the house. He heard her light feet upon the stairs and the rustleof her skirts as she ascended. Perfume persisted in the place she hadjust left--the rose at her belt, the mysterious blending of many sweetodours, and, above all, the fragrance of Edith herself. 

[Sidenote: Alden Reads the Letter]

"It's nonsense, " he murmured, looking after her. All her quixoticnotions of honour would eventually yield to argument--of course theywould. Yet his heart strangely misgave him as he read the letter. 

"My dear Edith, " it began. 

"Your letter has somewhat surprised me, and yet I cannot say I feel thatI don't deserve it. Since you have been away I have been doing a gooddeal of thinking. Of course you and I haven't hit it off very welltogether, and, as I can see no point where you have failed me, I realisethat it must be my fault and that I have failed you. 

"I wish you had talked to me about it, instead of going away, and yet, even as I write the words, I see how impossible it would have been, forwe haven't been in the habit of talking things over since the first yearwe were married. Gradually the wall of silence and reserve has grown upbetween us, but while you, with the quicker insight of a woman, haveseen it growing, I haven't realised it until it was completed. 

"Your offering me my freedom has made me wonder what my life would bewithout you. No one has ever filled your place to me, or ever will. Imay have seemed careless, thoughtless--indeed, I have been both, andconstantly, but always in the background has been the knowledge that youwere there--that I could depend upon you. 

[Sidenote: The Husband's Point of View]

"It may seem like a trite and commonplace thing to say, but upon my wordand honour, Edith, I haven't meant to fail you, as I see I have in athousand ways. I'm sorry, deeply sorry, but I know that the words willnot mean much to you. 

"Since I first saw you, there's never been any woman in the world for mebut you, and there never will be, even though you should cast me off asI deserve. If you can make up your mind to come back to me and let metry again, I'll do my best to make you happy--to consider you instead ofmyself. 

"Men are selfish brutes at the best, and I don't claim to be any betterthan the average, but all I'm asking for now is a chance to make myselfworthy of you--to be the sort of husband a woman like you should have. 

"Please let me hear from you very soon. 

 "Your loving husband, "W. G. L. "

Alden read it again, though he did not need to--he had understood everyword of it the first time. Then he folded it, slowly and precisely, andput it into the torn envelope. He tapped on the arm of the chair for amoment with the edge of the envelope, then, mechanically, put it intohis pocket. 

[Sidenote: Effect upon Alden]

A robin, in a maple tree beyond him, piped his few notes with unbearableintensity. Discordant chirps assailed his ears from the lattice wherethe climbing rose put forth its few last blooms. Swaying giddily in acrazy pattern upon the white floor of the veranda, was the shadow of therose, the plaything of every passing wind. He remembered the moonlightnight which might have been either yesterday or in some previous life, as far as his confused perceptions went, when Edith had stood with therose in her hand, and the clear, sharply-defined shadow of it had beensilhouetted at her feet. 

All his senses seemed mercilessly acute. Some of the roses were almostdead and the sickening scent of them mingled with the fragrance of thosethat had just bloomed. It made him dizzy--almost faint. 

The maid announced luncheon, but food, or the sight of his mother wereamong the last things he desired, just then. Affecting not to hear, hewent out, got a boat, and rowed far up the river alone. 

When he was utterly exhausted, he shipped the oars and let himself driftback, pushing out from shore now and then when the current brought himtoo near. He knew, with crushing certainty, that Edith would not beswerved from her chosen path by argument--but he could at least try. 

[Sidenote: A Silent Function]

White-faced and weary, he went to his room when he reached home, laydown, and tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. He seemed to havecome to a point of absolute bodily suspension, neither to hunger northirst nor sleep again. It was, in a way, like a clock, that tickssteadily, though the hands are definitely fixed at a certain hour andwill not move. 

He forced himself to dress for dinner and to go down at the proper time. Madame was waiting, but Edith was late. When she appeared, she was inthe white linen gown she had worn all day, with the withered rose in herbelt. It was the first evening she had not dressed for dinner and she atonce apologised to Madame. 

"I'm sorry, " she said, "but it seemed impossible to make the effortto-night. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"Of course, " Madame returned sweetly. 

"Of course, " Alden echoed. His voice sounded distant and his eyes weredull. 

As dinner bade fair to be a silent function, Madame turned to Edith withthe first question that came into her mind. 

"What have you been doing all the afternoon?"

"Packing, " replied Edith, with dry lips. 

[Sidenote: Nothing to Say]

"Or rather, getting ready to pack. " She did not look at Alden, but atMadame, with a wan little smile that made the old lady's heart suddenlyvery tender toward her. 

"My dear! We'll miss you so. "

"I know, " Edith murmured, "and I shall miss you--more than words maysay, but I have to go. " She drained the glass of water at her plate, then added: "My husband wants me to come back. He has written to sayso. "

"Then, " said Madame, "I suppose you will have to go. "

"I suppose so, " repeated Edith, parrot-like. 

Alden's eyes never swerved from Edith's white face. In their depths wasthe world-old longing, the world-old appeal, but never for the fractionof an instant did Edith trust herself to look at him. 

When they rose from the table, Edith went back to her room immediately, murmuring an excuse. Alden watched her despairingly until the hem of herwhite gown was lost at the turn of the stairs. Then he sat down with thepaper, but he could not read, for the words zig-zagged crazily along thepage. 

Madame understood and sincerely pitied them both, but there seemed to benothing to say. She leaned back in her chair, with her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, but, in reality, watching Alden as he staredvacantly at the paper he held in his shaking hands. 

[Sidenote: Poor Comfort]

At last he rose and went out upon the veranda. Madame started from herchair, then forced herself to lean back again, calmly. She heard thescraping of his chair as he moved it along the veranda, out of the wayof the light that came through the open window. For a long time therewas silence. 

Longing to comfort him and unable to endure it longer, Madame went out, softly. He did not hear her step, for his head was bowed upon his hands. From a room above Edith's light streamed out afar into the sweetdarkness, drawing toward it all the winged wayfarers of the night. 

Madame slipped her arm around his shoulders, and bent down to him. "Dear, " she said brokenly, "she's married. "

Alden drew a quick, shuddering breath, and freed himself roughly fromthe tender clasp. "I know it, Mother, " he cried, in a voice vibrant withpain. "For God's sake, don't remind me of that!"

XVIII

Starbreak

[Sidenote: Edith's Failure]

Through the long night Edith lay awake, thinking. Her senses wereblindly merged into one comprehensive hurt. She was as one who faresforth in darkness, knowing well the way upon which he must go, yetlonging vainly for light. 

Her path lay before her, mercilessly clear and distinct. A trick ofmemory took her back to what Madame had said, the day after she came:"The old way would have been to have waited, done the best one could, and trusted God to make it right in His good time. " She remembered, too, her bitter answer: "I've waited and I've done the best I could, and I'vetrusted, but I've failed. "

Keenly she perceived the subtlety of her punishment. Attempting to bindthe Everlasting with her own personal limitations, her own desires, shehad failed to see that at least half of a rightful prayer must deal withherself. She had asked only that her husband might love her; not thatshe might continue to love him. 

[Sidenote: Out of Harmony]

Now, with her heart and soul wholly in the keeping of another man, theboon had been granted her, in bitterness and ashes and desolation. Hehad said, in his letter, that her coming away had made him think. Through her absence he had seen the true state of affairs between them, as she could never have made him see it if she had remained at home. This, then, was God's way of revelation to him, but--to her?

The truth broke upon her with the vividness of a lightning flash. It wasthe way of revelation to her also, but how? She sat up in bed, proppingherself back against the pillows, her mind groping eagerly for the clue. 

During the past six years she had endeavoured constantly for a certainadjustment. Now it had come, but she herself was out of harmony. Wereher feet to be forever set upon the ways of pain? Was there nothing atall in the world for her?

Alden, too, was awake and thinking. She felt it, through the darkness, as definitely as though he had been in the same room, with his face fullin the light. He also was conscious of the utter hopelessness of it andwas striving to see his way clearly. 

Until then, she had not known how far his argument had swayed her, norhow much she had depended upon the thought that her husband would gladlyaccept the release she offered him. Her principles had not changed, buthis possible point of view had not been considered before. 

[Sidenote: Irrevocably Bound]

"'Until death do us part, '" said Edith, to herself. "Not 'until death ordivorce do us part'; nor yet 'until I see someone else I like better';not even 'until you see someone else you like better, ' And, again, 'forsaking all others keep thee only unto me so long as we both shalllive. '"

Suppose he had violated his oath, consented to accept freedom at herhands, and gone his way? Would not the solemn words she had spoken atthe altar still be binding upon her? She saw, now, that they would be, and that whatever compromise he might have been able to make with hisown conscience, to be legally justified later, she was irrevocablybound, until death should divide them one from the other. 

She smiled sadly, for it was, indeed, a confused and muddled world. Things moved crazily, depending wholly upon blind chance. One workssteadily, even for years, bending all his energies to one single point, and what is the result? Nothing! Another turns the knob of a door, walksinto a strange room, or, perhaps, writes a letter, and from that momenthis whole life is changed, for destiny lurks in hinges and abides uponthe written page. 

For days, for months even, no single action may be significant, andagain, upon another day, a thoughtless word, or even a look, may be as apebble cast into deep waters, to reach, by means of ever-wideningcircles, some distant, unseen shore. 

[Sidenote: The One Affected]

All this had come from a single sentence. Louise Archer, upon herdeath-bed, had harked back to her school days, and, thinking fondly ofVirginia Marsh, had bade her daughter go to her if she felt the need ofa mother's counsel when her own mother was past the power of giving it. Years afterward, during a day of despondency, Edith had remembered. Thepebble had fallen deep and far and had become still again, but its finalcircle had that day touched the ultimate boundary made by three lives. 

It had, of course, made no difference to Madame, but two men and a womanhad been profoundly shaken by it, though not moved from their originalposition. They would all stay where they were, of course--Alden with hismother, and Edith with her husband. Then, with a shock, Edith rememberedRosemary--she was the one who had been swept aside as though by a tidalwave. 

Poor Rosemary! Edith's heart throbbed with understanding pity for thegirl who had lost all. She had not asked how it had happened, merelyaccepting Alden's exultant announcement. Now she hoped that it mighthave been done delicately, so that Alden need not feel himself a brute, nor Rosemary's pride be hurt. 

[Sidenote: A Sleepless Night]

Then, through the night, came a definite perception, as though Aldenhimself had given her assurance. Rosemary had done it herself, had she?Very well--that was as it should be. For a moment she dwelt upon thefact with satisfaction, then, a little frightened, began to speculateupon this mysterious tie between herself and Alden. 

The thing was absurd, impossible. She curled her short upper lipscornfully in the darkness. "You know it is, " she said, imperiously, inher thought, as though in answer to a mocking question from somewhere:"Is it?"

She turned restlessly. All at once her position became tiresome, unbearable. She wanted to go to sleep, indeed she must sleep, for shehad a long hard day before her to-morrow, putting her things into hertrunks. Perhaps, if she rose and walked around her room a little----

One small, pink foot was on the floor, and the other almost beside it, when a caution came to her from some external source: "Don't. You'lltake cold. " She got back into bed, shivering a little. Yes, the polishedfloor was cold. 

Then she became furious with Alden and with herself. Why couldn't theman go to sleep? It must be past midnight, now, and she would walk, ifshe wanted to. Defiantly and in a triumph of self-assertion, she went tothe open window and peered out into the stillness, illumined by neithermoon nor stars. The night had the suffocating quality of hangings ofblack velvet. 

[Sidenote: Sitting in the Dark]

She lighted a candle, found her kimono and slippers, wrapped herself ina heavy blanket, and drew up a low rocker to the open window. Then sheput out the light and settled herself to wait until she was sleepy. 

The darkness that clung around her so closely seemed alive, almostthrilling, as it did, with fibres of communication perceptible only to asixth sense. She marvelled at the strangeness of it, but was no longerafraid. Her fear had vanished at the bidding of someone else. 

Why was it? she asked herself, for the hundredth time, and almostimmediately the answer came: "Why not?"

Why not, indeed? If a wireless telegraph instrument, sending its callinto space, may be answered with lightning-like swiftness by another athousand miles away, why should not a thought, without the clumsy mediumof speech, instantly respond to another thought from a mind in harmonywith it?

A subtle analogy appeared between the earth and the body, the towerfrom which the wireless signalled and the thought which called toanother. When the physical forces were at their lowest ebb, and thepowers of the spirit had risen to keep the balance true, why was notcommunication possible always between soul and soul? And, if one livedalways above the fog of sense, as far as the earth-bound may, what wouldbe the need of speech or touch between those who belonged to oneanother?

[Sidenote: Two Views]

She and Alden "belonged, " there was no doubt of that. She had, for him, the woman's recognition of her mate, which is never to be mistaken ordenied when once it has asserted itself. "Why, " she thought, "willpeople marry without it?" The other mind responded instantly: "Becausethey don't know. "

Marriage presented itself before her in two phases, the one sordid andunworthy, as it so often is, the other as it might be--the earthly sealupon a heavenly bond. But, if the heavenly relationship existed, was theother essential? Her heart answered "No. "

Slowly she began to see her way through the maze of things. "Dust todust, earth to earth, ashes to ashes. " Then she laughed outright, forthat was part of the burial service, and she had been thinking ofsomething else. And yet--earth to earth meant only things that belongedtogether; why not soul to soul?

Warm tides of assurance and love flowed through her heart, cleansing, strengthening, sweeping barriers aside in a mighty rush of joy. Whatbarriers could earth interpose, when two belonged to each other in suchheavenly ways as this? Step by step her soul mounted upward to theheights, keeping pace with another, in the room beyond. 

[Sidenote: Edith's Revelation]

Out of sound and sight and touch, with darkened spaces and closed doorsbetween, they two faced the world together as surely as though they werehand in hand. Even Death could make no difference--need Life deny themmore?

Then, with a blinding flash of insight, the revelation came toher--there was no denial, since they loved. Sense, indeed, was whollyput aside, but love has nothing to do with sense, being wholly of thesoul. Shaken with wonder, she trembled as she sat in her chair, staringout into the starless night. 

No denial! All that Love might give was theirs, not only for the momentbut for all the years to come. Love--neither hunger nor thirst norpassion nor the need of sleep; neither a perception of the senses nor aphysical demand, yet streaming divinely through any or all of these asonly light may stream--the heavenly signal of a star to earth, throughinfinite darkness, illimitable space. 

By tortuous paths and devious passages, she had come out upon theheights, into the clear upper air of freedom and of love. Exquisitely, through the love of the one had come the love of the many; the completemastery of self had been gained by the surrender of self; triumph hadrewarded sacrifice. 

[Sidenote: Her Understanding of Love]

Nothing was difficult now--nothing would ever be hard again. To go whereshe was wanted, to give what she could that was needed, steadily to setself aside, asking for nothing but the opportunity to help, and throughthis high human service renewing the spent forces of her soul at thedivine fountains that do not fail--this, indeed, was Love!

Oh, to make the others understand as she understood now--and as Aldenunderstood! In her thought they two were as one. Groping through thesame darkness, he had emerged, with her, into the same light; she feltit through the living, throbbing night more certainly than if they stoodface to face in the blinding glare of the sun. 

The heart-breaking tragedy of Woman revealed itself wholly to her forthe first time. Less materialistic and more finely-grained than Man, sheaspires toward things that are often out of his reach. Failing in heraspiration, confused by the effort to distinguish the false from thetrue, she blindly clutches at the counterfeit and so loses the genuineforever. 

