PEOPLE LIKE THAT

A NOVEL

by

KATE LANGLEY BOSHER

Author of "Mary Cary" etc. 

Illustrated

1916

BOOKS BY

KATE LANGLEY BOSHER

 PEOPLE LIKE THAT. Illustrated. Post 8vo HOW IT HAPPENED. Frontispiece. Post 8vo THE HOUSE OF HAPPINESS. Frontispiece. Post 8vo MARY CARY. Frontispiece. Post 8vo MISS GIBBIE GAULT. Frontispiece. Post 8vo THE MAN IN LONELY LAND. Frontispiece. Post 8vo

TO

LUCY BOSHER JANNEY

CHAPTER I

One of the advantages of being an unrequired person of twenty-six, with an income sufficient for necessities, is the right of choice asto a home locality. I am that sort of person, and, having exercisedsaid right, I am now living in Scarborough Square. 

To my friends and relatives it is amazing, inexplicable, and beyondunderstanding that I should wish to live here. I do not try to makethem understand; and therein lies grievance against me. Because ofmy failure to explain what they are pleased to call a peculiardecision on my part, I am at present the subject of heated criticism. It will soon stop. What a person does or doesn't do is of littleimportance to more than three or four people. By Christmas myfoolishness will have ceased to cause comment, ceased to interestthose to whom it doesn't matter really where or how I live. 

I like living in Scarborough Square very much. After many yearsspent in the homes of others I am now the head of half a house, thewhole of which is mine; and even though it is situated on the lastsquare of respectability in a part of the town long forgotten by thedescendants of its former residents, I am filled with a sense ofproprietorship that is warm and comforting, and already I havelearned to love it--this nice, old-fashioned house in which I live. 

Until very recently Scarborough Square was only a name. There hadbeen no reason to visit it, and had I ventured to it I would haveseen little save a tiny park bounded on four sides by houses ofshabby gentility, for the most part detached, and of a style ofarchitecture long since surrendered to more undesirable designs. Thepark is but an open space whose straggly trees and stunted shrubs anddusty grass add dejection to the atmosphere of shrinkingrespectability which the neighborhood still makes effort to maintain;but that, too, I have learned to love, for I see in it that which Inever noticed in the large and handsome parks up-town. 

As a place of residence this section of the city I am just beginningto know has become very interesting to me. No one of importancelives near it, and the occupants of its houses, realizing theirsocial submergence and pecuniary impotence, have too long existed inthe protection of obscurity to venture into the publicity which civicattention necessitates, and on first acquaintance it is notattractive. I agree with my friends in that. I did not come herebecause I thought it was an attractive place in which to live. 

They cannot say, however, even my most protesting friends, that I amnot living in a perfectly proper neighborhood. The front of my housefaces, beyond the discouraged little park, a strata of streets whichunfold from lessening degrees of dreariness and dinginess toever-increasing expensiveness and unashamed architecturalextravaganzas, to the summit of residential striving, called, forimpressiveness, the Avenue, but behind it is a section of the city ofwhich I am as ignorant as if it were in the depths of the sea or thewilds of primeval forest. I have traveled much, but I do not knowthe city wherein I live. I know but a part of it, the pretty part. 

There was something Mrs. Mundy wanted to say to me to-night, and didnot say. I love the dear soul. I could not live here without her, could not learn what I am learning without her help and sympathy andloyalty, but at times I wish she were a bit less fond of chatting. She is greatly puzzled. She, too, cannot understand why I have cometo Scarborough Square to live, and I am quite certain she thinks itstrange I do not tell her. How can I tell that of which I am notsure myself--that is, clearly and definitely sure?

I am not trying to be sure. It is enough that I am here, free tocome and go as I choose, to plan my day as I wish, to have time forthe things I once had no time for, and why must there always beexplanations and reasons and justifications for one's acts? Thedaily realization each morning, on awaking, that the day is mine, that there are no customs with which to comply, no regulations tofollow, no conventions to be conformed to, at the end of two weeksstill stirs and thrills and awes me a little, and I am constantlyafraid it is not true that I am here to stay. And then again withsomething of fear and shrinking and uncertainty I realize my bridgesare burned and I must stay. 

"It's pleased you are with your rooms, I hope, Miss Dandridge?"Hands on her hips, Mrs. Mundy had looked somewhat anxiously at mebefore going out. "If it's a home-looking place you're after, you'vegot it, but when you first come down to Scarborough Square it made mefeel queer inside to think of your living here, really living. Ifyou think you can be satisfied--"

"I am sure I can be satisfied. Why not?" I smiled and, going overto the window, straightened the curtain which had caught and twisteda fern-leaf growing in its box. "I am a perfectly unincumbered humanbeing who--"

"But an unincumbered woman ain't much of a human being. " Mrs. Mundydropped the afternoon paper she had brought up and stooped to get it. "I mean a woman is made for incumbrances, and if she don't haveany--" She hesitated, and looked around the room with its simplefurnishings, its firelight and lamplight, its many books and fewpictures, its rugs and desk and tables, the gifts of other days, andpresently she spoke again. "Being you like so to look out thewindows, it's well this house has two front rooms opening into eachother. If it's comfortable and convenient that you want to be, you're certainly that, but comforts and conveniences don't keep youcompany exactly. "

"I don't want company yet. You and Bettina are all I need. Ihaven't said I was to live here a thousand years, or that I wouldn'tget tired of myself in less time, but until I do--"

There was a ring at the front-door bell and Mrs. Mundy went to answerit. The puzzled look I often saw in her eyes when talking to mestill filled them, but she said nothing more except good night, andwhen I heard her footsteps in the hall below I went to the door andlocked it. This new privacy, this sense of freedom from unescapableinterruption, was still so precious, that though an unnecessaryprecaution, I turned the key that I might feel perfectly sure ofquiet hours ahead, and at my sigh of satisfaction I laughed. 

Going into my bedroom, which adjoined my sitting-room, I hung in thecloset the coat I had left on a chair, put away my hat and gloves, and again looked around, as if they were still strange--the white bedand bureau, the wash-rugs, the muslin curtains, the many contrasts toformer furnishings--and again I sighed contentedly. They were mine. 

The house I am now living in is indeed an old-fashioned one, but wellbuilt and of admirable design. The rooms are few--only eight inall--and four of them I have taken for myself--the upper four. Thelower floor is occupied by Mrs. Mundy and Bettina, her littlegranddaughter. When I first saw the house its condition wasdiscouraging. Not for some time had it been occupied, and repairs ofall kinds were needed. To get it in order gave me strange joy, andthe weeks in which it was being painted and papered and beautifiedwith modern necessities were of an interest only a person, a womanperson, can feel who has never had a home of her own before. Wheneverything was finished, the furnishings in place, and I established, I knew, what I no longer made effort to deny to myself--that I wasdoing a daring thing. I was taking chances in a venture I was stillafraid to face. 

CHAPTER II

Kitty came to see me yesterday. Her mortification at my living inScarborough Square is poignant. Not since she learned of my doing sohas her amazement, her incredulity, her indignation and resentment, lessened in the least, but her curiosity is great and her affectionsincere, and yesterday she yielded to both. 

She was on her wedding journey when I left the house in which formany years we had lived together, and, knowing it would spoil hertrip did I tell of what I had done, I did not tell. Two days ago shegot back, and over the telephone I gave her my new address. 

"But I can't understand--" During most of her visit Kitty wascrying. She cries easily and well. "I can't take it in, can't evenglimpse why you want to live in such a horrid old place. It's awful!"

"Oh no, it isn't. It's a very nice place. Look how the sun comesthrough those little panes of glass in those deep windows and chirpsall over the floor. I never knew before how much company sunshinecould be; how many different things it could do, until I came toScarborough Square. This is a very interesting place, Kitty. "

"It's fearful!" Kitty shuddered. "The sun shines much better on theAvenue, and you might as well be dead as live in this part of thetown. When people ask me where you are I'm--"

"Ashamed to tell them?" I laughed. "Don't tell them, if the tellingmortifies you. Those who object to visiting me in my new home willsoon forget I'm living. Those to whom it does not matter where Ilive will find where I am without asking you. I wouldn't bother. "

"But what must I say when people ask me why you've come down here?why you've made this awful change from living among the best peopleto living among these--I don't know what they are. Nobody knows. "

"They are perfectly good people. " I took a pin out of Kitty's hatand tried the latter at a different angle. "The man on the corner isnamed Crimm. He's a policeman. The girl next door makes cigarettes, and her friend around the corner works at the Nottingham Overallfactory. The cigarette-girl has a beau who walks home with her everyevening. He's delicate and can't take a job indoors. Just atpresent he's an assistant to the keeper of Cherry Hill Park. "

Kitty stared at me as if not sure she heard aright. The tears in herbig blue eyes disappeared and into them came incredulity. "Do youknow them--the cigarette-girl, and the overall-girl, and thepoliceman?" Her voice was thin with dismay and unbelief. "Do youreally know people like that?"

"I do. " I laughed in the puzzled and protesting face, kissed it. "To every sort of people other people not of their sort are 'peoplelike that. ' Our customs and characteristics and habits of thoughtand manner of life separate us into our particular groups, but inmany ways all people are dreadfully alike, Kitty. To the littlecigarette-girl you're a 'person like that. ' Did you ever wonder whatshe thought of you?"

"Why should I wonder? It doesn't matter what she thinks. I don'tknow her, never will know her. I can't understand why you want toknow her, to know people who--"

"I want to know all sorts of people. " Again I tilted Kitty's hat, held her off so as to get a better effect. "You see, I've wonderedsometimes what they thought of us--these people who haven't had ourchance. Points of view always interest me. "

"What difference does it make what they think? You're the queerestperson I've ever known! You aren't very religious. You never did goto church as much as I did. Are you going in for slums?"

"I am not. I wouldn't be a success at slumming. I'm not going infor anything except--"

"Except what?"

"My dear Kitty, " I picked up the handkerchief she had dropped and putit on the table, "I wouldn't try to understand, if I were you, whypeople do things. Usually it's because they have to, or because theywant to, and occasionally there are other reasons. I used to wonder, for instance, why certain people married each other. Often now, as Iwatch husbands and wives together, I still wonder if, unmarried, theywould select each other again. I suppose you went to the Bertrands'dinner-dance last night?"

"I went, but I wish I hadn't. Billy didn't want to go, and we cameaway as soon as we could. Everybody asked about you. I haven't seenany one yet who doesn't think it very strange that you won't livewith me. That beautiful little Marie Antoinette suite on the thirdfloor is all fixed for you, and you could use the automobiles as muchas you choose. It's wicked and cruel in you to do like this and notlive with me. It looks so--"

"Peculiar. " I nodded in the eyes as blue as a baby's. "But a personwho isn't peculiar isn't much of a person. You see, I don't care forthings which are already fixed for me. I like to do my own fixing. And I don't want to live in anybody else's home, not even yours, though you are dear to want me. I am grateful, but I prefer to livehere. My present income would make an undignified affair of lifeamong the friends of other days. I'd feel continually as if I wereoverboard and holding on to a slippery plank. Down here I'mindependent. I have enough for my needs and something to give--. That's a good-looking hat you have on. Did you get it in Paris?"

Kitty shook her head. "New York. " Otherwise she ignored myquestion. Hats usually interested her. She talked well concerningthem, but to-day she would not be diverted from more insistentsubjects. 

"It must have cost a good deal to fix up this old house. Anywhereelse it would look very well. " Her eyes were missing no detail. "You'd make a pig-sty pretty, but it takes money--"

"Everything takes money. I sold two or three pieces of AuntMatilda's jewelry for enough to put the house in order. She expectedme to sell what I did not wish to keep. In her will was a note tothat effect. "

"She had more jewelry than any human being I ever saw. " Into Kitty'sface came dawning understanding. "It was the only way she couldleave you any of--"

"Your father's money, " I nodded. "Not until after her death did Iunderstand why she used to take all of your father's gifts injewelry. I know now. "

"It was a good investment. I wish she'd bought twice as much. Shehad so little else to leave you, " Kitty was looking at mespeculatively. "How on earth are you going to live on a thousanddollars a year? Our servants cost us twice that. Billy says it'sawful, but--"

"It is if you can't afford it. You can. I believe all people oughtto spend every dollar they can afford, and not a cent they can't. That's what I do. Aunt Matilda thought I was impractical, but I'mfearfully prudent. I live within my income and I've deposited with atrust company, so I can't spend it, a sum of money quite large enoughto care for me through a spell of illness in the greediest ofhospitals, if I should be ill. And if I should die I'm prepared forall expenses. It's a mistake to think I don't look ahead. I thoughtonce of having a stone put up in the cemetery so as to be sure I hadnot forgotten anything, but I guess that can wait. "

Kitty, still staring at me, got up. "I never expect to understandyou. Neither does father. He's mortified to death about your comingdown here to live. He knows people are talking; so do I; and wedon't know what to say. "

"Oh, people always talk! And don't say anything. No one escapescriticism. It's human pastime to indulge in it. To preferScarborough Square to the Avenue may be queer, but at present I doprefer it. That's why I'm here. You can say that if you choose. "

"You've got no business preferring it. " Kitty snapped the buttons ofher glove with tearful emphasis. "Mrs. Jamieson said last night thata person with eyes and eyelashes like yours had no right to live asyou are living, with just an old woman to do things for you. Shecame down to see why you were here, but you wouldn't tell her. Shecan't understand any more than I can. "

I kissed Kitty good-by, but I did not try to make her understand. Ino longer try to make people understand things. Many of them can't. Kitty is a dear child, adorably blue-eyed and pink-cheeked, andpossessed of an amount of worldly wisdom that is always amazing andat times distressing, but much that interests me has, so far, neverinterested her. Refusing to study, she has little education, but shehas traveled a good deal, speaks excellent French, dances perfectly, dresses admirably, and has charming manners when she wishes. I loveher very much, but I no longer feel it is my duty to live with her. 

I am not living in Scarborough Square because I feel it is my duty tolive here. Thank Heaven, I don't have to tell any one why I am here!

CHAPTER III

Kitty's mother had been dead only a year when Aunt Matilda, who hadadopted me several years earlier on the death of my parents, marriedher father. I was twelve and Kitty eight when the marriage tookplace, and with canny care I tried to shield her from the severity ofAunt Matilda's system in rearing a child. I had been reared by it. 

I owe much to Aunt Matilda. She sent me to good schools, to a goodcollege; took me with her on most of her trips abroad, and at twentypresented me to society, but she never knew me, never in the leastunderstood the hunger in my heart for what it was not in her power togive. I never told her there was hunger in my heart. I rarely toldher of anything she could not see for herself. 

In childhood I had learned the fixedness of her ideas, the rigidityof her type of mind, the relentlessness of her will; and thatindependence on my part survived was due to sturdy stubbornness, to arefusal to be dominated, and an incapacity for subjection. But this, too, she failed to understand. 

That I would not marry as she wished was a grievous blow to her. Ihad no desire to marry, and it was when refusing to do so thatcertain realizations came to me sharply, and all the more acutely, because I had so long been seemingly indifferent to them. On themorning following the night in which I had faced frankly undeniablefacts I went to Aunt Matilda's room and told her I could no longer bedependent, told her of my purpose to earn my own living. I wasstrong, healthy, well educated. There was no reason why I should notdo what other women were doing. 

As I talked her amazement and indignation deepened into anger, andhad I been a child I "would undoubtedly have been punished for myimpertinence and audacity in daring to desire to go out into theworld to earn what there was no necessity for my earning. Socially, a woman could be autocratic, I was told, but in all things else sheshould be dependent on the stronger sex. 

"But there is no stronger-sex person for me to be dependent upon, even were I willing to depend, " I said, and made effort to keep backwhat I must not say to her, but surely would have said to others. For years I had been the recipient of her bounty, the object of hercare, and she still thought of me as something to be protected. ThatI should prefer to work, prefer to take my place in the world ofwomen-workers, was beyond her grasp. 

"Mr. Chesmond understood when I married him--it is part of ourmarriage contract--that you were to have the same advantages as hisdaughter. He has very willingly given you these. If you no longercare to accept his protection, you can marry. Opportunities such ascome to few girls have come to you. A home of your own is yours forthe taking. In my day--"

"But this is not your day!" I bit my lip. When Aunt Matilda's facegot a certain shade of red and her breath became short and quick, Iwas uneasy. The doctor had warned us of the seriousness of hercondition. She was pitifully afraid of death--it was the only thingshe was afraid of--and death might come at any time. To preventexcitement there must be with her no discussion, and, as far aspossible, no opposition to her will. 

"Your day and mine are very far apart. " I made effort to speakquietly. "Women no longer have to be adjuncts to men because theydon't know how to be anything else. They can stand up now bythemselves. Conditions have forced them to face life much more--"

"Face fiddlesticks!" Aunt Matilda's hands made an impatient gesture. "Women have no business doing what many of them are doing today. They are forgetting the place to which they were appointed by theirCreator. But even if you were at liberty to carry out your sillyideas, what could you do? How could you earn your living? You playwell, paint a little, read books that do you no good, and hardlyenough of the new novels to discuss them. All this sociologicalstuff, those scientific things I see in your room, are absurd for awoman to bother with. Men dislike women who think too much and knowtoo much. You are well educated and clever enough, but what couldyou do if you were suddenly left without means of support?"

"I don't know what I could do. It's what I want to find out. Halfof my life has been spent in school and college, and during theseyears I was taught little that would be of practical service in caseof need. I'd like to use part of my time trying to make educatorsunderstand they don't educate. For cultural purposes, for acquiringknowledge of facts, their system may be admirable, but for thepursuit of a happy livelihood--"

I stopped. Aunt Matilda was looking at me as if I were sufferingfrom an attack of some kind. Marriage to her was the divinelyarranged destiny for a woman, and she had neither patience norsympathy with my refusal to accept the opportunity that was mine tofulfil the destiny of my sex and at the same time become the wife ofthe man she had long wished me to marry. The power of money was dearto her. She understood it well, and my failure to appreciate itproperly was peculiarly exasperating to her. Discussion was useless. It never got farther than where it started. If I said that which Iwanted much to say, it would merely mean hearing again what I did notwant to hear. Concerning the pursuit of a happy livelihood we werenot apt to agree. 

For a half-minute longer I hesitated. Should I make the issue now orwait until there had been time for her to realize I meant what Isaid? Before I could speak she did that which I had never seen herdo before. She burst into tears. 

"You must never mention such a thing as this again. " Her words camestumblingly and her usually firm and strong hands trembled badly. "With my health in its present condition I couldn't get on withoutyou. You are all I have to really love, and I need you. Don't yousee what you have done? You have made me ill. Ill!"

She was strangely upset and in her eyes was a confused and frightenedlook that was new to them, and quickly I went toward her, but shemotioned me away. 

"Give me my medicine, and don't ever speak of such a thingagain--such a thing as you have just spoken of! You have always beenbeyond my comprehension. "

She swallowed the medicine I brought her in nervous gulps, the tearsrunning down her face as they might have done down a child's, but shewould not let me do anything for her, insisting only that she wantedto be quiet. Seeing it was best to leave her, I went to my room andlocked the door, and for hours I fought the hardest fight of my life. 

The one weapon she knew she could use effectively, she had used. Ifshe needed me I could not leave her, but her complete self-reliancemade it difficult to feel that any one was necessary to her. I wasindignant at the way she had treated me. I was not a child to bedisposed of, and yet of my future she was disposing as though it werea thing that could be tied to a string, and untied at will. Were shewell and strong, I would take matters in my own hands and make thebreak. Surely I could do something! I had no earning capacity, butother women had made their way, and I could make mine. If she wereperfectly well--

But she was not well. Through those first hours, and through most ofthe hours of the night that followed, the knowledge of the insidiousdisease that was hers was the high, hard wall against which I struckat every turn of thought, at every possibility at which I grasped, and in the dawn of a new day I knew I must not go away. 

It was not easy to surrender. Always my two selves are fighting andI wanted much to know more of life than I could know in the costlyshelter, controlled by custom and convention, wherein I lived. I hadlong been looking through stained glass. I was restless to get outand see clearly, to know all sorts of people, all conditions of life, and the chance had seemed within my grasp--and now it must be givenup. 

There are times when I am heedless of results, when I am daring andaudacious and count no cost, but that is only where I alone amconcerned. When it comes to making decisions which affect others Iam a coward. I lack the courage to have my own way at the expense ofsome one else; and though through the night I protested stormily, ifinwardly, that I was not meant for gilded cages, but for contact, forencounter, I knew I should yield in the end. 

The next day I told her I would not go away. She said nothing saveshe hardly thought I had entirely lost my senses, but the thing I amgladdest to remember since her death is the look that came into hereyes when I told her. For two years longer I lived with her, yearsfor her of practical invalidism, and for me of opportunity to do forher what she had never permitted me to do before. Two weeks afterKitty's marriage she died suddenly, and at times I still shiver withthe cold clamminess that came over me as I stood by her in her lastsleep and realized my aloneness in the world. My parents had died inmy early childhood. I had no brothers or sisters, no near relatives, save an uncle who lived abroad and some cousins here in town. Mr. Chesmond was very kind, but I could not continue to accept what hehad willingly given his wife's adopted child, and Kitty no longerneeded me. It is a fearful feeling, this sense of belonging to noone, of having no one belonging to you. Lest it overwhelm me, I wentat once to work upon the house in Scarborough Square left me by AuntMatilda, together with an annuity of a thousand dollars. Already itmeans much to me. For a while, at least, it is a haven, a shelter, ahome. What it may prove--

I have been thinking much to-day of Aunt Matilda. Perhaps it isbecause Selwyn was here last night. She was afraid I would marry him. 

CHAPTER IV

I did not tell Selwyn I was coming to Scarborough Square to live. Itold no one. The day after I reached here I sent him a note, givinghim my new address. 

His answer was short and stiff. He was leaving town on a businesstrip and would see me on his return, he wrote, and as I read what wasnot written between what was I was glad he was going away. It wouldgive him time to cool off. I am beyond Selwyn's comprehension. Weshould not be friends, we are so apart in many matters. Butcompatible people must find life dull. Selwyn and I are never dull. 

When he first called I was out, and last night he called again. AsMrs. Mundy, with his coat and hat, closed the door behind her, heheld out his hand. 

"Well?" He looked at me, but in his eyes was no smiling. 

"Well?" I shook hands and smiled. 

For a half-moment we said nothing, and frowningly he turned away. Always he radiated the security that comes of fixed position, a pastwithout challenge, a future provided for; but tonight I was consciousonly of the quiet excellence of his clothes, his physical well-being, the unescapableness of his eyes, and the cut of his chin. He is amost determined person. So am I--which perhaps accounts for ourrather stormy friendship. 

"Don't you think I have a very nice home?" I took my seat in a cornerof the big chintz-covered sofa in front of the fire and close to thelong table with its lighted lamp and books and magazines, andmotioned him to sit down. "I'm entirely fixed. I hope you like thisroom. I love it. I've never had one of my very own before. "

"It's very pretty. "

Selwyn took his seat without looking around. He did not know whetherit was pretty or not. He was not at all interested in the room. 

For a moment he looked at me with eyes narrowed and his foreheadridged in tiny, perpendicular folds. Presently he leaned forward, his hands between his knees and fingers interlocked. 

"How long do you propose to stay down here?" he asked. 

"I really do not know. I thought you were going to congratulate meupon living the life I want to live. "

"I do. Until you get this thing out of your system--"

"What thing?" I, too, leaned forward. The tone of his voice madesomething in me flare. "What thing?" I repeated. 

Selwyn's shoulders shrugged slightly. He sat up, then leaned back, his hands in his pockets. "Why discuss it? You've long wanted to dosomething of this sort. Until it was done you would never becontent. What you want to do, I doubt if you know yourself. Are youslumming? Uplifting?"

"I am not. I'm neither a slummer nor an uplifter. A slummer helps. I'm just looking on. " I threw the cushion behind me to the other endof the sofa. "I thought it might be interesting to see for myselfsome of the causes which produce conditions. I've read a good deal, but one doesn't exactly sense things by reading. I want to see. "

"And after you see?" Selwyn made an impatient movement with hishand. "A thousand years from now humanity may get results fromscientific management in social organization, but most of yourpresent-day methods are about as practical as trying to empty theocean with a teaspoon or to pick a posy out of swamp grass. "

"What do you know of present-day methods?"

"Very little. Beating the air doesn't interest me. Most people seemto forget the processes of nature; seem to imagine that certainthings can be brought to pass quickly which can only be accomplishedslowly. From the first struggle of the human race to stand upright, to articulate, to find food, to strike fire, to paddle in water, towear covering, to forage, explore-- What is the matter?"

"Nothing. " I leaned back in the corner of the sofa, my hands, palmsupward, in my lap, my eyes on them that he might not see theirsmiling. "I was just wondering what that had to do with certainpresent-day conditions, certain injustices and inequalities, certain--"

"It explains them to some extent. From the earliest days of dawningthought, from the first efforts at self-expression, humanity hasgrouped itself not only into families, tribes, communities, nations, or what you will, but in each of these divisions there have ever beensubdivisions. Ignorance and knowledge, strength and weakness, powerand incapacity, find their level, rise or fall according to theirproper place. If you have any little dreams of making all humanbeings after one pattern--"

"I haven't. It would be as uninteresting as impossible. But it isqueer--"

"What is queer?" Selwyn stooped forward and broke a lump of coalfrom which sprang blazing reds and curling blues of flame. "Why didyou stop?"

"I was thinking it was queer you should know so much of the historyof the human race and so little of its life to-day. As a shruggeryou stand off. "

"For the love of Heaven don't let's get on that!"

With swift movement he took a cigar from one pocket, a match-casefrom another. "May I smoke?" he asked, irritably, and as I nodded hestruck a match and held it to the cigar in his mouth, then threw itin the fire. Presently he looked at me. 

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming here--for a while?"

"It would have meant more argument. You would not have approved. "

"I most assuredly would not. But that would have made no difference. My disapproval would not have prevented. "

"No. I should have come, of course. But I was tired, and uselessdiscussion does no good. We would have said again the same oldthings we've said so often, and I didn't want to say them or hearthem. One of the reasons why I came down here was to talk withpeople who weren't born with made-up minds, and who don't have highwalls around their homes. "

"There are times when I would like to put them around you! If youwere mine I'd do it. "

"No, you wouldn't. You know perfectly well what I would do withwalls. That is the kind you think should be around a woman. But wewon't get on that, either. Were you ever in Scarborough Squarebefore?"

Selwyn nodded and looked, not at me, but at the spirals of smoke fromhis cigar. "My grandfather used to live on the opposite side of theSquare, and as a kid I was brought occasionally to see him. I barelyremember him. He died thirty years ago. "

"It's difficult to imagine this was once the fashionable part of thecity, and that gorgeous parties and balls--" I sat upright andlaughed. "I went to a party last night. It was a wonderful party. "

"You did what?"

Selwyn's cigar was held suspended on its way to his lips. "Whoseparty? Where was it?"

"Two doors from here. The girl who gave it, or rather, to whom itwas given, is named Bryce--Evelyn Bryce. She is a friend of Mrs. Mundy's and is a printer. I never knew a girl printer until I camedown here. "

Selwyn's look of amazed disapprobation had its usual effect. Ihadn't intended to mention the party, and instantly I went into itsdetails. 

"All kinds of people were at it and every woman had on a dress whichentirely covered her. When I was a child I adored a person namedWyman, who used to give performances in which all sorts of unexpectedthings happened. Last night was a sort of Wyman night. "

"I did not know you were going to parties. " Selwyn's tone was curt. 

"I am not--to your sort. " My face flushed. "I said this girl was aprinter. I should have said she used to be. Two years ago she wascaught in some machinery at the place where she worked and has neverbeen able to stand up since. On her birthday her friends give her aparty that she may have a bit of brightness. I went over to playthat they might dance. She is fond of music and an old piano hasrecently been given her by--by some one interested in her. "

For a moment there was silence, then throwing his cigar in the fire, Selwyn got up and stood looking down at me. In his eyes was strangeworry and unrest. 

"I beg your pardon. " He bit his lips. "I've been pretty ragged oflate and I'm always thoughtless. For two weeks I've seen noone--that is, no friend of yours or mine who hasn't asked me why youhave done so inexplicable a thing as to leave everybody you know andgo into a part of the town where you know nobody and where--"

"It's because I want to know all sorts of people. " Something inSelwyn's face stopped me, and, getting up from the sofa, I went overto the window and raised it slightly. My heart was pounding. Icould laugh away the questions of others and ignore their comments, but with Selwyn this would be impossible. An overwhelming sense ofdistance and separation came over me demoralizingly as I pretended torearrange the curtain, and for a moment words would not come. 

I knew, of course, that Selwyn had neither patience nor sympathy withmy desire to know more of life than I could learn in the particularworld into which I had been born, but the keener realization to-nightmade between us a wide and separating gulf, and I felt suddenly aloneand uncertain, and dispirited and afraid. 

In our love of books, of digging deep into certain subjects, ofhistoric questing and speculative discussions we are closelysympathetic, but in many viewpoints we are as apart as the poles. Perhaps we will always be. 

Selwyn by heritage and training and natural inclination isconventional and conservative. I am not. To walk in beaten tracksis not easy for me. I want to explore for myself. He thinks a womanhas no business in by-paths. Our opposing beliefs do not make forplacid friendship. 

It is Selwyn's indifference to life, to its problems and strugglesand many-sidedness, that makes me at times impatient with him beyondrestraint. In his profession he is successful. His ambition makeshim work, but a weariness of things, of the unworthwhileness of humaneffort, the futility of striving, the emptiness of achievement, possesses him frequently, and in his dark days he pays the penalty ofhis points of view. If only he could see, could understand--. 

I turned from the window and again sat down in my corner of the sofaand motioned him to take his seat. 

"Don't let's argue to-night. I'm pretty tired and argument would dono good. We'd just say things we shouldn't. You said just now youdoubted if you knew why I was here. I may not be sure of all myreasons, but one of them is, I wanted to get away from--there. " Myhand made motion in a vague direction intended for my formerneighborhood. 

"Do you find this section of the city a satisfactory change?"Selwyn's tone was ironic. He looked for a moment into the eyes Iraised to his, then turned away and, hands in his pockets, began towalk up and down the room. When he spoke again his voice had changed. 

"Don't mind anything I say to-night. I shouldn't have come. I'm abit raw yet that you should have done this without telling me. Youhave a right to do as you choose, of course, only--. Besides gettingaway from your old life--were there other reasons?"