Longing, from the day of her birth for Love, she spends herselfprodigally in the endless effort to find it, little guessing, sometimes, that it is not the most obvious thing Man has to offer. Withcolour and scent and silken sheen, she makes a lure of her body; withcunning artifice she makes temptation of her hands and face and weavesit with her hair. She flatters, pleads, cajoles; denies only that shemay yield, sets free in order to summon back, and calls, so that when hehas answered she may preserve a mystifying silence. 

[Sidenote: Her Estimate of Women]

She affects a thousand arts that in her heart she despises, pretends tohousewifery that she hates, forces herself to play tunes though she hasno gift for music, and chatters glibly of independence when she has noneat all. 

In making herself "all things to all men, " she loses her ownindividuality, and becomes no more than a harp which any passing handmay strike to quick response. To one man she is a sage, to another anincarnate temptation, to another a sensible, business-like person, toanother a frothy bit of frivolity. To one man she is the guardian of hisideals, as Elaine in her high tower kept Launcelot's shield bright forhim, to another she is what he very vaguely terms "a good fellow, " witha discriminating taste in cigarettes and champagne. 

Let Man ask what he will and Woman will give it, praying only thatsomewhere she will come upon Love. She adapts herself to him as wateradapts itself to the shape of the vessel in which it is placed. Shedare not assert herself or be herself, lest, in some way, she shouldlose her tentative grasp upon the counterfeit which largely takes theplace of love. If he prefers it, she will expatiate upon her fondnessfor vaudeville and musical comedy until she herself begins to believethat she likes it. With tears in her eyes and her throat raw, she willchoke upon the assertion that she likes the smell of smoke; she willassume passion when his slightest touch makes her shudder and turn cold. 

[Sidenote: Her Estimate of Women]

And, most pitiful of all, when blinded by her own senses, she willsurrender the last citadel of her womanhood to him who comes a-wooing, undismayed by the weeping women around her whose sacred altars have beenprofaned and left bare. They may have told her that if it is love, theman will protect her even against himself, but why should she takeaccount of the experience of others? Has not he himself just told herthat she is different from all other women? Hugging this sophistry toher breast, and still searching for love, she believes him until the dayof realisation dawns upon her--old and broken and bitter-hearted, withscarcely a friend left in the world, and not even the compensating cointhriftily demanded by her sister of the streets. 

Under her countless masques and behind her multitudinous phases, lurksthe old hunger, the old appeal. Man, too, though more rarely, guessingthat the imperishable beauty of the soul is above the fog of sense andnot in it, searches hopefully at first, then despairingly, and finallyoffers the counterfeit to the living Lie who is waiting for it witheager, outstretched hands. 

 * * * * *

[Sidenote: The Clouds Break]

Stirred to the depths by the pity of it, Edith brushed away a tear ortwo. She was not at all sleepy, but drew the blanket closer around her, for the night grew chill as the earth swept farther and farther awayfrom the sun. The clouds had begun to drift away, and faintly, throughthe shadow, glimmered one pale star. Gradually, others came out, then awhite and ghostly moon, with a veil of cloud about it, grey, yetiridescent, like mother-of-pearl. 

Blown far across the seas of space by a swiftly rising wind, the cloudsvanished, and all the starry hosts of heaven marched forth, challengingthe earth with javelins of light. 

"Starbreak, " murmured Edith, "up there and in my soul. "

The blue rays of the love-star burned low upon the grey horizon, thatstar towards which the eyes of women yearn and which women's feet arefain to follow, though, like a will-o'-the-wisp, it leads them throughstrange and difficult places, and into the quicksands. 

[Sidenote: Fellowship with the World]

The body grows slowly, but the soul progresses by leaps and bounds. Through a single hurt or a single joy, the soul of a child may reachman's estate, never to go backward, but always on. And so, through agreat love and her own complete comprehension of its meaning, Edith hadgrown in a night out of herself, into a beautiful fellowship with thewhole world. 

Strangely uplifted and forever at peace, she rose from her chair. Theblanket slipped away from her, and her loosened hair flowed back overher shoulders, catching gleams of starlight as it fell. She stretchedout her arms in yearning toward Alden, her husband, Madame--indeed, allthe world, having come out of self into service; through the love of oneto the love of all. 

Then, through the living darkness, came the one clear call: "Mine?"

Unmistakably the answer surged back: "In all the ways of Heaven and foralways, I am thine. "

XIX

If Love Were All

[Sidenote: When the Shadows Lengthen]

The last of the packing was done, and four trunks stood in the lowerhall, waiting for the expressman. Alden had not seen Edith that day, though he had haunted the house since breakfast, waiting and hoping foreven a single word. 

She had been too busy to come down to luncheon, and had eaten only alittle from the tray Madame sent to her room. She was to take the earlytrain in the morning. 

The afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen when she came down, almostas white as her fresh linen gown, but diffusing about her some radiancefrom within that seemed not wholly of earth. He met her at the foot ofthe stairs, and took her hand in his. 

"Edith! I've been longing for you all day!"

"And I for you, " she returned, avoiding his eyes. 

"Listen, dear. Give me the rest of it, won't you?"

[Sidenote: For the Last Time]

"The rest of what?"

"The little time you have left with us--this afternoon and to-night. "

For a moment she hesitated, then looked him full in the face, her eyesmutely questioning his. 

"I won't, " he said. "I promise you that. "

"Then I'll come. "

"Out on the river?"

"Yes. "

"It's for the last time, Edith, " he said, sadly; "the very last time. "

"I know, " she returned. Her lips quivered a little, but her eyes did notfalter. Clear and steadfast they looked far beyond him into the futurewhere he had no part. The golden lights in them seemed signal fires now, summoning him mysteriously onward to some high service, not alien, eventhough apart from her. 

They said no more until they were in the boat, swinging out upon thesunlit river. Then Edith glanced at him, half shyly. 

"Wasn't last night wonderful?"

"Wasn't it!" he echoed. "I never understood before. "

"Nor I. "

She trailed a white hand in the water as they sped up stream. The lighttouched her hair lovingly, bringing gleams of gold and amber from thedepths. 

[Sidenote: Alden's Silence]

"Dear, " he said, "did you think that, after last night, I could urge youto violate your solemn oath or even to break your word?"

"I hoped not, but I didn't know. "

"I see it all clearly now. If more was meant for us to have, more wouldbe right for us to take. Back in the beginning this was meant for youand me--just this, and nothing more. "

"How could there be more? Isn't love enough?"

"Surely, but the separation hurts. Never even to see your face or touchyour hand again!"

"I know, " she said, softly. "I'll want you, too. "

A thousand things struggled for utterance, but, true to his word, heremained silent. His whole nature was merged into an imperious demandfor her, the cry of the man's soul for the woman who belonged to him bydivine right. 

"If love were all, " she breathed, as though in answer to it, "I'd come. "

"If love were all, " he repeated. "I wonder why it isn't? What is thereon earth aside from this? What more can heaven be than love--without thefear of parting?"

"No more, " she replied. "We've lost each other in this life, but there'sanother life to come. "

[Sidenote: Whirling Atoms]

"'Helen's lips are drifting dust, '" he quoted. 

"Perhaps not. That which once was Helen may be alive to-day in athousand different forms. A violet upon a mossy bank, a bough of appleblossoms mirrored in a pool, the blood upon some rust-stained sword, awoman waiting, somewhere, for a lover who does not come. "

"And her soul?"

"Drawn back into the Universal soul, to be born anew, in part or all. "

"What a pagan you are!"

"Yes, " she responded, smiling a little, "I am pagan and heathen andChristian martyr and much else. I am everything that I can understandand nothing that I cannot. Don't you see?"

"Yes, I see, but what are we after all? Only two whirling atoms, blownon winds of Fate. What difference does it make whether we clingtogether, or are hopelessly sundered, as far apart as the poles?"

"The same difference that it makes to a human body whether its atomsbehave or not. You don't want to upset the Universe, do you?"

He laughed, a trifle bitterly. "I don't flatter myself that I could. "

"Not you alone, nor I, nor even both together, but we mustn't set a badexample to other atoms. As long as there's a preponderance of right inthe world, things are clear, but, shift the balance, and then----"

[Sidenote: What Is Right?]

"What is right?" he demanded, roughly. "Always to do the thing you don'twant to do?"

"That depends, " she returned, shrugging her shoulders. "It is to do whatyou think is right, and trust that it may be so. "

Alden stopped rowing. He was interested in these vague abstractions. "And, " he said, "if a woman thinks it is her duty to murder her husband, and does it, is she doing right?"

"Possibly. I've seen lots of husbands who would make the world better byleaving it, even so--well, abruptly, as you indicate. And the lady youspeak of, who, as it were, assists, may merely have drawn a generouspart of Lucretia Borgia for her soul-substance, and this portion chancedto assert itself while her husband was in the house and out of temper. "

"Don't be flippant, darling. This is our last day together. Let's notplay a waltz at an open grave. "

The long light lay upon the tranquil waters, and, as a mirror might, theriver gave it back a hundred-fold, sending stray gleams into the rushesat the bend in the stream, long arrows of impalpable silver into thefar shadows upon the shore, and a transfiguring radiance to Edith'sface. 

[Sidenote: A Rainbow]

Where the marsh swerved aside to wait until the river passed, thesunlight took a tall, purple-plumed iris, the reflection of theturquoise sky in a shallow pool, a bit of iridescence from adragon-fly's wing, the shimmering green of blown grasses and a gleam ofrising mist to make a fairy-like rainbow that, upon the instant, disappeared. 

"Oh!" said Edith. "Did you see?"

"See what, dearest?"

"The rainbow--just for a moment, over the marsh?"

"No, I didn't. Do you expect me to hunt for rainbows while I may lookinto your face?"

The faint colour came to her cheeks, then receded. "Better go on, " shesuggested, "if we're to get where we're going before dark. "

The oars murmured in the water, then rain dripped from the shiningblades. The strong muscles of his body moved in perfect unison as theboat swept out into the sunset glow. Deeper and more exquisite withevery passing moment, the light lay lovingly upon the stream, bearingfairy freight of colour and gold to the living waters that sang andcrooned and dreamed from hills to sea. 

"It doesn't seem, " she said, "as though it were the last time. Withearth so beautiful, how can people be miserable?"

[Sidenote: A Perfect Spring Day]

"Very easily, " he responded. The expression of his face changed ever solittle, and lines appeared around his mouth. 

"I remember, " Edith went on, "the day my mother died. It was a perfectday late in the Spring, when everything on earth seemed to exult in thejoy of living. Outside, it was life incarnate, with violets and robinsand apple blossoms and that ineffable sweetness that comes only then. Inside, she lay asleep, as pale and cold as marble. At first, I couldn'tbelieve it. I went outside, then in again. One robin came to the treeoutside her window and sang until my heart almost broke with the pain ofit. And every time I've heard a robin since, it all comes back to me. "

"Yes, " said Alden, quietly, "but all the life outside was made fromdeath, and the death within had only gone on to life again. You cannothave one without the other, any more than you can have a light without ashadow somewhere. "

"Nor a shadow, " Edith continued, "without knowing that somewhere theremust be light. "

They stopped at the cleft between the hills, where they had been theother day, but this time no one waited, with breaking heart, behind therustling screen of leaves. Against the rock, with some simple woodcraftof stones and dry twigs, Alden made a fire, while Edith spread the whitecloth that covered Madame's basket and set forth the dainty fare. 

[Sidenote: At Sunset]

They ate in silence, not because there was nothing to say, but becausethere was so much that words seemed empty and vain. Afterward, when theflaming tapestry in the West had faded to a pale web of rose and purple, faintly starred with exquisite lamps of gleaming pearl, he came to her, and, without speaking, took her into his arms. 

For a long time they stood there, heart to heart, in that rapturouscommunion wholly transcending sense. To him it was not because she was awoman; it was because she was Edith, the mate of his heart and soul. And, to her, it was a subtle completion of herself, the best of heranswering eagerly to the best in him. 

At last, with a sigh, he pushed her gently away from him, and lookeddown into her eyes with a great sadness. 

"Never any more, beloved. Have you thought of that?"

"Yes, I know, " she whispered. "Never any more. "

"I'll want you always. "

"And I you. "

"Sometimes my heart will almost break with longing for you, craving thedear touch of you, though it might be only to lay my hand upon yourface. "

[Sidenote: The Day's Duty]

"Yes, I know. "

"And at night, when I dream that we're somewhere together, and I reachout my arms to hold you close, I'll wake with a start, to find my armsempty and my heart full. "

"The whole world lies between us, dear. "

"And heaven also, I think. "

"No, not heaven, for there we shall find each other again, with nobarriers to keep us apart. "

"I shall live only to make myself worthy of finding you, dearest. I havenothing else to do. "

"Ah, but you have. "

"What?"

"The day's duty, always; the thing that lies nearest your hand. Youknow, I've begun to see that it isn't so much our business to be happyas it is to do the things we are meant to do. And I think, too, thathappiness comes most surely to those who do not go out in search of it, but do their work patiently, and wait for it to come. "

"That may be true for others, but not for us. What happiness is there inthe world for me, apart from you?"

"Memory, " she reminded him gently. "We've had this much and nobody cantake it away from us. "

[Sidenote: Memories]

"But even this will hurt, heart's dearest, when we see each other nomore. "

"Not always. " As she spoke, she sat down on the ground and leaned backagainst a tree. He dropped down beside her, slipped his arm around her, and drew her head to his shoulder, softly kissing her hair. 

"I remember everything, " she went on, "from the time you met me at thestation. I can see you now as you came toward me, and that memory is allby itself, for nobody at the very first meeting looks the same asafterward. There is always some subtle change--I don't know why. Do Ilook the same to you now as I did then?"

"You've always been the most beautiful thing in the world to me, sincethe first moment I saw you. "

"No, not the first moment. "

"When was it, then, darling?"

"The first night, when I came down to dinner, in that pale green satingown. Don't you remember?"

"As if I could ever forget!"

"And you thought I looked like a tiger-lily. "

"Did I?"

"Yes, but you didn't say it and I was glad, for so many other men hadsaid it before. "

"Perhaps it was because, past all your splendour, I saw you--the oneperfect and peerless woman God made for me and sent to me too late. "

[Sidenote: Kisses]

"Not too late for the best of it, dear. "

"What else do you remember?"

"Everything. I haven't forgotten a word nor a look nor a single kiss. The strange sweet fires in your eyes, the clasp of your arms around me, your lips on mine, the nights we've lain awake with love surging fromheart to heart and back again--it's all strung for me into a rosary ofmemories that nothing can ever take away. "

"That first kiss, beloved. Do you remember?"

"Yes. It was here. " She stretched out her arm and with a rosy finger-tipindicated the bare, sweet hollow of her elbow, just below the sleeve. 

Lover-like, he kissed it again. "Do you love me?"

"Yes, Boy--for always. "

"How much?"

"Better than everything else in the world. Do you love me?"

"Yes, with all my heart and soul and strength and will. There isn't afibre of me that doesn't love you. "

"For always?"

"Yes, for always. "

And so they chanted the lover's litany until even the afterglow had diedout of the sky. Edith released herself from his clinging arms. "We mustgo, " she sighed. "It's getting late. "

[Sidenote: If]

He assisted her to her feet, and led her to the boat, moored in shallowsthat made a murmurous singing all around it and upon the shore. He tookher hand to help her in, then paused. 

"If love were all, " he asked, "what would you do?"