"Not very definite ones. " Into my face came surge of color, and, turning, I cut off the light in the lamp behind me. "When one is ina parade one can't see what it looks like, very often doesn'tunderstand where it is going. I want to see the one I was in, seefrom the sidewalk the kind of human beings who are in it, and whatthey are doing with their time and energies and opportunities andknowledge and preparedness and--oh, with all the things that maketheir position in life a more responsible one than--than the people'sdown here. "

"Was it necessary to come to Scarborough Square to watch--yourparade? One can stand off anywhere. "

"But I don't want just to stand off. I want to see with the eyes ofthe people who look at us, the people who don't approve of us, thoughthey envy us. We're so certain they're a hard lot to deal with, todo for, to make anything of--these people we don't know save fromcharity contact, perhaps, --that I've sometimes wondered if they everdespair of us, think we, too, are pretty hopeless and hard to--towake up. "

"And you imagine the opinions and conclusions of uneducated, untrained, unthinking people will give you light concerning thevaluation of your class? It matters little what they think. Theydon't think!"

"Do you know many of these people of whose mental machinery you areso sure?" I smiled in the eyes which would not smile into mine. "Know them personally, I mean?"

"I do not. " Selwyn's tone was irritable. "My business dealings withthem have not inspired desire for a closer acquaintance. To get asmuch money as possible from the men who employ them and give inreturn as little work as they can, is the creed of most of them. Youcan do nothing with people like that. I know them better than youwill ever know them. "

"As a corporation attorney, yes. As a division of the human race, asworking people, you know them. As beings much more like yourselfthan you imagine, you don't. "

Selwyn again stopped. "You'd hardly expect me to find themcongenial--the beings you refer to. "

"I would not. " I laughed. "They are generations removed from you ineducation and culture, in many of the things essential to you, butsome of them see more clearly than you. Both need to understand youowe each other something. And how are you going to find out what itis, see from each other's point of view, unless you know each otherbetter? Unless--"

"For the love of Heaven, get rid of such nonsense! That particularkind of sentiment has gone to seed. Every sane man recognizescertain obligations to his fellow-man, every normal one tries to paythem, but all this rot about bringing better relations to passbetween masters and men through familiarity, through putting peoplein places they are not fitted to fill, is idle dreaming based onignorance of human nature. To give a man what he doesn't earn is todo him an injury. Most men win the rewards they are entitled to. You're a visionist. You always have been--"

"And am always going to be! Life would hardly be endurable were itnot for dreaming, hoping, believing. I could stand any loss betterthan that of my faith in humankind. " I sat upright, my hands lockedin my lap. "I'm not here to do things for the people you have solittle patience with. I told you I wanted to see what sort of peoplewe are. You're perfectly certain those who live in ScarboroughSquares don't make a success of life. Do you think we do?"

Again Selwyn stopped, stared at me, but before he could answer aqueer, curdling, smothered sound reached us faintly from the streetbelow. A cry low, yet clear and anguished, followed. Then a falland hurrying footsteps, and then silence. Selwyn sprang to thewindow and opened it. 

"My God!" he said. His face was white. "What was that?"

CHAPTER V

I was out of the door before Selwyn had left the window. Quickly hefollowed me, however, and on the front porch, where Mrs. Mundy wasalready standing, we stood for a half-moment, looking up and down thestreet. 

The small arc of light made by the corner gaslamp lessened but littlethe darkness of the seemingly deserted street, and for a while wecould distinguish nothing save the shadows cast by the gaunt trees ofthe Square. Then I saw Selwyn start. 

"Go inside. " He was his steady self again. "It is too cold outhere. I think some one has been hurt. Go in. "

I ran in Mrs. Mundy's room and to her wardrobe. Getting a coat andan old cape, I threw the latter over my shoulders, and, coming backto the porch, went down its steps and across the street to where Mrs. Mundy and Selwyn were bending over a young woman who stirred as theycame up. 

"Put this on. " I threw the coat to Mrs. Mundy. "Who is it?"

"I don't know. " Mrs. Mundy knelt on the ground. "Are you hurt?" sheasked. "There--that's better. " With skilful movement she helped thegirl, who seemed dazed, to steady herself. As the latter sat up sheput her hand to her face and brushed back her hair. 

"Where am I? Has he gone?" Her face was dropped in her hands. "Ifhe just would kill me and end it--end it!"

"Who hurt you?" Selwyn's voice was the quiet one that was ever hiswhen something was to be done, and, leaning over her, he took thegirl by the arm and lifted her to her feet. "Can you tell what hashappened?" He looked at Mrs. Mundy. "It's too cold out here for herto stand--she's pretty faint still. "

"Bring her over to me. " Mrs. Mundy put her coat around the shiveringgirl, and, slipping her hand through one arm, motioned Selwyn to takehold of the other. "Run ahead, " she nodded to me, "and fix up a doseof that aromatic spirits of ammonia what's on the second shelf of thecloset in my bedroom. And pull the couch up to the fire. "

Dazedly, and dragging her feet as if they were powerless to move, thegirl entered the warm and cheerful room, but at her entranceunderstanding seemed to give her strength. With a shuddering, shivering, indrawing breath she drew back and leaned against thedoor-frame. 

"I must go. I--I can't come in there. I'm better now. I must go. "

"You can't go. " Selwyn's voice was decisive. "You'll be all rightpresently, but you'll have to--to rest, first. " Firmly she was ledto the couch and pushed upon it. Taking the medicine from my hands, he held it to her lips. "Take this. "

Hesitating, partly defiant, partly afraid, the girl raised her eyesto his. Then, with hand that shook badly, she took the glass anddrank part of its contents, the rest was spilled in her lap. 

"If it were prussic acid I'd be glad to drink it. " The voice wasbitter, and again the eyes, pale yet burning, were raised to his, andin them was what seemed frightened but guarded recognition. Quicklyshe dropped them and glanced around the room, as though looking forescape, and again her hands made convulsive pressure, again shestarted to get up. 

"I must go. I tell you, I must. I--I can't stay here. "

"Very well. " Mrs. Mundy looked toward Selwyn and away from me. "When you're steady you can go. Mr. Thorne will telephone for a caband I will take you--home. "

"Oh no!" The girl's face became the pallor that frightens, and oneither side of her a hand was dug in the couch on which she wassitting. "I'm all right now. I don't want a cab. I just want togo, and by myself. Please let me go!"

The last words were lost in a sob, and coming close to her I satbeside her, and, putting my hand on her face, turned it slightly thatI might better see the big, black bruise on her forehead, partlyhidden by the loose, dark curls which fell across it. Her hair wasshort and thick and parted on the side, giving her a youthful, boyishlook that was in odd contrast to the sudden terror in her eyes, andfor the first time I saw how slight and frail she was, saw that abouther which baffled and puzzled me, and which I could not analyze. Shewore no hat, and the red scarf around her neck was the only touch ofcolor in her otherwise dark dress. The lips of her large, sweet, sensuous mouth were as colorless as her face. 

"You have been hurt. " I put my hand on her trembling ones. "Didsome one strike you or did you fall?"

She shook her head and drew her hands away. "I wasn't hurt. I--Islipped and fell and struck my head on the pavement. Don't letanybody telephone. I can go alone. Please--please let me go! Imust go! I can't stay here. "

"But you mustn't go alone. " I turned to Selwyn. "Mr. Thorne will gowith you. Do you live far from here?"

"Not very. It's close enough for me to go by myself. He mustn't gowith me. " The words came stumblingly, and again I saw the quick, frightened look she gave Selwyn, a look in which was indecision andappeal, as well as fear, and I saw, too, that his face flushed as heturned away. 

With quick movement the girl got up. From her throat came a soundhysterical and choking, and, putting her hand to it, she looked firstat me and then at Mrs. Mundy, but at Selwyn she did not look again. "I'm going. Thank you for letting me come in. " Blindly shestaggered to the door, her hands outstretched as if to feel what shecould not see. At it she turned and in her face was that which keepsme awake at night, which haunts and hurts and seems to be crying tome to do something which I know not how to do. 

"You poor child!" I started toward her. "You must not go alone. "But before I could reach her she fell in a heap at the door, and asone dead she lay limp and white and piteously pretty on the floor. 

CHAPTER VI

I don't understand Mrs. Mundy. She acts so queerly about the girl wefound on the street last night. She put her to bed, after she hadrecovered from her fainting spell, on a cot in the room next to herown, but this morning she told me the girl had gone, and would tellme nothing else. 

When Selwyn, who had picked her up and laid her on the couch, askedif he should not get a doctor, Mrs. Mundy had said no, and said it sopositively that he offered to do nothing else. And then she thankedhim and told him good night in such a way he understood it was besthe Should go. 

At the front door he called me. With his back to it he held out hishands, took mine in his, crushed them in clasp so close they hurt. 

"Danny, " he said, "why do you torment me so? You don't know whatyou're doing, living where such things are possible as have takenplace tonight; where any time you may be--"

His voice broke, and in amazement I looked at him. Horror and fearwere in his face. 

"Do you think it is so awful a thing to see a poor little creaturewho has been hurt and needs help?" I drew my hands away. "You talkas if I were a child, Selwyn. "

"You are a child in your knowledge of--of certain phases of life. IfI could only marry you tomorrow and take you away from here youshould never know them!"

"Well, you can't marry me to-morrow!" I made effort to laugh, butSelwyn's face, his manner, frightened me. "I want to stay down hereand--and stop being as ignorant as a child of things women shouldknow. Behind the shelter of ignorance most women have alreadyshirked too long. " I held out my hand, "If you stay a bit longer, Selwyn, I'll say things I shouldn't. Goodnight. "

With a shrug of his shoulders he went down the steps, and as Iwatched him, for a moment I felt tempted to call him back. It wasnot unusual for us to part indignant with each other. We invariablyclashed, disagreed, and argued hotly if we got on certain subjects, but to-night I did not want him to leave angrily. Something had mademe afraid and uncertain and uneasy. I could not define, could onlyfeel it, and if Selwyn should fail me-- Shivering, I stood in thedoorway, and as I started to go in I noticed a young fellow acrossthe street under a tree, who seemed to be watching the house. He wasevidently nervous and moved restlessly in the small circle of theshadow cast by the bare branches. Selwyn apparently did not see him, and, crossing the street, was close upon him before he knew he wasthere. To my astonishment I saw him start and stop, saw him take theman by the arm. 

"What in the name of Heaven--" In the still, cold air I could heardistinctly. "Why are you down here this time of night? Where areyou going?"

If there was answer I could not hear it, but I could see the movementof the young man's shoulders, could see him draw away and turn hisback to Selwyn. Putting his hands in his pockets, he started towardthe corner lighted by the flickering gas-jet, then turned and walkedto the one on which there was no light. Had I known him, I could nothave recognized him in the darkness, but he was evidently well knownto Selwyn, for together they went down the street and out of sight. I wonder who he was. 

For the first time since I came to Scarborough Square, Mrs. Mundy hasnot been to-day her chatty self. She does not seem to want totalk--that is of the girl I want to talk about. When, in mysitting-room this morning, I asked her the girl's name she said shedid not know it, did not know where she lived, or what had happenedto her, and at my look of incomprehension at her seeming disregard, she had turned away and busied herself in dusting the books on thewell-filled table. 

"She was pretty nervous. " Mrs. Mundy's usually cheerful voice wastroubled. "To talk to her, ask her questions, would just have madeher more so. They won't tell you anything if they can help it--girlslike that--and I didn't try to make her tell. I gave her somethingto quiet her and stayed with her until she was asleep, but when Iwent in the room this morning she was gone. Bettina said she heardsome one unbolt the door very softly, but she thought 'twas me. "

"Do you suppose she lives in this neighborhood? Her people must havebeen very anxious. "

Mrs. Mundy turned and looked at me queerly. She has tremendousadmiration for what she calls my book-learning, and sees noincongruity in my ignorance of many things with which she isfamiliar. My ignorance, indeed, she thinks it her duty to conserve, and already we have had some differences of opinion as to what Ishould know and not know of the life about us. There are a good manythings I have got to make Mrs. Mundy take in more definitely. Shethinks of me still as a girl. I am not. I am a woman twenty-sixyears old. 

"Half the girls you've seen coming home from work, half who livearound the Square, haven't any people here. What they have is a roomin somebody's house. Many are from the country or from small towns. Over sixteen thousand work in the factories alone. You don't supposethey all have homes, do you?--have some one who waits up for them atnight, some one who cares when they come in?"

Before I could answer she stopped her dusting and, head on the sideand hands on her hips, listened. "There's the iceman at the kitchendoor, " she said, relievedly. "I'll have to go and let him in. "

It is this I cannot understand, this unusual evasiveness on Mrs. Mundy's part. She is the least mysterious of persons, is, indeed, asopen as the day, and it is unlike her to act as she has done. Fromchildhood I have known her. Up to the time of Aunt Matilda'smarriage to Mr. Chesmond she made my clothes, and for years, in alltimes of domestic complications has been our dependence. When Idecided to live for a while in the house once owned by mygrandfather, I turned to her in confidence that she would care notonly for my material needs, but that from her I could get what no oneelse could give me--an insight into scenes and situations commonlyconcealed from surface sight. 

Her knowledge of life is wide and varied. With unfailing faith andcheerful courage and a habit of seeing the humorous side of tragiccatastrophes, she has done her work among the sick and forsaken, withno appeal to others save a certain few; and only those who have beensteadied by her strong hands, and heartened by her buoyant spirit, and fed from her scant store, have knowledge or understanding of whatshe means to the section of the city where the poor and lowly live. Bit by bit I am learning, but even yet it is difficult to make hertell me all she does, or how and when she does it. 

It was partly because of certain talks with her that I decided tocome to Scarborough Square. If I could make but a few understandwhat she understands--so understand that the sending of a check wouldnot sufficiently relieve them from obligation, from responsibility. But how can I make clear to others what is not clear to me?

It will not be Bettina's fault if I do not become acquainted with mynew neighbors in Scarborough Square. By the calendar's accountingBettina's years are only thirteen, but in shrewdness of penetration, in swiftness of conclusion, and in acceptance of the fact that mostpeople are queer she is amazingly mature. Her readiness to go withme anywhere I wish to go is unfailing, but save on Saturdays andSundays we can only pay our visits in the afternoon. It is late whenshe gets from school, and dark soon after we start, but with BettinaI am safe. 

Outside and inside of the house our roles are reversed. Concerningmy books and my pictures, concerning the people who ride in their ownautomobiles, who go to the theatre whenever they wish, to the finechurches with beautiful music and paid pews; the people who giveparties and wear gorgeous clothes and eat mushrooms andterrapin--which she considered inexplicable taste--she will ask mecountless questions; but outside of the house she becomes the teacherand I the taught. Just what I am learning she hardly understands. Much that is new to me is commonplace to her; and she does not dreamthat I often cannot sleep at night for remembering what the day hasshown me. To-morrow we are going to see a Mrs. Gibbons, whose littleboy, eleven years of age, is the head of his mother's house--thesupport of her family. 

CHAPTER VII

Hands in her pockets, Bettina looked at me disappointedly. "It'svery cold, " she said. "Why don't you wear your fur coat?"

"I like this one better. It's warm and not so heavy. "

"Your fur coat is the only one in Scarborough Square. A sure-enoughfur one, I mean. There're plenty of imitations. Mrs. Crimm's got animitation. You look awful grand in that fur coat--look like aprincess person. Grannie says you don't want to seem different fromthe people down here. How are you going to help it?"

"I don't know. I mean--" It was silly that my face should flushbefore Bettina's unblinking scrutiny, but flush it did. "I don'twant to seem different. People are much more alike than theyimagine. If we didn't think so much of our differences--"

"Bound to think of them when they're right in your face. You don'tsuppose you're anything like Evie May Poore, do you? or RobertaWicks, or Mrs. Clay Burt? Every time I see Evie May Poore I wish Iwas an Indian so I could tomahawk her hair. Most of her money goesin hair and chewing-gum. Mr. Crimm says he thinks girls who dresslike Roberta Wicks ought to be run in, but there ain't any law whichlets him do it. Mr. Crimm's going to a big wedding to-night. Didyou know it?"

I shook my head. In my mouth were the pins with which my veil was tobe fastened. Hands on my hat, I straightened the latter beforeputting on the veil. 

"Well, he is. Funny, ain't it, that all these swells have to have aplain-clothes man at weddings so the people what come to 'em won'ttake any of the presents? That's Mr. Crimm's chief businessnowadays, looking out for high-class crooks. He says you ain't asstrong-colored as some the ladies he sees up-town, but he never didsee a face with more sense and soul in it than what yours has got. At the last wedding he went to he told grannie some the ladies didn'thave on clothes enough to wad a gun. Are you ready? It gets dark byfive o'clock. "

"I'm ready. " Taking up my muff, I followed Bettina down the stepsand into the street to the corner, on which was the little shopwherein were sold goldfish and canary-birds, and fox-terriers andwhite rabbits; and from there we turned in the direction which led toMrs. Gibbons's. The day was cold and clear, but the ground wasslippery with sleet, and, holding on to my arm, Bettina made valianteffort to pilot me aright. 

As we walked she talked, and the names of the occupants of varioushouses passed were told to me, together with the particular kind ofwork in which they were engaged, and the amount of wages which wereearned by different members of the household. The information givenme had been gained from her schoolmates, and what at first had seemedappalling frankness and freedom, I soon learned was a communitycustom, and a comparison of earnings a favorite subject of discussionamong children of all ages. Recess, it appears, is the usual timefor an exchange of facts concerning family affairs. 

"Myra Blunt, who sits in front of me, says she's going in thepickle-factory as soon as she's fourteen. " Bettina slipped, butcaught herself, and held my arm more firmly. 

"She's our ashman's daughter, and she's got a mole right on the endof her nose. It's a little on one side, but it looks awful funny, and Jimmie Rice says she'll stay in that pickle-factory all her lifeif she don't have that mole taken off. A boy won't have a girl for asweetheart if her nose has got a mole on it, will he? Myra is afraidit will hurt to have it come off. She's an awful coward. This isthe place. This is Ninety-two. "

Mrs. Gibbons's residence was one of several small and shabby houseswhich huddled together as if for protection, and as we went up thesteps of the shaky porch a head from the second-story window wasthrust out--a head wrapped in a red crocheted shawl. 

"You-all want to see Mrs. Gibbons? Well, she ain't to home. Thatis, I don't think she is. She told me this morning she was goingdown to the 'firmary to get some medicine for that misery in her backwhat struck her yesterday. If she ain't to home, you-all kin come uphere and rest yourself if you want to. It's awful cold, ain't it?"

Before we could express our appreciation of the hospitality offered, the door at which we had knocked was opened cautiously, and at itsaperture a head was seen. There was a moment's hesitancy and thenthe door opened more widely. 

"Is this Mrs. Gibbons?"

Bettina asked the question, and at its answer called to the womanstill leaning out of the upstairs window, "She's home. " Then sheintroduced me. 

"This is Miss Heath. Miss Dandridge Heath, Mrs. Gibbons; and I'mBettina Woll. We've come to see you. Can we come in?"

Mrs. Gibbons, who had nodded imperceptibly in my direction as Bettinacalled my name, motioned limply toward a room on my right, and as Ientered it I looked at her and saw at once that she, too, belonged tothe unqualified and unfit. She must once have been a pretty woman, but her hair and eyes were now a dusty black, her skin the color ofputty, and her mouth a drooping curve that gave to her face theexpression of one who was about to cry. Life had apparently for sometime been more than she was equal to, and, incapable of battlingfurther with it, she radiated a helplessness that was pitiable andyet irritating. Thin and flat-chested, her uncorseted figure in itsrusty black dress straightened for half a minute, then again itrelaxed. 

"Take a seat, won't you?" Her voice was as listless as her eyes. "It's warmer in the kitchen. Maybe you'd better come back there. Mylittle girl's in there. She's sick. "

As we turned to leave the room I glanced around it. The windows weredown, the shutters closed, but by the light which came through thebroken slats and cheap lace curtains, whose ends were spreadexpansively on the bare floor, I saw its furnishings. A bed, coveredwith a white spread and with pillow-shams embroidered in red cotton, was against the side of the wall facing the windows, and close to itwas a table on which lay a switch of coarse black hair. Acrepe-paper lambrequin decorated the mantel-shelf, whose ornamentswere a cup and saucer, a shaving-set, and a pair of conch-shells;while between the windows was a wash-stand obviously kept forornamental purposes, as there was no water in the pitcher and thebasin was cracked. Pinned on the soft plastering of the walls wereflorid advertisements of various necessities and luxuries of life, together with highly colored Scripture texts, and over the mantelhung a crayon of the once head of the house. The room was cold anddamp. The air in it had not been changed for some time, and as Mrs. Gibbons stopped and picked up the baby, who at the sound of voiceshad crawled into the room, I did not wonder at its croupy cough. 

Down the dark and narrow passageway Bettina and I followed ourhostess, and at its end I would have stumbled over a step had I notbeen warned in time. The noise made by a box overturned by Bettinagave the latter opportunity to give me one more injunction. 

"Don't promise to do too much right off. " The whisper wasuncomfortably clear. "She's the kind who's like a sifter. You haveto be right hard with people like that-- Take care! There's anotherstep!"

CHAPTER VIII

As we entered the kitchen, a tiny room with one window in it, Iglanced around it as I had done at the front room, the two seeming tocomplete the suite occupied by Mrs. Gibbons. My survey was quick andcautious, but not too much so for mental noting of the conservationof time and space and labor represented by an arrangement ofhousehold effects I had never seen before. Health and comfort werethe principal omissions. 

In one corner of the room was a bed covered with a calico quilt ofmany colors, and under it a pallet, tucked away for convenience inthe daytime, but obviously out at night. Close to the bed was alarge stove in which a good fire was burning, and from theblue-and-white saucepan on the top came forth odor of a soup withwhich I was not familiar. The door of the oven was partly open, andin the latter could be seen a pan of heavy-looking biscuits whichapparently awaited their devouring at any time that suited the desireof the devourer. Bettina looked at them and then at me, but she saidnothing--that is, nothing out loud. 

"Set down. " Mrs. Gibbons, the baby still in her arms, made effort todust one of the two chairs in the room with the gingham apron she waswearing, and, after failing, motioned me to take it. The other oneshe pushed toward Bettina with her foot. On the bed was a littlegirl of six or seven, and as we took our seats a boy, who barelylooked ten, came from behind a couple of wash-tubs in an oppositecorner of the room and wiped his hands on a towel hanging from a hookin the wall. To ask something concerning this boy was the purpose ofour visit. 

"Speak to the lady, Jimmy. Anybody would think you didn't have nomanners! No, you can't have your supper yet. "

Mrs. Gibbons waved her hand weakly at her son, who, smiling at us, had gone to a corner cupboard with perforated tins of diamond patternin its doors, and taken therefrom a soup-plate and cup and saucer. Paying no attention to his mother's reference to a delayed meal, heladled out of the big saucepan, with a cracked cup, a plate of thesteaming soup, and carried it carefully to an oilcloth-covered table, on which was a lamp and glass pitcher, some unwashed dishes left fromthe last meal, a broken doll, and a child's shoe. Putting down theplate of soup, he came back to the stove and poured out a cup offeeble-looking coffee. 

"Goin' to be extras out to-night and I mightn't get back till afterten. " Again his gay little smile lighted his thin face. "Ifen Idon't eat now I mightn't eat at all. Have one?"

He poked a plate of the health-destroying biscuits at Bettina with amerry little movement, and bravely she took one, bravely made effortto eat it. "What's your name?" I heard him ask her, and then Iturned to Mrs. Gibbons. 

"It is about your little boy I've come to see you. " I moved my chairas far as possible from the red-hot stove and opened my coat. "He istoo young to be at work. He isn't twelve, is he?"

The indignation I had felt on hearing of Jimmy's bondage to a benchfrom seven in the morning to six in the evening, with an interval ofan hour for lunch, was unaccountably disappearing. With helplessnessand incapacity I was not ordinarily patient, and Mrs. Gibbons was anexcellent example of both. Still--"He isn't twelve yet, is he?" Irepeated. 

Mrs. Gibbons pushed the little girl, who was trying to get out of thebed, back in it, and shifted the whimpering baby from one arm to theother. For a moment she hesitated, looked at me uncertainly. 

"No 'm, he ain't but eleven, but I had to tell the mayor that signedthe papers permitting of him to work, that he was twelve. The lawdon't let children work lessen they're twelve, and only then if theirmother is a widow and 'ain't got nothing and nobody to do for her. Idon't like to tell a story if I can help it, and them what don't knownothing 'bout how things is can't understand, and say we oughtn't todo it. They'd do it, too, ifen they had to. After his father died Ihad to take Jimmy out of school and put him to work. There wasn'tnothing else to do. "

"Has his father been dead long?" I moved still further from thestove. My question was unthinking. He couldn't have been dead long. 

"In days and months it 'ain't been so long, but it's been awful longto me. 'Taint been more'n a year since they brought him home to medead, and I been plum' no 'count ever since. This baby, " she put thechild in her arms on her lap and shook her knees in mechanical effortto still its cries, "this baby was born while its father was beingburied, and when I took in my man was gone and wouldn't never comehome no more, never give me his wages on Saturday nights, andwouldn't be here to do nothing for me and the children, seems likesomething inside me just give out. I reckon you 'ain't never hadnothing to happen to you like that, have you?"

"No, I've never had anything like that to happen to me. " The lastremnant of indignation was vanishing. That is, against the helpless, incapable, worn-out woman who was Jimmy's mother. Against somethingelse, something I could not place or define or call by name, it wasrising stormily. "I know you need Jimmy's help, " I said, after amoment, "but he is too young to work, too small. "

"Came near not getting a job 'count of not being no bigger. "

His mouth filled with half a biscuit, the boy nodded at me gleefully, then putting down his spoon, he dusted his hands and wiped them onthe side of his trousers. "The first place mother and me went to, they wouldn't take me 'cause the table where I'd had to work struckme right here. " His hands swiped his throat just under his chin. "But the next place was all right. They had a boys' table and thebench was made high on purpose. "

"What is it you do?" I asked, and again my voice sounded strange. "Is it a box-factory you're in?"

"Soap and pills. " Head thrown back, Jimmy drained the last drop ofcoffee from his cup, then scraped the latter with a tin spoon for itslast bit of sugar. "We are pasters, our gang is. We paste the paperon the boxes. There's a boy sits next to me what's the fastestpaster in town, but I'm going to beat him some day. I can pastealmost as fast as he can now. "

"He could beat him now if he didn't play so much. " In his mother'svoice was neither scolding nor complaint. "Jimmy always would playsome from the time he was born. His boss says he's the best workerhe's got 'cepting the boy who sits next to him, and if he'd just staystill all day--"

"Oh, can he play?" I made no apology for the interruption. Thechild was undersized and illy-nourished, and to let him work tenhours a day seemed a crime for which I, and all others who cared forchildren, were somehow responsible. But if he had a chance to play--

"When old Miss High-Spy goes out the room we play. " Jimmy gave histrousers a jerk and made effort to force connection between a buttonand a buttonhole belonging respectively to his upper and his lowergarments. "She's a regular old tale-teller, but soon as she's outthe room we get down from our bench and rush around and tag eachother. Our benches 'ain't got no backs to 'em, and if we didn't getoff sometimes we couldn't sit up all day. The other fellows, the bigones, don't tell on us. They make us put the windows down from thetop when she's out. "

"Do you mean you don't have any air in the room?" My voice wasunbelieving, and at something in my face Jimmy laughed. 

"Not when we're working. The wind might blow the little pieces ofpaper off the table and we'd lose time getting 'em, she says. Somethe boys get so sick from the heat and the glue smell they heave uptheir breakfast and can't eat nothing all day. I 'ain't fainted buttwice since I been there, but Alex Hobbs keels over once a week, anyhow. Used to frighten me at first when I saw him getting green-y, but I don't mind it now. "

With a quick turn of his head Jimmy looked at a small clock on theshelf above the wash-tubs, and got up with even quicker movement. "Iforgot about the wood, and the papers will be ready 'fore I can getthere if I don't hurry. Good-by to you all, " and, slamming the doorbehind him, he ran down the kitchen steps into the yard, where in amoment we heard him whistling as he chopped the wood that must bebrought up for the morning. 

It was not often Mrs. Gibbons had a listener who had never beforeheard of her hardships, and after explaining to me why Jimmy was athome at that time of the day, his presence being due not to triflingon his part, but to the half-time the factory was running, she gaveherself up to the luxury of telling me in detail of her manymisfortunes and of her inability to get through the winter unlessadditional help were given her. 

"Can't you work?" I asked. "If the children are put in a day nurserythey would be well looked after, and you would probably be morecomfortable in a good factory than here. "

"A good factory!" The inflection in her voice was one of listlesstolerance for my ignorance. "I don't reckon you ever worked in one. There ain't none of 'em good. Some's better than others, but whenyou get up at five o'clock on winter mornings and make the fire andmelt the water, if it's frozen, to wash your face with, and--"

"Does it freeze in here?" Bettina, who had by effort restrainedherself from taking part in the conversation, leaned forward and dugher hands deep in her lap. "Does it really freeze in this hot room?"

"It ain't hot in here at night. Last winter it froze 'most everynight for a month. Mis' Cotter was boarding with me last winter, herand her little girl both. She's the lady what rents the room betweenthe kitchen and the front room from me. She sews on carpets and theplace she works at is right far from here. She warn't well lastwinter--some kind of misery is always on her--and she asked me toboard her so she wouldn't have to do no cooking before she goes awayin the morning and when she comes back at night. "

"With a swift movement of her hand Mrs. Gibbons caught the littlegirl, who, behind her back, was making ready to slip off the bed andon the floor, but as she swung her again in place she kept up hertalking, and by neither rise nor fall was the monotone of her voicebroken. 

"I had to get up at five so as to have breakfast in time, for I can'tget the room warm and the things cooked in less'n an hour, and shehas to leave here a little after six so as to take her little girl tothe nursery before she goes to her place, and they ain't noways closetogether. The stars are shining when she goes out and they'reshining when she comes in; that is, if the weather's good. She'sbeen so wore out lately she's been taking her meals again with me, but I don't see much of her. She goes to bed the minute she'sthrough supper. "

Bettina twisted in her chair. "Do you eat and sleep in here, too?"she asked. Her eyes were on Mrs. Gibbons. Carefully she kept themfrom mine. "Do you always eat in here?"

"We eat in here all the time and sleep in here in winter, becausethere ain't but one fire. That goes out early, which is why thewater freezes. Jimmy has to bring it up from the yard in buckets, and as the nurse-lady who comes down here says we must have fresh airin the room, being 'tis all four of us sleep in it, I keep the windowopen at night. I don't take no stock in all this fresh-air talk. 'Taint only the water what gets froze--"

"Why don't you cover a bucketful of it with one of those tubs?"Again Bettina's forefinger pointed. "That would keep the wind offand the water wouldn't freeze if it was covered up. "

"I never thought of that. Get back, Rosie!" Mrs. Gibbons made effortto catch her little daughter, but this time the child wriggled downfrom the foot of the bed and came toward me, hands behind her back, and stared up into my face. 