"If love were all, " she answered, "I'd put my arms around you, likethis, never to be unclasped again. I'd go with you to-night, to the endof the world, and ask for nothing but that we might be together. I'dface the heat of the desert uncomplainingly, the cold of perpetualsnows. I'd bear anything, suffer anything, do anything. I'd so merge mylife with yours that one heart-beat would serve us both, and when wedied, we'd go together--if love were all. "

"God bless you, dear!" he murmured, with his lips against hers. 

"And you. Come. "

The boat swung out over the shallows into the middle of the stream, where the current took them slowly and steadily toward home. For themost part they drifted, though Alden took care to keep the boat well outfrom shore, and now and then, with the stroke of an oar dipped up amyriad of mirrored stars. 

[Sidenote: Seeking for a Message]

Edith laughed. "Give me one, won't you, please?"

"You shall have them all. "

"But I asked only for one. "

"Then choose. "

She leaned forward, in the scented shadow, serious now, with a quick andcharacteristic change of mood. "The love star, " she breathed. "Keep itburning for me, will you, in spite of clouds and darkness--for always?"

"Yes, my queen--for always. "

When they reached the house, Madame was nowhere in sight. Divining theirwish to be alone on this last evening together, she had long since goneto her own room. The candles on the mantel had been lighted and thereading lamp burned low. Near it was the little red book that Edith hadfound at the top of the Hill of the Muses. 

Sighing, she took it up. "How long ago it seems, " she said, "and yet itwasn't. Life began for me that night. "

"And for me. I read to you, do you remember, just before I kissed youfor the first time?"

"Yes. Read to me again just before you kiss me for the last time, thengive me the book to keep. "

"Which one? The same?"

"No, " cried Edith. "Anything but that!"

"Then choose. Close your eyes, and choose. "

"It's like seeking for a message, or a sign, " she said, as she swiftlyturned the pages. Then, with her eyes still closed, she offered him thebook. "Here--read this. Is it a blank page?"

[Sidenote: Severed Selves]

There was a pause, then Edith opened her eyes. "It isn't the first oneyou read to me, is it? Don't tell me that it is!"

"No, " said Alden, "it isn't, but it's a message. Listen. "

She sat down, in her old place, but he stood at the table, bendingtoward the light. His boyish mouth trembled a little, his hands wereunsteady, and there was a world of love and pain in his eyes. With hisvoice breaking upon the words, he read:

 "Two separate divided silences, Which, brought together, would find loving voice; Two glances which together would rejoice In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees; Two hands apart, whose touch alone gives ease; Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame, Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same; Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:--

 Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast Indeed one hour again, when on this stream Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?-- An hour how slow to come, how quickly past, -- Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last, Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream. "

For a moment the silence was tense. Then the hall clock struck the hourof midnight. It beat upon their senses like a funeral knell. ThenEdith, white-faced, and struggling valiantly for self-control, reachedout her hand for the book. 

[Sidenote: Good-bye]

"Good-night, Boy, " she said, "for the last time. "

"Good-night, " he answered, gathering her into his arms. 

"And good-bye, Boy, forever!"

"Forever, " he echoed, "good-bye!"

He kissed her again, not with passion, but with the love that has risenabove it. Then she released herself, and, holding the little red bookagainst her heart, ran quickly up-stairs. 

He waited until the echo of her footsteps had died away, and her doorhad closed softly. Then he put out the lights, and sat there for a longtime in the darkness, thinking, before he went to his room. 

XX

"The Lady Traveller"

[Sidenote: Grandmother's Loss]

"They ain't on the bureau and they ain't on the washstand, and Idisremember takin' 'em out last night when I went to bed, so I must haveswallered 'em. " Grandmother's speech was somewhat blurred but hermeaning was distinct. 

"Well, " returned Matilda, with aggravating calmness, "if you haveswallowed 'em, you have, so what of it?"

"Matilda Starr! I should think you'd have some human feelin's about yousomewheres. Here your mother's gone and swallered her false teeth andyou set there, not tryin' to do anything for her. "

"What can I do? I can't stand on a chair and swing you by your feet, same as Mis' Bates did when her little Henry choked on a marble, can I?Besides, you couldn't have swallowed 'em. You'll find 'em somewheres. "

"Maybe I couldn't have swallered 'em, but I have, " Grandmother mumbled. "What's more, I feel 'em workin' now inside me. They're chewing on thelinin' of my stomach, and it hurts. "

[Sidenote: What's the Matter?]

"I didn't know there was any linin' in your stomach. "

"There is. It said so in the paper. "

"Did it say anything about hooks and eyes and whalebones? What kind of alinin' is it--cambric, or drillin'?"

"I don't see how you can set there, Matilda, and make fun of your poorold mother, when she's bein' eaten alive by her own teeth. I wouldn'ttreat a dog like that, much less my own flesh and blood. "

"I've never heard of dogs bein' et by their own teeth, " commentedMatilda, missing the point. 

Ostentatiously lame, Grandmother limped to the decrepit sofa and laydown with a groan. Rosemary came in from the kitchen with the oatmeal, and was about to go back for the coffee when another groan arrested herattention. 

"What's the matter?" she asked. 

"I'm dyin', Rosemary, " Grandmother mumbled, hoarsely. "I've swallered myteeth, and I am dyin' in agony. "

"Nonsense! You couldn't have swallowed your teeth!"

"That's what I told her, " said Miss Matilda, triumphantly. 

"But I have, " Grandmother retorted, feebly. "I can feel 'em--here. " Sheplaced her hand upon her ill-defined waist line, and groaned again. 

[Sidenote: Rosemary to the Rescue]

Rosemary ran up-stairs, inspired to unusual speed by the heartrendingsounds that came from below. When she returned, Grandmother seemed to bein a final spasm, and even Matilda was frightened, though she would nothave admitted it. 

"Here, " said Rosemary. "Now come to breakfast. "

Grandmother rolled her eyes helplessly toward Rosemary, then suddenlysat up. "Where'd you get 'em?" she demanded, in a different tone. 

"They were on the floor under the washstand. Please come beforeeverything gets cold. "

"I told you you hadn't swallowed 'em, " remarked Matilda, caustically. 

"Maybe I didn't, but I might have, " rejoined Grandmother. "Anyhow, I'veseen how you'd all act in case I had swallered 'em, and I know who toleave my money to when I die. " She beamed kindly upon Rosemary, in whomthe mention of money had produced mingled emotions of anger andresentment. 

"If you had swallowed 'em, Rosemary couldn't have got 'em, " Matildaobjected. 

"She'd have tried, " said the old lady, sharply, "and that's more thancan be said of some folks. Not mentionin' any names. "

[Sidenote: A Bit of Gossip]

Breakfast bade fair to be a lively sparring match when Rosemaryinterposed, pacifically: "Never mind what might have been. Let's be gladshe didn't swallow them. " As the others accepted this compromise, theremainder of the meal proceeded in comparative peace. 

"I heard from the milkman this morning, " said Matilda, "that Marshs'company has gone. "

"Gone!" repeated Grandmother. "What for? I thought she had come to staya spell. "

"Gone!" echoed Rosemary, in astonishment. 

"Did she go sudden?" queried Grandmother. 

"Well, in a way it was sudden, and in a way 'twasn't. She was more'n awhole day puttin' her clothes into her trunks--the respectable trunk, and the big trunk, and the dog-house, and the one what had bulges on allsides but one. "

"What train did she go on?"

"The eight o'clock accommodation, yesterday morning. Young Marsh wentdown to see her off, and the station agent told the milkman that hestood lookin' after the train until you couldn't even see the smoke fromthe engine. The agent was restin' after havin' helped hist the trunks onthe train, and young Marsh up and handed him out a dollar, without evensayin' what it was for. He reckoned it was pay for stoppin' the trainand helpin' to put on the trunks, but the railroad pays him for doin'that, so the milkman thinks it was kind of a thank-offerin', on accountof her havin' stayed so long that they was glad to get rid of her. "

[Sidenote: A Tip]

"'Twasn't no thank-offerin', " replied Grandmother, shaking her headsagely. "That's what they call a tip. "

"The agent was some upset by it, " Matilda agreed. "He's been keepin'station here for more'n ten years now and nobody ever did the likes ofthat before. "

"I didn't say it was an upsetment--I said it was a tip. "

"What's the difference?"

"A tip is money that you give somebody who thinks he's done somethingfor you, whether you think he has or not. "

"I don't understand, " Matilda muttered. 

"I didn't either, at first, " Grandmother admitted, "but I was readin' apiece in the paper about women travellin' alone and it said that 'inorder to insure comfort, a tip should be given for every slightservice. ' Them's the very words. "

"It means bowin', then, " returned Matilda. "Bowin' and sayin', 'Thankyou. '"

"It's no such thing. Wait till I get the paper. "

After a prolonged search through the hoarded treasures of the pastthree or four months, Grandmother came back to her chair by the window, adjusted her spectacles, and began to read "The Lady Traveller by Land. "

[Sidenote: A Lady's Baggage]

"'When it becomes necessary, for the sake of either business orpleasure, for a lady to start out upon a trip alone, no matter howshort, she should make all her preparations well in advance, so that sheneed not be hurried just before starting, and may embark upon herjourney with that peaceful and contented mind which is so essential tothe true enjoyment of travelling. 

"'She will, of course, travel with the smallest amount of baggagecompatible with comfort, but a few small articles that should not beoverlooked will more than repay the slight trouble caused by theirtransportation. Among these may be mentioned the medicine chest, inwhich are a few standard household remedies for illness or accident, abottle of smelling-salts, another of cologne, and a roll of old linenfor bandages. While accident is not at all likely, it is just as well tobe prepared for all emergencies. 

"'The lady traveller will naturally carry her own soap and towels, andalso a silk or cotton bag for her hat. She----'"

"A what for her hat?" asked Matilda, with unmistakable interest. 

"'A silk or cotton bag for her hat, '" Grandmother repeated. "'To keepthe dust out. '"

[Sidenote: The Hat-Bag]

"What's the good of wearin' a hat if she's got to set with a bag overit?"

"It doesn't say she's to wear the bag. "

"Well, she's wearin' the hat, ain't she? How's she to put the bag overthe hat while she's wearin' the hat without wearin' the bag too? That'swhat I'd like to know. "

"Maybe it's to put her hat into when she takes it off for the night, "Grandmother suggested, hopefully, though she was not at all sure. "Aperson ain't likely to get much sleep in a hat. "

"No, nor in a bag neither. "

"'She should also carry her luncheon, as the meals supplied totravellers are either poor or expensive, or both. With a small spiritlamp she can very easily make coffee or tea for herself, or heat acupful of milk should she be restless in the night. Care should betaken, however, not to set fire to the curtains surrounding the berth inthis latter emergency. '

"'The curtains surrounding the berth, '" Grandmother repeated, in awavering voice. "It's printed wrong. They've got it b-e-r-t-h. "

"Seems to me, " murmured Matilda, "that a woman who----"

"Matilda!" interrupted Grandmother, imperiously. For a moment thesilence was awkward. "Unmarried women ain't got any call to be thinkin'about such things, let alone speakin' of 'em. This piece is written tocover all possible emergencies of the lady traveller, but it ain't forsuch as you to be askin' questions about what don't concern you. "

[Sidenote: In the Morning]

"Go ahead, " said Matilda, submissively. 

"Where was I? Oh, yes. 'The ladies' dressing-room will always be foundat one of the two ends of the car. Care should be taken early in thejourney to ascertain which end. If there are many ladies in the car, oneshould rise early, to take advantage of the unoccupied room for acooling and refreshing sponge bath. It will be necessary to carry asponge for this, and a small bag of rubber or oiled silk should be madefor it to prevent moistening the contents of the suit-case afterusing. '"

"Supposin' they all subscribed for this paper, " Matilda objected, "andall should rise early for the cooling and refreshing sponge bath?"

"'Tain't likely, " Grandmother answered. "'After the bath one should takeplenty of time to dress, as nothing is less conducive to comfort intravelling than the feeling that one has been too hastily attired. Bythis time, the porter will have the berth in order, if he has beentipped the night before. '"

Matilda murmured inarticulately, but was too wise to speak. 

[Sidenote: The Porter]

"'The usual tip, '" Grandmother continued, hastily, with her cheeksburning, "'is twenty-five cents for each person every twenty-four hours. In order to insure comfort, a tip should be given for every slightservice, but nothing smaller than five cents should ever be given at anyone time. 

"'It has been said that a porter is a dark gentleman who has beenemployed to keep air out of the car, but the lady traveller will find iteasy to induce him to open a ventilator or two if he has been properlytipped. Fresh air is very essential for the true enjoyment oftravelling. 

"'He can throw many little comforts in one's way--a pillow during thedaytime or an extra blanket at night, or----'"

"I don't know, " Matilda interrupted, "as I'd care to have comforts orpillows or blankets thrown at me, night or day, especially by a man, nomatter what colour he is. "

"'Mindful always of the possibility of accident, '" Grandmother resumed, "'it is well to keep one's self as presentable as possible, especiallyduring the night, when according to statistics the majority of wrecksoccur. Consequently the experienced lady traveller will not undressentirely, but merely removing a few of her outer garments, and keepingher shoes within easy reach, she will don a comfortable dressing-gown, and compose herself for sleep. Some people prefer to have the berthmade up feet first, but it is always better to have the head toward theengine, as experience has proved that the slight motion of the trainassists the circulation, which should run toward the feet if sleep is tobe enjoyed during the night. 

[Sidenote: Where to Eat]

"'If, owing to circumstances, it is impossible to carry a luncheon andone must either leave the train for one's meals or go into thedining-car, there are a few very simple rules to remember. In case themeal is to be taken at a wayside station, and, as often happens, thereis more than one eating-house which offers refreshment, the ladytraveller should wait quietly by her own car until she sees into whichplace the train officials go. Remember that they have been over the roadbefore and know where the most comfortable and reasonable meal is to behad. 

"'Upon the other hand, if one goes into the dining-car, the same rulesapply as at any well-regulated hotel. From the list of dishes which willbe offered her upon a printed card, the lady traveller may select suchas seem attractive, and, in case of doubt, she may with perfectpropriety ask the waiter to make a selection for her, as he has beenplaced there by the company for that purpose. 

"'Having eaten to her satisfaction, she will carefully compare the checkwhich is brought her with the list of prices given upon the printedcard, add them up mentally without seeming to do so, and if all isright, pay the bill, giving to the waiter ten per cent of the totalamount for a tip. That is, if the check calls for one dollar, the waiterwill receive a dollar and ten cents. '"

[Sidenote: Ten Per Cent]

"What for?" queried Matilda. 

"That's his tip, " explained the old lady. "That's what I've been tellin'you all along. "

"Does it cost ten dollars to go to the city?"

"Not as I know of. The fare used to be four dollars and somethin'. Why?"

"Then why did young Marsh give the station agent a dollar? That's what Iwant to know. "

"You can't find out from me, " Grandmother answered, with all evidence ofhaving told the literal truth. "Shall I go on with this piece I'm tryin'to read, or don't you want your mind improved none?"

"I'm willing to have my mind improved, but I'd like the privilege ofaskin' a question occasionally while it's being done. "

"Last week's paper said there was no way of improvin' the mind that wasto be compared with readin'. Shall I go on?"

"Yes--go on. "

"'If the check calls for a dollar and a half, the waiter will receive anextra fifteen cents for his tip, and so on. In case of any disagreement, always refer to the train officials, who are usually courteous andwell-mannered. Should they not be so, however, a threat to write to thePresident of the railroad will usually be found all sufficient toproduce a change of demeanour. 

[Sidenote: Avoid Making Acquaintances]

"'The lady traveller should bear in mind the fact that it is impossibleto confine the pleasures and privileges of travel to entirely reputablepersons, and should hence keep upon the safe side by making no chanceacquaintances, whatever the provocation may be. 

"'By wearing dark clothes, preferably her old ones, an unassuming hat, and no jewelry, the lady traveller may render herself inconspicuous andnot likely to attract masculine attention. In case of accident it isallowable to accept assistance from anyone, though the train officialsare at all times to be preferred. If one desires to know what time itis, how late the train is, how long the train will stop at the next mealstation, or when one is due at one's destination, the train officialsare the ones to ask. 

"'Upon a long and tedious journey, however, or in case of many prolongeddelays, it is quite permissible to exchange a few words upon the weatheror some other topic of mutual interest with a fellow-passenger of thesame sex, whether she be travelling alone, or accompanied by herhusband. 

"'Pleasant acquaintances are sometimes formed in this way, and it maybe entirely safe and proper, under certain circumstances, to acceptsmall courtesies from a gentleman who is travelling with his wife, suchas the brief loan of a newspaper or magazine, or information regardingthe scenery through which the train is passing when none of the trainofficials are at hand. 

[Sidenote: At the End of the Journey]

"'It is best, however, to be very careful, for it is much easier not tobegin friendly relations with one's fellow passengers than it is todiscontinue such relations after they have been once begun. 

"'It is seldom necessary, or even advisable, to give one's name toanyone except the officials of the train, but there can be no objectionto showing a fellow-passenger of the same sex one's name upon one'sticket if polite relations have been established. This is better thanspeaking the name aloud, which might cause embarrassment if it wereoverheard, and carries with it no such social obligation as the exchangeof cards would do. 

"'Arriving at her destination, the lady traveller should proceed at onceto her hotel or lodging-house, if no friend is to meet her, regardlessof the plans of her fellow passengers. If one should chance to meet anyof them afterward, a courteous inclination of the head, accompanied by abright smile, is sufficient recognition, or, if for any reason oneprefers not to recognise those with whom one has travelled, all that isnecessary is to appear not to see them. 

[Sidenote: Appeal to the Conductor]

"'In case a gentleman should attempt to converse with the lady travellerwhile the train is in motion or at rest, this same conduct meets theexigencies of the situation admirably: simply do not appear to see him. If, however, he continues to converse, turn to him, and say in a low, well-controlled voice: "Sir, if you persist further in forcing yourunwelcome attentions upon me, I shall summon the conductor at once. "

"'In most cases, the objectionable party will at once leave and theinterference of the conductor will not be required. 

"'The next article in this series will deal with "The Lady Traveller byWater, " where conditions are entirely different and require a differentline of conduct. '"

"There, " said Grandmother, clearing her throat and folding up the paper. "I hope you understand now what a tip is. "

"It seems to be one tenth of all you've got, " observed Matilda, staringout of the window, "like those religious sects that believes in givin' atenth of everything to the church. "

"Travellin' must be terribly exciting, " remarked Grandmother, pensively. 

"So 'tis, " Matilda agreed after a pause. "I reckon it's better to stayat home. "

XXI

The Weaving of the Tapestry

[Sidenote: A Bunch of Grapes]

Alden threw himself into his work with feverish energy, instinctivelyrelieving his mind by wearying his body. All day he toiled in thevineyard, returning at night white-faced and exhausted, but content. 

One morning when Madame came down to breakfast, she found at her plate asingle bunch of grapes, wet with dew and still cool with the chill ofthe night. She took it up with an exclamation of pleasure, for never, within her memory, had such grapes as these come even from the Marshvineyards. 

She held the heavy cluster to the sunlight, noting the perfect shape ofthe fruit, the purple goblets filled with sweetness, and the fairy-likebloom, more delicate even than the dust on the butterfly's wing. Prideand thankfulness filled her heart, for, to her, it was not only theirone source of income but a trust imposed upon them by those who had laidout the vineyard, and, more than all else, the standard by which her sonwas to succeed or fail. 

[Sidenote: Night after Night]

The tribal sense was strong in Madame, last though she was of a long andnoble line. Uninterruptedly the blood of the Marshs had coursed throughgeneration after generation, carrying with it the high dower of courage, of strength to do the allotted task hopefully and well. Andnow--Madame's face saddened, remembering Edith. 

Since her one attempt to cross the silence that lay like a two-edgedsword between them, Madame had said nothing to Alden. Nor had he evenmentioned Edith's name since she went away, though his face, to theloving eyes of his mother, bore its own message. 

Night after night, when they sat in the living-room after dinner, noword would be spoken by either until bedtime, when Madame would say"Good-night, " and, in pity, slip away, leaving him to follow when hechose. Sometimes he would answer, but, more frequently, he did not evenhear his mother leave the room. Yearning over him as only a mother may, Madame would lie awake with her door ajar, listening for his step uponthe stairs. 

While the night waxed and waned, Alden sat alone, his eyes fixedunalterably upon Edith's empty chair, in which, by common consent, neither of them sat. The soft outlines of her figure seemed yet to lieupon the faded tapestry; the high, carved back seemed still to bear theremembered splendour of her beautiful head. 

[Sidenote: Balm for Alden]

After Madame had gone, Alden would sometimes light the candle that stoodupon the piano, mute now save for the fingers of Memory. Moving thebench out a little and turning it slightly toward the end of the room, he would go back to his own far corner, where he used to sit while Edithplayed. 

Conjuring her gracious image out of the dreamy shadows, he found balmfor his sore heart in the white gown that fell softly around her, thesmall white foot that now and then pressed the pedal, the long, gracefulline that swept from her shoulder to her finger-tips, the faint hollowwhere her gown, with the softness of a caress, melted into the ivorywhiteness of her neck, the thick, creamy skin, in some way suggestingwhite rose-leaves, the scarlet, wistful mouth, the deep brown eyesreflecting golden lights, and the crown of wonderful hair that shimmeredand shone and gleamed like burnished gold. 

The subtle sweetness of her filled the room. She had left behind her notonly a memory but the enduring impress of personality. The house wasfull of Ediths. There was one at the table, another at the piano, oneleaning against the mantel with hands clasped behind her, another in ahigh-backed rocker, leaning back against a dull green cushion, and oneupon the stairway, ascending with light steps that died away with theclosing of a door, or descending with a quick rustle of silken skirtsthat presently merged into perfume, then into her. 

[Sidenote: Release from Pain]

Every gown she had worn, every word she had said, every laugh that hadwakened slumbering echoes with its low, vibrant contralto, cameremorselessly back. Full tides of longing beat pitilessly upon hissenses, never, it seemed, to ebb again. And yet, at times, when hiswhole soul so cried out for her that he stretched his arms, in yearning, toward the myriad phantom Ediths that peopled the room, mysticalassurance would come from somewhere that she, too, was keeping the nightwatch. 

Through the tense and throbbing darkness, love sped from one to theother as though upon ghostly wings. Neither sight nor sound nor touchbetrayed its coming, yet the call and the answer were always divinelysure. As though they two stood dumbly on either side of some mysteriousportal, denied all things save longing, heart-beat answered untoheart-beat in the stillness of the night. 

The experience invariably brought comfort and a certain release frompain. Denial seemed to be but another phase of fulfilment, since itopened the way for this exquisite belonging of one to the other. Beyondand above all lure of woman, wholly aside from the ecstasy of sight andtouch, she was his as inseparably as perfume belongs to the rose thatbreathes it forth. 

[Sidenote: Toiling in the Vineyard]

While he worked in the vineyard it was consciously for her. For her sakehe aspired to make the best of himself; to make this hillside yield itspurple banners from the secret storehouses within. So he had struggledwith soil and season, with suns that scorched and winds that chilled, with parching days that opened the earth in great crevices, and withtorrents that made the paths between the vines impassable for days. 

From the wide windows that overlooked the valley, Madame watched thevineyard with an anxious heart. She, too, had toiled as far as a womanmight, in the years that elapsed between the death of her husband andthe maturity of her son. Sometimes all the powers and purposes of Naturehad apparently been arrayed against her, and, again, as at the touch ofa magic wand, the earth had yielded up its fruit. 

Yet she had never lost her courage. Knowing that the logical strength ofposition lies nearly always with the pursuer, she would never ownherself beaten, though there was a time of terror when the crop failedfor three successive years. 

Now the tapestry lay before her, well on its way to completion. She hadwatched the great web spread upon the hillside, year by year, from snowto snow again. Surrounding it on three sides, like the frame upon whichit was stretched, were the stalwart pines that protected it from the icywinds. Below, like a silver ribbon, the river irregularly bounded it, ashining line of demarcation between the valley and the opposite hills. 

[Sidenote: The Coming of Spring]

When the snows were deep, there were only gentle undulations to mark thecovered vines. Even the pines bent low with it, as though hoary withtheir weight of years. When the snows melted, tiny crystal rivulets randown the tapestry, into the silver ribbon that was stretched across thefoot, and upon a neutral background of earth the black, tangled threadsshowed dimly. 

In a night, almost, there would come a change. Where the threads hadlain hopelessly matted, appeared some semblance of order, as though theWeaver had come. Then, as they became separate groups, a faint glow ofgreen dawned above them, not so much colour as the promise of colour, not so much design as the planning of it. 

Through and through the web, like the Weaver's shuttle, figures movedfrom one tangle of threads to another, setting all straight as theywent. Swiftly then the colour came, green upon the black, with theneutral earth filling the background, gradually to be covered save forthe long regular lines that stretched from East to West, from North toSouth. 

[Sidenote: The New Growth]

All the beauty of Spring and Summer went to the making of the tapestry:the first robin's cheery call, the shimmer of blue wings speeding acrossit, the golden glow from an oriole's breast, and the silver rain ofmelody dripping from the throat of a meadow-lark as he swept through theinfinite spaces above. 

Up into the threads came the thousand stored sweetnesses of the earth, aspiring surely upward through devious, winding ways. The softness ofleaves that had gone back to dust, the wine from fallen grapes that haddripped through the sand into the dark storehouse beneath, were only tobe taken up again, for sap or fibre or bloom. 

Blown perfumes came from distant orchards, mysteriously to become a partof the tapestry. Purple dawns and prismatic sunsets, crystalline noonsand starry midnights slowly but surely were woven in. The new leavesshone afar, surrounding the vineyard with a faint, iridescent sheenthrough which tiny wings moved ceaselessly with a far-off, sleepy sound. 

Weary winds came to the vineyard, and, for the moment, lay at peace uponthe web, drinking the exquisite fragrance of leaf and blossom. Then, rising slowly, as though still intoxicated with that more than mortalsweetness, they bore it afar to the four corners of the earth. Some ofit sank into the valley, and the river turned in its sleep to dimplewith smiles, ripple with silvery laughter, and drop to sleep again. Thescent of it rose to the hills, like heavenly incense from earthlyaltars, and the Little People in feathers and fur breathed deeply of itand were glad. 

[Sidenote: The Ripening of the Grapes]

Wild bees hummed through the web, and left it, heavy laden with thesweet essence distilled from the dust by the subtle chemistry of sun andrain. And the Weaver only smiled at the golden-winged army ofplunderers, for secretly they ministered unto the vineyard in ways oflove. 

Then the Weaver paused to rest, for the pattern was made and there wasonly the colour to be put in. The fragrance died, the blossoms fell, andthe miracle of the tapestry began. Where there had been scent, camesubstance; where there had been promise, came fulfilment. 

With a single mighty impulse the vines took deep hold of the treasure inthe storehouse beneath, spending it prodigally for sap to be poured intothese waiting goblets of emerald and pearl. All the hoarded strength ofleaf and tendril was caught up by the current, and swept blindly onwardto its fruitful destiny. 

And so the first faint hints of purple came into the tapestry, to spreadand deepen and divide and spread again until, in certain lights, thevineyard lay transfigured in an amethystine glow. 

[Sidenote: The Gathering of the Fruit]

Shaded by the leaves that had begun to wither, held by tendrils thatwere strained until they could hold no more, the purple chalices swunglazily in the golden light, slowly filling with the garnered sweetnessthat every moment brought. Night and day the alchemy went on--dust andsun and dreaming, dust and moon and dreaming, while the Weaver waited, dreaming too, until the web should be complete. 

When the signal was given for the tapestry to be taken from the loom, the Weaver crept away, for he could do no more. Figures thronged uponthe hillside, gaily coloured garments appeared here and there in theweb, and a medley of soft foreign voices rose where for long there hadbeen no sound. 

From side to side of the web the workers moved, always bearing armfulsof purple, to the frame of pines and beyond it. And so the tapestryfaded, day by day, and the vines died, and great bare spaces were leftupon the background where the neutral earth showed through. 

Steadily among them moved one stately figure--a tall young man with bigbrown eyes and a boyish mouth. From early morning until dusk his voicecould be heard, issuing directions, hurrying the laggards, and biddingothers to go back and work more slowly. 

[Sidenote: After the Day's Work]

Creaking through the valley, on the tawny road that lay below thetapestry, went, each night, waggons heavily laden with baskets packedinto crates. Far beyond the frame of pines was a small group of houses, whither the workers went with their armfuls of purple, returningpresently to despoil the hillside further. 

At dusk, when the day's work was over, the smoke of camp-fires roseagainst the afterglow, and brooded over the vineyard in a faint hazelike its lost bloom. The scent of grapes mingled with the pungent odourof burning pine, and broken chalices upon the ground were trod intopurple stains, as of blood. Tales of love and war went from camp-fire tocamp-fire, and fabulous stories were told of the yield of othervineyards in the same valley. 

Finally the last grapes were gathered, the last baskets packed andcrated, and along the road the laden waggons creaked for the last time. Then the young man gave a great feast for the workers, lasting from noonuntil midnight, with pitchers of cider, great loaves of freshly bakedbread and cake, roasted fowls, hot baked potatoes, and pink hams, crusted with crumbs and cloves and sugar, that fell into flakes at thetouch of the knife. 

[Sidenote: The Veil of Beauty]

The same waggons that had carried the grapes now took the workers to thetrain. The young man who had paid them their wages accompanied them, and, at the station, there was a great medley of farewells spoken infive or six different tongues. When the last shriek of the engine haddied away and the roar of the train was lost in the distance, the youngman drew a long breath of relief and went home. 

A deadly silence reigned upon the hillside where the torn web lay, itsbloom and beauty all gone. Ragged bits of green, mingled with dull browntracery of vine and tendril, lay back upon the background of earth, butof purple there was no trace. In the hush of the night, the Weaver cameback, to muse sadly over what had been and, perhaps, to dream of whatyet might be. 

There was chance of no more weaving, for the threads were broken and thetime was short, but the rack and ruin were pitiful to see. So, fromhidden places no man may guess, the Weaver summoned the Secret Spinners, bidding them lay a veil upon the vineyard. 

Swiftly there came forth a miracle of beauty. Fairy lace and impalpablemysteries of chiffon were laid upon the hillside, spreading from vine tovine. Sometimes a single slender thread, impearled with dewdrops, bridged the distance from one tendril to another, again a bit of cobwebwas spread over a dead leaf, to catch a hint of iridescence from thesun or moon; and now and then a shimmering length of ghostly fabric wasset in place at dusk, to hold the starry lights that came to shine uponthe broken tapestry with the peace of benediction. 

[Sidenote: Content at Last]

Along the well-trodden ways Alden went, tired, but content, having comeat last to the knowledge of himself. Already he was planning to enlargethe vineyard next year, and to try another variety of grapes upon thenew ground. He considered one plan to hurry the packing, another tohasten the crop, and studied the problem of housing the workers fromtheir standpoint, not from his. 