"Whatcha name?"

I told her and asked hers, and without further preliminaries she cameclose to me and hunched her shoulders to be taken in my lap. 

"We've got to go--we're bound to go, Miss Dandridge!" With a leapBettina was out of her chair, and, catching the little girl by thehand, she drew her from me and dangled in front of her aonce-silvered mesh-bag, took from it a penny, and gave it to her;then she turned to Mrs. Gibbons. 

"We're awful glad we've seen you. " Bettina nodded gravely to thewoman on the bed. "And of course we won't tell anybody about Jimmynot being twelve yet; but Miss Heath wants him to go back to school, and she's coming to see you soon about it. We've got to go now. "

In a manner I could not understand, Bettina, who had gotten up andwas now standing behind Mrs. Gibbons, beckoned to me mysteriously, and, fearing the latter might become aware of her violent movements, I, too, got up and shook hands with my hostess. 

"I will see you in a few days, " I said. "There's no chance for Jimmyif he doesn't have some education. He ought to go back to school. "

"Yes 'm, I know he ought, but he can't go. " Jimmy's mother shookhands, limply. "The pickle-factory where I used to work is turningoff hands every week, and I can't get nothing to do there. I don'tknow how to do nothing but pickles. Sometimes I gets a little sewingat home, but I ain't a sewer. The Charities sends me a basket ofkeep-life-in-you groceries every now and then, and the city gives mesome coal and wood when there's enough to go round more than once, but I need Jimmy's money for the rent. "

"If the rent were paid would you let him go back to school?"

"Yes 'm. " The dull voice quickened not at all. "I'd be glad to lethim go. I don't want him to work, but them that don't know how it iscan't understand. You-all must come again. Good-by. Come backhere, Rosie. You'll catch your death out there. Good-by. "

In the open air, which felt good after the steaming heat of thebedroom-kitchen, Bettina and I walked for a few moments in silence, and then, slipping her arm in mine, she looked up at me with wiselittle eyes. 

"Please excuse me for telling you, Miss Dandridge, but you're new yetin the places you've been going to since you came to ScarboroughSquare, and you'll have to be careful about taking the children onyour lap and in your arms, if they're babies. You love children, andyou just naturally hold out your hands to them, but if you don't knowthem very well, you'd better not. All of them ain't healthy, andhardly any--"

Bettina stopped and, standing still, looked straight ahead of her ata man and a young woman crossing the street some little distance fromus. Then she looked up at me. The man was Selwyn. The girl withhim was the odd and elfish little creature who had been hurt inScarborough Square and whom he had helped bring in to Mrs. Mundy. 

CHAPTER IX

Bettina, who had opened the door for Selwyn on his last visit, andwho had informed me the next day that she had "shivered withtrembles" because of his great difference to the men in ScarboroughSquare, for the second time looked up at me. 

"What is he doing down here?" Her finger pointed in the direction ofthe man and woman just ahead of us. "What's he talking to that girlfor?"

I did not answer her at once. Amazement and unbelief were making myheart hot, and a flood of color burned my face. Of all men on earth, Selwyn was the last to find in this part of the town at this time ofthe evening, and as he bent his head to speak to the girl I noticedhe was talking earnestly and using his hands in expressive gesturesas he talked. Starting forward, I took a few steps and then stopped, sharply. 

"I don't know what he is doing down here. Certainly he is at libertyto come here just as we come. "

Bettina's eyes strained in the darkness. "I can't see her face. Ifwe cross over we can catch up with them by the time they reach thecorner where we could see her in the light. " The grip of my hand onher arm made her stop. "I mean--"

"You don't know what you mean. "

It was silly, childish, unreasonable, that I should speak sharply toBettina, and equally unreasonable that fear and horror and sickeningsuspicion should possess me, but possessed I was by sensationshitherto unexperienced, and for a moment the gaslight from the lampon the opposite street corner wavered and circled in a confusing, bewildering way. Sudden revelations, sudden realizations, wereunsteadying me. Was Selwyn really some one I did not know? Was hislife less single than I believed it? Hateful, ugly, disloyalquestions surged tumultuously for a half-minute; then reasonreturned, and shame that I should insult him with doubt, cooled theflame in my face. 

"It's too late to go to the Binkers. We'd better go home. We'll gothere some other afternoon. "

I turned from Bettina's amazed eyes. My tone of voice a momentbefore was still perplexing her, and unblinkingly she was searchingmy face. Hitherto her directness, her frankness of speech and use ofwords, had amused me, and I had permitted, perhaps, too great anexercise of her gift of comment; but applied personally it was adifferent matter. 

"We'll go to the corner and turn there, " I said. "That will be thenearest way home. "

"But don't you want to see who she is?" Scarborough Square customswere those most familiar to Bettina, and they exacted understandingof doubtful situations. "Don't you want to see what--what she lookslike?"

"Why should I? Mr. Thorne knows many people I do not know. " I movedtoward the corner. "Come on. It's getting late. "

"Gentlemen like him don't know girls like her. She lives down heresomewhere, and he lives where you used to live. He couldn't be sweeton her, because--because he couldn't. " She caught up with me. "He'syours, ain't he, Miss Danny? You'd better tell him--"

I hated myself for looking across the street, but as I hurried on myeyes were following Selwyn and the girl, and when I saw the latterstop and bury her face in her hands, saw Selwyn say something to her, saw him turn in one direction and she in another, I, too, stopped;for a moment was unable to move. 

We had reached the corner as Selwyn left the opposite one and cametoward us. Head down, as if deeply thinking, he did not look upuntil close to us. Under the gaslight I waited, not knowing why, andBettina being behind me, he thought I was alone when presently he sawme. 

"Dandridge!" He stared as if stupefied with amazement. Lifting hishat mechanically, he came closer. "What in the name of Heaven areyou doing here alone this time of night? Are you losing your mind?"

His entire absence of embarrassment, his usual disapproval of mybehavior, his impatient anger, had an unlooked-for effect, and suddenrelief and hot joy so surged over me that I laughed, a queer, nervous, choking little laugh. 

"I am not alone. It is not yet six, and I have been to see a boy whois what you are not--the head of a house. I mean a house with afamily in it. Have you, too, been visiting?"

His face flushed, and frowningly he turned away. "I had businessdown here. I had to come to it as it could not be brought to me. Where are you going?"

"Home. "

Bettina, who in some unaccountable way had managed to stay behind me, came forward and bowed as if to an audience. "I've been taking herto where she goes, Mr. Thorne, and grannie knows all the places. There ain't one that's got a disease in it, and Mr. Crimm would tellus if it wasn't right to go to them. She don't ever go anywhere byherself. She's too new yet. "

Selwyn smiled grudgingly. Bettina's fat and short little body madeeffort to stretch to protective requirements, and her keen eyesraised to his held them for a moment. Then she turned to me. 

"Maybe he'd like to go to some of the homes we go to and see--"

"No. He doesn't want to see. " I caught her hand and slipped itthrough my arm. "It's much more comfortable not to see. One cansleep so much better. Are you going our way?" I turned to Selwyn. "If you are, we'd better start. "

For a full block we said nothing. Selwyn, biting the ends of hisclose-cut mustache, walked beside me, hands in his pockets and eyesstraight ahead, and not until Bettina had twice asked him if he knewwhere Rowland Street was did he answer her. 

"Rowland Street?" He turned abruptly, as if brought back tosomething far removed in thought. "What on earth do you know ofRowland Street?"

"Nothing--I never knew there was a street by that name until lastweek when I heard a girl talking to grannie, who said she lived onit. She did her hands, when she talked, just like the girl with youdid. " Bettina twisted hers in imitative movements. "She didn't keepher hands still a minute. "

"Few girls do when they talk. They apparently prefer to use theirhands to their brains. " Selwyn's shoulders shrugged impatiently, then his teeth came together on his lip. Again he stared ahead and, save for Bettina's chatter, we walked in silence to ScarboroughSquare. 

There had been few times in my life in which speech was impossible, but during the quarter of an hour it took us to reach home wordswould not come, and numbness possessed my body. A world ofpossibilities, a world I did not know, seemed suddenly revealingitself, and at its dark depths and sinister shadows I was frightened, and more than frightened. Conflicting and confusing emotions, asense of outrage and revolt, were making me first hot and then cold, and distrust and suspicion and baffling helplessness were envelopingme beyond resistance. The happy ignorance and unconcern andindifference of my girlhood, my young womanhood, were vanishingbefore cruel and compelling verities, and that which, because of itsugliness, its offensiveness, its repulsiveness, I had wanted to knownothing about, I knew I would now be forced to face. 

It was true what Mrs. Mundy and Aunt Matilda and Selwyn and evenKitty, four years younger than myself, had often told me, that inknowledge of certain phases of life I was unwarrantably lacking. Subjects that had seemingly interested other girls and other womenhad never interested me, and I took no part in their discussion. Andnow the protection of the past that had prevented understanding ofsordid situations and polluting possibilities was being roughly tornaway, and I was seeing that which not only stung and shocked andsickened, but I was seeing myself as one who after selfish sleep hadbeen rudely waked. 

Head and heart hot, I pushed back upleaping questions, forced downsurging suspicion and tormenting fears, but all the while I wasconscious that in the friendship that was mine and Selwyn's, thesomething that was more than friendship, a great gap had opened thatwas separating us. If he gave no explanation of his acquaintancewith the girl he had just left, it must be because he could not. Heknew my hatred of mystery, my insistence upon frankness betweenfriends. Would he come in and talk as freely as he had ever done ofwhatever concerned him? Would he tell me--

As I opened the door with my latch-key Bettina bounded inside, andthe light falling on Selwyn's face showed it white and worn. Something was greatly troubling him. 

"Good night. " He turned toward the steps without offering his hand. "It is useless to ask you not to go in such neighborhoods as you werein this evening, but if you knew what you were doing you would stayaway. "

"I know very well what I am doing. I am hardly so stubborn or wilfulas you think. But if it is unwise for me to be in the neighborhoodreferred to, is it any less wise--for you?"

"Me?" The inflection in his voice was the eternal difference in aman's and woman's privileges. "It was not a question of wisdom--mybeing where you saw me. It was one of necessity. Moreover, a mancan go where he pleases. A woman can't. No purity of purpose canovercome the tyranny of convention. "

"Convention!" My hands made impatient gesture. "It's the drag-netof human effort, the shelter within which cowards run to cover. Inits place it has purpose, but its place, for convenience sake, hasbeen immensely magnified. And why is convention limited to women?"

It was childish--my outburst--and, ashamed of it, I started to go in, then turned and again looked at Selwyn. Into his face had comesomething I could not understand, something that involved our futurefriendship, and, frightened, I leaned against the iron railing of thelittle porch and gripped it with hands behind my back. 

"Selwyn!" The words came unsteadily. "Have you nothing to say tome, Selwyn? Don't you know that I know the girl with you to-nightwas the girl who--who we brought in here last night? If you knewher, why--"

Staring at me as if not understanding, Selwyn came closer. In hiseyes was puzzled questioning, but as they held mine they filled withsomething of horror, and over his face, which had been white andworn, spread deep and crimson flush. "You don't mean-- God inheaven! Do you think the girl is anything to me?"

I did not answer, and, turning, he went down the steps and I into thehouse. 

CHAPTER X

For the past ten days I have been a very restless person. Mrs. Mundylooks at me out of the corners of her kind and keen and cheery littleeyes when she does not think I am noticing, but she asks me nothing. Mrs. Mundy is the wisest woman I know. 

If only I could sleep! During the days I am busy, but I dread thelong nights when questions crowd that, fight as I may, I cannot keepfrom asking. Selwyn is my friend. I never doubt a friend. But whydoes he not come to me? Why does he not make clear that which hemust know is inexplicable to me?

I may never marry Selwyn, but certainly I shall marry no one else. How could we hope for happiness when we feel so differently towardmuch that is vital, when our attitude to life is as apart as thepoles? When each thinks the other wrong in points of view and mannerof living? Selwyn was born in a house with high walls around it. Helikes its walls. He does not care for many to come in, and caresstill less to go outside to others. Few people interest him. Allsorts interest me. We are both selfish and stubborn, but both hatethat which is not clean and clear, and save from his own lips I wouldnot believe that in his life is aught of which he could not tell me. 

I have never told him I loved him, never promised to marry him. Tolive in his high-walled house with its conventional customs, itsage-dimmed portraits, its stiff furnishings, and shut-out sunshine, would stifle every cell in brain and lungs, and to marry him would beto marry his house. I hate his house, hate the aloofness, the lackof sympathy it represents. Its proud past I can appreciate, but notits useless present. Save his brother Harrie, it is the one thing ofhis old life left Selwyn. At the death of his father he boughtHarrie's interest and it is all his now. I would not ask him to liveelsewhere, but I would choke and smother did I live in his house. And yet--

Ten days have passed and I have neither seen nor heard from Selwyn. 

I have often wondered, on waking winter mornings in my very warm bed, how it would feel to go out in the gray dawn of a new day and hurryoff to work. Now I know. 

For more than a week I have been up at five forty-five, and atsix-thirty have been hurrying with Lucy Hobbs, who lives around thecorner, to the overalls-factory, where she is a forewoman. It isdark and cold and raw at half-past six on a winter morning, and thesunrise is very different from what it is in summer. 

Each morning as I started out with Lucy, and hurried down streetafter street, I watched the opening doors of the shabby, dull-lookinghouses we passed with keen interest. Ash-cans and garbage-pails werein front of many of them, and through unshuttered windows a childcould occasionally be seen with its face pressed against the pane, waiting to wave good-by to some one who was leaving. Out of thedoors of these houses came men and women and boys and girls, whohurried as we hurried, and with a word to some, a wave of heruplifted hand to others, a blank stare at others again, Lucy seemedleading a long procession. Around each corner and from every carthat passed came more "Hands, " and each morning when the factory wasreached a crowd that jammed its entrance and extended half a block upand down the street was waiting for the opening of the door, out ofwhich it would not come until darkness fell again. 

For the first day or two I was noticed with indifference on the partof some, resentment on the part of others, but on the third day, as Itook my place in the pushing, laughing, growling crowd that made itsway up several flights of stairs to the big room where shabby clothesare changed for yet shabbier working ones, my good-mornings weregreeted with less grudging acknowledgments, and now we are quitefriendly, these "Hands" and I, and through their eyes I am seeingmyself and others like me--seeing much and many things from an anglenever used before. 

They nodded to me less hesitatingly as the days went by, and at thenoon hour, when I have my lunch with first one group and thenanother, I find them, on the whole, frank and outspoken, find theyhave as decided opinions concerning what they term people likethat--which term is usually accompanied by a gesture in the directionwhere I once lived--as said people have concerning them, to whom, asa rule, they also refer in much the same manner and with the samewords. With each group on either side of its separating gulf theconviction is firm that little is to be hoped for or expected fromthe other, and common qualities are forgotten in the realization ofdistinctive differences. 

"What's the most you ever made a week?" The girl who asked thequestion moved up for me to sit on the bench beside her, and, unwrapping a newspaper parcel, took from it a large cucumber pickle, a piece of cheese, a couple of biscuits, and half of a cocoanut pie, and laid them on a table in front of her. "Help yourself. " Shepushed the paper serving as tray and cloth toward me. "I ain't hadmuch appetite lately. Hello, Mamie! Come over here and sit on ourbench. What you got good for lunch? My stomach's turned back onpie. I'd give ten cents for a cup of coffee. "

"Everywhere else but this old hothouse sells it for two cents a cupwithout, and three cents with. " The girl called Mamie nodded to meand took her seat on the bench. "I don't like milk nohow, and I'dgive the money glad for something hot in the middle of the day. Don't nothing do your insides as much good as something piping hot. Say--I saw Barker last night. " Her voice lowered but little. "Heand I are going to see 'Some Girl' at the Bijou next week. It's allmake-up--his being sweet on Ceeley Bayne! That knock-kneed, slew-footed, pop-eyed Gracie Jones got that off. I'm going to getone them lace-and-chiffon waists at Plum's for $2. 98 if don't nobodyget sick and need medicine between now and Wednesday. Seems likesomebody's always sick at our house. "

The question asked me had been forgotten, and, glad to escape theacknowledgment that I had never earned a dollar in my life, I got upon the plea that I must see a girl at the other end of the room, andwalked across it. As I went I scanned each face I saw. Consciouslyor subconsciously I had been hoping for days that I would see a facewhich ever haunts me, a face I wanted to forget and could not forget. Everywhere I go, in factories or mills or shops or homes; in thestreets, and at my windows, I am always wondering if I shall see her. She was very unhappy. Who is she? Why was Selwyn with her? It ismy last thought at night, my first in the morning. 

Yesterday I was at the box-factory where Jimmy Gibbons works. It ishis last week there. On the fifteenth he starts again to school. Knowing the president of the company well, I asked that Jimmy shouldbe my guide through the various departments, and permission wasgiven. I wish Jimmy were mine. 

"Miss High-Spy 'ain't got any love for on-lookers, and we'd betternot stay in here long. " Jimmy's voice was cautious, but his eyesmerry, and, glancing in the direction of the sour and snappy personwatching each movement of each worker, I agreed with him that it wasnot well to linger. The room was big and bare, its benches filledwith white-faced workers, and the autocrat who presided over itseemed unconscious of its stifling, steamy heat and sickening smellsof glue and paste. Going out into the hall, Jimmy and I went to awindow, opened it, and gave our lungs a bath. 

"What does she do it for? Is she crazy?"

"Not asylum-crazy--mean-crazy. " Jimmy's head nodded firstnegatively, then with affirmation. "She's come up from the beginningplace, and used to be a fire-eater before she got to be boss of ourbunch, and the men say people like that, people who ain't used todriving, drive harder than any other kind when they get the chance. She's a bully to the under ones, but the uppers--" Jimmy's eyes werelifted to mine and his lips made a whistling sound. "If Mr. Pritchard kicked her in the face, she'd lick the soles of his shoeswhen he was doing it, if she could. She wants to be boss of the roomup-stairs and Mr. Pritchard can put her where he pleases. If hedon't do it, he'd better, the women say, 'count of her knowing moreabout him than he knows she knows. I don't know what 'tis, but Ihate her. All of us hate her. "

"Why doesn't some one speak to Mr. Johns? Certainly he can't know--"

"Yes 'm, he does. Joe Dickson and Bob Beazley told him once, and thenext week they got a hand-out. High-Spy made Mr. Pritchard do it. Mr. Johns leaves those kinds of things to him. Swell folks like him'ain't got time to look after folks like us. He's awful rich, ain'the?"

"He isn't poor. When are you going to have your lunch?" I looked atmy watch. "Can't you go out and have it with me? I'll ask Mr. Johns. Come on, quick. I'll see the other rooms when I come back. "

Jimmy shook his head. "I can't go. I ain't being docked 'count ofbeing with you, because Mr. Pritchard sent me, but he wouldn't let mecome back if I went out. I been sent down to him once to-day, andplease 'm don't ask him, please 'm don't!"

In Jimmy's voice was something of terror, and his hands slipped inand out of his trousers' pockets with nervous, frightened movements. His usually merry little mouth with its pale lips quivered oddly, andin his eyes, as he turned away, were tears I could not understand. 

I put my hand on his shoulder, lifted his face to mine. "What is it, Jimmy? What has happened that you don't want me to ask Mr. Johns totell Mr. Pritchard you can go with me? Why are you afraid?"

"I ain't afraid. Yes 'm, I am. I--I've been docked once to-day. Please 'm don't ask Mr. Pritchard nothing! High-Spy makes him punishme whenever--"

"Punish you!" I straightened indignantly. "Why does he punish you?What right--"

"I don't mean licking. But he keeps me out of the room when I'm sentout, and docks me at the end of the week. Mother needs every cent. She's back in the rent. I was sent out to-day. "

"But why? What were you doing?"

"Nothing--leastways I didn't mean to. There wasn't none of us sickthis morning, and Billy Coons was acting down behind High-Spy's back, and I tried not to laugh. She don't let us laugh. But she said Idid. I didn't laugh--" Jimmy's voice was protesting. "I justsmiled and it--it busted. "

"Is that why she made you go out of the room?" I turned away andlooked out of the window lest the accident to Jimmy's smile be mine. "Is that why she sent you out?"

He nodded. "Mr. Pritchard kept me out an hour. Sometimes he lets memake it up at lunch. I was going to ask him to let me to-day, but--"

"I'm preventing. I'm glad of it! When are you going to eat yourlunch?"

"I've done et it--" Jimmy's tongue moistened his lips. "I et it onmy way here this morning. I got paid off last night and I took outfive cents and gave the rest to mother, and this morning I bought apie with it and et up every bite. It might have been hooked when Iwas out the room, so I'm glad I didn't save none. I got it atHeck's. He keeps the best pies in town for five cents. They're realfat. "

I was paying little attention to Jimmy. At the open window I couldsee a young girl across the street with a baby in her arms. She hadbrought it from a small frame house with high steps leading to asagging porch, in the door of which a large and kindly-faced womanwas standing, arms folded and eyes watching the movements of thegirl. As the latter lifted her head, on which was no hat, I leanedforward, my heart in my throat. The odd, eager young face, theboyish arrangement of the hair above it, the quick, bird-likemovements of the slender body, had burned for days and nights in mybrain, and I recognized her at once. 

"Jimmy, " I said, "come here. " I drew him to the window with nervoushaste, my fingers twitching, my breath unsteady. "Who is that girlwith the baby? There she is, turning the corner. Look quick! Doyou know her?"

Jimmy shook his head. "Never saw her. Can't see her now. " Heleaned far out the window, but the girl had disappeared, and thewoman in the doorway had gone in and closed the door. 

I must have said something, made some sort of sound, for Jimmy, turning from the window, looked at me uneasily, in his eyes distressand understanding. 

"What's the matter, Miss Heath? You'd better sit down. Did the heatmake you sick? You're--you're whiter than that wall. "

CHAPTER XI

A sickness which Jimmy could not understand was indeed upon me, andunsteadily I leaned against the window-frame, looking at, but notseeing, him, and not until he spoke again did I remember I was notalone. 

"Is it very bad? You look as if it hurts so. Wait a minute--I'llget you some water. "

I caught him as he started to run down the hall, and drew him back. "I don't want any water. I am not sick. " My head went up. "Thesmell of paste would make me ill if I stayed, however, and I'm notgoing to stay to-day. I'll come some other time. Run on and jointhe other boys. Tell your mother"--I seemed groping for words--"tellyour mother I will see her before you start to school. Run on, Jimmy, and thank Mr. Pritchard for lending you to me. And laugh asmuch as you want to, Jimmy. Laugh all you can before--you can't!"

Over the banister the child was leaning anxiously, watching me as Istumbled down the steps. At their foot I turned and waved my handand laughed, an odd, faint, far-away laugh that seemed to come fromsome one else; and then I went into the street and found myselfcrossing it, impelled by surging impulse to know--

To know what? At the foot of the rickety stairs leading to the highporch from which I had seen the girl come I stopped. All I had beenrepressing, fighting, resisting for days past, had in a momentyielded to horror, and hurt that seemed past healing, and I wassurrendering to what I should know was impossible. I must be mad!

With a shudder that was half a sob I turned away and walked down thestreet and into the one which would lead to Scarborough Square. As Iwalked my shoulders straightened. What was the matter with me? WasI becoming that which I loathed--a suspicious, spying person? I wasinsulting Selwyn. He knew I hated mystery, however, knew the rightof explanation was mine, knew that I expected of any man who was myfriend that his life should be as open as my life. If I had hurthim, angered him by my question when I last saw him, he had hurt, hadangered me far more. For now I was angry. Did he imagine I was thesort of woman who accepted reticence with resignation? I was not. 

At the corner Mr. Fogg was standing in the door of his little shop, holding a blue bottle up to the light and examining it with criticalcare. He had on his usual clothes of many colors, shabby from muchwearing, but in his round, clean-shaven face, pink with health andinward cheer, was smiling serenity, and in his eyes a twinkle thatyielded not to time or circumstance. His second-hand bookshelf, hiscanary-birds and white rabbits, his fox-terriers and goldfish arefriends that never fail, and in them he has found content. Hiseagerness to chat occasionally with some one who cares, as he cares, for his beloved books, is not at times to be resisted, but I was inno mood to talk to-day. I wondered if I could hurry by. 

"Good morning!" The blue bottle, half filled with water, in which atiny bulb was floating, was waved toward me, and a shaggy white headnodded at me. "It's a fine day, ain't it?--a fine day for snow. Good and gray. I think we'll have some flakes before night. Kinderfeel like a boy again when it's snowing. I don't know yet whichseason I like best. Every one has got its glory. What you been upto to-day? Seeing some more things?"

I nodded. "I wish I could come in, but I can't. " I shivered, thoughI was not cold. "I am going up-town. " A minute before I had nointention of going up-town, but to go indoors was suddenlyimpossible. Whatever was possessing me must be fought off alone. "Iwill bring you my copy of Men and Nations to-morrow. Keep it as longas you wish. "

"Thank you, ma'am. Thank you hearty. I'll take good care of it. Isuppose you haven't heard of the widow Robb? Her name's Patty, youknow, and she's got a beau. He's named Cake. Luck plays tricks withlove, don't it? Don't get caught in a snow-storm. You ain't"--hisvoice was anxious--"you ain't thinking of leaving us, are you? Thegirls down here are needing of you, needing sore. All of us areneeding of you. "

I shook my head. "Of course I'm not thinking of leaving you. " Iwaved my hand in response to his wave of the bottle, and, not seeingwhere I went, I turned the corner and, head bent to keep out of myface the tiny particles of sleet and snow beginning to fall, walkedfor some distance before noticing where I was. 

Much of my city, unknown to me a short while ago, was now familiar, but to much I was still a stranger, and presently I was wonderingconcerning the occupants of the houses I was passing. The shabbygentility and dull respectability of the latter was depressing, andto escape the radiation of their dreariness I turned into first onestreet and then another, and as I walked the girl with the boyishface walked with me, the face with its hunted fear. She had held thebaby as if frightened, and when she turned the corner she wasrunning. She was so young. Could the baby be hers? It must behers. Nothing but a mother-face could have in it what hers had. Whywas she afraid, and of what?

The streets were becoming rough and unpaved before I noticed I wasnearing the city limits, and, cutting across afield, I got into theAvenue, toward the end of which was Selwyn's house. As I neared itmy steps slowed. For years the Thorne property had been on theoutskirts of the city, but progress had taken it in, and alreadyhouses, flagrantly modern and architecturally shameless, offeredstrong contrast to its perfect lines, its conscious dignity, its calmaloofness, and its stone walls which shielded it from gaping gaze andgave it privacy. The iron gates were closed, the shutters drawn, andfrom the place stillness that was oppressive radiated, a stillnessthat was ominous. 

Pride was undoubtedly Selwyn's dominating characteristic. Pride inhis name, in its unstained honor, in the heritage of his fathers; andin the presence of his house it seemed an ugly dream--the pictureever in my mind, the picture of Selwyn walking slowly with a younggirl in the dark of a winter afternoon in a section of the city asremoved from his as sunlight is removed from shadow. In his naturewas nothing that could make such association imaginable. If nohigher deterrent prevented, pride would protect him from doubtfulsituations. He was sensitive to higher deterrents, however, assensitive as I. 

Passing the gates, on the stone columns of which the quaint, old-fashioned lamps of former days were still nightly lighted, Iglanced through them at the snow-covered lawn and the square-built, lonely house, occupied now only by Selwyn and his younger brotherHarrie, then again hurried on. The Avenue with its great width andunbroken length, its crystal-coated trees and handsome houses, wasnow deserted save for hurrying limousines and an occasionalpedestrian; and safe in the fierceness of the snow, from encounterwith old friends, I decided to walk home through the section of thecity which was the only part I once knew well, and just as I decidedI knocked into some one turning a corner as I approached it. 

"Oh, Miss Heath!" The woman drew back. "The snow was so thick Ididn't see you. Did I hurt you?"

"Not a bit. " I wiped my face, damp with melted flakes which hadbrushed it. "What are you doing up here? You look as frozen as Ifeel. Have you got on overshoes?"

The woman shook her head. "I haven't got any. I wouldn't have comeout, but I had to bring some work back to Mrs. Le Moyne. If she'dpaid me I'd have bought a pair of rubbers. But she didn't pay me. She said she'd let me have the money next week. "

"Next week! You need it this minute. How much does she owe you?"

"Four seventy-five for these last things, and four twenty-five forthose I made last week. I don't know what I'm going to do. " Thewoman's hands, cold and stiff, twisted nervously. "I don't reckonshe's ever had to think about rent, or food, or fuel, or overshoes. People like that don't have to. I wish they did, sometimes. "

"So do I. Come on; it's too cold to stop. We'll go down to Benson'sand get something hot to warm us up. I forgot about lunch. Turnyour coat-collar up--the snow is getting down your neck--and take mymuff. I've got pockets and you haven't. "

As we started off a large limousine with violets in the glass vasesof its interior, upholstered in fawn-colored cloth, stopped justahead of us, and a woman I did not know got out of it, followed byone I knew well. Fur coats entirely covered their dresses, andquickly the chauffeur opened an umbrella to protect their hats. Aswe passed I started to speak to Alice Herbert, but, turning her head, she gave me not even a blink of recognition. At first I did notunderstand; then I laughed. 

"Who is that?" Mrs. Beck's voice was awed. "Ain't they grand? Doyou know them?"

"No. " I put my hands in the pockets of my long coat. "I used toknow one of them, the feeble-minded one. We'd better go over to HighStreet and take a car to Benson's. The storm's getting worse. We'llhave to hurry. "

The street lamps were being lighted as we reached Scarborough Square, and at sight of the house, in the doorway of which Mrs. Mundy wasstanding, I hurried, impelled by impulse beyond defining. Mrs. Beckhad left me at the corner, and as Mrs. Mundy closed the door behindme she followed me up the steps. 

"I've been that worried about you I couldn't set still long at atime, and Bettina's been up three times to see that your fire wasburning all right. I knew you didn't have your umbrella orovershoes. It's a wonder you ain't froze stiff. I'll bring your tearight up. "

"I've had tea, thank you. " I held out first one foot and then theother to the blazing coals, and from the soles of my shoes camecurling steam. "It's a wonderful storm. I'd like to walk ten milesin it. I don't know why you were worried. I'm all right. "

"I know you are, but"--she poked the fire--"but I wish you wouldn'tgo so hard. For near two weeks you haven't stopped a minute. Youcan't stand going like that. I wish I'd known where to find you. Mr. Thorne was here this afternoon. He was very anxious to see you. "

"Mr. Who?" I turned sharply, then put my hands behind me to hidetheir sudden twisting. I was cold and tired, and the only humanbeing in all the world I wanted to see was Selwyn. It wasintolerable, this tormenting something that was separating us. "Whenwas he here?" I asked, and leaned against the mantel. 