For the first time he was thinking of his work as something other than anecessary evil. It had become, in a sense, a means of grace, for he haddiscovered that the spirit in which one earns his daily bread means asmuch to his soul as the bread itself may mean to his body. 

 * * * * *

The light from the low reading-lamp lay softly upon Madame's silveredhair, as she bent over her bit of fancy work, silent, as usual, sincethe spell of Edith's presence had come into the house. Alden was noteven pretending to read the paper--he sat staring into the shadowsbefore him at Edith's empty chair, but, as he looked, he smiled. 

[Sidenote: The Goal Reached]

With a little lump in her throat Madame bent over her work again, havinglooked up to thread her needle, and having seen his face. For a momentshe waited, hoping for a confidence, but there was none. 

Alden took a letter from his pocket and tossed it into her lap. Itannounced the sale of the crop at a larger price than ever before, andrequested the first chance upon the yield of the following year. 

Madame folded it up and gave it back to him, then their eyes met. 

Young and strong and hopeful, radiating the consciousness of good workwell done, her son smiled back at her. Her face illumined with joy. 

"Master of the vineyard at last, my son?" she said. 

He rose from his chair, bent over, and kissed her fondly. "Yes, Mother, thanks to you--and Edith. " Then he added, after a pause: "Master ofmyself, too. "

XXII

Each to his Own Work

[Sidenote: Alden Writes to Edith]

"HEART'S DEAREST:

It was two months ago to-day that you went away, and to me it has beeneternity. Every day and every hour I think of you, sometimes with suchintense longing that it seems as though the air before me must takeshape and yield you to my arms. 

"I have been working hard, and--no, I will not say 'trying to forget, 'since memory, upon the dull background of my commonplace existence hasset one great blazing star. I would not, if I could choose, go back toone hour that did not hold you, but rather would I pray for Time tostand still for us at any one of his jewelled moments upon the dial, when you and I were heart to heart. 

"Mysteriously you have made everything right for me, denied all thingsthough we are. After ten years of struggle with the vineyard, withseveral conspicuous failures and now and then a half-hearted success, Ihave at last rejoiced Mother's heart--and my own as well--with thelargest crop within my memory or hers. The fruit, too, has been finerthan ever before. 

[Sidenote: Drudgery]

"The school, also, which I have hated ever since I had it, begins toappear before me in a new light. It is not only those dull and stupidchildren who are to learn lessons in that one-roomed schoolhouse--it isI. While they struggle with the alphabet and multiplication-table andthe spelling of words in four syllables, their teacher has before himinvaluable opportunities to acquire patience, self-control, and a senseof justice, if not to inspire affection. 

"Before, I went my way in sullen discontent. Because I could not do thethings I wanted to do, I disdained the humble tasks assigned me, forgetting that in the great scheme of things each one of us has hiswork. Some of us must scrub floors, others carry bricks or mortar, andothers must grow grapes and teach school. 

"I had thought, in my blindness, that the great things were the easiestto do, but now I see that drudgery is an inseparable part of everythingworth while, and the more worth while it is, the more drudgery isinvolved. 

"In years gone by I have given time to the vineyard, but nothing at allof myself. I held myself aloof and apart while Duty, like a sterntaskmaster, urged me to the things I hated, merely to please Mother, whohad done so much for me that she had the right to demand this. 

[Sidenote: No Longer Apart]

"This year I have put my heart into my work. When failure seemedimminent, I have laboured with fresh courage. I have remembered, too, that the tools with which I worked were human beings like myself, andnot so many mere machines. 

"My love for you has been the magic key that has unlocked the doorsdividing me from my fellow-men. No longer isolated, no longer apart, Iam one of a brotherhood that claims fellowship with all humanity. Oneblood flows uninterruptedly through us all, one heart beats in us all, and, truly seen, we are not separate individuals, but only componentparts of the Greater Self. 

"Once I was absorbed in myself. Now I yearn unspeakably toward all withwhom I come in contact. I see a thousand ways in which I may be kind. Itis not for me to preach the gospel of love and understanding, but tolive it, and, in living it, either to lead or to follow, as may be rightand best. 

"Hitherto I have kept away from the workers in the vineyard as much as Ipossibly could. Some of them have come for five years in succession, andI neither remembered their faces nor knew their names. Now, not becauseI felt that it was my duty, but because I really wanted to, I have triedto come a little closer, to see into their lives as best I might. 

[Sidenote: The Humble Toilers]

"I have seen before me such dramas of suffering and love as have made meashamed, more than once, of my own worthless life and my own vainrepinings. These humble toilers in my vineyard had come nearer the truthof things than I had, and were happier. Night after night I have beenglad of the shelter of the darkness and have moved back out of thecircle of light made by the camp-fire, that none of them might see myface. 

"One woman, too weak and ill to work, would lie down among the vines torest, while her husband filled her basket from his own. They neededmoney for a crippled child who could be made right by an expensiveoperation. One night I saw a lantern moving back and forth among thevines, and when I went out to investigate, the man was hard at work, filling basket after basket, because he knew that it was not right todraw two people's pay without doing two people's work. 

"He had done this every night, and sometimes, too, the woman had spenther limited strength labouring beside him. Both were nearly heartbroken, having figured up that, at the rate the work was being done, they wouldstill be twenty dollars short of the desired sum. So I gave them this, and they are to return it when they can. If it is not possible toreturn it earlier, they are to come next year and work it out. I haveno fear that they will not come, but, even should they fail me, I wouldrather lose the money and have my trust betrayed, than to miss a chanceof helping where I might. 

[Sidenote: A Feast for the Workers]

"One man had been saving for years that he might send to Italy for hiswife and children. His earnings would give him a little more than theamount he needed, and he was counting the days until he could put hisplan into execution. He could neither read nor write, so, one night, bythe camp-fire, I wrote his letter for him, in my best schoolmaster'shand, for the first time finding my scanty knowledge of Italian of somereal use. 

"We have always given them a feast when the work was over, and sent sometrifling presents to the wives and children who had remained behind. This was for our own sake, however, and not in any sense for theirs. Ithas been hard to get people to come, and we wanted to offer inducements. 

"This time I sat at the head of the table myself. We had songs andstories and much good cheer. Afterward, when I said good-night, they allcame to shake hands with me and say 'Thank you. ' It was the first time. 

"One man who lives in a crowded district in the city, has a wife who hastuberculosis. The remainder of the family consists of a daughter offourteen and a boy of nine. He is to come back and bring them with him. They are to have the best of the workers' houses, on the pine hill abovethe vineyard. On a cot, in the clean cold air, the mother will get wellagain if it is possible for her to get well. I have work enough aroundthe place for the man, the boy can go to school, and the Lady Motherwill train the daughter in the ways of housewifery. In the evenings Ishall teach her to read and write. 

[Sidenote: Passing On]

"We have swept our attic clean of things we had stored away. We havegiven not only what we do not need, but what we can do without. Thiswinter, when the North wind howls down the chimney, while I am shelteredand warm, it will afford me satisfaction to know that my uselessgarments are, at last, doing good service somewhere. 

"Mother, too, has caught the spirit of it. I cannot tell you of thecountless things she has sent away--bedding, clothes, shoes, furniture, food--everything. I do not know why the workers' shacks around thevineyard should remain idle practically all the time--there must beothers in damp cellars in that crowded city who have become diseased, and who could be healed by the pure cold air up among my ancestralpines. I will see what can be done. 

"These people who come to my vineyard are, as it were, the connectinglink between me and the outer world. I had thought there was nothingfor me to do here, and behold, there is so much to be done that Iscarcely know where to begin. And this work has been at my very door, asit were, for ten years, and I have not seen it. Next year, I think Ishall have a night school for two hours each evening after work. Many ofthem are pathetically eager to learn and have no opportunity to do so. 

[Sidenote: A Strange Dream]

"The night the workers all went back to the city, I had a strange dreamwhich now seems significant. I thought I was in a great factory, somewhere, that was given over to the weaving of cloth. It was wellequipped, there were innumerable orders waiting to be filled, and therewere plenty of people to work, but nothing was being done. 

"The floor was covered with rubbish, the windows were thick with dustand cobwebs; where there were artificial lights they were flickeringdisagreeably because they were choked with dirt; the machinery creakedabominably, and the air of the place was foul beyond description. Meanwhile orders accumulated, but the people stood around andcomplained. Some of them were gathered in groups, arguing; others sat ondusty benches, singly or by twos, with discontented, unhappy faces. Somewere angry, and others only hopeless, staring straight ahead, with eyesthat did not see. 

[Sidenote: No One Satisfied]

"It seemed that no one was satisfied with his lot, and each was eager tochange with someone else, who also wanted to change, but not with him. The women whose duty it was to scrub floors wanted to work at the looms, but those at the looms aspired to the big airy room where the bolts ofcloth were measured and rolled up. 

"The men who had been told to wash windows wanted to make patterns, theman in charge of the ventilating apparatus wanted to work in the office, and the man who was in charge of the office, weary and jaded beyond allpower of words to portray, wanted a place at the loom and a pay-envelopeevery Saturday night instead of a commission upon his sales. 

"Those who were supposed to weave blue cloth with white dots upon itwanted to make white cloth with blue dots upon it, but, it seemed, therewas no market for the white cloth with the blue dots and they could notbe made to understand it. 

"The boy who attended to the door of the factory wanted to keep books inthe office; the men who were supposed to work in the shipping roomwanted to cut out the samples that were sent to different firms to orderfrom. The girls who wrote letters and filed the correspondence wanted todraw designs for new patterns--oh, a great many wanted to draw designs!

[Sidenote: The Spirit of Love]

"The man who did the designing was complaining of a headache, and wantedto be doorkeeper, that he might have plenty of fresh air. The man whowas supposed to oil the machinery wanted to wash the windows--he said itwas a cleaner job; and the messengers were tired of going back and forthall day--they wanted to sit quietly and write letters. 

"Suddenly an imperious voice called out: 'Each to his own work!' Theyhesitated for a moment, then obeyed, and presently everything waschanged. From confusion and disorder it resolved itself into perfectharmony, for each one was doing his own work and doing it well. 

"And, as they worked, the Spirit of Love came among them and the workersbegan to sing at their tasks. Each one did not only his own work buthelped his neighbour with his. They became eager to do all they couldinstead of as little as they might and still escape censure, and theface of each one was shining with joy. 

"When I awoke I was saying aloud: 'Each to his own work!' For some timeI did not know it was only a dream, but gradually the meaning of itbecame clear. Edith, did you ever stop to think that the millenniumcould be brought about in less than one hour, if each did his own workwell and in a spirit of love? It is we ourselves who are out ofharmony, not things as they are, and, having once attained harmony, everything will become right. 

[Sidenote: Joy through Service]

"And so, beloved, my love for you has been as a great light in my soul. I need no more than to give it without ceasing, and to renew, throughhuman service, not only my love for you, but the love for all whichleads to brotherhood. 

"I have come to see that joy comes through what we give, not throughwhat we take; happiness through serving, not through being served; andpeace through labour, not rest. 

"I thought, at first, that I loved you, but it seems to have grown ahundred-fold. No barriers may divide us from one another, nor earth withall its seas sunder us apart, for through love has come union, not onlywith you but the whole world. 

"And so, good-night--heart of my heart, life of my life, and soul of mysoul. 

 "A. M. "

 * * * * *

"DEAR AND EVER DEARER:

"Your letter lies against my heart where I feel it with every risingbreath. I, too, have longed for you, a thousand times, and in a thousandways. 

"Always as the tide of the night turns, I wake and think of you. Whenthrough the darkness comes no response, I smile to myself, knowing youare asleep, then I sleep also. But sometimes, in an instant, thedarkness becomes alive and throbs with eager messages, as love surgesfrom my heart to yours and from yours to mine. 

[Sidenote: The Open Door]

"I, too, have come into the way of service, of brotherhood. It may seema strange thing to write, or even to say, but you, who have never failedto understand me, will understand this. I never cared so much for myhusband as I do now; I was never less conscious of myself, never moreeager to ask nothing and give all. And, through this change in me hascome about a change in him. Instead of each of us selfishly demandingwhat we conceive to be our 'rights, ' each strives unselfishly to pleasethe other--to see who can give the most. 

"You have taken nothing away that belongs to anyone else, dear--the loveI bear you is yours alone, but, through it, I have some way more togive; he is the richer, because of you. 

"Like you, I have seen before me a multitude of openings, all leading, through ways of self-sacrifice, to the sure finding of one's self. Themore love you give, the more you have; it is, in a way, like the oldlegend of the man who found he could take to Heaven with him only thosethings which he had given away. 

"All around me I see the pitiful mistakes that masquerade asmarriage--women who have no virtues save one tied like millstones tosome of earth's noblemen; great-hearted and great-souled women matedwith clods. I see people insanely jealous of one another, suspicious, fault-finding, malicious; covertly sending barbed shafts to one anotherthrough the medium of general conversation. As if love were ever to beheld captive, or be won by cords and chains! As if the freest thing onearth would for a moment enter into bondage, or minister untoselfishness when it is, of itself, unselfishness! Passion-slaved andself-bound, they never see beyond their own horizon, nor guess that thegreat truths of life and love lie just beyond their reach. 

[Sidenote: A Plea for Rosemary]

"Looking back, I can see one thing that you may have missed. This loveof ours has brought joy to you and to me, and, indirectly, happiness tomy husband. It has not affected your mother, one way or another, but ithas hurt Rosemary--taken away from her the one thing that made hersordid life worth while. 

"Dear, can't you see your way clear to make it right with her--to giveback at least as much as she had before I came into your life? You willtake nothing from me by doing so, for my place with you is secure andbeyond the reach of change, as you know yours is with me. 

"But, just because the full moon has risen upon midnight, shall werefuse to look at the stars? Believe me, all the lesser loves havetheir rightful place, which should be more definitely assured because ofthe greater light. 

[Sidenote: Rosemary's Need]

"I am pleading not only for her, but for you. Tell her everything, ifyou choose, or if you feel that you must in order to be honest. I amsure you can make her understand. 

"The door of the House of Life is open for you and for me, but it isclosed against her. It is in your power at least to set it ajar for her;to admit her, too, into full fellowship through striving and throughlove. 

"She will help you with your vineyard people, and, perhaps, come topeace that way. Her unhappy face as I saw it last haunts me--I cannothelp feeling that I am in some way responsible. She needs you and whatyou can give her, more, perhaps, than I, who shall never have it again. 

"Never! The word, as I write it, tolls through my consciousness like afuneral knell. Never to see your face again, or to touch your hand, orto hear you say you love me. Never to feel your arms holding me close, your heart beating against mine, never to thrill with ecstasy in everyfibre of me in answer to your kiss. 

"Only the silence, broken, perhaps, by an occasional letter, and thecall in the night, bridging the darkness and distance between us, to beanswered for one little hour by love, surging from one to the other andback again. 

[Sidenote: Caught in a Web]

"And yet these thoughts of ours are as a weaver's shuttle, plyingendlessly through the web of night and space and time. One thought maymake a slender thread, indeed, but what of the countless thoughts thatfly back and forth, weaving and interweaving as they go? Shall they notmake first a thread, and then a cord, then a web, and then a fabric, until, at last, there is no separation, but that of the body, whichcounts for naught?

"Dear Heart, you mean so much to me, are so much. From you and from yourlove for me I take fresh courage every day. From your strength I makesure of my own strength, from your tenderness I gather compassion, andfrom your steadfastness I gain the hope that leads me onward, the beliefthat enables me to face each day bravely and with a smile. 