"He came about three, but he waited half an hour. He didn't saymuch, but he was powerful put out about your not being home. Hecouldn't wait any longer, as he had to catch a train--thefour-thirty, I think. "

"Where was he going?" I sat down in the big wing-chair and thefingers of my hands interlaced. "Did he say where he was going?"

"He didn't mention the place, just said he had to go away and mightbe gone some time. He'll write, I reckon. He was awful disappointedat not seeing you. He asked me--" Mrs. Mundy, on her knees, unbuttoned my shoes and drew them off. "Your feet are near 'boutfrozen, and no wonder. Your stockings are wet clean through, and I'mletting you sit here in them when I promised him I'd see you didn'tkill yourself doing these very things. You just put your feet on thefender while I get some dry clothes. He says to me, says he: 'Mrs. Mundy, the one human being she gives no thought to is herself, andwill you please take care of her? She don't understand'"--

"Oh, I do understand!" My voice was wearily protesting. "The onething men don't want women to do is to understand. They want us tobe sweet and pretty--and not understand. Selwyn talks as if I were achild. I am perfectly able to take care of myself. "

"Maybe you are, but you don't do it--least-ways, not always. Ipromised him I wouldn't let you wear yourself out, and I promisedhim--"

"What?"

"That I wouldn't let you go too far. He says you've lost yourpatience with people, specially women, who think it's not theirbusiness to bother with things that--that aren't nice, and you're aptto go to the other extreme and forget how people talk. "

"About some things they don't talk enough. Did--did he leave anymessage for me?"

Again Mrs. Mundy shook her head. "I think he wanted to talk to youabout something he couldn't send messages about. "

CHAPTER XII

Selwyn has been gone two weeks. I have heard nothing from him. I donot even know where he is. 

Yesterday, over the telephone, Kitty reproached me indignantly for notcoming oftener to see her. Each week I try to take lunch or dinnerwith her, but there have been weeks when I could not see her, when Icould not get away. Scarborough Square and the Avenue are not mixable, and just now Scarborough Square is taking all my time. 

Daily new demands are being made upon me, new opportunities opening, new friendships being formed, and though my new friends are veryinteresting to me, I hardly think they would be to Kitty. I rarelyspeak of them to her. 

Miss Hardy, the woman labor inspector for the state, a girl who hadworked in various factories since she was twelve and who had gotten hereducation at a night school, where often she fell asleep at her desk, Ifind both entertaining and instructing, but Kitty would not care forher. She wears spectacles, and Kitty has an unyielding antipathy forwomen who wear spectacles. Neither would she care for Miss Bayne, another state employee, a clever, capable woman who is an expert in herline. It is her business to discover feeble-mindedness, to test schoolchildren, and inmates of institutions to which they have been sent, orof places to which they have gone because of incapacity or delinquencyor sin of any sort; and nothing I have read in books has been sorevealing concerning conditions that exist as her frank statementssimply told. 

In my sitting-room at Scarborough Square she comes in frequently fortea with me, and meets there Fannie Harris, the teacher of an open-airschool for the tuberculosis children of our neighborhood; and MarthaWhite, the district nurse for our particular section; meets Miss Hay, aprobation officer of the Juvenile Court, and Loulie Hill, a girl fromthe country who had once gone wrong, and who is now trying to keepstraight on five dollars a week made in the sewing-room of one of thecity's hospitals. Bettie Flynn, who lives at the City Home because ofepileptic fits, also comes in occasionally. Bettie is a friend of Mrs. Mundy. Owing to kinlessness and inability to care for herself, owing, also, to there being nowhere else to which she could go, she has beenforced to enter the Home. Her caustic comments on its management areof a clear-cut variety. Bettie was born for a satirist and became anepileptic. The result at times is speech that is not guarded, acalling of things by names that are their own. 

These and various others who are facing at short range realities ofwhich I have long been personally ignorant, are taking me into newworlds, pumping streams of new understandings, new outreaches, into mybrain and heart, and life has become big and many-sided, and a thingnot to be wasted. Myself of the old life I am seeing as I never sawbefore, seeing in a perspective that does not fill with pride. 

Last night I went to my first dinner-party since Aunt Matilda's death. In Kitty's car I watched with interest, on the way to her house, thelong stretches of dingy streets, then cleaner ones, with their old andcomfortable houses; the park, with its bare trees and shrubs, andfinally the Avenue, with its smooth paving and pretentious homes, itshurrying cars of luxurious make, its air of conscious smartness. Ascontrast to my present home it interested greatly. 

Kitty's house is very beautiful. She is that rare person who knows shedoes not know, and the house, bought for her by her father as awedding-gift, she had put in the hands of proper authorities for itsfurnishings. It is not the sort of home I would care to have, but itis undeniably handsome, and undoubtedly Kitty understands the art ofentertaining. 

Her dinner-party was rather a large one, its honor guest an Englishwriter whose books are unendurably dull; but any sort of lion ishelpful in reducing social obligations, and for that purpose Kitty hadcaptured him. She insisted on my coming, but begged me not to mentionhorrid things, like poor people and politics and babies who died fromlack of intelligent care, but to talk books. 

"So few of the others talk books, except novels, and he thinks mostmodern novels rotten, " she had told me over the telephone. "So pleasecome and splash out something about these foreign writers whose names Ican't remember. Bergyson is one, I believe, and Brerr another, andFrance-Ana--Ana something France. He's a man. And there's anotherone. Mater. . . Yes, that's it. Maeterlinck. And listen: Wear thatwhite crepe you wore at my wedding; it's frightfully plain, but allyour other things are black. I don't see why you still wear black. Aunt Matilda hated it. "

As I went up-stairs to take off my wraps I smiled at Kitty'sinstructions. In her room she hastily kissed me. 

"Do hurry and come down. I'm so afraid he'll come before the others, and I might have to talk to him. Literary people are the limit, andthis one, they say, is the worst kind. Billy refuses to leave his roomuntil you go down; says he'd rather be sent to jail than left alonewith him ten minutes. He met him at the club. "

Holding me off, she surveyed me critically. "You look very well. That's a good-looking dress. It suits you. I believe you wear pearlsand these untrimmed things just to bring out your hair and eyes. Nobody but you could do it. "

Stopping her short, quick sentences, she leaned forward. "There he is, coming up the steps with Mr. Alexander. Come on; they're inside. Wecan go down now. By the way"--she pinned the orchids at her waistwith unnecessary attention--"Selwyn got back yesterday. He will behere to-night. Dick Moran is sick, and Selwyn is taking his place. Atfirst he declined to come. For weeks he's been going nowhere, but hefinally promised. Are you ready?"

Without looking around she went out of the room, and without answeringher I followed. I was conscious chiefly of a desire to get away, to doanything but meet Selwyn where each would have to play a part; but as Ientered Kitty's drawing-room and later met her guests I crowded backall else but what was due her, spoke in turn to each, and then toSelwyn, as if between us there was no terrifying, unbridged gulf. 

Kitty's dinners are perfect. I am ever amazed at the care andconsideration she gives to their ordering. In art and letters she isnot learned, but she is an expert in the management of householdaffairs, and her dinner invitations are rarely declined. 

At the table, with its lilacs and valley-lilies, its soft lights andperfect appointments, were old friends of mine and new acquaintances ofhers, and with the guest of honor I shared their curiosity. Veryskilfully Kitty led the chatter into channels where the draught waslight, and obediently I did my best to follow. There was much talk, but no conversation. 

"Oh, Miss Heath!" A young girl opposite me leaned forward. "I've beenso crazy to meet you. Some one told me that you'd gone in for slums. It must be so entrancing!"

I looked up. For a second Selwyn's eyes held mine and we both smiled, but before I could speak Kitty's lion turned toward me. 

"Yes--I heard that, too. " Fixing his black-rimmed glasses more firmlyon his big and bulging nose, Mr. Garrott looked at me closely. "In mycountry slumming has become a fad with a--a certain type of restlesswomen who have to make their living, I suppose. But I wouldn't fancyyou were--"

"She isn't. "

Jack Peebles, now happily married, blinked in my direction, signaled meto say nothing, then turned to the Englishman. "Miss Heath can do asshe chooses, being Miss Heath, but the Turks are right. Women ought tobe kept behind latticed windows, given a lute, and supplied with veils, and if they ask for anything else, they should be taken from thewindow. "

"I don't agree with you. " Mr. Garrott filled his fork with mushroomsand raised it to his mouth. "The Turks carry their restraint too far. Women should have more liberty than is given them in Turkey. They addcolor to life, add to its--"

"Uncertainties. " Selwyn made effort to control the smile the othersfound uncontrollable. "In your country, now, the woman-question isinteresting, exciting. There they do things, smash things, make anoise, keep you guessing. Over here their behavior is much lessentertaining. Their attitude is one of investigation as well asdemand. They have developed an unreasonable desire to know things;know why they are as they are; why they should continue to be what theyhave been. They are preparing themselves by first-hand knowledge andinformation to tell what most of us do not want to hear. "

Selwyn's eyes again for a moment held mine, and in my face I felt hotcolor creeping. Never before had he defended, even with satire, whathe had told me a hundred times was folly on my part. He turned to Mr. Garrott. 

"Why on earth perfectly comfortable, supposedly Christian human beingsshould want personally to know anything about uncomfortable, unfit, under-paid ones--"

"Oh, but I think they ought to!" Again the pretty little creature ingreen chiffon nodded toward me. "But you won't let Miss Heath have achance to say anything! Some one told me such queer people came to seeher. Factory-girls and working-women and--oh--all sorts of people likethat. Is it really so, Miss Heath?"

"Very interesting people come to see me. They are undoubtedly ofdifferent sorts, but one of the illuminating discoveries of life isthat human beings are amazingly alike. Veneering is a great help, ofcourse. If you knew my friends you would find--"

"I'd love to know them. I always have liked queer people. I've beencrazy to come and see you, but mother won't let-- I mean--"

"Mrs. Henderson says she met a young man when she went to see you whowas the cleverest person she ever talked, to. " Gentle Annie Gaines wasventuring to come to my help. "He seemed to know something ofeverything. She couldn't remember his name. "

"It's difficult to remember. He's a Russian Jew. Schrioski, is hisname. " At the head of the table I felt Kitty squirm, knew she wastwisting her feet in fear and indignation. I turned to her Englishguest. 

"I have another friend who will be so glad to know I have met you, Mr. Garrott. He is one of your most intelligent and intense admirers. Hehas read, I think, everything you've written. "

Absorbed in his salad, evidently new and to his liking, Mr. Garrott wasnot impressed by, or appreciative of, my attempt to follow Kitty'sinstructions. With any reservations of my bad taste in talking shop Iwould have agreed, still, something was due Kitty. "He tells me"--Irefused to be ignored--"that he keeps an advance order for everythingyou write; buys your books as soon as they are published. "

"Buys them!" With the only quick movement he had made, Mr. Garrottturned to me. "I'd like to meet him. I'm glad to know there'ssomebody in America who buys and reads my books. Usually those who buydon't read, and those who read don't buy. But tell me--" Again thecorners of his mouth drooped, and again his spectacles were adjusted. "Why did you go in for--for living in a run-down place and meeting suchodds and ends as they say you meet? You're not old enough for thingsof that kind. An ugly woman, uninteresting, unprovided for--she mighttake them up. " He stared at me as if for physical explanation ofunreasonable peculiarities. "You believe, I fancy--"

"That a woman is capable of deciding for herself what she wants to do. "

Again Jack Peebles's near-sighted eyes blinked at me, but in his voicethere was no longer chaffing. "She believes even more remarkablethings than that. Believes if people, all sorts, knew one anotherbetter, understood one another better, there would be less injustice, less indifference, and greater friendship and regard. Rather anuncomfortable creed for those who don't want to know, who prefer--"

"But you don't expect all grades of people to be friends? Surely youdon't expect--"

I smiled. "No, I don't expect. So far I'm only hoping all people may, some day--be friendly. "

Kitty was signaling frantically with her eyes, and in obedience I againperformed as requested, for the third time turned to Mr. Garrott. 

"I heard a most interesting discussion the other day concerning certainpresent-day French writers. I wonder if you agree with Bernard Shawthat Brieux is the greatest dramatist since Moliere, or if--"

"I never agree with Bernard Shaw. "

Mr. Garrott frowned, and, taking up his wine-glass, drained it. Putting it down, he again stared at me. "I don't understand you. Youdon't look at all as I imagined you would. "

At the foot of the table Billy was insisting upon the superiority ofthe links of the Hawthorne to those of the Essex club, and Kitty, ather end, was giving a lively account of a wedding-party she had comeacross at the station the evening before when seeing a friend off forher annual trip South, and at first one and then the other Mr. Garrottlooked, as if not comprehending why, when he wished to speak, thereshould be chatter. Later, when again we were in the drawing-room, hecontinued to eye me speculatively, but he was permitted no opportunityto add to his inquiries; and when at last he was gone Kitty sat down, limp and worn at the strain she had been forced to endure. 

"What business is it of his how you live and what you do?" she said, indignantly. "He's an old teapot, but you see now what I mean. I'malways having to explain you, to tell--"

"Don't do it. I'll forgive much, but not explaining. Your liondoesn't roar well, still, a lion is worth seeing--once. " I turned toSelwyn. "I beg your pardon. Did you speak to me?"

"I asked if I could take you to Scarborough Square. I have a taxihere. "

"Thank you, but I am spending the night with Kitty. I am not goingback. "

In astonishment Kitty looked at me, then turned away. I had told her Icould not stay. I had not intended to stay, but I could not talk toSelwyn to-night. There would not be time and there was too much Iwanted to say. 

Selwyn's shoulders made shrug that was barely perceptible, and withoutoffering his hand he said good night. In the hall I heard him speak toKitty, then the closing of the door and the starting of the taxi, thensilence. 

Dawn was breaking when at last I slept. 

CHAPTER XIII

I have not seen Selwyn since the night of Kitty's dinner-party. Hehas been back three days. If he wished to see me before he wentaway, why does he not come to see me now? Daily I determine I willlet no thought of him come into my mind. The purposes for which Icame to Scarborough Square will be defeated if I continue to think ofthis unimaginable happening that is with me day and night, thispeculiar behavior of which he makes no explanation. I determine notto think, and thought is ever with me. 

I was silly, foolish, quixotic to hope that here, in this littleworld of workaday people, he might be brought to see that personalacquisition and advance is not enough to give life meaning, tojustify what it exacts. I was foolish. We are more apart than whenI came. 

Mrs. Mundy, in her blue cotton dress, a band of embroidery in theneck of its close-fitting basque, and around her waist a long, whiteapron which reached beyond her ample hips to the middle of her back, lingered this morning, dust-cloth in hand, at the door of mysitting-room. There was something else she wanted to say. 

"I'm mighty 'fraid little Gertie Archer is going to have what we usedto call a galloping case. " She went over to the window, where shefelt the earth in its flower-box to see if it were moist. "She's apretty child, and she was terrible anxious to go to one of themopen-air schools on the roof, but there wasn't any room. It's toolate now. "

The upper ends of the dust-cloth were fitted together carefully, and, leaving the window, Mrs. Mundy went over to the door. "Do you reckonthe women know, the women where you come from? And the other women, the rich, and the comfortable, and the plain ones who could help, too, if they were shown how--do you reckon they know?"

I looked up from the table where I had been straightening somemagazines. "Know what?"

"About there not being schools enough for the children, and aboutboys and girls going wrong because of not being shown how to goright, and about--"

Mrs. Mundy sat down in a chair near the door. "Another thing I wantto ask you is this: How did it come about that some men and womenhave found out they've got to know, and they've got to care, andthey've _got_ to help with things they didn't use to help with; andsome 'ain't heard a sound, 'ain't seen a thing of what's going onaround them?

"Some people like being deaf and blind. But most people are willingto do their part if they only understand it. The trouble is inknowing how to go about things in the right way--the wise way. Womenhave had to stumble so long--

"They're natural stumblers--women are. That is, some of 'em. They're afraid to look where they're going. I don't like to loseheart in anything human, but I get low down in spirit when I see howdon't-care so many women are. They're blind as bats when they don'twant to see, and they've got a mighty satisfying way of soothing ofthemselves by saying some things ain't their business. That'sdevil's dope. Generally women who talk that way are the ones whocall the most attention to the faults and failings of men. Considering men are men, I think they do wonderful. Mr. Guard saysif women keep silent much longer the very stones will cry out. "

"Mr. Guard? Is he the one you call the people's preacher?"

Mrs. Mundy nodded. "He preaches to them what won't go in a church. I reckon you've seen something about him in the papers. He used tohave a church in a big city, but he gave it up. I don't think hethinks like the churches think, exactly, but he don't have any callto mention creeds and doctrines down here, and he just asks peopleplain out what kind of life they're living, not what they believe. I've been wanting for a long time for you-all to know each other. "

"I'd like very much to know him. Ask him to come to see me. "

"He don't go to see people unless they need him. I've been wantinghim for weeks to come to supper with Bettina and me, but he's thatbusy he hasn't had a night free to do it. When he does have one, would you mind coming down and taking supper with us instead of mysending yours up as usual? I'd be awful proud to have you. "

"Of course I'll come. I'd love to. Can't you get him for Fridayevening? I have no engagement for Friday--"

"It's this minute I'll try. " Mrs. Mundy got up with activity. "Youtwo were meant to know each other. Both of you have your own way ofdoing things, and you'll have a lot to talk about. You'll like himand he'll like you. I'll let you know if he can come as soon as Ifind out. " Closing the door behind her, she left me alone. 

Taking the morning paper to the window, I drew my chair close to it, pushing back the curtains that I might have all possible light as Iread. It was again snowing, and the grayness of the sky andatmosphere was reflected in the room, notwithstanding the leapingflames of the open fire, and after a while I put the paper aside andlooked out of the window. 

Each twig and branch of the trees and shrubs of the snow-coveredSquare was bent and twisted in fantastic shape by its coating ofsleet, and the usual shabbiness of the little park was glorified withshining wonder; and under its spell, for the moment, I forgot allelse. Here and there a squirrel hopped cautiously from tree to tree, now standing on its branches and nibbling a nut dug from itshiding-place, now scurrying off to hide it again, and as I watchedthe cautious cocking of their heads I laughed aloud, and the soundrecalled me to the waste I was making of time. 

"This isn't writing my letters, and they must go off on the afternoonmail. " Getting up, I was about to turn from the window when a manand a young woman coming across the Square caught my attention and, hardly knowing why, I looked at them intently. Something about theman was familiar. He was barely medium height, and singularlyslender, and though his head was bent that he might better hear thegirl who was talking, I was sure I had seen him before. The girl Ihad never seen. She was dragging slowly, as if each step was forced, and, putting her handkerchief close to her mouth, she began to cough. 

For a moment they stood still and I saw the girl had on low shoes anda shabby coat which had once been showy. On one side of her hat wasa red bird, battered and bruised, and at this comic effort atdressiness, which poor people cling to with such patheticpersistence, I smiled, and then in alarm leaned closer to the window. 

They had begun their walk again, and were now at the end of the pathopening on to the pavement. I could see them clearly, andinstinctively my hands went out as if to catch her, for the girl hadfallen forward, and on the snow a tiny stream of red was drippingfrom her mouth. Quickly the man caught her and put his handkerchiefto her lips, and with equal swiftness he looked around. He could notlay her on the snow, but she could no longer stand. The fear in hisface, the whiteness of hers, were plainly visible. I raised thewindow. 

"Bring her over here, " I called. "I'll come down and help you. "

In a flash I was out of the room and down the steps. Mrs. Mundy, whohad heard my hurried running, followed me to the door. "What is it?"she asked. "What's the matter, Miss Dandridge?"

Opening the front door, I started down the steps, but already theman, with the girl in his arms, was coming up them. "Go back, " hesaid, quietly, though his breath was quick and uneven. "Go back. You'll get your feet wet. "

With a swift movement Mrs. Mundy pushed me aside. "Mr. Guard?" Hervoice was questioning, uncertain; then she held out her arms. "Thepoor child! Give her to me. Who is it? Why, it's--it's LilliePierce!"

"Yes. " The man's voice was low, and with a movement of his head hishat fell on the floor. "It's Lillie Pierce. She has fainted. Whereshall I take her?"

"In here. " Opening a door at the end of the hall, Mrs. Mundymotioned Mr. Guard to enter. From the girl's mouth the blood wasstill dripping, and on the collar of her coat was a big round splotchof red. 

"No, " I said. "Bring her up-stairs. There's a room all fixed, andyou have so much to do. " I put my hand on Mrs. Mundy's arm. "I cantake care of her. Can't we take her up-stairs?"

A swift look passed between Mrs. Mundy and Mr. Guard. "No. " Thelatter shook his head. "It is better for her to be down here. "Going inside of the little room, he laid the girl on a cot at thefoot of the bed, then turned to me. "Get a doctor. Call Chester4273 and tell Carson, if he's there, to come at once. If you canfind her, get Miss White also. "

I turned to leave the room, but not before I saw Mrs. Mundy and Mr. Guard at work on the girl, and already her hat and coat were off, andwarm covering was being tucked around her. Mrs. Mundy knew what todo, and with feet that hardly touched the steps I was at thetelephone and calling the number that had been given me. I wasfrightened and impatient at the slowness of Central. "For Heaven'ssake, hurry!" I said. "Some one is ill. Ring loud!"

Dr. Carson was in. He would come at once. Miss White was out. 

"Where is she?" I asked. "Where can I get her?"

I was told where she might be found, and, changing my slippers forshoes, and putting on my coat and hat, I came down ready to go out. At the door of the room where they had taken the girl I stopped. Shewas now quite conscious, and with no pillow under her head she wasstaring up at the ceiling. Blood was no longer on her lips, but acurious smile was on them. It must have been this gasping, faintlyscornful smile that startled me. It seemed mocking what had beendone too late. 

"I am going for Miss White. " I looked at Mr. Guard. "She is at theBostrows'. The doctor--"

As I spoke he came in, a big man, careless in dress and caustic inspeech, but a man to be trusted. I slipped out and in a few minuteshad found Martha White, and quickly we walked back to ScarboroughSquare. 

"It's well you came when you did. " She bent her head to keep theswirling snowflakes from her face. Martha is fat and short and rapidwalking is difficult. "I was just about to leave for the other endof town to see a typhoid case of Miss Wyatt's. She's young and getsfrightened easily, and I promised I'd come some time to-day, thoughit's out of my district. Who is this girl I'm going to see?"

"I don't know. I heard Mr. Guard and Mrs. Mundy call her LilliePierce. They seemed to know her. I never saw her before. "

"Never heard of her. " Miss White, who had been district nursing forfourteen years, made effort to recall the name. "She had ahemorrhage, you say?"

She did not wait for an answer, but went up the steps ahead of me, and envy filled me as I followed her into the room where she was tofind her patient. Professionally Miss White was one person, sociallyanother. Off duty she was slow and shy and consciously awkward. Inthe sick-room she was transformed. Quiet, cool, steady, alert, sheknew what to do and how to do it. With a word to the others, hercoat and hat were off and she was standing by the bed, and again Iwas humiliated that I knew how to do so little, was of so littleworth. 

Between the doctor and herself was some talk. Directions were givenand statements made, and then the doctor came to the door where I wasstanding. For a half-moment he looked me over, his near-sighted eyesalmost closing in their squint. 

"I knew your father. A very unusual man. " He held out his hand. "You're like him, got his expression, and, I'm told, the samedisregard of what people think. That"--he jerked his thumb over hisshoulder--"is a side of life you've never seen before. It's a sidemen make and women permit. Good morning. " Before I could answer hewas gone. 

Close to the cot Mrs. Mundy and Miss White were still standing. Thelatter slipped her hand under the covering and drew out the hot-waterbag. "This has cooled, " she said. "Where can I get hot water?"

Mrs. Mundy pointed to the bath-room, then turned, and together theyleft the room. The girl on the cot was seemingly asleep. 

As they went out the man, who was standing by the mantel, came towardme. "I am David Guard, " he said. "I have not thanked you forletting me bring her in. Had there been anywhere else to take her, Iwould not have brought her here. I met her at the other end of theSquare. We had been standing for some while, talking. There was noplace to which we could go to talk, and, fearing she would get toocold, we had moved on. Last month she tried to take her life. Thismorning she was telling me she could hold out no longer. There wasno way out of it but death. "

"Who is she?"

Before he could answer I understood. Shivering, I turned away, thenI came back. 

"Will you come to my sitting-room, Mr. Guard? Can we not talk ashuman beings who are trying to find the right way to--to help wrongthings?"

CHAPTER XIV

A moment later we were up-stairs. "I don't know why I am so cold. "My hands, not yet steady, were held out to the leaping flames. "Usually I love a snow-storm, but to-day--"

"They tell me you rarely have such weather as we have had of late. Personally I like it, but to many it means anything but pleasure. Is this the chair you prefer?"

At my nod he pushed a low rocker closer to the fire and placed afoot-stool properly. Drawing up the wing-chair he sat down andlooked around the room. As the light fell on him I noticed theolive, almost swarthy, coloring of his skin, his deep-sunk eyeswith their changing expressions of gravity and humor, of toleranceand intolerance, and I knew he was the sort of man one could talkto on any subject and not be misunderstood. His hair was slightlygray, and frequently his well-shaped hand would brush back a longlock that fell across his temple. His clothes were not of aclerical cut, and evidently had seen good service; and that he gavelittle attention to personal details was evidenced by his cravat, which was midway of his collar, and his collar of a loose, ill-fitting kind. 

About him was something intensely earnest, intensely eager andalert, and, watching him, I realized he belonged to that littlegroup which through the ages has dared to differ with acceptedorder; and for his daring he had suffered, as all must suffer whofeel as well as think. 

"You don't mind, " the smile on his face was whimsical, "if I take agood draught of this, do you? It's been long since I've seen justthis sort of thing. " His eyes were on a picture between twowindows. "Out of Denmark one rarely sees anything of Skovgaard's. That Filipinno Lippi is excellent, also. At the Hermitage in St. Petersburg I tried to get a copy like that"--he nodded atRembrandt's picture of himself--"but there was none to be had. Didyou get yours there?"

"Four years ago. I also got that photograph of Houdon's Voltairethere. "

He looked in the direction to which I pointed, and, getting up, went over to first one picture and then another, and studied themclosely. A bit of bronze, a statuette or two, an altar-piece, achalice, a flagon, a paten, a censer, and an ikon held hisattention, one after the other, and again he turned to me. 

"These are very interesting. Is it as one of the faithful youcollect?" A smile which strangely lighted his face swept over it. 

"Oh no!" I shook my head. "The faithful would find me a mostdisturbing person. I ask too many questions. " My hand mademovement in the direction of the bookshelves around the four sidesof the room, on the tops of which were oddly assorted littleremembrances of days of travel. "A study of such things is a studyof religious expression at different periods and among differentpeoples. They've always interested me. "

"They interest me, also. " Mr. Guard stood before the ikon, lookedlong upon it before coming back to the fire and again sitting down. For a moment he gazed into it as if forgetting where he was, thenhe leaned back in his chair and turned to me. 

"A collection of examples of ecclesiastical art, of religiousideas embodied in objects used for purposes of worship, isinteresting--yes--but a collection of re-actions against what theyfail to represent would be more so, could they be collected. "

"They have been--haven't they? In the lives of those who dare todiffer, to break from heritage and tradition, much has beencollected and transmitted. The effect of re-actions is whatcounts, I suppose. "

"Their inevitability is what people do not seem to understand. "Leaning forward, he again looked into the fire, his hands betweenhis knees. "The teachings of Christ having been twisted into asystem of theology, and the Church into an organization based ondogma and doctrine, re-action is unescapable. However, we won'tget on that. " Again he straightened. "Was it re-action thatbrought you to Scarborough Square? I beg your pardon! I have noright to ask. There was something you wished to ask me, I believe. "

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the flames of thefire, which spluttered and flared and made soft, whispering sounds, while on the window-panes the snow, now turning into sleet, tappedas if with tiny fingers, and my heart began to beat queerly. 

I did not know how to ask him what I wanted to ask. There was muchhe could tell me, much I wished to hear from a man's standpoint, but how to make him understand was difficult. He had faced lifefrankly, knew what was subterfuge, what sincere, and therestrictions of custom and convention no longer handicapped him. Between sympathy and sentimentality he had found the rightdistinction, and his judgment and emotions had learned to worktogether. My judgment and emotions were yet untrained. 

"The girl down-stairs, " I began. "You and Mrs. Mundy seem to knowher. If she belongs, as I imagine, to the world down there, " myhand made motion behind me, "Mrs. Mundy will think I can donothing. But cannot somebody do something? Must things always goon the same way?"

"No. They will not always go on the same way. They will continueso to go, however, until women--good women--understand they mustchiefly bring about the change. For centuries women have beencowards, been ignorant of what they should know, been silent whenthey should speak. They prefer to be--"

"White roses! But white roses do not necessarily live inhot-houses. " I pushed my chair farther from the fire. "That is oneof the reasons I am here. I want to know where women fail. "

He looked up. "One does not often find a woman willing to know. Behind the confusion of such terms as ignorance and innocence mostwomen continue their irresponsibility in certain directions. Theyhave accepted man's decree that certain evils, having alwaysexisted, must always exist, and they have made little effort totest the truth of the assertion. Lillie Pierce and the women ofher world are largely the product of the attitude of good womentoward them. To the sin of men good women shut their eyes, pretendthey do not know. They do not want to know. "

"They not only do not want to know, themselves--that is, many ofthem--but they would keep others from knowing. Perhaps it isnatural. So many things have happened to life in the past fewyears that even clever, able women are still bewildered, stilluncertain what is right to do. Life can never be again what itonce was, and still, most of us are trying to live a new thing inan old way. We have so long been purposely kept ignorant, so longnot permitted to have opinions that count, so long been told ourwork is elsewhere, that cowardice and indifference, the fear ofinability to deal with new conditions, new obligations, newresponsibilities, still holds us back. I get impatient, indignant, and then I realize--"

David Guard laughed. "That many are still in the child class?"His head tossed back the long lock of hair that fell over hisforehead. "It is true, but certainly you do not think because Isee the backwardness, the blindness of some women, I do not see theforwardness, the vision of others? Men have hardly guessed as yetthat it is chiefly due to women that the world is now askingquestions it has never asked before, beginning to look life in theface where once it blinked at it. Because of what women havesuggested, urged, insisted on, and worked for, the socialconscience all over the earth has been aroused, social legislationenacted, and social dreams stand chance of coming true. Certainfields they have barely entered yet, however. It is easy tounderstand why. When they realize what is required of them, theywill not hold back. But as yet, among the women you know, how manygive a thought to Lillie Pierce's world, to the causes andconditions which make her and her kind?"