"Deep in my heart, I hold fast to one great joy. Sometimes I close thedoor quickly upon it and bar up the passage, lest anyone should guessthat there, within a bare white chamber, is erected the high altar of mysoul, where the lights shine far into the shadows, in spite of rock-hewnportals, closed and barred. 

"The knowledge of your love I have with me always, to steady me, toguide me, to uplift me, to make even a grave warm and sweet. And to you, with my own hands, I have brought the divine fire that shall not fail, so what more need we ask of God, save that somewhere, sometime, in Hisinfinite compassion, we may be together, even though it may be in theHouse not Made with Hands?

[Sidenote: Edith to Alden]

"Remember that I long for you, dream of you, hope for you, believe inyou, pray for you, and, above all else, love you, love you--love you. And in all the ways of Heaven and for always, I am thine. 

 "E. "

XXIII

Betrothal

[Sidenote: On the Hills by the Vineyard]

Desolation lay upon the vineyard. The fairy lace had been rudely tornaside by invading storms and the Secret Spinners had entered upon theirlong sleep. The dead leaves rustled back and forth, shivering with thecold, when the winds came down upon the river from the hill. Caught, nowand then, upon some whirling gust, the leaves were blown to the surfaceof the river itself, and, like scuttled craft, swept hastily to portsunknown. 

Rosemary escaped from the house early in the afternoon. Unable to go tothe Hill of the Muses, or up the river-road, she had taken a long, roundabout path around the outskirts of the village and so reached thehills back of the vineyard. The air of the valley seemed to suffocateher; she longed to climb to the silent places, where the four winds ofheaven kept tryst. 

She was alone, as always. She sighed as she remembered how lonely shehad been all her life. Except Alden, there had never been anyone towhom she could talk freely. Even at school, the other children had, bycommon consent, avoided the solitary, silent child who sat apart, always, in brown gingham or brown alpaca, and taking refuge in thefierce pride that often shields an abnormal sensitiveness. 

[Sidenote: In Real Life]

She sat down upon the cold, damp earth and leaned against a tree, wondering if it would not be possible for her to take cold and die. Inthe books, people died when they wanted to, or, what was more to thepoint, when other people wanted them to. It was wonderful, when you cameto think of it, how Death invariably aided Art. 

But, in real life, things were pitifully different. People who ought notto die did so, and those who could well be spared clung to mortalexistence as though they had drunk deeply of the fabled fountain ofimmortal youth. 

Descending to personalities, Rosemary reflected upon the ironical Fatethat had taken her father and mother away from her, and sparedGrandmother and Aunt Matilda. Or, if she could have gone with her fatherand mother, it would have been all right--Rosemary had no deep longingfor life considered simply as existence. Bitterness and the passion ofrevolt swayed her for the moment, though she knew that the mood wouldpass, as it always did, when she took her soul into the sanctuary ofthe hills. 

[Sidenote: A Mystery]

Dispassionately she observed her feet, stretched out in front of her, and compared them with Mrs. Lee's. Rosemary's shoes were heavy andcoarse, they had low, broad heels and had been patched and mended untilthe village cobbler had proclaimed himself at the end of his resources. Once or twice she had said, half-fearfully, that she needed new shoes, but Grandmother had not seemed to hear. 

Father had meant for her to have everything she wanted--he had said so, in the letter which at that moment lay against Rosemary's bitter youngheart. He would have given her a pair of slippers like those Mrs. Leehad worn the day she went there to tea--black satin, with high heels andthin soles, cunningly embroidered with tiny steel beads. How small andsoft the foot had seemed above the slipper; how subtly the flesh hadgleamed through the fine black silk stocking!

She wondered whether father knew. No, probably not, for if he did, hewould find some way to come and have it out with Grandmother--she wassure of that. God knew, of course--God knew everything, but why had Heallowed Grandmother to do it? It was an inscrutable mystery to her thata Being with infinite power should allow things to go wrong. 

For the moment Rosemary's faith wavered, then re-asserted itself. Itwas she who did not understand: the ways of the Everlasting were not herways, and, moreover, they were beyond her finite comprehension. If shewaited, and trusted, and meanwhile did the best she could, everythingwould be right somewhere, sometime. That must be what Heaven was, aplace where things were always right for everybody. 

[Sidenote: Startled]

Gradually her resentment passed away. The impassioned yearning for life, in all its fulness, that once had shaken her to the depths of her soul, had ceased to trouble or to beckon. It had become merely a question ofgetting through with this as creditably and easily as she might, andpassing on to the next, whatever that might prove to be. 

The ground upon which she sat was cold and damp. Rosemary shivered alittle and was glad. Release might come in that way, though she doubtedit. She was too hopelessly healthy ever to take cold, and in all herfive and twenty years had never had a day's illness. 

A step beside her startled her and a kindly voice said: "Why, Rosemary!You'll take cold!"

Crimson with embarrassment she sprang to her feet, shaking the soil fromher skirts. "I--I didn't hear you coming, " she stammered. "I must go. "

[Sidenote: New Plans]

"Please don't, " Alden responded. "Remember how long it is since I'veseen you. How did you happen to come up here?"

"Because--oh, I don't know! I've come sometimes to see the vineyard. I've--I've liked to watch the people at work, " she concluded, lamely. "Isee so few people, you know. "

Alden's face softened with vague tenderness. "Was it just this lastSummer you've been coming, or has it been all along?"

"I've always come--ever since I was big enough to climb the hill. I--Iused to steal grapes sometimes, " she confessed, "before I knew it waswrong. "

"You can have all the grapes you want, " he laughed. "I'll send you abasket every day, if you want them, as long as the season lasts. Whydidn't you tell me before?"

"I--I never thought, " she answered. She might have added that she wasnot accustomed to the idea of any sort of gift, but she did not put thethought into words. 

"Come over here, Rosemary. I want to show you something--tell you aboutsome new plans of mine. "

He led her to the group of workers' houses back of the pines. A greatdeal of repairing had been done and every house was habitable, if notactually comfortable. They had all been furnished with quiet good taste, and had been freshly whitewashed, both inside and out. There was agreat pile of cots and a stack of new blankets. 

[Sidenote: The Hospital]

"What is it?" asked Rosemary, much interested. 

"The Marsh Tuberculosis Hospital, " he answered. His face was beaming. 

"I--I don't understand. "

"Don't you? Well, it's simple enough. If I hadn't been all kinds of anidiot and blindly selfish I'd have thought of it before. One of the menwho came to pick grapes this year has a wife at home with tuberculosis. All she needs is to lie on a cot outdoors and have plenty of fresh eggsand milk. He's coming to-morrow, with her, and his two children. Thegirl will learn housekeeping from mother daytimes and the boy will go toschool. I have room for several others if I can find them, and I havepeople in town hunting them up for me. See?"

"Oh!" said Rosemary. "How beautiful! How good you are!"

"Not good, " said Alden, shamefacedly, digging at the soil with his heel. "Merely decent--that's all. " He took a spring cot out of the pile, spread a blanket upon it, and invited Rosemary to sit down. 

"It is beautiful, " she insisted, "no matter what you say. How lovely itmust be to be able to do things for people--to give them what theyneed! Oh, " she breathed, "if I could only help!"

[Sidenote: The Gift and the Giver]

Alden looked at her keenly. "You can, Rosemary. "

"How?"

"I don't know, but there's always a way, if one wants to help. "

"I have nothing to give, " she murmured. "I haven't anything of my ownbut my mother's watch, and that won't go, so it wouldn't be of any useto anybody. "

"Someone said once, " he continued, "that 'the gift without the giver isbare. ' That means that what you give doesn't count unless you also giveyourself. "

"To give yourself, '" she repeated; then, all at once, her faceillumined. "I see now!" she cried. "I can give myself! They'll needsomeone to take care of them, and I can do that. I can cook and scrubfloors and keep everything clean, and--but Grandmother won't let me, "she concluded, sadly. 

A paragraph from Edith's letter flashed vividly into his memory: "_Thedoor of the House of Life is open for you and for me, but it is closedagainst her. It is in your power at least to set it ajar for her; toadmit her, too, into full fellowship, through striving and throughlove. _"

His heart yearned toward her unspeakably. They belonged to one anotherin ways that Edith had no part in and never could have. Suddenly, without looking at her, he said: "Rosemary, will you marry me?"

[Sidenote: What For?]

She turned to him, startled, then averted her face. Every vestige ofcolour was gone, even from her lips. "Don't!" she said, brokenly. "Don'tmake fun of me. I must go. "

She rose to her feet, trembling, but he caught her hand and held herback. "Look at me, dear. I'm not making fun of you. I mean it--everyword. "

She sat down beside him, then, well out of reach of his outstretchedhand. "What for?" she asked, curiously. 

"Because I want you. "

"I--I don't understand. "

"Don't you love me?"

"You have no right to ask me that. " Her tone was harsh and tremulouswith suppressed emotion. 

"No, " he agreed, after a pause, "I suppose I haven't. " She did notanswer, so, after a little, he rose and stood before her, forcing hereyes to meet his. 

"Do you--know?" he asked. 

Rosemary hesitated for a moment. "Yes, I--know, " she said, in adifferent tone. 

"And that was why you----"

"Yes. " Her voice was scarcely audible now. 

"It wasn't true, then, that you didn't love me?"

[Sidenote: Alden Confesses]

She turned upon him fiercely. "What right have you to ask me all thesequestions?" she cried, passionately. "What have you to offer me? How canyou take all I have to give and give me nothing in return? What is yourlove worth? What do you think I am? The plaything of an idle hour, something to be taken up or cast aside whenever you may choose, to betreated kindly or brutally as your fancy may dictate, to be insulted byyour pity--by what you call your love? No, a thousand times no!"

His face was very white and his mouth twitched, but in a moment he hadgained, in a measure, his self-control. "I don't blame you in the least, Rosemary. I deserve it all, I know. But, before you condemn me utterly, will you listen to me for a few moments?"

She assented, by the merest inclination of her head. 

"I want to be honest with you, " he went on, clearing his throat, "and Iwant to be honest with myself. No doubt you think I'm all kinds of acad, and rightly so, but, at least, I've been honest--that is, I'vetried to be. 

"When I asked you to marry me, early in the Spring, I meant it, just asI mean it now, and I was glad when you said you would. Then--she came. 

"I had nothing whatever to do with her coming, in fact, I protestedagainst it, as mother will tell you if you ask her. I didn't know her, and I didn't want her, but after I knew her----"

[Sidenote: Alden Was Glad]

"You did want her, " said Rosemary, coldly. 

"Yes, I wanted her, and she was married to another man. She hadsufficient grounds for a divorce, though she never told me what theywere, and I pleaded with her to take advantage of the opportunity. Itried by every means in my power to persuade her, and when you--releasedme----"

"You were glad, " she said, finishing the sentence for him. 

"Yes, " he replied, in a low tone, "I was glad. She decided, finally, toleave it to him. If he wanted her back, she would go; if he preferredhis freedom, she would give it to him. And, of course, he wanted her, and he had the right. "

"So she went. "

"So she went, and it was all over, and we shall never see each otheragain. "

"It's too bad, " said Rosemary, icily. "I'm sorry for you both. "

"Listen dear, " he pleaded. His face was working piteously now. "I wish Icould make you understand. I loved her, and I love her still. I shalllove her as long as I live, and perhaps even after I'm dead. And sheloves me. But, because of it, in some strange way that I don'tcomprehend myself, I seem to have more love to give others. 

[Sidenote: He States His Case]

"I care more for my mother because I love--Edith, and, queer as you maythink it, I care more for you. She has taken nothing away from you thatI ever gave you--you are dearer to me to-day than when I first asked youto marry me, so long ago. I don't suppose you'll believe it, but it'sthe truth. "

"I believe what you tell me, " Rosemary said, in a different tone, "but Idon't understand it. "

"It's like this, Rosemary. My loving her has been like opening the doorinto the House of Life. It's made everything different for me. It's mademe want to make the best of myself, to do things for people, to be kindto everybody. It isn't selfishness--it's unselfishness. 

"I told you once that I wanted to take you away from all that misery, and to make you happy. It was true then, and it's true now, but, at thattime, I was bound in shallows and didn't know it. She came into my lifelike an overwhelming flood, and swept me out to sea. Now I'm back in thecurrent again, but I shall know the shallows no more--thank God!

"If you'll believe me, I have more to give than I had then--and I wantyou more. I'm very lonely, Rosemary, and shall be always, unless--but, no, I don't want your pity; I want your love. "

[Sidenote: A Philanthropic Scheme]

There was a long pause, then Rosemary spoke. "Service, " she said, halfto herself, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving. Asking, not answer. "

"Yes, " returned Alden, with a sigh, "it's all of that. 

"Leaving love aside, " he went on, after a little, "I believe you'd behappier here, with mother and me, than you are where you are now. You'dbe set free from all that drudgery, you could help me in my work, and, though I'm not rich, I could give you a few of the pretty things you'vealways wanted. We could go to town occasionally and see things. Moreover, I could take care of you, and you've never been taken care of. I don't think you'd ever be sorry, Rosemary, even though you don't loveme. "

"I never said I didn't love you, " the girl faltered. Her eyes weredowncast and the colour was burning upon her pale face. 

"Yes, you did--up on the hill. Don't you remember?"

"I--I wasn't telling the truth, " she confessed. "I've--I've always----"

"Rosemary!"

She looked at him with brimming eyes. "What you've done, or what you maydo, doesn't make any difference. It never could. If--if it depends atall on--on the other person, I don't think--it's love. "

[Sidenote: Her Very Own]

In an instant his arms were around her, and she was crying happily uponhis shoulder. "Dear, my dear! And you cared all the time?"

"All the time, " she sobbed. 

"What a brute I was! How I must have hurt you!"

"You couldn't help it. You didn't mean to hurt me. "

"No, of course not, but, none the less I did it. I'll spend the rest ofmy life trying to make up for it, dear, if you'll let me. "

It flashed upon Rosemary that this was not at all like the impassionedlove-making to which she had been an unwilling witness, but, none theless, it was sweet, and it was her very own. He wanted her, and merelyto be wanted, anywhere, gives a certain amount of satisfaction. 

"Kiss me, dear, " Rosemary put up her trembling lips, answering to himwith every fibre of body and soul. 

"Don't cry, dear girl, please don't! I want to make you happy. "

Rosemary released herself, wiped her eyes upon a coarse handkerchief, then asked the inevitable question:

"Will she care?"

"No, she'll be glad. Mother will too. "

[Sidenote: A Promise]

"Grandmother won't, " she laughed, hysterically, "nor Aunt Matilda. "

"Never mind them. You've considered them all your life, now it's yourturn. "

"It doesn't seem that I deserve it, " whispered Rosemary, with touchinghumility. "I've never been happy, except for a little while this Spring, and now----. "

"And now, " he said, taking her into his arms again, "you're going to behappy all the rest of your life, if I can make you so. If I don't you'lltell me, won't you?"

"I can't promise, " she murmured, shyly, to his coat sleeve. "I must gonow, it's getting late. "

"Not until you've told me when you'll marry me. To-morrow?"

"Oh, no!" cried Rosemary. "Not to-morrow. "

"Why not?"

"It's--it's too soon. "

"In a week, then?"

"I--I don't know. I'll see. "

"Make it very soon, my dear, will you?"