I shook my head. "I do not know. I've never heard her worlddiscussed. "

"I suppose not. In this entire city there are few women who thinkof girls like Lillie Pierce, or care to learn the truth concerningthem; care enough to see that though they went unto dogs, unto dogsthey need not return if they wish to get away. Most people, bothmen and women, imagine such girls like their hideous life; thatthey entered it from deliberate choice. Out of a hundred there maybe a dozen who so chose, but each of the others has her story, inmany instances a story that would shame all men because of man. " Heglanced at the clock and got up quickly. 

"I'm sorry, but I've got to go. I'd entirely forgotten anengagement I'm compelled to fill. May I come again?" He held outhis hand. "I've heard about you, of course. I've wanted to knowyou. There's much I'd like to talk to you about. When you leaveScarborough Square and go back into your world, you can tell itmany things it should know. Some day it will understand. " Abruptlyhe turned and left the room. 

CHAPTER XV

The girl down-stairs, the girl named Lillie Pierce, was taken on theback porch this morning, and for the first time Mrs. Mundy left mealone with her. 

"When the snow's gone and the sun shines, the cot can be rolled out, Itold the doctor, " Mrs. Mundy tucked the covering closely around theshrinking figure, "but chill and dampness ain't friends to feeblefolks, and there's plenty of fresh air without going outdoors. It'shard to make even smart folks like doctors get more 'n one idea at atime in their heads, and in remembering benefits, they forget dangers. Are you ready, child, for a whiff of sunshine? It's come at last, thesun has. "

The girl nodded indifferently, but as the cot was pushed into the porchI saw her lips quiver, saw her teeth bitten into them to hide theirquivering, and I nodded to Mrs. Mundy to go inside, and I, too, lefther for a moment and went down the steps to the little garden beingmade ready for the coming of spring. Around the high fence vines hadbeen planted, a trellis or two put against the porch for roses andclematis, and close to the gate an apple-tree, twisted and gnarled, gave promise of blossoms, if not of fruit. Already I loved the gardenwhich was to be. 

"Violets are to be here and tulips there, " I said, under my breath, andwondered if Lillie were herself again, if I could not go back. "A rowof snowdrops and bleeding-hearts would look lovely there--" Somethinggreen and growing in a sheltered corner near the house caught my eye, and stooping, I pulled the little blossom, and went up the steps toLillie's cot and gave it to her. 

Eagerly she held out her hands and the silence of days was broken. Thebitterness that had filled her eyes, the scorn that had drawn her thinlips into forbidding curves, the mask of control which had exhaustedher strength, yielded at the sight of a little brown-and-yellow flower, and with a cry she kissed it, pressed it to her face. 

"It used to grow, a long bed of it, close to the kitchen wall where itwas warm, and where it bloomed before anything else. " The words camestumblingly. "Mother loved it best of all her flowers; she had allsorts in her garden. "

With a quick turn of her head she looked at me, in her face horror, inher eyes tumultuous pain, then threw the flower from her with a wildmovement, as if her touch had blighted it. "Why don't you let me die!"she cried. "Oh, why don't you let me die!"

I drew a chair close to the cot and sat down by it. For a while I saidnothing. Things long locked within her, long held back, werestruggling for utterance. In the days she had been with us her silencehad been unbroken, but gradually something bitter and rebellious haddied out of her face, and into it had come a haunted, hunted look, andyet she would not talk. Until she was ready to speak we knew it wasbest to say nothing to her of days that were past, or of those thatwere to come. 

Mrs. Mundy had known her before she came to Scarborough Square. In award of one of the city's hospitals, where her baby was born, she hadfound her alone, deserted, and waiting her time. Two days after itsbirth the baby died. 

When she left the hospital there was nowhere for her to go. She hadlived in a city but a short time and knew little of its life, and yetshe must work. Mrs. Mundy got a room for her, then a place in a store, and she did well, kept to herself, but somebody who knew her story sawher, told the proprietor, and he turned her off. He couldn't keepgirls like that, he said. It would injure his business. Later, shegot in an office. She had learned at night to do typewriting, andthere one of the men was kind to her, began to give her a littlepleasure every now and then. She was young. It was dreary where shelived, and she craved a bit of brightness. One night he took her towhat she found was--oh, worse than where she has since lived, for itpretended to be respectable. 

"She was terribly afraid of men. It wasn't put on; it was real. Iknow pretense when I see it. " Mrs. Mundy, who was telling me of thegirl, changed her position and fixed the screen so that the flames fromthe fire should not burn her face. "Ever since the father of the childhad deserted her, she had believed all men were wicked, but this manhad been so friendly, so kindly, she thought he was different from theothers. When she found where she was, she was crazy with fear andanger, and made a scene before she left. The next morning when shewent to work she was told her services were no longer needed, and toldin a way that made her understand she was not fit to work in the roomwith other girls. The man who had charge of the room was the man shehad thought a friend. He's got his job still. "

The ticking of the clock on the mantel alone broke the stillness of theroom as Mrs. Mundy stopped. I tried to say something, but words wouldnot come. 

"For years I've heard the stories of these poor creatures. " Mrs. Mundy's even tones steadied somewhat the protesting tumult in my heart. "For years I've known the awful side of the lives they lead. I didn'thave money or learning or influence, or the chance to make good peopleunderstand, even if they'd been willing to hear, what I could tell, butI could help one of them every now and then. There 're few of them whostart out deliberate to live wrong. When they take it up regular it's'most always because they're like dogs at bay. There's nothing else todo. "

"What became of Lillie when she lost her place?" I got up from thesofa and came closer to the fire. My teeth were chattering. 

"She lost her soul. She went in a factory, but the air made her sick, and after three faints they turned her off. It interrupted the workand made the girls lose time running to her, and so she had to go. After a while--I was away at the time--the woman she lived with turnedher out. She owed room rent, a good deal of it, and she needed foodand clothes, and there was no money with which to buy them. It got hercrazy, the thought that because she had done wrong she was but a rag tobe kicked from place to place with only the gutter to land in at last, and--well, she landed. But she isn't all bad. I used to feel aboutgirls like her just as most good people still feel, but I've come tosee there's many of them who are more sinned against than sinning. Themen who make and keep them what they are go free and are let alone. "

"Couldn't she have gone home? You said she was from the country. Wouldn't they let her come back home?"

Mrs. Mundy shook her head. "Her own mother was dead and her stepmotherwouldn't let her come. She had young children of her own. Last monthshe tried to end it all. She won't be here much longer. The doctorsays she'll hardly live six months. If we can get her in the CityHome--"

"The City Home!" The memory of what I had seen there came over meprotestingly. The girl had lived in hell. She need not die in it. "Perhaps she can be sent somewhere in the country, " I said, after awhile. "Mr. Guard might know of some one who will take her. Certainlyshe can stay here until--until he knows what is best to do. "

Mrs. Mundy got up. For a moment she looked at me, started to saysomething, then went out of the room. She was crying. I wonder if Isaid anything I shouldn't. 

"Tell me of your mother's garden. " I picked up the tiny flower and putit on Lillie's cot, where its fragrance waked faint stirrings of otherdays. "I've always wanted a garden like my grandmother Heath used tohave. I remember it very well, though I was only nine when she died. There were cherry-trees and fig-trees in it, and a big arbor coveredwith scuppernong grape-vines, and wonderful strawberries in one corner. All of her flowers were the old-fashioned kind. There was a beautifulyellow rose that grew all over the fence which separated the flowersfrom the vegetables, and close to the wood-house was a big moss-rosebush. There were Micrafella roses, too. I loved them best, andJacqueminots, and tea-roses, and--"

"Did she have princess-feather in hers, and candytuft, andsweet-williams?" Lillie turned over on her side, her hand under hercheek, and in her eyes a quick, eager glow. "In mother's garden wereall sorts of old-fashioned flowers also. We lived two miles from townand father sold vegetables and chickens to the market-men, who soldthem to their customers. But he never had as good luck with hisvegetables as mother had with her flowers. She loved them so. Therewas a big mock-orange bush right by the well. Did you ever shut youreyes and see things again just as they were a long time ago? If I wereblind-folded and my hands tied behind me I could find just where everyflower used to grow in mother's garden, if I could go in it again. "

Like a flood overleaping the barrier that held it back, the words cameeagerly. To keep her from talking would do more harm than to let hertalk. The fever in her soul was greater, more consuming, than that inher body. I did not try to stop her. 

"I don't remember where each thing was in grandmother's garden. " Imoved my chair a little closer to her cot. "But I remember thegooseberry-bushes were just behind a long bed of lilies-of-the-valley. It seemed so queer they should be together. "

"Lilies of the valley grow anywhere. Mother's bed got bigger everyyear. There was a large circle of them around a mound in the middle ofour garden, and they were fringed with violets. One February ourminister's wife died. They didn't have any flowers, and it seemed sodreadful not to have any that I went into the garden to see if Icouldn't find something. The ground was covered with snow, but theweek before had been warm, and, going to one of the beds, I brushed thesnow away and found a lot of white violets. They were blooming underthe snow. I pulled them and took them to the minister, and he put themin her hands. They used to put flowers in people's hands when theywere dead. I don't know whether they do it now or not. "

"Sometimes it is done. " I took up the sewing an my lap and made a fewstitches. "Tell me some more of your mother's garden. Did she havewinter pinks and bachelor's buttons and snap-dragons and hollyhocks init? I used to hate grandmother's hollyhocks. They were so haughty. "

"We did not have any, but we had bridal-wreath and spirea and a bigpomegranate-bush. There were two large oleanders in tubs at the footof the front steps. One was mine, the other was my sister's. Mysister is married now and lives out West. She has two children. "

A bird on the bough of the apple-tree began to twitter. For a momentLillie listened, then again she looked at me, in her eyes that which Ihad noticed several times before, a look of torturing fear and pain andshame. 

"Do"--her voice was low--"do you know about me?"

"Yes, I know about you. "

"You know--and--and still you talk to me? I don't understand. Why didyou come down here? You don't belong in Scarborough Square. "

"Why not? I have no one who needs me. " I held my bit of sewing off, looked at it carefully. "Other women have their homes, their husbandsand children, or their families, or duties or obligations of some sort, which they cannot leave, even if they wanted to know, to understandbetter how they might--" I leaned forward. "I think you can help me, Lillie, help me very much. "

"Help you--" Half lifting herself up, Lillie stared at me as if notunderstanding, then the flush in her face deepened. "I help anybody!Oh, my God! if I only could! If I only could!"

"I'm sure you can. " I picked up the flower, which again had fallen. "The doctor says you can go in the country soon, but before you go--"

"I hope I won't live long enough to go anywhere, but before I go awayfor good if I could tell you what you could tell to others, and makethem understand how different it is from what they think, make themknow the awfulness--awfulness--"

She turned her head away, buried it in her arms, her body shaking inconvulsive sobs. The bird on the apple-tree had stopped its singing, and the sun was no longer shining. In the hall I heard Mrs. Mundy goto the door, heard it open; then heavier footsteps came toward us, Ilooked around. Selwyn was standing in the doorway. 

CHAPTER XVI

Selwyn closed the door, put his hat and overcoat on a chair besideit, and came over to the fire. Standing in front of it, hands in hispockets, he looked at me. I, also, was standing. 

"Why don't you sit down? Are you in a hurry? Am I interrupting you?"

I shook my head. "I am not in a hurry, and you are not interrupting. I thought perhaps--"

"Thought what?"

"That you were in a hurry. " I sat down on a footstool near themantel, and leaned against the latter, my hands on my knees. "I soseldom have a visit from a man in the morning that I don't know howto behave. " My head nodded toward the chair he usually preferred. 

"I would not take your time now--but I must. " He took a seat oppositeme, and looking at me, his face changed. "What is the matter? Areyou sick? Your eyes look like holes in a blanket. Something hasbeen keeping you awake. What is it?"

"I am not at all sick, and I slept very well last night. " I drew alittle further from the flame of the fire. "I'm sorry if my eyes--"

"Belie your bluff? They always do. Resist as you will, they giveyou away. You've been working yourself to death doing absurd thingsfor unthankful people. Who is that sick person downstairs? Where'dyou pick her up?"

"I didn't pick her up. She had a hemorrhage and fainted in front ofthe house. I happened to see her and--and--"

"Had her brought in. I understand. In a neighborhood of this sortyou don't know who you're bringing in, but I suppose that doesn'tmatter. "

"No, it doesn't--when the bringing in is a matter of life and death, perhaps! As long as I am here and Mrs. Mundy is here, any one cancome in who for the moment has nowhere else to go. ScarboroughSquare has no walls around its houses. Whoever needs us is aneighbor. The girl was ill. "

My voice was indignant. There are times when Selwyn makes meabsolutely furious. He apparently takes pleasure in pretending tohave no heart. Then, too, he was talking and acting in such contrastto the way I had expected him to talk and act at our first meetingalone after the past weeks, that in amazement I stared at him. Ofself-consciousness or embarrassment there was no sign. It hadobviously not occurred to him that his acquaintanceship with a girlhe had given no evidence of knowing when I was present, and threedays later had been seen walking with on the street, absorbed in deepand earnest conversation, was a matter I would like to haveexplained. The density of men for a moment kept me dumb. 

Selwyn has been reared in a school honest in its belief that a womanis too fine and fair a thing to face life frankly; that personalknowledge and understanding on her part of certain verities, certainactualities, did the world no good and woman harm. But the woman ofwhom he thought was the sheltered, cultured, cared-for woman of hisworld. Protection of her was a man's privilege and obligation. Ofthe woman who has to do her own protecting, fight her way through, meet the demands of those dependent on her, he personally knewlittle. It was what he needed much to know. 

But because his handsome, haughty mother had lived in high-bred, self-congratulatory ignorance of what she believed did not concernher, and because he has for a sister, who's a step-sister, a silly, snobby person, he is not justified in withholding from me what henaturally withheld from them. One can be a human being as well as alady. It's this that is difficult to make him understand. 

For a half-moment longer I looked at him, then away. Apparently hehad not heard what I said. 

"I should not trouble you. I have no right, but I don't know what todo. I've so long come to you--" He turned to me uncertainly. 

"What is it?" I got up from the footstool and took my seat in thecorner of the sofa. "Why shouldn't you come to me?"

"You have enough on you now. " He bit his lip. "It's aboutHarrie--the boy must be crazy. For the past few weeks he has kept meclose to hell. I never imagined the time would come when I wouldthank God my father was dead. It's come now. "

"What is it, Selwyn? There is nothing you cannot tell me. " I leanedforward, my hands twisting in my lap. I knew more of Harrie thanSelwyn knew I knew, but because he was the one person I did know withwhom I had no measure of patience, I rarely mentioned his name. Harrie is Selwyn's weakness, and to his faults and failings thelatter is, outwardly, at least, most inexplicably blind. He is ashandsome as he is unprincipled and irresponsible, and his power tofascinate is seemingly limited only by his desire to exercise it. "What is it?" I repeated. "What has he been doing?"

"Everything he shouldn't. " Selwyn leaned forward and looked in thefire. "I was wrong, I suppose, but something had to be done. Forsome time he's been drinking and gambling, and I told him it had tostop. I stood it as long as I could, but when I found he wouldfrequently come home too drunk to get in bed, and would have to beput there by Wingfield, who would be listening for him, I had a talkwith him which it isn't pleasant to remember. I'd had a good manybefore. God knows I've tried--"

Selwyn got up, went over to the window and stood for a moment at itwith his back to me. Presently he left it and began to walk up anddown the room, hands in his pockets. 

"I've doubtless made a mess of looking after him, but I did the bestI knew how. Because of the eleven years' difference in our ages I'veshut my eyes to much I should have seen, and refused to hear what Ishould have listened to, perhaps, but I was afraid of being toosevere, too lacking in sympathy with his youth, with the differencesin our natures, and, chiefly, because I knew he was largely theproduct of his rearing. He was only fourteen when father died, andto the day of her death mother allowed no one to correct him. Sheindulged him beyond sense or reason; let him grow up with the ideathat whatever he wanted he could have. Restraint and discipline werenever taught him. As for direction, guidance, training--" Selwyn'sshoulders shrugged. "If I said anything to mother, cautioned her ofthe mistake she was making, she thought me hard and cruel, and endedby weeping. After her death it was too late. "

"Doesn't he work? Does he do nothing at all?"

"Work!" Selwyn stopped. "He's never done a day's work in his lifethat earned what he got for it. When he refused to go back tocollege mother bought him a place in Hoge and Howell's office. Theykept him until he'd used up the capital put in the business, then gotrid of him. I offered to put more in, but they wouldn't agree. Later, I got John Moore to take him in, but John now refuses to renewtheir contract. He's absolutely no good. That's a pretty hard thingto say about one's brother, but it's true. He's the only thing onearth belonging to me that I've got to love, and now--"

Selwyn's voice was husky, and again he went to the window, lookedlong upon the Square, and for a moment I said nothing. I could thinkof nothing to say. From various friends of other days who cameoccasionally to see me in my new home, I had heard of Harrie's wildbehavior of late, of Selwyn's patient shielding of him, of thelatter's love and loyalty and care of the boy to whom he had been farmore than a brother, and I wanted much to help him, to say somethingthat would hearten him, and there was nothing I could say. Harriewas selfish to the core; he was unprincipled and unscrupulous, andfor long I had feared that some day he would give Selwyn sore andserious trouble. That day had seemingly come. 

"He is so young. At twenty-three life isn't taken very seriously byboys of Harrie's nature. He'll come to himself after a while. " Iwas fumbling for words. "When his money is entirely gone he'll tireof his--his way of living and behave himself. "

"The lack of money doesn't disturb him. I bought his interest in thehouse for fear he'd sell it to some one else. He's pretty nearlygotten through with that, as with other things he inherited. How inthe name of Heaven my father's son--" Selwyn came over to the sofaand sat down. "I didn't mean to speak of this, however; of his pastbehavior. It's concerning his latest adventure that I want yourhelp, want you to tell me what to do. "

"Why don't you smoke? Haven't you a cigar?" I reached for a box ofmatches behind me. "Begin at the beginning and tell me everything. "

Selwyn lighted his cigar and for a while smoked in silence. In hisface were deep lines that aged it strangely and for the first time Inoticed graying hair about his temples. Suddenly something clutchedmy heart queerly, something that cleared unnaming darkness, andunderstanding was upon me. Unsteadily my hand went out toward him. 

"There is nothing you cannot ask me to do, Selwyn. There is nothingI would not do to help you. "

He lifted my hand to his lips. "There is no one but you I would talkto of this. You will not misunderstand. If I could not come toyou--"

I drew my hand away. "That's what a woman is for, to--to stand bywhen a man needs her. " My words came stammeringly. "I heard Harriewas away. Where is he and why did he go?"

"He's in Texas. He went, I think, because of a mix-up with a girlhere he had no business knowing. There was a row, I believe. "Selwyn frowned, flicked the ashes from his cigar with impatientmovement. "There's no use going into that. I'm not excusing him;there's no excuse, but so far as that's concerned there's nothing tobe done, so far as I can see. He got involved with this girl, alittle cashier at some restaurant downtown who thought he was goingto marry her. I knew nothing about this until a few weeks ago. WhenI heard it, I went to see the girl. "

The tension of past weeks, not yet entirely unrelaxed, snapped withsuch swiftness that I seemed suffocating, and, lest he hear the sobin my throat, I got up and went over to the window and opened it alittle. "Was she--" I made effort to speak steadily. "Was she thegirl who was brought in here? The girl you were with some threeweeks ago?"

Selwyn, who had gotten up as I came back to the sofa, again sat down. "Yes. She was the girl. " His voice was indifferently even. He hadobviously no suspicion of my unworthy wondering, had forgotten, indeed, his indignation at the question I had asked him after seeinghim with her. Other things more compelling had evidently crowded itfrom memory. 

"I had never seen her until the night I saw her here. She, I learnedlater, knew me, however, as Harrie's brother. I had been told thatHarrie was infatuated with her, and, knowing there could only bedisaster unless the thing was stopped, I went to see the girl. Theevening you saw me was the second time I had seen her. I was tryingto make her promise to go away. This isn't her home. She came hereto get work. "

Selwyn leaned back against the sofa, and his eyes looked into minewith helpless questioning. "I've been brought in contactprofessionally with many types of human beings, but that girl is themost baffling thing I've come across yet. I can't make her out. Thenight after I saw her here I went to see her at what, I supposed, washer home, just opposite the Hadley box-factory. Later she told meshe didn't live there, and would not say where she lived. All thetime I talked to her her eyes were on her hands in her lap and, though occasionally her lips would twist, she would say nothing. Itisn't a pleasant thing for a man to tell a girl his brother isn't asafe person for her to go with, isn't one to be trusted, but I didtell her. She's an odd little thing, all fire and flame, and to talkfrankly was to be brutal, but some day she should thank me. Shewon't do it. She will hate me always for warning her. She knew aswell as I that marriage was out of the question, and yet she wouldnot promise to give Harrie up. When you saw me I was on my way for asecond talk with her. Meeting her on the street, I did not go to thehouse, which she said she had just left, and as she would not tell mewhere she was going, I had to do my talking as we walked. "

"Did she promise to go away?" I looked into the fire, and the odd, elfish, frightened face of the girl with the baby in her arms lookedat me out of the bed of coals. "Did she promise to go?" I repeated. 

Selwyn shook his head. "She would promise nothing. I could getnothing out of her, could not make her talk. Harrie has been adurned fool--perhaps worse, I don't know. I tried to help her, and Ifailed. "

My fingers interlocked in nervous movements. Why hadn't the girltold Selwyn? Why was she shielding Harrie? Would she tell me orMrs. Mundy what she would not tell Selwyn? I could send Mrs. Mundyto her now--could break the silence which was mystifying to her. 

Selwyn's hands moved as though to rid them of all furtherresponsibility. "You can't do anything with people like that. She'drather stay on here and take the chance of seeing Harrie than go awayfrom temptation. I'm sorry for her, but I'm through. "

"No, you're not through. Perhaps we've just begun. Maybethere--there were reasons of which she couldn't tell you that kepther here. " I looked at him, then away. "The night we heard herfall, heard her cry out; the night we brought her in here, you metsome one across the street when you went away. Was it--Harrie?"

In Selwyn's face came flush that crimsoned it. "Yes, it was Harrie. I don't know what happened. He had been drinking, but I can'tbelieve he struck her. If he did--my God!"

With shuddering movement Selwyn's elbows were on his knees, his facein his hands, and only the dropping of a coal upon the hearth brokethe stillness of the room. Presently he got up and again went overto the window. When he next spoke his voice was quiet, but in it abitterness and weariness he made no effort to conceal. "It wasHarrie, but he would tell me nothing about the girl. From some oneelse I learned where I could find her. A few days after I saw her, Harrie went away. "

"Did you make him go?"

"No. I had a talk with him during which he told me to mind my owndamned business and he would mind his. " Selwyn turned from thewindow and came back to the sofa, on his lips a faint smile. "Whenhe went off he didn't tell me he was going, left no address, and forsome time I didn't know where he was. Less than three weeks ago Ihad a telegram from him saying he was ill and to send money. I wiredthe money and left for El Paso on the first train I could make. Itried to see you before I went, but you were out. "

"Why didn't you write?"

"I couldn't. Once or twice I tried, but gave it up. I found thatHarrie had undoubtedly been ill, but when I reached him he was up andabout. Two hours before I took the train to return home he informedme of his engagement to--"

"His what?" For a moment I sat rigidly upright, in my eyes indignantunbelief. Then I sat back limp and relaxed, my hands, palms upward, in my lap. 

Selwyn's shoulders shrugged. "Your amazement is feeble to what minewas. On the train going down he had renewed his acquaintance with agirl and her mother he had met somewhere; here, I believe, and a weekafter reaching her home the girl was engaged to him. Her name isSwink. "

"Is she crazy?"

"No. Her mother is crazy. I don't blame the girl. She's young, pretty, silly, and doubtless in love. Harrie has fatal facility inmaking love. This mamma person has a good deal of money; no sense, and large social ambitions. She's determined to get there. If onlyfools died as soon as they were born there would be hope forhumanity. A fat fool is beyond the reach of endeavor. " With eyesnarrowed and his forehead ridged in tiny folds, Selwyn stared at me. "Have women no sense, Danny? Have they no understanding, no--"

"Some have. But sense and understanding interfere with comfortableignorances that aren't pleasant to be interfered with. Does thisfemale parent know anything about Harrie? Did she let her daughterbecome engaged before making inquiries about him?"

"She knows very well who he is. She's visited here several times. If told of Harrie's past dissipations, she'd soothe herself with theusual dope of boys being boys, and men being men, and bygones beingbygones. " Selwyn's hands made gesture of disgust. "It's a plaincase of damned fool. She deserves what she'll get if she lets herdaughter marry Harrie. But the daughter doesn't. Somebody ought totell the child she mustn't marry him. If there was a father orbrother the responsibility would be on them. There's neither. "

"But didn't you tell Harrie--that--that--"

"I did. And the language I used was not learned in a kindergarten. Among other things I told him was that if he-- Oh, it's no use goinginto that. It's easy to say what you'll do, but it isn't easy toshow your brother up as--as everything one's brother shouldn't be. "

For a moment or two Selwyn continued his restless walking up and downthe room, in his face no masking of the pain and weariness of spiritthat were possessing him. To no one else would he speak so franklyof a family affair, and I wanted much to help him, but how? What wasit he wanted me to do? I could not see where I came in to doanything. 

"Is Harrie very much in love?" Such questioning was consciouslysilly, but something had to be said. "Do you think he really lovesthe girl?"

"No, I don't. He says he does, of course, but he doesn't loveanything but himself. Making love is a habit with him. Our girlsknow how to take the sort of stuff he talks; rather expect it, butthis little creature is obviously a literalist. I imagine Harriehardly remembers how it happened. He probably was surprised to findhimself engaged. However, he's determined to go through with it. Amillion-dollar mother-in-law has a good deal in her favor. Butsomething is the matter with the boy. He's not himself. "

"Didn't he go away about a year ago, and stay some time? If he couldbegin all over--"

"There's nowhere under heaven I wouldn't send him if he'd go with thepurpose of beginning all over, but he won't stay away. About sixmonths ago he went to South America and stayed four months. Since hegot home he's been worse than ever--reckless, defiant, and drinkingheavily. His health has gone and most of his money; practically allof it. I don't know what to do. I want to do what is right. Tellme what it is, Danny. "

My breath was drawn in shiveringly and the frightened face of thegirl with the baby in her arms again seemed close to me. Why was Iso halting, so afraid to speak? Usually I reached decisions quickly, but I couldn't get rid of the girl's eyes. They seemed appealing forprotection. Until I knew more about her I must say nothing. Mrs. Mundy must go to see her and then--

"I know I shouldn't bother you with all this. " Selwyn's voicerecalled me and the face in the fire vanished. "But there is no oneelse I can talk to. I should as soon go to a patient in a nervesanitarium as to Mildred. As a sister Mildred is not a success. She'd first have hysterics and tell me I was brutal to poor Harrie, and then declare that to marry a million dollars was the chance of alifetime for him. One of the ten thousand things I can't understandabout women is their defense of men, their acceptance ofhis--shortcomings, and their disregard of the woman who must pay theprice of the latter. Mildred would probably not give Miss Swink athought. "

"Harrie's sister and his mamma-in-law-to-be will doubtless find eachother congenial. They believe in sweet ignorance and blindacceptance for their sex. But what do you want me to do, Selwyn?What is it I can do?"

"I don't know. " Hand on the back of the sofa, he looked down at me. "When things go wrong I always come to you. When they go right youare not nice to me. To-day I had a letter from Harrie. He's comingback next week. His fiancee and her mother are coming with him. Theengagement is not to be announced just yet, however, and he asks meto keep it on the quiet. "

"And you've told me. "

"Told you!" Selwyn's voice was querulous. "Don't I tell youeverything? Mrs. Swink has friends here, strivers like herself--theonly kind of people you won't have anything to do with. But I'mgoing to ask you to call. Perhaps you'll be able--"

"She won't want to know me. I'll be no use to her. I can't help herin any way, and people like that are too keen to waste time on peoplelike me. I don't give parties. "

"But Kitty does. I don't know how you'll go about it, but you'llfind a way to--to make the girl understand she mustn't marry Harrie, or certainly not for some time. I feel sorry for the child, but--"

"And the other girl--the little cashier-girl? What about her?"

For a moment Selwyn did not seem to understand. "Oh, that girl! Idon't think there'll be any trouble from her. She doesn't seem thatsort. Forget her. You can't do anything. I've tried and failed. "

"I may fail, but I haven't tried. You dispose of her as if shedidn't count. "

"What can I do? I shouldn't have mentioned her. " Selwyn's foreheadridged frowningly, and, taking out his watch, he looked at it, tookup his hat and coat, and held out his hand. 

"Thank you for letting me talk to you. And don't worry about theother girl. You can't do anything. "

"Perhaps I can't, but you said just now one of the many things youcouldn't understand in women was their disregard of other women. That Mildred would probably give the girl no thought. The rich girl, you meant. "

"Well--" Selwyn waited. "I did say it, but I don't see what you'regetting at. "

"That sometimes women do remember the woman who has to pay--theprice; do give a thought to the girl who is left to pay it alone. Come to-morrow--no, not to-morrow. Come next week. It will takeMrs. Mundy until then to--"

"Mrs. Mundy has nothing to do with Miss Swink. The other girl, Itold you, can take care of herself. You mustn't look into that sideof it. I'll attend to that, do what is necessary. It's only abouther you seem to be thinking. "

"I'm thinking about both girls, the poor one and the rich one. Butthe rich girl has a million-dollar mother to look after her. Good-by, and come Tuesday. I forgot--What is the girl's name, thelittle cashier-girl's?"

"Etta--Etta something. " Selwyn made effort to think, then took anote-book out of his pocket and looked at it. "Etta Blake is hername. I wish you'd forget her. There are some things one can't talkabout, but certainly you know I will do what is right if Harrie--"His face darkened. 

"I know you will, but sometimes a girl needs a woman to do--what isright. She's such a little thing, and so young. Come Tuesdayevening at eight o'clock. "

CHAPTER XVII

Late that evening I had a talk with Mrs. Mundy. I told her where EttaBlake lived, that is, where she could find the house from which I hadseen her come with the baby in her arms, the house whose address hadbeen given me by Selwyn, and the next morning she was to go and seeher; but the next morning Mrs. Mundy was ill. Acute indigestion waswhat the doctor called it, but to Bettina and me it seemed a much moredreadful thing, and for the time all thought of other matters was putaside and held in abeyance. 