"Yes--just as soon as I can. "

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes--a promise. "

"Then kiss me. "

[Sidenote: Half Afraid]

The white fire burned in Rosemary's blood; her heart beat hard withrapturous pain. Upon the desert wastes that stretched endlessly beforeher, Spring had come with the old, immortal beauty, and more than mortaljoy. Half afraid of her own ecstasy, she broke away from him and ranhome. 

XXIV

The Minister's Call

[Sidenote: Just Wait]

"Rosemary!"

Grandmother called imperiously, but there was no answer. "Rosemary!" shecried, shrilly. 

"She ain't here, Ma, " said Matilda. "I reckon she's gone outsomewheres. "

"Did you ever see the beat of it? She's getting high and mighty all of asudden. This makes twice lately that she's gone out without even tellin'us, let alone askin' whether she could go or not. Just wait till shecomes back. "

Matilda laughed in her most aggravating manner. "I reckon we'll have towait, " she retorted, "as long as we don't know where she's gone or whenshe's comin' back. "

"Just wait, " repeated Grandmother, ominously. "I'll tell her a thing ortwo. You just see if I don't!"

The fires of her wrath smouldered dully, ready to blaze forth at anymoment. Matilda waited with the same sort of pleasurable excitementwhich impels a child to wait under the open window of a house in whichthere is good reason to believe that an erring playmate is about toreceive punishment. 

[Sidenote: Tense Silence]

"What's she been doin' all day?" Grandmother demanded. 

"Nothin' more than usual, I guess, " Matilda replied. "She did up thework this morning and got dinner, and washed the dishes and went to thestore, and when she come back, she was up in the attic for a spell, andthen she went out without sayin' where she was goin'. "

"In the attic? What was she doin' in the attic?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. "

"She's got no call to go to the attic. If I want her to go up there, I'll tell her so. This is my house. "

"Yes, " returned Matilda, with a sigh. "I've heard tell that it was. "

"Humph!" grunted Grandmother. 

For an hour or more there was silence, not peaceful, but tense, forGrandmother was thinking of things she might say to the waywardRosemary. Then the culprit came in, cheerfully singing to herself, andunmindful of impending judgment. 

"Rosemary!"

"Yes, Grandmother. What is it?"

"Come here!"

[Sidenote: Grandmother chides Rosemary]

Rosemary obeyed readily enough, though she detected warlikepossibilities in the tone. 

"Set down! I've got something to say to you!"

"I have something to say to you, too, Grandmother, " Rosemary replied, taking the chair indicated by the shaking forefinger. For the first timein her life she was not afraid of the old lady. 

"I've noticed, " Grandmother began, tremulously, "that you're gettinghigh and mighty all of a sudden. You've gone out twice lately withoutaskin' if you might go, and I won't have it. Do you understand?"

"I hear you, " the girl answered. "Is that all?"

"No, 'tain't all. You don't seem to have any sense of your position. Here you are a poor orphan, beholden to your grandmother for everymouthful you eat and all the clothes you wear, and if you can't behaveyourself better 'n you've been doin', you shan't stay. "

A faint smile appeared around the corners of Rosemary's mouth, thenvanished. "Very well, Grandmother, " she answered, demurely, rising fromher chair. "I'll go whenever you want me to. Shall I go now?"

"Set down, " commanded the old lady. "I'd like to know where you'd go!"

"I'd go to Mrs. Marsh's; I think she'd take me in. "

[Sidenote: Rosemary's Rejoinder]

"You've got another think comin' then, " Grandmother sneered. "Didn't Itell you to set down?"

"Yes, " returned Rosemary, coolly, "but I'm not going to. I said I hadsomething to say to you. I'm going to be married next week to AldenMarsh. I've taken enough of the money my father left me to buy a whitedress and a new hat, and the storekeeper has sent to the City for me forsome white shoes and stockings. I'm going to have some pretty underwear, too, and a grey travelling dress. I've just come from the dressmakers, now. "

"Money!" screamed the old lady. "So that's what you've been doin' in theattic. You're a thief, that's what you are! Your mother was----"

"Stop!" said Rosemary. Her voice was low and controlled, but her facewas very white. "Not another word against my mother. You've slanderedher for the last time. I am not a poor orphan, beholden to mygrandmother for the food I eat and the clothes I wear. On the contrary, you and Aunt Matilda are dependent upon me, and have been for a goodmany years. I have father's letter here. Do you care to read it?"

Shaken from head to foot, the old lady sank into her chair. She wasspeechless, but her eyes blazed. Matilda sat by the window, dumb withastonishment. This was not at all what she had expected. Rosemary haddrawn a yellow old letter from the recesses of her brown gingham gownand was offering it to Grandmother. The sight of it had affected the oldlady powerfully. 

[Sidenote: The Money]

"Very well, " Rosemary was saying, as she returned the letter to itshiding-place. "In case you've forgotten, I'll tell you what's in it. Theday father sailed up the coast, he sent you a draft for more than eleventhousand dollars. He said it was for me--for my clothes and myeducation, in case anything happened to him. He said that you were togive me whatever I might want or need, as long as the money lasted. I'llleave it to you whether you've carried out his instructions or not. 

"Now that I'm going to be married, I've taken the liberty of helpingmyself to a small part of what is my own. There's almost two thousanddollars left, and you're quite welcome to it, but I won't be married inbrown gingham nor go to my husband in ragged shoes, and if I think ofanything else I want, I'm going to have it. "

"Ma, " said Matilda, tremulously, "if this is so, we ain't done right byRosemary. "

"It's so, " Rosemary continued, turning toward the figure at the window. "You can read the letter if you want to. " She put her hand to her breastagain, but Matilda shook her head. 

[Sidenote: Grandmother's Decision]

"If you want me to, " the girl went on, "I'll go now. Mrs. Marsh willtake me in, but I'll have to explain why I ask it. I haven't told Alden, or his mother, and I don't want to. I won't bring shame upon those of myown blood if I can help it. But what I've had, I've earned, and I don'tfeel indebted to you for anything, not even a single slice of bread. That's all. "

Grandmother staggered to her feet, breathing heavily. Her face wascolourless, her lips ashen grey. "Rosemary Starr, " she said, with longpauses between the words, "I'll never--speak to--you--again as--longas--I--live. " Then she fell back into her chair, with her hand upon herheart. 

"Very well, Grandmother, " Rosemary returned, shrugging her shoulders. "You'll have to do as you like about that. "

By supper-time the household was calm again--upon the surface. True toher word, Grandmother refused to communicate directly with Rosemary. Shetreated the girl as she might a piece of furniture--unworthy ofattention except in times of actual use. 

She conveyed her wishes through Matilda, as a sort of human telephone. "Matilda, " she would say, "will you ask Rosemary to fill the tea-potwith hot water?" And, again: "Matilda, will you tell Rosemary to put outthe milk pitcher and to lock the back door?" It was not necessary;however, for Matilda to tell Rosemary. The girl accepted the requests asthough they had been given directly--with her head held high and thefaintest shadow of an ironical smile upon her face. 

[Sidenote: Left in the Dark]

After supper, while Rosemary was washing the dishes, Grandmother tookthe lamp. She was half-way to the door when Matilda inquired: "Where areyou goin', Ma?"

"I'm goin' up to my room, to set and read a spell. "

"But--but the lamp?"

"I need it to read by, " Grandmother announced, with considerableasperity, "and you don't need to hunt around for no more lamps, neither. I've got 'em all put away. "

"But, " Matilda objected; "me and Rosemary----. "

"You and Rosemary! Humph! You can set in the dark or anywhere else youplease. " With that she slammed the door and was gone. Rosemary came in, after a little, humming to herself with an assumed cheerfulness she wasfar from feeling. Then she went out into the kitchen and came back witha match. The feeble flicker of it revealed only Aunt Matilda--and nolamp. 

"Where's Grandmother?" asked Rosemary, in astonishment. "And what hasbecome of the lamp?"

"She's gone up to her room and she's took the lamp with her, " Matildalaughed, hysterically. 

[Sidenote: Aunt Matilda's Troubles]

Rosemary brought in the candle from the kitchen. As it happened, it wasthe last candle and was nearly gone, but it would burn for an hour ortwo. 

"I'm sorry, Aunt Matilda, " said Rosemary, kindly, "if you want to read, or anything----. "

"I don't, " she interrupted. "I'd like to sit and talk a spell. I don'tknow as we need the candle. If she should happen to come back, she'd bemad. She said she'd put away the lamps, and I reckon she'd have took thecandle, too, if she'd thought. "

"Very well, " answered Rosemary, blowing out the candle. "I'm not afraidof the dark. " Moreover, it was not the general policy of the householdto ruffle Grandmother's temper unnecessarily. 

"Rosemary, " said Aunt Matilda, a little later; "Ma's a hard woman--shealways has been. "

"Yes, " the girl agreed, listlessly. 

"I ain't never said much, but I've had my own troubles. I've tried tobear 'em patiently, but sometimes I ain't been patient--she's alwaysmade me feel so ugly. "

Rosemary said nothing, but she felt a strange softening of her hearttoward Aunt Matilda. "I don't know as you'll believe me, " the olderwoman went on after a pause, "but I never knew nothin' about thatmoney. "

[Sidenote: Pity for Aunt Matilda]

"I know you didn't, Aunt Matilda. It's behind a loose brick in thechimney, in the attic, on the right-hand side. You have to stand on achair to reach it. If you want any of it, go and help yourself. It'smine, and you're welcome to it, as far as I'm concerned. "

"I don't know what I'd want, " returned Matilda, gloomily. "I ain't neverhad nothin', and I've sort of got out of the habit. I did used to thinkthat if it ever come my way, I'd like a white straw hat with red roseson it, but I'm too old for it now. "

Tears of pity filled Rosemary's eyes and a lump rose in her throat. AuntMatilda's deprivations had been as many as her own, and had extendedover a much longer period. The way of escape was open for Rosemary, butthe older woman must go on, hopelessly, until the end. 

"It was sixteen years ago to-night, " said Aunt Matilda, dreamily, "thatthe minister come to call. "

"Was it?" asked Rosemary. She did not know what else to say. 

"I thought maybe you'd remember it, but I guess you was too little. Youwas only nine, and you used to go to bed at half-past seven. It was fiveminutes of eight when he come. "

[Sidenote: The Minister Asks to Call]

"Was it?" asked Rosemary, again. 

"Yes. Don't you remember hearin' the door bell ring?"

"No--I must have been asleep. "

"Children go to sleep awful quick. It was five minutes of eight when hecome. "

"Were you expecting him?"

"No, I wasn't. He'd said to me once, on the way out of church afterSunday-school: 'Miss Matilda, I must be comin' over to see you some oneof these pleasant evenings, with your kind permission, ' Just like that, he says, 'with your kind permission, ' I was so flustered I couldn't saymuch, but I did manage to tell him that Ma and me would be pleased tosee him any time, and what do you suppose he said?"

"I don't know, " answered Rosemary. 

"He said: 'It's you I'm comin' to see--not your Ma, ' Just likethat--'It's you!'" Her voice had a new note in it--a strange thrill oftenderness. 

"And so, " she went on, after a pause, "he come. I was wearin' my brownalpaca that I'd just finished. I'd tried it on after supper to see if itwas all right, and it was, so I kept on wearin' it, though Ma wastellin' me all the time to take it off. Her and me had just cleaned theparlour that day. It couldn't have happened better. And when the bellrang, I went to the door myself. "

[Sidenote: The Greetings]

"Were you surprised?"

"My land, yes! I'd thought maybe he'd come, but not without tellin' mewhen, or askin' for permission, as he'd said. He come in and took offhis hat just like he was expected, and he shook hands with Ma and me. Heonly said 'How do you do Mis' Starr?' to her, but to me, he says: 'I'mglad to see you, Miss Matilda. How well you're looking!' Yes--just likethat. 

"We went and set down in the parlour. I'd cleaned the lamp that day, too--it was the same lamp Ma's took up-stairs with her now. It was onthe centre-table, by the basket of wax-flowers under the glass shade. They was almost new then and none of 'em was broken. They looked awfulpretty. 

"Ma came in the parlour, too, and she set down between him and me, andshe says: 'I've been wantin' to ask you something ever since I heardyour last sermon, three weeks ago come Sunday. I ain't been to churchsince and I can't feel like I ought to go. '

"'I'm sorry, ' he says, just as gentle. 'If you have any doubts that Ican clear up, ' he says, 'about the Scripture----'

"''Tain't the Scripture I'm doubtin', ' says Ma, 'it's you. '

"'That isn't as bad, ' he says, smilin', but I could see he was scared. You know how Ma is--especially when you ain't used to her. 

[Sidenote: Discussing Baptism]

"'I'd like to ask, ' says Ma, 'whether you believe that unbaptisedinfants is goin' to be saved. '

"'Why, yes, ' he says. 'I do, '

"'I suspicioned it, ' Ma says. Oh, her voice was awful! 'May I ask youjust what grounds you have for believin' such a thing?'

"'I don't know as I could tell you just what grounds I have, ' he says, 'but I certainly feel that the God I humbly try to serve is not onlyjust but merciful. And if there's anything on earth purer or more like aflower than a little baby, ' he says, 'I don't know what it is, whetherit's been baptised or not. I don't think God cares so much about formsand ceremonies as he does about people's hearts, ' Them's the very wordshe said. 

"Well, " resumed Matilda, after a pause, "Ma was bent on arguin' withhim, about that, and baptisin' by sprinklin' or by immersion, and aboutthe lost tribes of Israel, and goodness knows what else. He didn't wantto argue, and was all the time tryin' to change the subject, but it wasno use. I never got a chance to say a dozen words to him, and finally, when he got up to go, he says: 'I've had a very pleasant evenin', andI'd like to come again sometime soon, if I may, ' he says. Just likethat. 

[Sidenote: A Souvenir]

"And before I could say a word, Ma had said: 'I dunno as we feelourselves in need of your particular brand of theology, ' she says. 'It'smy opinion that you ought to be up before the trustees instead of aroundcallin' on faithful members of the church, sowin' the seeds of doubt intheir minds. '"

"His face turned bright red, but he shook hands with Ma, very polite, and with me. I've always thought he squeezed my hand a little. And hesays to me, very pleasant: 'Good-night, Miss Matilda, ' but that was all, for Ma went to the door with him and banged it shut before he'd got downthe steps. 

"The day before he went away, I met him in the post-office, accidental, and he says: 'Miss Matilda, I've got somethin' for you if you'll acceptit, ' and he took me over to one side where there couldn't nobody see us, and he give me his tintype. And he says: 'I hope you'll always rememberme, Miss Matilda. You'll promise not to forget me, won't you?'

"And I promised, " she resumed, "and I ain't. I've always remembered. "

There was a long silence, then Miss Matilda cleared her throat. "Lightthe candle, Rosemary, will you?"

When the tiny flame appeared, Rosemary saw that the older woman's facewas wet with unaccustomed tears. She reached down into the bosom of herdress and drew out a small packet, which she removed carefully from itsmany wrappings. "See, " she said. 

[Sidenote: It Might Have Been]

Rosemary leaned over to look at the pictured face. The heavy beard didnot wholly conceal the sensitive, boyish mouth, and even the crude arthad faithfully portrayed the dreamy, boyish eyes. 

"I want to ask you something, " Aunt Matilda said, as she wrapped it upagain. "You're going to be married yourself, now, and you'll know aboutsuch things. Do you think, if it hadn't been for Ma, it might havebeen--anything?"

Rosemary put out the light. "I'm sure it would, " she said, kindly. 

"Oh, Rosemary!" breathed the other, with a quick indrawing of thebreath. "Are you truly sure?"