With Bettina's help I tried to do Mrs. Mundy's work, but my firstbreakfast was not an artistic product. I shall never know how to cook. I don't want to know how. I don't like to cook. There were many otherthings I could do, however, and though Mrs. Mundy wept, being weak fromnausea, at my refusal to leave undone the usual cleaning, I did it withpride and delight in the realization that, notwithstanding littlepractice, I could do it very well. I am a perfect dish-washer, and Ican make up beds as well as a trained nurse. 

Mrs. Mundy is much better to-day and to-morrow she will be up. Threedays in bed is for her an unusual and depressing experience, and hersunny spirit drooped under the combined effects of over-indulgence incertain delectable dishes, and inability to do her usual work. 

"It don't make any difference how much character a person's got, it'sgone when sick-stomach is a-wrenching of 'em. " Mrs. Mundy groanedfeebly. "I 'ain't had a spell like this since Bettina was a baby. Pigfeet did it. When they're fried in batter I'm worse than the thing I'meating. I et three, and I never can eat more than two. And to thinkyou had to do everything for Lillie Pierce, to get her off in time!The doctor says she can't live many months. Outside the doctor, andNurse White and Mr. Guard, don't anybody know she's been here. Ireckon it ain't necessary to mention it. People are so--"

"People-ish! They love to stick pins in other people! It'styranny--the fear of what people will think about us, say about us, doabout us! I'm going to give myself a present when I get like Mr. Guardand can tell some people to go--go anywhere they please, if it's whereI won't meet them. Are you all right now and ready for your nap?"

Mrs. Mundy nodded, looked at me with something of anxiety in her eyesas I straightened the counterpane of her spotless bed; but she saidnothing more, and, lowering the shades at the windows lest the sunlightbother her, I went out of the room and left her to go asleep. 

I am glad of the much work of these past few days. It has kept me fromthinking too greatly of what Selwyn told me of Harrie, of the girl towhom he is engaged, and of the little cashier-girl whose terror-filledface is ever with me. It has kept me, also, from dwelling tooconstantly on the message Lillie Pierce sent by me to the women ofclean and happy worlds. For herself there was no plea for pity or forpardon, no effort at palliation or excuse. But with strength born ofbitter knowledge she begged, demanded, that I do something to make goodwomen understand that worlds like hers will never pass away if menalone are left to rid earth of them. Ceaselessly I keep busy lest Irealize too clearly what such a message means. I shrink from it, appalled at what it may imply. I am a coward. As great a coward asthe women whose unconcern I have of late been so condemning. 

Yesterday Lillie went away. Mr. Guard took her to the mountains wherea woman he used to know in the days of his mission work will take careof her. He is coming back to-morrow. The sense of comfort that hiscoming means is beyond analysis or definition. Only once or twice in alifetime does one meet a man of David Guard's sort, and whatever mymistakes, whatever my impulses and lack of judgment may lead me to do, he will never be impatient with me. We have had several long and frankand friendly talks since the day he brought Lillie in to Mrs. Mundy, and if Scarborough Square did no more for me than to give me hisfriendship I should be forever in its debt. 

Early this morning I had a dream I have been trying all day to forget. Through the first part of the night sleep had been impossible. Thehaunting memory of Lillie's eyes could not be shut out, and the soundof her voice made the stillness of the room unendurable. I tried toread, to write, to do anything but think. I fought, resisted; refusedto face what I did not want to see, to listen to what I did not want tohear; and not until the dawn of a new day did I fall asleep. 

In my dream Lillie was in front of me, the bit of wall-flower in herhands, and gaspingly she cried out that something should be done. 

"It can never be made clean, the world we women live in. But thereshould never be such worlds. Good women pretend they do not know. They do not want to know!"

"But, Lillie"--I tried to hold her twisting, writhing hands. "There ismuch that has been done. Some women do know, and homes andinstitutions and societies--"

"Homes and institutions and societies!" She drew her hands away inscornful gesture. "They are poultice and plaster things. They are forsurface sores, and the trouble is in the blood. To cure, to cleanse, undo the evil of our world is not in human power. It's the root of thetree that must be killed. You can cut off its top for a thousand yearsand it will come back again. Women have got to go deeper than that andmake men know that they'll be damned the same as we if they sin thesame as we do. "

She was slipping from me and I tried to hold her back. "Tell me whatwomen must do! Tell me where they fail!" In terror I caught herhands. "Do not go until you tell me--"

In misty grayness she was vanishing. "When women make their sons knowthere is no less of sin and shame in sinful, shameful lives for themthan for their sisters our worlds will pass away. You've got to stopthe evil at the source. Men don't do what women won't stand for. Tellwomen that--"

She was gone and, waking, I found I was sitting up in bed, my handsoutstretched. 

I had a note from Selwyn to-day telling me the Swinks had come and areat the Melbourne. Harrie is not well. 

Kitty telephoned me late yesterday afternoon that Billie had anengagement for a club dinner of some sort, and she had appendicitis, orsomething that felt like it, and wouldn't I please come up and havesupper with her in her sitting-room. There was something she wanted totalk to me about. 

Kitty has a remarkable voice. It is capable of every variation ofappeal. I went. Mrs. Crimm came in to stay with Mrs. Mundy. 

The appendicitis possibility was not disturbing, and in a very lovelypink velvet negligee, with cap and slippers and stockings to match, Kitty was waiting for me. She is peculiarly skilful in the settingsshe arranges for her pretty self, and as I looked at her they seemedfar-away things, the world of Scarborough Square, with its dailystruggle for daily bread, and the world of Lillie Pierce, with its eviland polluting life, and the world of the little cashier-girl with itstemptations and denials. I tried to put them from me. The evening wasto be Kitty's. She took her luxuries as the birds of the air takelight and sunshine. Unearned, they seemed a right. 

She did not like the dress I had on. It's a perfectly good dress. 

"I'll certainly be glad when you stop wearing black. It's too severefor you; that is, black crepe de chine is. You're too tall and slenderfor it, though it gives you a certain distinction. Did Selwyn send youthose violets?"

"He did. Where's your pain? What did the doctor say was the matter?"

"I telephoned him not to come. I haven't got any pain. It's gone. Ijust wanted you by myself. " Kitty settled herself more comfortably inher cushion-filled chair and stretched her feet on the stool in frontof her. "Why didn't you come to Grace Peterson's luncheon yesterday?"

"I had something else more important to do. Grace knew I wasn't comingwhen she asked me. Society and Scarborough Square can't be served atthe same time. " I smiled. "During the days of apprenticeship only ahalf-hour is allowed for lunch. Did you have a good time?"

"Of course I didn't. Who does with an anxious hostess? One of theguests was an out-of-town person who used to know you well. She wantedto hear all about you and everybody told her something different. Allthat's necessary is to mention your name and--"

"The play's begun. To be an inexhaustible subject of chatter is toserve a purpose in life. I'd prefer a nobler one, still-- Who was myinquiring friend?"

"I've forgotten her name. She was the most miserable-looking woman Iever saw. On any one else her clothes would have been stunning. Don'tthink she and her husband hit it off very well. There's another ladyhe finds more entertaining than she is, and she hasn't the nerve totell him to quit it or go to Ballyhack. Women make me tired!"

"They tire men, also. A woman who accepts insult is hardly apt to beinteresting. Tell me about the luncheon. Who was at it?"

"Same old bunch. Grace left out nothing that could be brought in. Most of the entertaining nowadays is a game of show-down, regularexhibitions of lace and silver and food and flowers and china andglass, and gorgeous gowns and stupid people. I'm getting sick of them. "

"Why don't you start a new kind? You might have your butler hand anote to each of your guests on arriving, stating that all the thingsother people had for their tables you had for yours, but only what wasnecessary would be used. Then you might have a good time. It'sdifficult to talk down to an excess of anything. "

"Wish I had the nerve to do it!" Kitty again changed her position;fixed more comfortably the pink-lined, embroidered pillows at her back, and looked at me uncertainly. I waited. Presently she leaned towardme. 

"People are talking about you, Danny. You won't mind if I tell you?"Her blue eyes, greatly troubled, looked into mine, then away, and herhand slipped into my hand and held it tightly. "Sometimes I hatepeople! They are so mean, so nasty!"

"What are they saying?" I straightened the slender fingers curledabout mine and stroked them. "Only dead people aren't talked about. What is being said about me?"

"Horrid things--not to me, of course. They'd better not be! But--Mrs. Herbert came to see me yesterday afternoon. She wasn't at the luncheonand Grace got the first rap, but most of her hatefulness she took outon you. She's worse than a germ disease. I always feel I ought to bedisinfected after I see her. If she were a leper she wouldn't beallowed at large, and she's much more deadly. People like that oughtto be locked up. "

"What did she tell you about me?" I smiled in Kitty's flushed face, smiled also at the remembrance of Alice Herbert's would-be cut sometime ago, but I did not mention it. "You oughtn't to be so hard onher. She's crazy. "

"But crazy people are dangerous. A mosquito can kill a king, and aking has to be careful about mosquitoes. I'm more afraid of peoplethan I am of insects. If you could only label them--"

"People label themselves. What did Alice Herbert say about me?"

"First, of course, how strange it was that you should care to live inScarborough Square, especially as you were a person who held yourselfso aloof from--"

"People like her. I do. What else did she say?"

"That you met all sorts of people, had all sorts to come and see you. A trained nurse who is with a sick friend of her aunt's told her she'dheard you let a--let a bad woman come in your house. " Kitty's voicetrailed huskily. "She said it would ruin you if things like that gotout. I told her it was a lie--it wasn't so. "

"It was so. " I held Kitty's eyes, horror-filled and unbelieving. "Shestayed with Mrs. Mundy a week. Yesterday she went away to themountains--to die. "

For a moment longer Kitty stared at me, and in her face crept deep andcrimson color. "You mean--that you let a--a woman like that come inyour house and stay a week? Mean--"

For a long time we sat by the fire in Kitty's sitting-room with itsrose-colored hangings, its mellow furnishings, its soft burning logs ontheir brass andirons, its elusive fragrance of fresh flowers, andunsparingly I told her what all women should know. In the twilightthat of which I talked made pictures come and go that gave herunderstanding never glimpsed before, and, slipping on her knees, sheburied her face, shudderingly, in my lap. 

"Is it I, Danny? Is it women like me who could do something anddon't?" she said, after a long, long while. "Oh, Danny, is it I?"

[Illustration: "Is it I, Danny? Is it women like me who could dosomething and don't?"]

"It is all of us. " My fingers smoothed the beautiful brown hair. "Every woman of to-day who thinks there's a halo on her head ought totake it off and look at it. She wouldn't see much. We like halos. Weimagine we deserve them. And we like the pretty speeches which havespoiled us. What we need is plain truth, Kitty. We need to seewithout confusion. Sometimes I wonder if we are not the colossalfailure of life--we women who have hardly begun to use the power Godput in our hands when He made us the mothers of sons and daughters--"

"But we've only been educated such a little while--most of us aren'teducated yet. I'm not. " Her arms on my knees, Kitty looked up in myface, in hers the dawning light of vision long delayed. "Men haven'twanted us to think. They want to think for us. "

"But ours is the first chance at starting men to thinking right. Through babyhood and boyhood they are ours. If all women couldunderstand--"

"All women haven't got anything to understand with even if they wantedto understand. Some who have sense don't want responsibility. " Kittybit her lip. "I haven't wanted it. It's so much easier not--not tohave it. And now--now you've put it on me. "

"When women know, they will not shirk. So many of us are children yet. We've got to grow up. " Stooping, I kissed her. "In Scarborough SquareI've learned to see it's a pretty wasteful world I've lived in. Andlife is short, Kitty. There's not a moment of it to be wasted. "

CHAPTER XVIII

Mrs. Mundy cannot find Etta Blake. She went this morning to thehouse just opposite the box-factory, but no one is living there. A"For Rent" sign is on it. After trying, without success, to findfrom the families who live in the neighborhood where the people whoonce occupied the house have gone, she went to the agent, but fromhim also she could learn nothing. 

"They were named Banch. A man and his wife and three children livedin the house, but where they've moved nobody could tell me, or giveme a thing to go on. They went away between sun-up and sun-down andno one knows where. " Mrs. Mundy, who had come to my sitting-room tomake report, before taking off her coat and hat, sat down in a chairnear the desk at which I had been writing, and smoothed the fingersof her gloves with careful precision. She was disappointed anddistressed that she had so little to tell me. 

"I couldn't find a soul who'd ever heard of a girl named Etta Blake. Poor people are generally sociable and know everybody in theneighborhood, but didn't anybody know her. Mr. Parke, the agent, said the man paid his rent regular and he was sorry to lose him as atenant, but he didn't know where he'd gone. If his wife tookboarders he didn't know anything about it. The girl might haverented a room--" Mrs. Mundy hesitated, looked at me uncertainly. "Shall I ask Mr. Crimm to--to help me find her? If she's in townhe'd soon know where. "

Something in her voice sent the blood to my face. "You mean--oh no, you cannot, do not mean--"

"I don't know. It's usually the end. The only one they have to cometo when a man like Mr. Thorne's brother makes a girl lose her headabout him. After he tires of her, or when he's afraid there may betrouble, there's apt to be a row and he quits. When he's gone thegirl generally ends--down there. " Mrs. Mundy's hand made movementover her shoulder. "Respectable people don't want to have anythingto do with girls like that, and it's hard for them to get work. After a while they give up and go to what's the only place some ofthem have to go to. Would you mind if I ask Mr. Crimm?"

I shook my head. "No, I would not mind. "

Going over to a window, I opened it, and as the sunshine fell upon myface it seemed impossible that such things as Mrs. Mundy feared weretrue. But I knew now they were true, and shiveringly I twisted myhands within my arms as if to warm my heart, which was cold with anameless something it was difficult to define. On one side of me thelittle, elfish creature with her frightened eyes and short, curlyhair seemed standing; on the other, the girl to whom Harrie wasengaged. I could not help them. Could not help Selwyn. Could helpno one! If David Guard--at thought of him the clutch at my throatlessened. David Guard could help them. He had promised to comewhenever I sent for him, and to him I could talk as to no one else onearth. 

"I will see Mr. Crimm to-night. It won't be new to him--the findingof a girl who's disappeared. He's found too many. I'll be carefulwhat I tell him, and Mr. Thorne needn't worry. " Mrs. Mundy got up. "Didn't you say he was coming this afternoon?"

"He is coming to-night. I am going out this afternoon. "

Mrs. Mundy walked slowly to the door. She would have enjoyed talkinglonger, but I could not talk. A sense of involvement with thingsthat frightened and repelled, with things of which I had hithertobeen irresponsibly ignorant, was bewildering me and I wanted to bealone. I knew I was a coward, but there was no special need of herknowing it. 

I had been honest in thinking I wanted to know all sorts of people, to see myself, and women like me, from the viewpoint of those deniedmy opportunities, but it had not occurred to me as a possibility ofScarborough Square that I should come in contact with any of thewomen of Lillie Pierce's world. People like that had hardly seemedthe human beings other people were. And now--

"Tell Mr. Crimm whatever you think best. " My back was to Mrs. Mundy. "The girl is in trouble. You must see her. Bring her here if youcannot go to her, and try and learn her side of the story. It's anold one, perhaps, but it isn't fair that--"

"She should be shoved into hell and the lid shut down to keep her in, and the man let alone to go where he pleases. It isn't fair, butit's the world's way, and always will be lessen women learn somethings they ought to know. They wouldn't stand for some of thethings that go on if they understood them, but they don't understand. They've been tongue-tied and hand-tied so long, they haven't taken inyet they've got to do their own untying. "

"It's a pretty lonely job--and a pretty hard one. " I turned from thewindow. Kitty's automobile had stopped in front of the house. I wasto go in it to call on Mrs. And Miss Swink. Kitty had insisted thatI use it. 

I dressed quickly, putting on my best garments, but as I got into thecar something of the old protest at having to do what I did not wantto do, to go where I did not want to go, came over me, and I wasconscious of childish irritability. I did not care to know theSwinks. Eternity wouldn't be long enough, and certainly time wasn'tto waste on people like that, and yet because Selwyn had asked me tocall I was doing it. All men are alike. When they don't know how todo a thing that's got to be done, they tell a woman to do it. It wasnot my business to tell this Swink person and her daughter that theyshould be careful concerning matrimonial alliances. I would agreewith them that such intimation on my part was presumptuous and I hadno intention of making it. What I was going to do I did not know, but it was necessary to see them, talk with them before anysuggestions could be made to Selwyn as to a tactful handling of anembarrassing situation; and in obedience to this primary requisite Iwas calling. 

In their private parlor at the Melbourne, pompously furnished, andbare of all things that make a room reflective of personality, Mrs. Swink and her daughter were awaiting me on my arrival, and the momentI met the former all the perversity of which I am possessed rose upwithin me, and for the latter I was conscious of sympathy, based onnothing save intuitive antipathy to her mother. Inwardly I warnedmyself to behave, but I wasn't sure I was going to do it. 

"Oh, how do you do!" Mrs. Swink, a fat, florid, frizzy person, waddled toward me with out-stretched and bejeweled hands, and tookmine in hers. "Mr. Thorne told us you would certainly call, andwe've been waiting for you ever since he told us. Charmed to meetyou! This is my daughter Madeleine. Where's Madeleine?" She turnedher short, red neck, bound with velvet, and looked behind her. "Oh, here she is! Madeleine, this is Miss Wreath. You know all aboutMiss Wreath, who's gone to such a queer place to live. Harrie toldus. " Two sharp little eyes sunk in nests of embracing flesh winkedconfidentially at first me and then her daughter. "Yes, indeed, weknow all about you. Sit down. Madeleine, push a chair up for MissWreath. "

"Heath, mother!" The girl called Madeleine turned her pretty, dissatisfied face toward her mother and then looked at me. "Shenever gets names right. She just hits at them and says the firstthing that comes to her mind. " Pulling a large chair close to atable, on which was a vase of American Beauty roses, she waited forme to take it, then went over to the window and sat beside it. 

"Well, everybody's got a mental weakness. " Upright in ablue-brocaded chair, elbows on its gilt arms, mother Swink surveyedme with scrutinizing calculation, and as she appraised I appraisedalso. Full-bosomed of body and short of leg, she looked close kin toa frog in her tight-fitting purple gown with its iridescenttrimmings, and low-cut neck; and from her silver-buckled slippers tothe crimped and russet-colored transformation on her head, which hadslipped somewhat to one side, my eyes went up and then went down, andI knew if Harrie ever married her daughter his punishment would beginon earth. 

"Yes, indeed, everybody's got a mental weakness, and I'm thankfulmine's no worse than forgetting names. I ought to remember yours, though. It makes you think of funerals and weddings and things likethat. I love names which--"

"Her name is Heath, mother! _Not_ Wreath. "

"Oh yes--of course! This certainly is a beautiful day. If El Pasohadn't been so far away we'd have brought one of our cars with us, but I don't see any sense spending all that money when you can hirecars so cheap by the hour. Madeleine don't like to ride in hiredcars. I like any kind of car. "

So far I had had no opportunity of doing more than bend my head, achance to speak not having been permitted me, but, at her mother'spause for breath, the girl at the window looked down upon the streetand then turned her face toward me. "That's a pretty car you camein. Can you drive it yourself?"

"I have no car. That's Kitty's--I mean Mrs. McBryde's. That remindsme. I have a message from her. She could not call this afternoon, but she asks me to say she hopes you can both come in Thursdayafternoon and have tea with her. She is always at home on Thursdaysand--"

"Yes, indeed; we'll be glad to come. " Mrs. Swink took up Kitty'scard, which had been sent up with mine, and looked at it through herlorgnette, suspended around her neck by a chain studded withamethysts, large and small. "We'll come with pleasure. Won't we, Madeleine? Shall we write and tell her?"

"Of course not, mother. Didn't you just hear Miss Heath say it washer regular 'at home' day? You don't write notes for things likethat. " Miss Swink's eyes again turned in my direction. "I'm muchobliged, but I don't think I can come. I've an engagement forThursday. "

"If it's with Harrie, he won't mind waiting awhile. " Withunconcealed eagerness Mrs. Swink twisted herself in her tight andtoo-embracing chair, for the moment forgetting, seemingly, that I wasa hearing person. "You can't afford to miss a chance like that. You'll meet the best people. Harrie can stay to dinner. I'll gettickets for the theatre. "

"He won't come to dinner. I asked him. Says he's sick. " The girl'slips curled slightly. "He's always sick when--"

"Madeleine!" The sudden change in Mrs. Swink's voice was beyondbelief, and with a shrug of her shoulders the girl again looked outof the window. I was making discoveries with unexpected rapidity, discoveries that were filling me with speculation and promisingconclusions that were at variance with Selwyn's, and for a moment theuncomfortable silence, following the sharp ejaculation, was unbrokenby me in the realization of my unwilling participation in a bit offamily revelation, and also by inability to think of anything to say. 

"I hope you can come. " My tone was but feebly urging. "Everybodyhas such a good time at Kitty's. I hope, too, you are going to likeour city. " I looked from mother to daughter as I uttered the usualformulas for strangers. "This is not your first visit?"

"Oh no--we've been here several times before. We like it very much. It's so distinguay and all that. " Mrs. Swink's hands went to herhead and she patted her transformation, but failed to straighten it. "I was born in Alabama, and Mr. Swink in Missouri, and Madeleine inTexas, so we feel kin to all Southerners and at home anywhere in theSouth; but I like this city best of any in it. Some day, I reckon, we'll live here. " Her voice was significant and again she looked ather daughter, but her daughter did not look at her. 

"We think it a very nice city, but I suppose I'd love any place inwhich I had to live. That is, I'd try to. You have old friendshere, I believe, and of course you'll make new ones. " My voice waseven less affirmative than interrogatory. I hardly knew what I wassaying. I was thinking of something else. 

"Yes, indeed. That's what we expect to do. We don't know a greatmany people here. Mrs. Hadden Cressy and I are old friends, but wedon't see much of each other. I suppose you know the Cressys?"

"I know of them very well. They are among our most valuable people. I have often wanted to know Mr. And Mrs. Cressy. Their son, Tom, Iused to see often as a boy, but of late I rarely come across him. What's become of him? He was one of the nicest boys I ever knew. "

Mrs. Swink's hands made expressive gesture, but the girl at thewindow gave no sign of hearing me. In her face, however, I saw colorcreep, saw also that she bit her lips. 

"Nobody knows what he does with himself. " Mrs. Swink sighed. "Afterall the money his father spent on his education, and after everybodytook him up, he dropped out of society and stuck at his business asif he didn't have a cent in the world. He hasn't any ambition. Hecould go with the most fashionable people in town, if his parentscan't, but he won't do it. He must be a great disappointment to hisparents. "

With a slow movement of her shoulders, Miss Swink turned and lookedat her mother, in her eyes that which made me sit up. What the lookimplied I was unable altogether to understand, but I could venture aguess at it, and on the venture I spoke:

"He's the pride of their life, I've been told. Any parents would beproud of such a son--that is, if they were the kind of parents a soncould be proud of. I'd like to see Tom. I used to be very fond ofhim when he was a boy. He lived just back of us and he and Kittywere great friends as children. I'm afraid he's forgotten me, however. "

"No, he hasn't--" Miss Swink stopped as abruptly as she began, butthe color that had crept into her face at mention of Tom Cressy'sname now crimsoned it, and again she turned her head away. In hereyes, however, I had caught the gratitude flashed to me, and quicklyI decided I must see her alone, talk to her alone; and so absorbedwas I in wondering how I could do it that only vaguely did I hearMrs. Swink, who was telling me of various engagements already made, of the difficulty of getting in what had to be gotten in betweenbeing manicured and marcelled and massaged and chiropodized andtailored and dress-makered, and had she not been so interested in thetelling she would have discovered I was not at all interested in thehearing. She did not discover. 

When for the third time I saw Miss Swink glance at the watch upon herwrist, and then out of the window, I knew she was waiting for someone to pass. It wasn't Harrie. There was no necessity for furtivewatching for Harrie to pass, The latter's plaint of sickness wasevidently not convincing to the girl. I looked at the clock on themantel. I had been in the room twenty-seven minutes, but I didn'tagree with Selwyn that Miss Swink was in love with his brother. Herengagement to him was due, I imagined, not so much to her literalnessas to her mother's management. An unholy desire to demonstrate thatthe latter was not of a scientific kind possessed me, and quickly mymind worked. 

CHAPTER XIX

With eyes apparently on Mrs. Swink, I missed no movement of herdaughter, and when presently I saw her put her elbow on thewindow-sill and wipe her lips with her handkerchief, and then makemovement as if to brush something away, I got up, made effort to saygood-by unhurriedly to her mother, and went over to the girl. As Iheld out my hand I glanced out of the window. Exactly opposite, andlooking up at it, was Tom Cressy, his handkerchief to his lips. 

I took the hand she held toward me in both of mine and something inher eyes, something both mutinous and pleading, filled me withsympathy I should not have felt, perhaps. She was only nineteen, andher mother was obviously trying to make her marry Harrie when sheprobably loved Tom. It was all so weak and so wicked, so sordid andstupid, that I felt like Kitty when with Alice Herbert. I neededdisinfecting. I would have to get away before I said things Ishouldn't. 

"Your mother says the masseuse comes this afternoon. Can't you takea drive with me while she is here?" I turned to Mrs. Swink. "Youwill not mind if she leaves you for a little while? It is too lovelyto stay indoors. "

"No, indeed, I won't mind. I'll be glad to have her go if she'll doit. Lately she won't do anything but sit at that window. " Mrs. Swink, who had gotten out of her chair with difficulty, turned to herdaughter, blinking her little, near-sighted eyes at her as if shewere beyond all human understanding; and the fretfulness of her toneshe made no effort to control. "She's that restless and hard toplease and hard to interest in anything that she nearly wears me out. Girls didn't do like that when I was young. If I'd had a hundredthpart of what she's got--"

"What's the use of having things you don't want?" Miss Swink'sshoulders made resentful movement; then she turned to me, for amoment hesitated. 

"Thank you very much for asking me, but I can't go this afternoon. Ineed exercise. If I don't walk a great deal I--"

"I'd much rather walk. I love to walk. " I must know why she wasmeeting Tom without her mother's knowledge. "I'll send the car homeand we'll walk together. It isn't often I have an afternoon withoutsomething that must be done in it. I'll wait here while you get yourhat and coat. "

Into the girl's face came flush that spread slowly to the temples, and uncertainly she looked at me. Steadily my eyes held hers andafter half a moment she turned and went out of the room. Comingback, she followed me into the hall and to the elevator, but, eyes onthe gloves she was fastening, she said nothing until we reached thestreet. On the corner opposite us Tom Cressy was standing in thedoorway of a cigar-shop, and as he saw the car dismissed, saw uscross the street and come toward him, into his honest, if nothandsome, face came puzzled incredulity. Not until in front of himdid I give evidence of seeing him; then I stopped. 

"Why, Tom Cressy!" I held out my hand and, as he took it, I noticedthe one holding his hat was not entirely steady. "It's ages sinceI've seen you, Tom. You know Miss Swink, I believe. " I pretended notto see their formal and somewhat frightened bow. "We're going towalk. Can't you go with us? Come on. We're going to the park. "

Slipping my arm through Madeleine's, I caught step, and on the otherside of her Tom did likewise, hands in his pockets, and into bothfaces came glow that illuminated them and enlightened me. At the endof our walk I would know pretty well what I wanted to know. 

For an hour and a half we walked briskly and talked along linesusually self-revealing; and by the time the hotel was again reached Iwas quite satisfied concerning a complicated situation that neededskilful steering to avoid a dangerous and disastrous smash-up. 

"Can't I go home with you, Miss Dandridge?" Tom twisted his hatnervously. "It's too late for you to go so far by yourself. Pleaselet me go with you. "

"Of course you're going with me. After dark I'm only a baby personand I like a nice, big man with me! Good-by, dear. " I turned toMadeleine. "Some afternoon, if your mother does not mind, come downand have tea with me in Scarborough Square. Tom can come, too, andbring you home. I'll telephone you one day next week. "

With a nod I walked away, but not before I saw a flash of joy passbetween two faces which were raised to each other, and, guiltily, Iwondered if I had again done something I shouldn't. I was alwaysdoing it. Hurrying on with Tom, I talked of many things, but at mydoor I turned to him and held out my hand. 

"I haven't any right to ask you, but I'm going to ask you. You carefor each other and something is the matter. What is it, Tom?"

"Matter!" Indignation, wrathful and righteous, flared in face andvoice, and Tom's clutch of my hand was more fervid than considerate. "Her mother's the matter. She's batty on the subject of society andposition, and first families, and fashion, and rot of that sort--allright in its way, but not her way. I'm not aristocratic enough forher. She doesn't want her daughter to marry me because we haven'tany family brush and coats of arms, and don't belong to the insideset, and marrying me wouldn't give Madeleine what she wants her tohave. Madeleine don't want it. She wants--"

"You. I understand. Does Mrs. Swink want her to marry some oneelse?" I hated my pretended ignorance, but I must know just what heknew. Know if Madeleine had told him of her engagement. "Who is itshe wants her to marry?"

"Harrie Thorne. If she knew what others knew of Harrie--" Tom bithis lip. "I don't want to go into that, however. Not my business. But if she was told she wouldn't believe. She don't want to believe. She wants her daughter to marry what Harrie can give her. An honoredname which he has dishonored. "

Tom took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, in his eyesboyish incomprehension of incomprehensible things. "Men are wicked, Miss Dandridge, but they wouldn't do what some women do. They've gotit in their hands to do a lot they don't do--women have--and if itwasn't for some of them, for those we believe in, the world would gosmash in certain ways as far as men are concerned. What's the use ofkeeping straight and living clean when plenty of women don't seem tocare, or certainly don't ask too much about a man if he's got money, or anything else they want for their daughters? Mrs. Swink isdetermined that Madeleine shall marry Harrie. "

"But has Madeleine no will of her own? If she permits her mother todispose of her--"

"She's been disposed of since she was a baby, and resistance wearsthin after a while, I suppose. " The tips of Tom's right shoe made asmall circle on the brick pavement, but presently he looked up at me. "It's pretty queer for me to be telling things like this, but youalways did understand a fellow. I've often wished I could come andsee you. Madeleine and I were engaged once. "

"Why aren't you engaged now? Tell me anything you want. Whathappened?"

"Mother Swink happened!" Tom's words came jerkily. "She wouldn'teven let me talk to her; made a devil of a row, dragged Madeleine allaround Europe, wouldn't let her have a letter from me--sent them backherself--and told Madeleine if she married me she would never speakto me. "

"That ought to have given you courage. Why didn't you marryMadeleine?"

"I couldn't get hold of her. And, besides, she got so worked up thatshe went all to pieces, and I--I wasn't patient enough, I guess. When they came back I managed to see her once, but we both got madand said things we shouldn't, and she gave me up. I heard Harrie hadbeen giving her a rush in El Paso, and if Mrs. Swink can manage itshe'll have Madeleine engaged to him before he knows how it happened. "

"Are you able to marry, Tom? Is there any reason why you shouldn't?"

"No, there isn't. " His head went up. "I can't give her what hermother can, but I can take care of her all right. On the first ofnext May father makes me general manager of the business. He hasn'tspared me because I was his son, and he wouldn't give me the placeuntil I'd earned it, but I'll get it pretty soon now. I wish youknew my father, Miss Dandridge. There isn't any sort of search-lighthe can't stand, and it isn't his and mother's fault if I can't standthem, also. "

"I don't think they'd be uneasy if any were to be turned on. Iwouldn't. Good night, Tom. Be careful how you meet Madeleine. Howmany times have you seen her since she got here?"

"Just once before this afternoon. " His face flushed. "Something isthe matter. She's not like herself. Her mother's up to something. "

"When you want to see her, come down here and see me. Don't meet oncorners or in the park, and--and the next time you're engaged don'tlet a girl think you're going to wait indefinitely. If she isn'twilling to marry you and go to Pungo if necessary, she isn't the girlfor you to marry. Good night. "

At the door I turned. Tom was still standing at the foot of thesteps, staring at me, in his face slow-dawning understanding. 

CHAPTER XX

As Selwyn and David Guard shook hands, eagerness of desire must havebeen in my face, for Selwyn, turning, seemed puzzled by what he saw. Going into the room adjoining my sitting-room, I left them alone fora few moments, and when I came back I was careful to keep out of myeyes that which as yet it was not wise that they should tell. I havelong since learned a man must not be hurried. Certainly not a man ofSelwyn's type. 

Sitting down in a corner of the sofa, I nodded to the men to sit downalso, but that which they had been discussing while I was out of theroom still held, and, returning to it, they stood awhile longer, oneon either side of the mantelpiece, and, hands in my lap, I watchedthem with hope in my heart of which they did not dream. 

They are strangely contrasting--Selwyn and David Guard. That is, sofar as outward and physical appearance is concerned. But of certaininward sympathies, certain personal standards of life, certainintellectual acceptances and rejections, they have far more in commonthan they imagine, and to find this basis upon which friendship mighttake root is a desire that sprang into life upon seeing themtogether. Should they ever be friends, they would be foreverfriends. Of that I am very sure. 

By Selwyn's side David Guard seemed smaller, frailer, less robustthan ever, yet about him was no hint of feebleness, and his radiationof quiet force was not lessened by Selwyn's strength. His clotheswere shabbier than ever, his cravat even less secure than usual, andthe long lock of hair that fell at times across his forehead wasgrayer than formerly, I thought, but no externals could dim theconsciousness that he was a man to be reckoned with. 

Opposite him Selwyn seemed the embodiment of all he lacked. Thewell-being of his body, the quiet excellence of his clothes, theunconscious confidence, born of ability and abundance, the securityof established position, marked him a man to whom the gods have beengood. But the gods mock all men. In Selwyn's eyes was search forsomething not yet found. In David Guard's the peace that comes offinding. I had hardly thought of their knowing each other. To-night, quite by accident, they had met. Selwyn had come accordingto agreement. David Guard, to tell me of a case in which he wasinterested. He had come before Selwyn, and at the latter's entrancehad started to go. I would not let him go. If they could be madefriends--God!--what a power they could be!

They were discussing the war. The afternoon's reports had beensomewhat more ghastly than usual. 

"The twentieth century obviously doesn't propose to be outdone by anyother period of history, recorded or unrecorded. " One hand in hispocket, an elbow on the mantel-shelf, Selwyn looked at David Guard. "In the quarter of a million years in which man, or what we term man, has presumably lived on this particular planet, nothing so far hasbeen discovered, I believe, which tells of such abominations as aretaking place to-day. It's an interesting epoch from the standpointof man's advance in scientific barbarism. "

"It deepens, certainly, our respect for our primeval ancestors. "David Guard smiled grimly. "I understand there are stilltree-dwellers in certain parts of Australia who knock one another inthe head when it so pleases them to do. For the settlement ofdifficulties their methods require much less effort and trouble thanours. On the whole, I prefer their manner of fighting. Each sidecan see what the other's about. "

"So do I. " Curled up in the corner of the sofa, I had not intendedto speak. A woman's opinions on war don't interest men. "Thefundamental instinct in man to fight may require a few thousand moreyears to yield to the advisability of settling differences around atable in a council-chamber, but one can't tell. Much less time maybe necessary. The tree-dwellers and the cave-dwellers and thetent-dwellers spent most of their time scrapping. We do haveintervals of peace in which to get ready to fight again. "

"So did they, though their intervals were shorter, perhaps, owing totheir simpler methods of attack. " Selwyn laughed. "In their day, warfare being largely a personal or tribal affair, little time wasnecessary for preparation. With us the whole machinery of governmentis needed to murder and maim and devastate and ruin. Civilizationand science and education have complicated pretty hopelessly theadjustments of disputes, the taking of territory, and the acceptanceof opposing ideals. The biggest artillery and the best brains forbutchery at present are having their day. Humanity in the making hasits discouraging side. "

"It has!" David Guard's voice was emphatic, though he, too, laughed. "If humanity made claim to being a finished product, there'd bejustification for more than discouragement. It makes no such claim. Fists and clubs, and slingshots and battle-axes, are handier weaponsthan guns and cannon, and armored air-ships and under-sea craft, butin the days of the former using, but one kind of army was sent out tofight. To-day we send out two. "

"Two?" Selwyn looked puzzled. "What two?"

"One to undo, as far as possible, the work of the other. The secondarmy, not the first, is the test of humanity's advance; the army thattries to keep life in the man the other army has tried to kill, togive back what has been taken away, to help what has been hurt, tofeed what has been starved, to clothe what is made naked, to build upwhat has been broken down. Each country that to-day gives fight, equips and trains and sends out two contrasting armies. They worktogether, but with opposing purposes. The second army--"

"Has a good many women in it. But it's so stupid, so wicked andwasteful, to fight over things that are rarely finally settled byfighting. It's bad business!" My hands twisted shiveringly in mylap. "Do you suppose the time will ever come when man will see it'sthe animal's way of getting what he wants, of keeping others fromgetting what he's got, of settling difficulties and defending pointsof view? Do you think he'll ever find a better way?"

"In a few thousand years--yes, " Selwyn again smiled and, changing hisposition, stood with his back to the fire. "When we have the samecode for nations as for individuals, the same insistence that what'swrong in and punishable for a man is wrong in and punishable for hiscountry, or when we cease to think of ourselves as group people andremember we are but parts of a whole, we may cease to be fightinganimals. Not until then, perhaps. Personally, I think war is a goodthing every now and then. That is, in the present state of ourundevelopment. "

"So do I. " David Guard's shoulders made energetic movement. "Warbrings out every evil passion of which man is possessed, but it hasits redemptive side. It clears away befogging sophistries, deliversfrom deadening indulgences and indifferences; enables us to seeourselves, our manner of life, our methods of government, ourobligations and our injustices, in perspective that reveals whatcould, perhaps, be grasped in no other way. It brings aboutreadjustments and reaccountings, and puts into operation new forcesof life, new conceptions of duty. It's a frightful way of making manget a firmer grip on certain essential realizations, of taking inmore definitely the high purpose of his destiny, but at times thereseems no other way. I pray God we may keep out of this, but if itmeans a stand for human rights--"

"We'll all enlist!" The faces of the men before me were sober, andquick fear made my voice unsteady. "War may have its redemptiveside; it may at times be necessary for the preservation of honor andthe maintenance of principle, but that's because, I imagine, of ourunpreparedness as human beings to--to be the right sort of humanbeings. When we are there'll be no time to kill one another. We'llneed it all to help each other. I hate war as few hate it, perhaps, but should it come to us I'm as ready to join my army as you to joinyours. " I got up and took the hand David Guard was holding out tome. "I wish you didn't have to go. Must you?"

"Must. Got an engagement at nine-fifteen. I'll see you before theweek is out about Clara Rudd. Good night. " He turned to Selwyn, shook hands, and was gone. 

In the corner of the sofa I again sat down, and Selwyn, turning offthe light in the lamp behind me, took a chair and drew it close tome. Anxiety he made no effort to control was in his eyes. 

"Well--have you anything to tell me?"

"Not as much as I hoped. Mrs. Mundy hasn't been able to find EttaBlake yet. Until--"

"Etta Blake?" Selwyn's tone was groping. "Oh, the littlecashier-girl. I didn't expect you to tell anything of her. I wishyou'd put her out of your mind. " His face darkened. 

"I can't. She seems to be in no one else's. But we won't talk ofher to-night. I saw the Swinks this afternoon. "

"I know you did. Mrs. Swink telephoned Harrie to-night. Did myappraisement approach correctness?"

"Of Mrs. Swink, yes. She's impossible. Most fat fools are. They'relike feather beds. You could stamp on them, but you couldn't get ridof the fool-ness. It would just be in another place. She told meshe was manicured on Mondays, massaged on Tuesdays, marcelledWednesdays, and chiropodized on Thursdays, and one couldn't expectmuch of a daughter with that sort of a mother; still, the girlinterested me. I feel sorry for her. She mustn't marry Harrie. "

"But who's going to tell her?" Selwyn's voice was querulously eager. "I thought perhaps you might find--find--"

"I did. " I nodded in his flushed face. "I don't think it will benecessary to tell her anything. She's very much in love, but notwith Harrie. "

Selwyn sat upright. A certain rigidity of which he is capablestiffened him. He looked much, but said nothing. 

"I've had an interesting time this afternoon. I never wanted to be adetective person, but I can understand the fascination of theprofession. Luck was with me, and in less than thirty minutes aftermeeting her I was pretty sure Madeleine Swink was not in love withHarrie and was in love with some one else. A few minutes later Ifound out who she was in love with, found he was equally in love withher; that they were once engaged and still want to get married. Ourjob's to help them do it. "

Selwyn's seriousness is a heritage. Frowningly he looked at me. "This is hardly a thing to jest about. I may be very dense, but Ifail to understand--"

For an hour we talked of Madeleine Swink and Mrs. Swink, of Harrieand Tom Cressy, and in terms which even a man could understand I toldhow my discoveries had been made, of how I had managed to see Tom andMadeleine together, and of my frank questioning of the former. Butwhat I did not tell him was that my thought was not of them alone. By my side the little girl with the baby in her arms had seemedclinging to my skirt. 

"What sort of a girl is she?" In Selwyn's voice was relief andanxiety. "Has she courage enough to take things in her own hands?I've no conscience so far as her mother is concerned. She deservesno consideration, but, being an interested party, I--"

"You needn't have anything to do with it. I'm not sure what sort sheis, or how much courage she's got, but worms have been known to turn. If a hundred years before they were born somebody had begun to trainher parents to be proper parents she might have been a betterproduct, still there seems to be something to her. For Tom's sake Ihope so. "

"He's a nice chap. " Selwyn's voice was unqualifiedly emphatic. "Andhis father is as honest a man as ever lived. His mother, I believe, comes of pretty plain people. "

"I don't know where she comes from, but she's made a success of herson, which is what a good many well-born women fail to do. Peoplearen't responsible for their ancestors, but they are for theirdescendants to a great extent, and Mrs. Cressy seems to understandthis more clearly than certain ancestrally dependent persons I havemet. I'd like to know her. "

"You're looking at me as if I didn't agree with you. Some day I hopethere may be deeper understanding of, and better training for, thesupreme profession of life; but to get out of generalizations into aconcrete case, what can I do in the way of service to Miss Swink andMr. Thomas Cressy? Being, as I said before, an interested party, Ihardly--"

A knock on the door behind him made Selwyn start as if struck; gaveevidence of strain and nervousness of which he was unconscious, and, jumping up, he went toward the door and opened it. In the hallBettina and Jimmy Gibbons were standing. The latter was twisting hiscap round and round in his hand, his big, brown eyes looking first atBettina and then at me and then at Selwyn, but to my "Come in, " hepaid no attention. 

Getting up, I went toward him, put my hand on his shoulder. "What isit, Jimmy? Why don't you come in?"

"My shoes ain't fitten. I wiped them, but the mud wouldn't comeoff. " His eyes looked down on his feet. "I could tell you out hereif you wouldn't mind listening. "

"I told him I'd take the message or call you down-stairs, but hewouldn't let me do either one. " Bettina, hands behind her, nodded inmy face. "His mother says her boarder is dying and she wants to tellyou something before she dies, and she told Jimmy he must see youhimself. Grannie's gone to prayer-meeting with Mrs. Crimm, andafterward to see about a sick person. I'm awful sorry to interruptyou, and if the lady hadn't been dying--"

"You're not interrupting. " I drew the boy inside. Bettina camealso. From the fire to which I led him, Jimmy drew back, however, and blew upon his stiff little fingers until it was safe to put themcloser to the blazing coals. Looking down at his feet, I saw a largeand ragged hole on the side of his right shoe from which a tiny bitof blood was slowly oozing upon the rug. 

"What's the matter with your foot, Jimmy? Have you cut it, stucksomething in it? You must take your shoe off and see what's thematter. " I pointed to the floor. 

"I didn't know I'd done it. " Craning his neck to its fullestextending. Jimmy peered down at the bleeding foot, then looked up atme. "I'm awful sorry it got on the rug. I'll wipe it up in aminute. " Imperishable merriment struggled with abashed regret, and, holding out the offending foot, he laughed wistfully. "It ain't gotno feeling in it, though it's coming. I guess it's kinder froze. They're regular flip-flops, them shoes are. "

Under his breath I heard a smothered exclamation from Selwyn. He wasstanding in front of the boy, hands in his pockets, and staring athim. He knew, of course, there were countless ill-fed, ill-clothed, unprotected children in every city of every land, but personally hehad come in contact with but few of them, and the bit of flesh andblood before him stabbed with sharp realization. Helplessly heturned to me. "The boy's half frozen. Where did he come from? Whatdoes he want you to do?"

Jimmy looked up at me. "Mother told me to hurry. The doctor's donegone and Mrs. Cotter says she's bound to see you before she dies. She's got something to tell you. She says please, 'm, come quick. "

Hesitating, I looked at the boy, who had come closer to the fire. "Did the doctor say she was dying? I saw her yesterday and sheseemed better. Miss White was to see her to-day. "

"Miss White is there now. " Jimmy lifted his right foot and held itfrom the ground. The warmth of the room was bringing pain to thebenumbed member into which something had been stuck. "She told me totell you please, 'm, to come if you could. Mrs. Cotter says shecan't die until she sees you, and she's so tired trying to hold out. She won't have breath left to talk, mother says, if you don't hurry. "

Perplexed, uncertain, I waited a half-minute longer. Mrs. Cotter, the renter of Mrs. Gibbons's middle room, and sometime boarder, I hadseen frequently of late. Nothing human could have stood what she hadbeen forcing herself to do for some weeks past, and that resistanceshould have yielded to relentless exaction was not to be wondered at. Ten hours a day she sewed in the carpet department of one of thecity's big stores, and for some time past she had been one of theoffice-cleaning force of the Metropolitan Building, which at nightmade ready for the day's occupants the rooms which were swept anddusted and scrubbed while others slept or played, or rested or madeplans for coming times. The extra work had been undertaken in orderto get nourishment and medicine needed for her little girl, who haddeveloped tuberculosis. There was nowhere for the child to go. Theinsufficient sanatorium provided by the city for its diseased andgerm-disseminating poor was over-crowded. To save her child she hadfought valiantly, but her life was the forfeit of her fight. Iwondered what she wanted to tell me. 

I looked at Selwyn, in my eyes questioning. Mrs. Mundy was out. Icould not leave Bettina alone in the house. What must I do?

"Do you think she is really dying? People like that are oftenhysterical, often nervously imaginative. " Selwyn's voice wasworried. "You ought not to be sent for like this. It isn't right. "

"She wouldn't have sent as late as this, but the doctor says shewon't last till daybreak. " Jimmy twisted his cap into a round, roughball. "I'll get Mrs. Mundy for Bettina if you'll tell me where sheis. "

"You can't get her. She's out the prayer-meeting by now and gone tosee somebody who sent for her. I don't know who it is, and I ain'tby myself. Miss Sallie Jenks is sitting with me while grannie'sout. " Bettina's tones were energetic. She turned to me. "Youneedn't stay back on my account, Miss Danny. Aren't you going?"

"Yes--I'm going. " I walked toward my bedroom. At its door Istopped. "I'm sorry, Selwyn, but I'll have to go. The woman isdying. "

Selwyn's teeth came together sharply and in his eyes were disapprovaland protest. For a half-minute he did not speak, then he faced me. 

"If you insist, there's nothing to be said except that I am goingwith you. Where's your telephone? I'll get a cab. "

"Oh no! You must not go. " Back to the door, I leaned against it. "You've never seen things of this kind. They're--they're--"

"No pleasanter for you than for me. " His voice was decisive; but hiseyes were no longer on mine. They were on Jimmy Gibbons's shoes withthe big and ragged hole in one of them through which the bare skin ofhis foot showed red and raw. He drew in his breath; turned to me. "Put on warm things. It's pretty cold to-night. "

CHAPTER XXI

Jimmy followed me into the taxi, and as Selwyn snapped the door hehuddled in an opposite corner as if effacement were an obligationrequired by the situation in which he found himself. But he hadnever been in an automobile before, and his sense of awe soon yieldedto eager anxiety to miss no thrill of the unexpected experience. Hisface was pressed against the glass pane of the door before we hadgone two blocks, in the hope that he might see some one who would seehim in the glory of an adventure long hoped for and long delayed andSelwyn and I were forgotten in the joy of a dream come true. 

There was time to tell Selwyn but little of the woman I was going tosee. Mrs. Gibbons's home was only a short distance from ScarboroughSquare, and before I could do more than give the briefest explanationof Mrs. Cotter's condition, of her long hours of work and lack ofhome life, the cab had stopped, and Jimmy, springing out, hopped, onhis unhurt foot, to the sagging gate of his little yard and opened itfor us to pass through. Going up the broken steps, I pushed open thepartly closed door and went in. 

A faint light from a kerosene-lamp, set on a bracket in the wall atthe far end of the hall, caused weird shadows to flicker on the floorand up the narrow staircase, and for a half-minute Selwyn and Iwaited until we could see where we should go. From the middle roomwe could hear hoarse and labored breathing and the stir of footstepson the bare floor. Putting my hand on the door-knob, I was about toturn it when Mrs. Gibbons came out, holding Mrs. Cotter's little girlby the hand. 

"I'm glad you've come. She keeps calling for you. " Her voice wasthe monotone of old, and, as unmoved as ever, she nodded to me andthen looked at Selwyn. "Is he a doctor? Did he come to see her?"

I explained Selwyn's presence and suggested that he wait for me whileI went to Mrs. Cotter. Beckoning him to follow, she went toward herkitchen bedroom, but stopped to give warning of the two steps thatled down to it, and as she stopped I heard the low whimper of thefrightened child by her side and saw her footsteps drag. 

"I want my mother! I want to go back to my mother! I don't want togo 'way from my mother!"

Was it well to let her go back? Only a few minutes were left forthem to be together. Was it kind or cruel to keep them apart?Uncertain, I looked at the group before me and saw Selwyn stoop andtake the child, a little girl of five, up in his arms. 

"Your mother is going to sleep. " His voice was low. "And we aregoing to be quiet and not wake her. Jimmy will play with you, andI--"

"Will you tell me a story?" Sleepily the child leaned against hisshoulder, one arm thrown over it. "Will you tell me a pretty storyabout--"

As they disappeared through the door opening into Mrs. Gibbons'squarters I went into Mrs. Cotter's room, but for a moment drew back. I had learned not to shrink at much that once I would have run from, but the gaunt body and ghastly face of the woman propped againstpillows on the bed frightened me, and my feet refused to move. Allthe hardships and denials, the injustices and inequalities, ofworking womanhood, unfit to fight and unprepared for struggle, werestaring at me, and on the open lips was something of the mockingsmile that had been on Lillie Pierce's face when she was firstbrought in to Mrs. Mundy. 

Heavily, and with great labor, breath came gaspingly, and the blankstare in the eyes made me think at first I was too late. Slowly Iwent toward the bed, and at its side I took a twitching hand in mine, and as I did so the staring eyes turned to me. Too nearly gone foraught save faint returning, light struggled back in a supreme andfinal effort, and with life's last spark of energy she clutched myfingers with her work-worn, weary hands. Miss White, the districtnurse, who was standing at the foot of the bed, nodded to me, andfrom a far corner the sobbing of a man and woman in shabby clothes, and crouched close together, reached across the room. All otherworlds were, for the moment, far away, and only the world before meseemed real and true and unescapable. 

Drawing a low chair close to the bed, I sat down and leaned towardthe woman. There was little time to lose. "What is it, Mrs. Cotter?Look at me. This is Dandridge Heath. You have something you want tosay to me. Tell me what it is. "

Her head made backward, twisting movement as if for breath, then hereyes held mine, and in them was the cry eternal of all motherhood. "My little girl! My little girl! If only--I could take--her withme! Who's going to--tell her how--not to go--wrong? She won't besafe--on earth. Promise me--promise me!"

"Promise you what?" I leaned still farther over the bed. The fireof a tortured soul was burning in the eyes before me, and out of themhad gone dull glaze and ghastly stare; into them had come appeal, both piteous and passionate, and fear that defied death. "What mustI promise?" My eyes held hers lest words should wander. 

"Tell me what I must do?"

"Don't let them put her in--an orphan home. The ones who--manageit--don't know themselves--how life--treats girls. They meankind--but they don't teach them--what might happen. LittleEtta--little Etta Blake lived in an orphan home. And now--now--"

The hands in mine were dropped, amazement for the moment making meforget all else. I leaned yet closer. "Where is she? Where is EttaBlake? Where can I find her?"

As if groping, the eyes looking into mine made effort to understand, then turned away. "You can't find her--now. It's--too late. Shewas let go--to work--and she--didn't know. She come--from a littletown--to a big one. And nobody--told her--what might happen. Mylittle Nora--who's going to tell her?"

With violent effort, the figure on the bed attempted to sit up, andthe twitching hands were flung one on either side, then again theyclutched mine. "Why don't God--let me--take her--with me? Promiseme--you won't forget--my little Nora! Won't let them--put her--in anorphan home. Promise me--you'll watch--"

Gaspingly she lay back on the pillows, but her eyes held mine. "Promise--"

"I promise I will not--forget. " Before God and a dying woman I waspledging protection for a homeless child. My voice broke and thensteadied. "I promise--and I will watch. "

As if that which held had snapped, the tossing head lay quiet, andout of the face fear faded, and into it, as softly as widens dawn atbreak of day, came peace. The sobbing in the corner of the room hadceased, and through the thin walls I could hear Selwyn's low tones ashe told stumblingly to the child a story that was keeping her quiet, and I knew he, too, was on new thresholds; he, too, was enteringunknown worlds. 

"Tell her--" Flame-spent, the eyes again opened and this time lookedat Miss White. "Tell her--why I--don't want-- They mean--to begood--but--people like that--don't know how--people like us--"

Martha White thrust her handkerchief up her sleeve, cleared herthroat, and straightened her wide and rustling apron. "She's beentrying to tell me all day that she didn't want Nora to be put in anorphan asylum, and yet there's nobody to take her. All her peopleare too poor to add another child to their families. " She camecloser and lowered her voice that it might reach no one but me, andwith her shoulders made movement toward the bed, with her hands tothe man and woman still close together in tearless silence in thecorner. "You know how people like that are. They judge everythingby the few cases that come within their knowledge, and--"

"Most of us do. What does she know about asylums that prejudices herso?"

"Little, except she's come across some girls who came out of them whohave gone wrong, and she thinks it's because they were kept too shutoff from outside life, and told too little of temptations and realtruths and--and things like that. What she means is that she thinksthose who manage asylums and homes try to keep the girls innocentthrough ignorance, and when they're turned out to go to work theydon't understand the dangers that are ahead. Some grown-ups forgetthat young people crave young ways and pretty things and good times, and that they've got to be taught about what they don't understand. "

"Little Etta--Etta Blake was an orphan. She was like a bird--in acage. When she--got out-- If only--they had--told her--" The voicefrom the bed was strangely stronger, and the fingers, still twistedinto mine, made feeble pressure. 

I leaned closer. "Where is she? Where is Etta Blake? Where can Ifind her?"

"You can't find her. It's--too late. We worked--at the sameplace--once. And I tried--to make-- But she said--it was--too late. "

The gasping voice trailed wearily and the face, turning from me, laystill upon the pillow. Presently I saw Miss White start and comecloser. The short, quick breath had stopped. 

At Mrs. Mundy's front door Selwyn, holding the sleeping child in hisarms, looked at me. "What are you going to do with her?" His voicewas uncertain, but in it there was not the disapproval I had expectedfrom the telling of my promise to Mrs. Cotter. "You can't keep her, can you?"

I shook my head. "She mustn't stay in town. The doctor says hercase is too advanced to be arrested, and the only thing that can bedone is to make her as comfortable and happy as possible untilshe--can go--to her mother. I don't know what is best to be done. Imust be near enough to see her every now and then. Mr. Guard willtell me what to do. Whenever I don't know I ask him. He alwayshelps me. "

"Are you never to ask me to--help you?" Selwyn's voice was low, butfrom his eyes was no escape, and as the light from the door which Ihad opened with my latch-key fell upon his face I saw it flush--sawin it what I had never seen before. 

"You!" I was very tired, and something long held back struggled forutterance. "You!" The word was half a sob. "If only you--"

Mrs. Mundy was coming down the hall, and at the door her hands wentout to take the child from Selwyn. "Bettina told me, and I thoughtperhaps you'd bring the little creature here. I've got a place allfixed. You are tired out. " She turned to me, and then to Selwyn. "Thank you, sir, for taking care of her--for going with her andbringing her back. I'm sorry I wasn't here to do it myself. She'sneeding of some one to look after her. " Turning, she went down thehall with the child in her arms, and Selwyn, also turning, walkeddown the steps and got into the cab. 

CHAPTER XXII

The one day in the year I heartily hate is the first day of January. Yesterday was January first. Its usual effect is to make me feel asthe grate in my sitting-room looks when the fire is dead. Knowingthe day would get ahead of me if I did not get ahead of it, I decidedto give a party. Last night I gave it. 

All through the busy rush of Christmas with its compelling demands Ihave been trying not to think; trying to put from me memories thatcome and go of Mrs. Cotter, of my disappointment in not hearing fromher where Etta Blake could be found, and my anxiety about littleNora, now in the care of a woman I know well who lives just out oftown. The child will not be here next Christmas. Kitty is payingfor all her needs. She asked that I would let her the day before Ireceived Selwyn's note concerning Nora. I promised her first. 

Mr. Crimm cannot find Etta Blake. She must have gone away. 

In the past few weeks I have seen little of Selwyn. I have been abit more than busy with Christmas preparations, and his mortificationover Harrie's behavior since the latter's return from El Paso haskept him away even from me. Madeleine Swink I have seen severaltimes, also Tom Cressy, but Mrs. Swink I have been spared, owing toabsence from home when she returned my call. 

I have told Madeleine that she must not meet Tom here again until shebreaks her engagement with Harrie and tells her mother she will notmarry him. I cannot help her marry Tom unless she is open and squarewith her mother. She thinks I am hard, but I will agree to nothingelse. 

It isn't easy to be patient with halting, hesitating, helplesspeople, and Madeleine, having long been dominated, is a ratherspiritless person. Still, she is the sort one always feels sorryfor. I wish I wasn't mixed up in her affairs, however. They aren'tmy business and fingers put in other people's pies are likely to getpinched. Then, too, my fingers have many other things to do. 

Last night's party was a great success. During most of the day I wastelephoning messages, sending notes of invitations, and helping Mrs. Mundy with the preparation of certain substantial refreshments whichmust be abundant; and when at last I stood ready to receive my guestsa thrill I had long thought dead became alive again. At otherparties I knew what to expect. At this one I didn't. 

Lucy Hobbs, resplendent in a green silk, lace-trimmed dress, wasdashingly handsome with her carefully curled hair and naturallycolored cheeks; and her big, black eyes missed no detail of myholly-bedecked and brightly lighted rooms. It was difficult toassociate her with the girl in shabby clothes who hurried through thestreets in the dark of early mornings, and whose days were spent in afactory, year in and year out; and yet the factory had left itsimprint in a shyness that was new to one whose usual role was that ofboss, and at first she was ill at ease. 

"You must help me, Lucy. " I spoke hurriedly and in an undertone. "Some of these people think they're at a funeral. Mix them up andintroduce them again if they don't talk to each other. Take Mr. Banister over to Gracie Hurd. He's afraid to cross the room to getto her and she hasn't budged since she came in. And get Mr. Schrioski from Mrs. Gibbons. She's telling him about the baby'swhooping-cough and enjoying the telling; but he isn't. Go to himfirst. "

As I spoke to Lucy, David Guard came in the room. He wore his usualclothes, but his cravat was fixed with apparent firmness and nolonger crawled half-way up his collar, and his hair had beencarefully brushed. As we shook hands I laughed. 

"I'm frightened. Did you ever do a thing in a hurry and then wonderwhat you did it for? Most of these people have such a stupid time athome, so seldom go out at night, that I thought I'd have a party forthem, but they seem to think they're at a show waiting for thecurtain to go up. What am I going to do?"

"Give them time. They can't unlimber all at once. Mrs. Crimm overthere thinks it would be improper for her to smile, as she's justlost her brother, but Mr. Crimm is a performance in himself. What'she in uniform for?"

"He goes on duty at twelve, and he doesn't want to lose time goinghome to change. Look at Archer Barbee. I believe he's in love withLoulie Hill. "

"He is. I hope they are going to be married soon. Why don't you letthese people dance?"

I had not thought of dancing. My guests were oddly assorted, ofvarying ages and conditions, and I had gathered them in for anevening away from their usual routine rather than with the view ofgetting a congenial group together, and the realization of socialblundering was upon me. Dancing might do what I could not. 

To dance in my sitting-room would be difficult. The few things inthe room adjoining it could be easily pushed against the wall, however, and quickly Fannie Harris and Mr. Guard began to make itready. And while they made ready, Mr. Crimm was invited to sing. 

Mr. Crimm is my good friend. I had never known a policeman before Icame to Scarborough Square, but I shall always be glad I know him. He is a remarkable man. He has been Mrs. Crimm's husband for thirtyyears and has his first drink to take. 