"Truly, " said Rosemary, very softly. Then she added, convincingly: "Youknow Alden's never been to see me but once, and I haven't even a tintypeof him, and yet we're going to be married. "

"That's so. I hadn't thought of that. I guess you're right. " Then sheadded, generously, "I'm glad you're goin' to be married, Rosemary, and Ihope you'll be happy. You've got it comin' to you. "

"Thank you, " said Rosemary, choking a little on the words. "Thank you, dear Aunt Matilda. " Then someway, in the dark, their arms found eachother and their lips met. 

XXV

A Wedding

[Sidenote: By the Sea]

The air was crystalline and cool, yet soft, and full of a mysterious, spicy fragrance. Blue skies arched down at the vast curve of the horizonto meet a bluer sea. Snowy gulls swept lazily through the clear bluespaces, their hoarse crying softened into a weird music. Upon thedazzling reaches of white sand, Rosemary was walking with Alden. 

He had his arm around her and her face was turned toward his. He wasradiant with youth and the joy of living. It was in the spring of hisstep upon the sand, the strong, muscular lines of his body, and, morethan all, in his face. In his eyes were the strange, sweet fires thatRosemary had seen the day she was hidden in the thicket and saw himholding Edith in his arms. But it was all for her now, for Rosemary, andthe past was as dead as though it had never been. 

As they walked, they talked, saying to each other the thousand dear andfoolish things that lovers have said since, back in the Garden, theFirst Woman looked into the eyes of the First Man and knew that God hadmade her to be his mate. Suddenly a white cliff loomed up on the beachbefore them and from its depths came a tremendous knocking, as thoughsome one were endeavouring to escape from a hopeless fastness of stone. 

[Sidenote: A Stroke]

They paused, but the knocking continued, growing louder and louder. Thena hoarse voice called "Rosemary! Rosemary!"

The girl came to herself with a start, rubbing her eyes. Gaunt and greyin the first dim light of morning, Aunt Matilda stood over her, clad ina nondescript dressing-gown. 

"Rosemary!" she whispered, shrilly. "Come quick! Ma's had a stroke!"

They ran back to the old lady's room. In the girl's confused remembrancethe narrow hallway seemed to be a continuation of the white, sunlitbeach, with the blue sky and sea changed to faded wall paper, and thecliff gone. 

Grandmother lay upon her bed, helpless, uttering harsh, guttural soundsthat seemingly bore no relation to speech. Her eyes blazed at the sightof Rosemary and she tried to sit up in bed, but could not. 

"When?" asked Rosemary. 

"Just now, " Aunt Matilda answered. "I was asleep, and when I woke up Iheard her. She must have woke me up. What shall we do?" she continued, helplessly, after a pause. 

[Sidenote: A Lie]

"I don't know, " Rosemary whispered, almost stunned by the shock. "I'lldress and go for the doctor. "

In an hour she had returned with the physician, who felt the old lady'spulse, and shook his head. In the hall, he interviewed the other two. 

"Has she had any shock?" he asked. 

For a moment there was no answer, then Matilda answered clearly: "No. "

"No, " echoed Rosemary. 

"No unusual excitement of any sort? Or no bad news?"

"Not that I know of, " Matilda replied, calmly. 

"Nothing unusual, " Rosemary assured him. 

"Extraordinary!" he murmured. "I'll be in again this afternoon. "

When he had gone, Aunt Matilda turned anxiously to Rosemary. "Do youthink we did right? Shouldn't we have told him?"

"I don't know what difference it could make, " Rosemary replied, thoughtfully. "I'd hate to have anybody know what she's done. Maybe it'smy fault, " she went on, sadly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told her. "

"Don't go to blaming yourself, Rosemary. I don't know why you shouldn'thave told her. If I'd been you, I'd have told her long ago--or had youjust found it out?"

[Sidenote: Unable to Speak]

"I've known for quite a while. I don't think I'd have said anything, though, if I wasn't going to be married. It didn't seem as if I could bemarried in brown gingham when father meant for me to have everything Iwanted and the money was there. "

"Don't worry about it for a minute, " said Aunt Matilda, kindly. "You'vedone just right and you ain't to blame for what's happened. It's her ownfault. "

Rosemary prepared a breakfast tray and Matilda took it up. "It's betterfor you to stay away, Rosemary, " she said, "for we don't want her to getexcited. " When she returned, she reported that the old lady had, withevident difficulty, eaten a little oatmeal and choked down a cup ofcoffee. She was calmer, but unable to speak. 

The unaccustomed silence of the house affected them both strangely. Grandmother might be up-stairs and helpless but the powerful impress ofher personality still lingered in the rooms below. Her red-and-blackplaid shawl, hanging from the back of her chair, conveyed a subtlerestraint; the chair itself seemed as though she had just left it andwas likely to return to it at any moment. 

When the doctor came again, in the afternoon, Matilda went up-stairswith him, while Rosemary waited anxiously in the dining-room. It seemeda long time until they came back and held a brief whispered conferenceat the front door. When he finally went out, Matilda came into thedining-room, literally tense with excitement. 

[Sidenote: The Doctor's Word]

"He says, " she began, sinking into a chair, "that he don't know. I likeit in him myself, for a doctor that'll admit he don't know, when hedon't, instead of leavin' you to find out by painful experience, is notonly scarce, but he's to be trusted when you come across him. 

"He says she may get better and she may not--that in a little while shemay be up and movin' around and talkin' again about the same as shealways did, and again, she may stay just like she is, or get worse. Hesaid he'd do what he could, but he couldn't promise anything--that onlytime would tell. 

"If she stays like this, she's got to be took care of just the same asif she was a baby--fed and turned over and bathed, --and if she getsbetter she can help herself some. Seems funny, don't it? Yesterday shewas rampagin' around and layin' down the law to you, and to-day shecan't say yes or no. "

"She said yesterday, " Rosemary returned, "that she'd never speak to meagain as long as she lived. I wonder if it's true!"

"I wonder!" echoed Matilda. "I'd forgotten that. "

[Sidenote: The Way of Sacrifice]

"I hadn't, " said the girl, with a grim smile. 

"Seems almost as if it might be a judgment on her, " Matilda observed, after a pause. "She said she'd never speak to you again and she maynever speak to anybody any more. And I've got to take care of her. That's the trouble with judgments--they never hit just the person theywere meant to hit. We're all so mixed up that somebody else has to bedragged into it. "

Plainly before Rosemary there opened the way of sacrifice and denial. For a moment she hesitated, then offered up her joy on the altar ofduty. 

"I won't be married, Aunt Matilda, " she said, bravely, though her mouthquivered. "I'll stay and help you. "

"What?"

"I said I wouldn't be married. I'll--I'll tell Alden I can't. I'll stayand help you. "

"You won't. I won't have you speak of such a thing, let alone doing it. "

"You can't help it, if I make up my mind. "

"Yes, I can. I'll go and see Mrs. Marsh, and him, and the minister, andthe doctor, and everybody. I'll tell 'em all everything. You go right onahead with your gettin' married. I ain't goin' to have your life spoiledthe way mine has been. You're young yet and you've got a right to it. "

[Sidenote: Matilda's Burden]

"But--but, Aunt Matilda!"

"Aunt Matilda nothin'! What could you do, anyhow? She don't want youanywheres near her, and the doctor said she mustn't be excited. "

"I could do what I've always done--cooking and cleaning and washing andironing, and I could carry things up-stairs for you. "

"Maybe you could, Rosemary, but you ain't goin' to. You've served outyour time. Don't you worry about me--I ain't goin' to kill myself. "

"I--I wish you'd let me, " Rosemary stammered. 

"Well, I won't, and that's the end of it. I'll get along someways. Theminister used to say that when God gave any of us a burden we couldn'tcarry by ourselves, He'd always send help, so, if I need help, I'll haveit. 

"I'll enjoy myself, too, in a way, " she went on, after a little. "It'sgoin' to seem awful peaceful to have the house quiet, with no talkin'nor argument goin' on in it. Sometimes I've thought that if I could getout of the sound of the human voice for a spell I wouldn't feel so ugly. It's wore on me considerable--never bein' alone except nights or when Iwent up-stairs afternoons and pretended to take a nap. Lots of times Iwasn't lyin' down at all--I was just settin' there, with the doorlocked, thinkin' how nice and quiet it was. Ma'll get a good rest, too, while she ain't talkin', though it ain't for me to say she's needed it. "

[Sidenote: The Wedding Dawn]

"So, " she continued, clearing her throat, "you go right on ahead withyour marrying. "

Rosemary bent and kissed the hollow, withered cheek. "I will, " she said. "Oh, dear Aunt Matilda! I wish you hadn't missed it all!"

The older woman's steel blue eyes softened, then filled. "Maybe I'vemissed it and maybe I ain't, " she said, huskily. "Maybe this life isonly a discipline to fit us for somethin' better that's comin'. Anyway, if we keep on goin' and doin' the best we can as we go, I believe Godwill make it right for us later on. "

 * * * * *

The morning of Rosemary's wedding dawned clear and cool. It was Autumnand yet the sweetness of Summer still lingered in the air. Scarletbanners trailed upon the maples and golden leaves rained from thebirches, shimmering as they fell. Amethystine haze lay upon the valley, shot through with silver gleams from the river that murmured toward thesea with the sound of far waters asleep. 

Purple lights laid enchantment upon the distant hills, where theTapestry-Maker had stored her threads--great skeins of crimson andgolden green, russet and flaming orange, to be woven into the warp andwoof of September by some magic of starlight and dawn. Lost rainbows andforgotten sunsets had mysteriously come back, to lie for a moment uponhill or river, and then to disappear. 

[Sidenote: Making Ready]

Noon had been chosen for the ceremony, in the little church at the footof the Hill of the Muses, for, as Alden had said, with a laugh, "eventhough it was private, it might as well be fashionable. " Aunt Matildawas up at dawn, putting new lace into the neck and sleeves of her bestbrown alpaca, as tremulous and anxious as though she herself were to bethe bride. 

Rosemary had packed her few belongings the day before, in the littleold-fashioned trunk that had been her mother's. As she dressed, AuntMatilda sat on the bed, pathetically eager to help in some way, thoughit might be only to pin up a stray lock or tie a shoe. 

Rosemary shook out the dull ashen masses of her hair with a sigh. As sheput it up, Alden's big betrothal diamond blazed star-like upon herrough, red hand. She contemplated it ruefully--it seemed so out ofplace--then brightened at the memory of the promise Mrs. Marsh had madeso long ago. 

"She'll teach me how to take care of my hands, " said Rosemary, half toherself, "so they'll look like hers. "

"She?" repeated Aunt Matilda. "Who?"

[Sidenote: Matilda's Compensation]

"Mrs. Marsh--mother. "

"Yes, I guess she will. She'll teach you a lot of things Ma and me havenever heard tell of. Maybe you'd just as soon ask her, Rosemary, why shenever returned my call?"

"I will, surely. I don't think she meant anything by it, Aunt Matilda. She might have been busy and forgotten about it. Anyhow, you'll have tocome to see me now. "

"Yes, I will. I've thought I'd put the minister's tintype up on themantel now, as long as Ma ain't likely to see it. It'll be company forme. And I reckon I'll get me a cat. I always wanted one and Ma wouldnever let me have it. I can keep it down-stairs and she may never knowabout it, but even if she hears it meowing, or me talkin' to it, shecan't say nothin' about it. 

"My, ain't it beautiful!" she continued, as Rosemary slipped her whitegown over her head. "Please let me hook it up, Rosemary--this is as nearas I'll ever come to a wedding. Are you going in to see her before yougo?"

Rosemary hesitated. "Yes, " she sighed, "I'll go. I think I ought to. "

"Don't if you don't want to. I wouldn't spoil my wedding-day by doinganything I didn't like to do. "

[Sidenote: Grandmother Relaxes]

"I want to, " murmured Rosemary. "I wouldn't feel right not to. "

So, when she was ready, she went into the old lady's room. Happinessmade her almost lovely as she stood there in her simple white gown andbig plumed hat, drawing long white kid gloves over her red hands. 

"Grandmother, " she said, tremulously, "I'm going up to the church now, to be married to Alden Marsh. Before I go, I want to tell you I'm sorryif I've ever done anything I shouldn't do, and ask you to forgive me forany unhappiness I may ever have caused you. I haven't meant to do it, and I--I believe you've meant to be good to me. I hope you're glad I'mgoing to be happy now. "

The stern old face relaxed, ever so little, the sharp eyes softened withmist, and by tremendous effort, Grandmother put out a withered, waveringhand. Rosemary bent over the bed, lifted her in her strong young arms, and kissed her twice, then hurried away. 

Alden met them as they were half-way to the church, and, utterlyregardless of two or three interested children who happened to bepassing, shook hands with Aunt Matilda, then bent to kiss the flushedand happy face under the big plumed hat. 

"What magnificence!" he said. "I'm unworthy of so much splendour, I'mafraid. How on earth did you manage it?"

[Sidenote: The Ceremony]

Rosemary glanced at Aunt Matilda, then laughed a little sadly. "Oh, " sheanswered, with assumed lightness, "I--just managed it, that's all. "

At the door of the church Madame welcomed them with an armful of whiteroses for the bride. She, too, had a new gown in honour of the occasion, and her sweet old face was radiant with smiles. "What a lovely bride, "she said, as she kissed Rosemary. "Oh, my dear! You mustn't, truly! Notears on a wedding-day!"

The minister was waiting at the altar. Madame and Aunt Matilda sat downtogether in a front pew; there was a moment's solemn hush, then thebeautiful service began. 

Sunlight streamed through the open windows, carrying the colour andfragrance of Autumn into every nook and cranny of the church. Fromoutside came the cheery piping of a robin that had paused upon aconvenient window sill to peep in. There was a rush of tiny, furred feetthrough the drifted leaves, and a gleam of scarlet as a falling mapleleaf floated past the open door. In the sunlight the taper lights on thealtar gleamed like great stars suddenly come to earth. 

"That ye may so live together in this life, " the deep voice was saying, "and in the life everlasting. Amen!"

[Sidenote: Good-byes]

After the benediction, came the minister's perfunctory congratulations. When he called her "Mrs. Marsh, " Rosemary instinctively looked towardMadame, then laughed and blushed when she understood. Madame took thegirl into her arms as she came down from the altar. "Dear daughter!" shesaid. "Truly my daughter, now!"

Aunt Matilda and Rosemary hurried back to the little brown house, mindful of Alden's whispered admonition: "Don't keep me waiting long, dear--please. " Neither spoke until after Rosemary had changed her gown, and stood before her mirror in pale lustrous grey, with hat and glovesto match. 

"I'll go in and say good-bye to Grandmother, " Rosemary said. 

"Wait a minute. She may be asleep. "

Aunt Matilda tiptoed into the old lady's room, then came out again, withher finger on her lips. "She's sound asleep, " she said, "and her facelooks as if she felt better. I guess she'll come to herself again allright. The Starrs have always been healthy and hard to kill. "

[Sidenote: Into the World]

So the two went down-stairs quietly. When the door was opened, Rosemarysaw that Alden was waiting for her at the gate. Smiling and with joythrilling her to the utmost fibre of her being, Rosemary kissed AuntMatilda good-bye, then ran out to where her bridegroom was waiting, tolead her into the world of service--and of love. 

 THE END

TRANSCRIBERS' NOTES

Page 53: hilltop standardised to hill-top

Page 103: shirt-waist standardised to shirtwaist

Page 171: heartbreaking standardised to heart-breaking

Page 221: Millkin' corrected to Milkin'

Various: upstairs standardised to up-stairs; downstairs standardised to down-stairs