As I played the opening notes of "Molly, My Darling, There's No OneLike You, " Mr. Crimm took his place by the piano. Straight andimportant, shoulders back, and a fat right hand laid over a fat leftone, both of which rested just above the belt around hiswell-developed waist, he surveyed the silent company with blinking, twinkling eyes. Mrs. Crimm, struggling between righteous pride inthe possession of so handsome a piece of property as herblue-uniformed and brass-buttoned husband, and the necessity ofsubduing all emotions save that of respect, due to the recent deathof her brother, sat upright in her chair, hands clasped in her lap, and eyes fastened on the floor. Not until the song was over did shelift them. 

"Molly, My Darling, There's No One Like You" is a piece of musicpermitting the making of strange sounds, and when Mr. Crimm sings itthe sounds are stranger. At the third verse he asked all present tojoin in the chorus, and the effect was transforming. Bettina, standing in front of him, eyes uplifted as if entranced, and handsclasped tightly behind her back, was ready at the first word to joinin, and shrilly her young voice piped an accompaniment to the deepnotes of her official friend. With a nod of his head and atime-beating movement of both hands, Mr. Crimm began his work ofleadership, and in five minutes every one in the room was around him, save his wife, who kept her seat, her lips tight and her eyes on thefloor. 

As a garment thrown off, the stiffness disappeared, and feet tappedand heads moved to the rhythmic swing of first one song and thenanother, but finally Mr. Crimm wiped his perspiring face and calledfor silence. 

"It's Archie's time now. Step up, Archie, and tell the ladies andgentlemen how 'Mary Rode the Goat, She Did. ' Shying is out offashion. Step lively, Archie. This, ladies and gentlemen--" Mr. Crimm waved one hand and with the other grasped firmly the collar ofhis young friend's coat and drew him forward, "is Mr. Archer Barbee, who will now entertain you. Begin, Archie. Make your bow and begin. "

For a moment Archie stood in solemn silence, hands crossed on hisbreast and thumbs revolving rapidly. His lips made odd movements, although from them came no sound, and vacantly he stared ahead ofhim, in his eyes no expression, in his manner no hint of what wascoming. Short and fat, with face round and red, hair red and curly, and ears of a prodigious size, he made a queer picture; and, ignorantof his power of mimicry and impersonation, I kept my seat on thepiano-stool. That is for a while I kept it. When safety lay nolonger on it I took refuge on the sofa. First, smiles had followedhis beginning words, then shouts of laughter, then shrieks of it; andlittle gasping screams and bending of bodies and convulsive doublingup; and when finally he stopped we were spent and breathless, and fora while I could not see. When again my eyes were clear, FannieHarris was standing by me. 

"If you think you can stand up, the room is ready for dancing. " Shepointed ahead of her. "Please look at Mrs. Mundy. She'll split herbest black silk if she doesn't stop. "

Mrs. Mundy's cackles were getting shorter and shorter and, wiping hereyes, she joined us and nodded at Mr. Guard. 

"I haven't laughed as much since the first time I went to the circus, and if there's anything better for the insides than laughing, I'venever took it. Seems to me it clears out low-downness and sourspirits better than any tonic you can buy, and for plum wore-outnessa good laugh's more resting than sleep. When you're ready to havethe hot things brought up, let me know, Miss Dandridge. Martha'sdown-stairs and everything's ready and just waiting for the word. "

It was hardly time for refreshments, and at Mr. Guard's announcementthat all who cared to dance could go into the next room, a movementwas made toward the latter, and then all stopped and waited forArchie Barbee, who, with a low bow, was asking Mrs. Crimm for thefavor of a fox-trot. 

Rigidly Mrs. Crimm stiffened. Indignantly she waved Archie away. "I'm a church member. I never danced in my life, and it's unfeelingof you to be asking of me when my poor brother's only been in hisgrave eight days. " She took out a, black-bordered handkerchief froma bag hanging at her side, and opened it carefully. "It's unfeelingof you, with him only dead one day over a week. "

Hands in his coat pockets, Archie bowed low. "I ask your pardon, ma'am. I hadn't heard about, your brother--leaving you, and I didn'tguess it, seeing you sitting here as handsome as a hollyhock, thoughnow you speak of it, I see your dress is elegant black and extrabecoming. I beg you'll be excusing of me. Mrs. Mundy, ma'am, I hopeyou'll honor me. "

The room had grown quiet, each waiting for the other to move, and, hearing a step in the hall, I looked toward the door, which waspartly open, then went forward, thinking a belated guest might becoming in. The door opened wider and Selwyn stood on its threshold. 

For a half-minute I stared at him and he at me. In his face wasamazement. As I held out my hand he recovered himself and cameinside. 

"I beg your pardon. I'm afraid I'm intruding. I did not know youwere having a--"

"Party. I am. " I was angry with myself for the flush in my face. "You are in time to share in some of it. Mr. Guard"--I turned to thelatter, who happened to be near the door--"will you introduce Mr. Thorne to some of my friends while I see Martha? I will be back in amoment. " I had changed my mind and decided to have supper before wedanced. 

Selwyn bit his lip and his eyes narrowed, then over his face sweptchange, and, shaking hands with David Guard, he went forward andspoke to Mrs. Mundy and Bettina; shook hands with Mr. Crimm, and metin turn each of my guests. Why had he come to-night of all nights? Iasked myself. He evidently intended to stay and perhaps my partymight be ruined. 

But it was not ruined. With an ability I did not know he possessedSelwyn gave himself to the furtherance of the evening's pleasure, talking to first one and then the other, and later, with the ease oflong usage, he waited on Mrs. Gibbons and Mrs. Crimm, serving thempunctiliously with all that was included in the evening'srefreshments. When there was nothing more that he could do I saw himsitting between Gracie Hurd the little shirtwaist girl, and MarionSpade, a waitress at one of the up-town restaurants, eating hissupper as they ate theirs, and they were finding him apparentlysomewhat more than entertaining. 

From my corner where I poured tea I watched the pictures made by thedifferent groupings and tried not to think of Selwyn. He wasbehaving well, but he didn't approve of what I was doing. He rarelyapproves of what I do. 

"Do let Mrs. Mundy bring you some hot oysters. " I leaned over andspoke to Bettie Flynn, upon whom Mrs. Mundy and I were keeping watchlest she show signs of her old trouble. "And can't I give you a cupof coffee?" I held out my hand for her empty cup. 

Bettie shook her head regarding the coffee, but handed her plate toMrs. Mundy. "You certainly can give me some more oysters. I've beenan Inmate for nine years and Inmates don't often have a chance atoysters. At the City Home your chief nourishment is thankfulness. You're expected to get fat on thankfulness. I ain't thankful, whichis what keeps me thin, maybe. " She turned to me. "My dress looksreal nice, don't it? Seeing we're such different shapes, it'sstrange how good your clothes fit me. I hope the rats won't eat thisdress. I'm going to keep it to be buried in. Good gracious! Ididn't know you was going to have ice-cream and cake. I wouldn'thave et all them oysters if I'd known. "

When supper was over Dick Banister, who is Gracie Hurd's beau, askedme, with awkward bowing, for the first dance, and, beginning withhim, I danced with every man in the room who made pretense of knowinghow, except Selwyn. He did not ask me. Bravely, however, he did hispart. He overlooked no one, and David Guard, watching, blinked hiseyes a bit and smiled. Selwyn would make a magnificent martyr. Asituation forced upon him is always met head up. 

Mr. Crimm, who, like his wife, did not dance, though for differentreasons, at a quarter to twelve took out his watch and, looking atit, got up with a start. "Come on, old lady, we've got to go. "Taking his wife by the arm, he held out his hand to me. "It's beengreat, Miss Heath. I never had such a good time in my life. Goodnight, friends. " He bowed beamingly, then made a special bow inSelwyn's direction. 

"I'm glad to know you, sir. I used to know your father. I've heardmany a case tried in his court. A juster man never lived. Goodnight, sir. Good night, Miss Heath. "

When all good-bys were over and all were gone Selwyn, standing withhis back to the fire, looked at me, but for a moment said nothing. As completely as if he had stepped from one body into another heseemed a different person from the man who had been most charming tomy guests a few minutes before when he had told them good night as ifhe were, indeed, their host. Looking at him, I saw his face washaggard and worn and that he was nervously anxious and uneasy. 

"It is late. I know I shouldn't stay. " His voice was as troubled ashis eyes. "I'm sorry to keep Mrs. Mundy up, but I must talk to youtonight. Again I must ask you what to do. "

CHAPTER XXIII

"It's pretty beastly in me to put this on you. " Selwyn, who hadtaken his seat in a chair opposite mine, first leaned back, thenforward, and, hands clasped between his knees, looked down upon thefloor. "I've kept away from you lest I trouble you with what I haveno right--"

"If you did not talk to me frankly I would be much more troubled. " Idrew the scarf about my shoulders a little closer. I knew what wascoming. The thought of it chilled. "Is it about Harrie you areagain worried?"

Selwyn nodded. "You knew he had left home? Knew he had taken abachelor apartment downtown?"

"I heard it day before yesterday. Kitty told me. Billie is prettyupset about him. Being five years older and married, Billie isseeing life rather differently from the way Harrie takes it, and thelatter's recklessness--"

Selwyn looked at me, then away. "The boy is beyond comprehension. Ihaven't seen him but once in nearly two weeks. Five days beforeChristmas he had his trunk and certain things sent down-town, andwrote me a note telling of the apartment he'd taken. I've been tosee him several times, but he's never in and, I'm told, hasn't beenin now for over a week. I've written him, made every inquiry likelyto lead to information without exciting undue suspicion, and now, unless I go to the police--" Biting the ends of his close-cutmustache, Selwyn stopped abruptly. 

"Does Mrs. Swink know he has left home?"

"If she doesn't, she'll know it to-morrow when she gets my answer tothis. " Taking a letter from his pocket, Selwyn threw it on the tablebehind me. "Later you can read that, if you've time to waste. I gotit to-day. Harrie hasn't been to see Madeleine for over a week. Mrs. Swink wants to know why. Wants to know where he is. So do I. "

"Didn't he dine with Mildred on Christmas day? I thought both of youwere always there at Christmas. "

"We are. When Mildred's Christmas dinner is over I thank God therewill be three hundred and sixty-five days before she can have anotherone. Harrie was all right when he came in, but he took too muchegg-nog, too much of other things Mildred had no business having, Itried to make him go home with me, but he wouldn't do it. Then Itried to go with him and he wouldn't let me do that either. Said hehad an engagement with Miss Swink. He was not in a condition to fillit, but, thinking if she saw him Mrs. Swink might take in what she sofar has failed to understand, I was rather glad he was going to keephis engagement. He didn't keep it. "

"What did he do? Where did he go?"

Selwyn's face darkened. "I don't know. Nobody knows. He hasn'tbeen in his apartment since Christmas day. His trunk and clothes arein his rooms, also his suit-cases and bags, and there is no evidenceof his having gone off on a trip. I haven't told Mildred. She'd gointo hysterics and tell the town Harrie had disappeared. Mrs. Swink, however, had to be told something. Madeleine, I imagine, has givennotice and her mother is sitting up. " Selwyn's hands made gesture ofdisgust. "Her letter is inquisitorial and hysterical. My answerwill give a bump, I imagine. "

"You've clouded visions and waked her from sweet dreaming. She'sbeen seeing herself in the Thorne house as the mother of itsmistress. I don't mean to laugh, indeed I don't, but--" I didlaugh. Mrs. Swink and Selwyn dwelling under the same roof was apicture beyond the resistance of laughter. Incompatibility andincongruity would be feeble terms with which to designate such asituation, and at its suggestion seriousness was impossible. Thatis, to me. In Selwyn's face was no smiling. 

"If there have been any little dreams I'm glad she wrote me. Inreply I had a chance to say what there has been no chance to saybefore. Were there imaginings that Harrie was to bring his wife tohis old home they will cease when she gets my note. No house is bigenough for a bride and groom and members of either family, andcertainly mine isn't. I limited comment on Harrie to his financialcondition; expressed regret at my inability to explain his failure tokeep his engagement, and gave her no hint of my uneasiness. Only toyou have I given it. Something is wrong. I'm afraid the boy is illsomewhere. The thing has gotten on my nerves. I've got to dosomething. I can't go on this way. "

With eyes in which nervous uneasiness was unrestrained, Selwyn lookedat me, asking unconsciously for help I could not give, and for amoment I said nothing. Possibilities of which I could not speak wereclutching at my heart and making me cold with fear and horror, forsuddenly something I had overheard a girl telling Mrs. Mundy a fewdays before, as I passed through the hall, came to me with cruel andcompelling clearness. "He's a gentleman, all right. Drunk or sober, you can tell that. She ain't left him day or night since he wastaken sick, and except the doctor she won't let any one come in theroom. "

The words of the girl talking to Mrs. Mundy repeated themselves withsuch distinctness that it seemed Selwyn would hear the thick beatingof my heart and understand its wonder as to who the man was who wasill, who the girl who was nursing him. Did Mrs. Mundy know? Lest henotice that I, too, was nervous I got up and went over to a table inan opposite corner of the room and drank a glass of water. Comingback, I took my seat, but Selwyn remained standing, and, taking outhis watch again, looked at it. 

"I must go. Had I known you were to have a party"--he smiledfaintly--"I should not have come. You are too tired to stay uplonger. Forget what I've told you and go to sleep. If tomorrow youcan suggest anything-- I'm pretty ragged and don't seem able tothink clearly. You are keener than I in grasping situations, andquicker in making decisions. Whatever you think might be done--"Again his teeth came down upon his lips, and, looking up, I saw hisface was white. 

"Give me a day or two in which to see what can be done. And youwon't mind if I ask Mr. Crimm's advice?" I seemed pushing the girlI'd heard talking to Mrs. Mundy behind me. "He hasn't been able tofind Etta Blake yet. Do you suppose her disappearance could have anyconnection with Harrie's? It may be he really loves her. "

Selwyn turned away. "Love is hardly a term to be used in connectionwith an acquaintanceship such as theirs. A girl with a past, possibly--"

"How about his past?"

"I think you understand pretty well my opinion of his past. But aslong as theories yield to accepted custom a man's past will beforgotten, a woman's remembered. Harrie, if married, would bereceived anywhere, provided he married a woman of his world. Thislittle girl would have to pay her price and his, were she his wife, for no one would receive her. That's hardly the question before us, however. To find where Harrie is, find if anything is wrong, if he'sill--"

The sharp, sudden ringing of the telephone on the table behind memade me start, and, jumping up like a frightened child, I stood closeto Selwyn. "Who on earth-- It's half past twelve. Who can want meat this time of night?" I started to take the receiver from itshook, but, laughing at me, Selwyn got it first. 

"One would think a spook was going to spring at you. Central's giventhe wrong number, I guess. Hello! Who is that?"

Watching with as strained eagerness as if I were hearing, I sawSelwyn lean forward, after admitting that the number wanted was theright one, and heard him ask again: "Who is it? Who did you say?"

For the next five minutes there was snatchy, excited, and incoherentconversation over the telephone, during which Selwyn and I alternatedin the talking in an effort to learn what Tom Cressy was saying atthe other end of the line, and what it was he wanted me to do. Tom'svoice was not distinct and caution was making it difficult tounderstand what we finally got from him, which was that he wanted tobring Madeleine down to spend the night with me; that they hadstarted to go away to be married and missed the train by one minute, owing to an accident to the automobile they were in. The next traindid not leave until 4 A. M. Could Madeleine stay with me until traintime?

"No, she can't!" Hand over the telephone transmission, Selwyn turnedto me. "They've got no business mixing you up in this. You'll beblamed for the whole thing. I'm going to tell him to take her backto the Melbourne. They can make another try some other time. Tommust be crazy!"

"Most people in love are. You've never been desperate. " I laughedand took the receiver from him. "Madeleine's courage will be goneafter tonight and Tom's afraid to risk waiting. Get up and let metalk. "

Over the telephone I could hear Madeleine crying and I told Tom tobring her down. Her two-penny worth of nerve and dash had given outand she was frightened. Incoherently I was told by Tom thatMadeleine was being persecuted, and he wouldn't stand for it anylonger, and the only thing for them to do was to get married. Hadn'tit been for a durned tire--"

"Come on down. " I heard a little cry. "And hurry. It's prettylate. "

Mrs. Mundy, who had been told of their coming, opened the door forthem in dressing-gown and slippers, and piloted them up-stairs andinto my sitting-room, where Madeleine, at sight of Selwyn, burst intotears and buried her face on my shoulder. But the ten minutes werenot entirely lost which passed before we understood why the venturehad been decided upon at this particular time, and how hard luck hadprevented its fulfilment. Tears are effective. Selwyn weakened asrapidly as I could have wished. 

"I haven't seen Harrie for two weeks. Ever since I've been here he'sbeen writing me he was sick. " Madeleine's words came stumblingly, and the corners of her handkerchief were pulled with nervousmovements in between the wiping of her pretty brown eyes. "The dayafter Christmas I wrote him, breaking our engagement. I've neverheard from him since. I don't even know that he got my letter. "Questioningly she looked at Selwyn, and her face, already colored, crimsoned yet more deeply. 

"Neither do I. " Selwyn's voice was gentle. Indignation at his andmy involvement in what was not an affair of ours seemed to havevanished. "I redirected a number of letters to his new address, but--"

"His new address?" Madeleine looked puzzled. "I didn't know he hada new address. "

"He is not living at home just now. " The flush in Selwyn's facedeepened also. "I have not seen him since Christmas day. But go on. I did not mean to interrupt you. "

"Three days ago Madeleine told her mother she'd broken with Harrieand was going to marry me. " Tom was no longer to be repressed. "She's had the devil of a time ever since, and yesterday I told hershe shouldn't stand it any longer, and neither would I. Harrie hashypnotized her mother. She thinks--"

"I'm unkind and unsympathetic and hard and cruel to give him upbecause he is not well. It isn't that. You know it isn't that--"Madeleine's fingers twisted in appeal and again her eyes were onSelwyn. "You think it's dreadful in me not to marry your brother--"

"No, I don't. I think it would be much more dreadful in you if youdid marry him. " Selwyn's hands made gesture. "However, we'll leavethat out. You say you told your mother you intended to marry Tom?"

Handkerchief to her lips, she nodded. "I told her, and Tom wroteher, asking her consent. She wouldn't give it, and said I wasungrateful and had no ambition, and that if she had a stroke I'd bethe cause. She's never had a stroke and is very healthy, but--"

Bursting into fresh tears, Madeleine this time hid her face in herhands, and Tom, wanting much to comfort, miserably ignorant of how todo it, and consciously awkward and restrained in the presence ofwitnesses, stood by her side, his hand on her shoulder, and at sightof him I reached swift decision. 

"I'm glad you told her. You've been open and square and asked herconsent. One can't wait indefinitely for consent to do things. " Igot up and took Madeleine by the hand. "Come in my room and take offyour hat and coat. When we come back we'll talk about what is bestto do. "

Five minutes later we were back and, eyes bathed and face powdered, Madeleine gave evidence of fresh injections of courage, and quicklywe began to plan. The 4 A. M. Train was the best to take, but forhalf an hour we talked of whether Shelby or Claxon was the bettertown to go to for the marriage ceremony, which at either place couldbe performed without the consent of parent or guardian, andirrespective of the age of the applicants for the same. Thoughpreferring Shelby, Tom agreed to Claxon on my insisting on the latterplace, which was the Mecca for runaway couples from our section ofthe state. If I were going with them--

"Going with them?" The inflection in Selwyn's voice was hardlypolite. "You don't intend--"

"Yes, I do. They've made a mess of the first try and they'll becaught and brought back if somebody isn't there to keep them frombeing held up. I'm going with them. "

"How do you expect to hold off--the holding up?" Selwyn was staringat me and anxiety concerning Harrie was for the time in abeyance. Heneeded something to distract him. "What are you going to do?" heasked. 

"I don't know--don't have to know until to-morrow--I mean laterto-day. " I motioned toward the hall and, following me into it, hepartly closed the door behind us. "We'll let those children have achance to say good night, and then please go home. And don't look atme like that! I don't approve of runaway marriages any more than youdo. I'd never be a party to one, because I wouldn't marry anangel-man before I was twenty-one. Afterward running away wouldn'tbe necessary. Tom and Madeleine are not entirely to blame. "

"The blame for this will be put on you. Mrs. Swink will credit youwith the instigation and carrying out of the whole affair. Youmustn't go with them, Danny. It isn't necessary. "

"Maybe it isn't, but I'm going. I can't let a girl of Madeleine'sage leave the house alone at half past three in the morning, andcertainly I cannot let Tom come here for her. We will get to Claxonat ten o'clock and by that time Mrs. Swink will have finished herswooning and be working the wires. They'll certainly be held up atClaxon. "

"Then why go there? Why not go on to Shelby?"

I shook my head. "Claxon is the better place. I don't know how it'sgoing to be managed, but if one couldn't outmanoeuver mother Swink--. It doesn't matter about my being blamed for helping them. Long usagehas accustomed me to large shares of blame. " I held out my hand. "I'll be back to-morrow night. Come Thursday. I think by then--"

"There are few things you will let me share with you, but the blamethat will come from this I am going to share whether you let me ornot. I've gotten you into it and we'll see it through together. Ifyou are going with them, I am going also. Good night. " He droppedthe hand he was holding and turned away. "Tell Tom I'm waiting, willyou?"

CHAPTER XXIV

Telling Madeleine not to unpack her bags, I gave her one of mykimonos and ordered her to lie down while I slipped down-stairs for afew words with Mrs. Mundy. There was time for only a hurried talk, but during it I told her what I wanted her to do, what she must getMr. Crimm to do, and also, if inquiry was made for me during thecoming day she was to say I was out and she did not know just when Iwould be in. As Mrs. Swink was unaware that her daughter had madefrequent visits to Scarborough Square at the same time Mr. ThomasCressy happened to be there, she was hardly apt to associate me withtheir departure from the city; still, with less justice I have beenheld responsible for things with which I had nothing to do, and, thatMrs. Mundy be prepared for possible questions, I gave her a fewinstructions concerning them. 

She recalled clearly the conversation of which I had heard a fewwords, but the girl talking to her had not mentioned the name of thegirl of whom she talked, or of that of the man who was being nursedby her. 

"She spoke of her as a friend who was a fool to care for a man as shecared. " Mrs. Mundy put her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn. "Shesaid--"

I got up. It was too late for details. "Find the girl who came tosee you, and if the friend of whom she is speaking is Etta Blake, gether address and go to see her, if you can. If not, send Mr. Crimm. Tell the latter he must find Harrie. He may be somewhere under anassumed name. So may Etta Blake. Do you suppose it is possiblethey--can be together somewhere?"

"Anything is possible. " Mrs. Mundy blinked her eyes bravely toprevent my seeing the overpowering sleep in them, and quickly I wentto the door. 

"It's a shame you have to go to the train with us. You can comeright back, however, and sleep as late as you want. The cab will behere at three-thirty. Take a nap until then, and don't look soworried. I'm not committing a crime. I'm helping to keep some oneelse from committing one. Good night. " I kissed the dear soul and, leaving her, hurried up-stairs. 

Madeleine was lying down when I came back in the room, and, wantingmuch to talk, she began to do so, but unfeelingly I made her stop. Getting out the oldest and shabbiest dress I possessed, with a hat tocorrespond, I took off my party dress and slipped into a warm andworn wrapper. After putting a few things in a bag, without furtherundressing, I stretched out on the couch near the foot of the bed andin the dark called to Madeleine. 

"You won't be a beautiful bride if you don't get some sleep. Shutyour eyes. " Mine were shut. I wasn't going to be married. I wasonly a very tired maiden-lady about to do something she had nobusiness doing, and shamelessly I went to sleep and left Madeleineawake. 

Seemingly I had slept but a few minutes when, opening my eyes, I sawMadeleine standing, fully dressed, by the side of my couch, andlooking down at me. "It's ten minutes past three, " she said. "Ihate to wake you, but--"

Springing up, I threw off my wrapper and reached down for my shoes. "If you'd waked me before you put on your dress you wouldn't have totake it off. You're going to wear that dress. " I pointed to the oneon the chair behind her. "I'm sorry your wedding garments can't bemore festive, and that I'll have to wear your good clothes, but wemustn't run risks merely for pride. Take your dress off quickly andgive it to me. Don't look at me, but hurry. "

Madeleine's mind does not work as quickly as some people's, and alittle time was lost in explaining that any description to which shewould answer would have to apply to me, not her. In consequence thecab was at the door before she was fully garmented in my plainestclothes and I arrayed in her beautiful ones, and regretfully shelooked at me. I am taller and slenderer than Madeleine, but fashionwas in my favor, and the absence of fit and shortness of skirt gaveemphasis of adherence to its requirements. I looked the part. Shedidn't. 

At the station Tom and Selwyn were waiting and their puzzledincomprehension was even greater than Madeleine's had been. Explanations included a few suggestions as to the wisdom of ourseparating and, the men agreeing, Selwyn and I went in the Pullman, and poor little rich Madeleine and Tom to a day-coach, where cryingbabies and peanut-hulls and close air and torn papers would have madethem wretchedly unhappy had they not been happily unconscious ofthem. I was sorry for them, but marriage involves much. As thetrain pulled out I waved from the window to Mrs. Mundy, who, on theplatform, waved back with one hand and with the other wiped her eyes. Mrs. Mundy loves me, but she, too, does not always approve of me. 

Travel evidently was light. The sleeper in which we found ourselveshad barely two-thirds of the berths made up, and, the rest of theseats being empty, we took ours in a corner where in an undertone wecould talk and not disturb others. Taking off Madeleine's handsomefur coat and newest hat I put the latter in its paper bag and gavethe former to Selwyn to hang on a hook. Gloves and other thingsbeing disposed of, I again sat down and suggested that he, also, makehimself comfortable, and at the same time change his expression. 

"Later you can smoke, but at present you will have to be in herewhere I'm compelled to look at you. The photographic injunction tolook pleasant oughtn't to apply only to the taking of pictures. Forthe love of Heaven, sit down, Selwyn, and behave yourself!"

Selwyn hung up his hat and coat and took the seat opposite mine. From him came radiation of endurance, and, objecting to beingendured, I spoke impatiently. I did not care to be traveling at fouro'clock in the morning any more than he did, but much in life has tobe done that isn't preferable. He had invited himself to take thetrip. His desire to share any criticism coming to me for my part init was sincere, but rather than shielding it might subject me to anincreased amount. For the first time such a possibility came to me, and, looking up, I saw his eyes were gravely watching me. 

"I thought I was behaving. I'm willing to play the part properly ifI know the part, but I don't know it. Your intimations have beenindefinite. "

"There's been no time for any other sort. When Mrs. Swink learnsthat Madeleine and Tom have run away she will begin to ask where, andsomebody will certainly suggest Claxon. "

"Then why go to Claxon?"

"They're not going to Claxon. We are going there. Just this side isa little station at which they can take a local for Shelby. Theywill change at this station and go to Shelby while we keep on toClaxon and get off there. "

"But last night you insisted on their going to Claxon. " Selwyn'svoice implied that a woman's methods of management were beyond aman's understanding. 

"Inquiries will be made as to who bought tickets for Claxon. Mrs. Swink will have the whole police department running around for cluesand things. I told you not to buy tickets. Did you?"

"I did not. I'm taking orders and doing what I'm told, but, beingnew at it, I don't work as smoothly as I might. Is there any specialreason why I shouldn't have bought tickets?"

"There is. " I opened my pocket-book, and, taking out a note, handedit to him. "I'll take breakfast with you but I'll have to pay myrailroad fare. I didn't want you to get tickets, because if twocouples bought them it would cause confusion and telegrams might besent to Shelby also. I didn't have time to think it all out lastnight. I only knew Tom and Madeleine must seemingly go to Claxon andyet not go. I wasn't sure what could be done, but after you decidedto come I thought we could play the part and give them time to bemarried at Shelby. "

"You mean you and I are to pretend we are somebody else, mean--"

Selwyn's voice was protestingly puzzled. Impersonation did notappeal. 

"There'll be no necessity to pretend. If a sheriff, with orders todo so, takes charge of us he will hardly believe our assertion thatwe are not the parties wanted. He's used to that. All we will haveto do is to wait until Tom and Madeleine come back. When they showas proper a marriage certificate as a dairy-maid and farmer-laddieever framed he will let us go. You don't look as if playing groom tomy bride pleases you. I'm sorry, but--"

Into Selwyn's eyes came that which made me turn mine away and lookout of the window. Unthinkingly I had invited what he was going tosay. "Playing groom does not interest me. Why play? And stoplooking out of the window. " He changed his seat and took the onebeside me. "Look at me, Danny. Why can't we be married at Claxon?We'll wait for those children to come back and then--"

"Is that exactly fair?" I drew away the hands he was hurting in histense grip. "I hardly thought you'd take--" I shut my eyes to keepback quick tears for which there was no accounting. Somethingcurious was suddenly possessing me, something that for weeks I hadseemed fighting and resisting. An overmastering desire to give in;to surrender, to yield to his love for me, to mine for him, wasdisarming me, and swift, inexplicable impulse to marry him and giveup the thing I was trying to do urged and swept over me. And then Iremembered his house with its high walls. And I rememberedScarborough Square. Until there was between them sympathy andunderstanding there could be no abiding basis on which love couldbuild and find enrichment and fulfilment. Straightening, I sat up, but I was conscious of being very tired. 

"Please don't, Selwyn. " The hand I had drawn away I held out to him. "We must not think or talk of ourselves to-day. This is not our day. "

"But I want my day. " His strong fingers twisted into mine withbruising force. "I have waited long for it. For all others you haveconsideration, but my happiness alone you ignore. You seem to thinkmy endurance is beyond limit. How long are you going to keep thisthing up? Some day you are going to marry me. Why not to-day?"

I shook my head. "I cannot marry you today. Take care--" Theconductor was coming down the aisle toward us. 

CHAPTER XXV

By the time we learn a few of the lessons life teaches we stopliving. I should have known it is the unexpected that happens, but Iforgot it. What I expected at Claxon did not come to pass. 

At a little station a few miles east of the tiny town to which wewere going, Tom and Madeleine left our train and waited for acrawling accommodation to Shelby, where, later, they would bemarried. From the car window I waved to them and tried to transmit aportion of my courage, for which there was no credit, and of myenjoyment, of which I should have been ashamed and was not ashamed. A taste for adventure will ever be a part of me, and I was gettingmuch more pleasure out of an unexpected experience than Madeleinewas. The playing of shadow to her substance was not so serious forme as for her, and then, too, I had the joyful irresponsibility ofnot going to be married. I do not want to be a married person yet. 

As we left the car at Claxon I glanced in the mirror at the end ofour coach and was pleased. About me was a bridal atmosphere that wasunmistakable. Madeleine's clothes were new and lovely and I lookedwell. So did Selwyn. As we reached the platform I was undecidedwhether to cling timidly to Selwyn's arm or to walk bravely apart, and the indecision, together with the certainty that some one wouldput a hand on Selwyn's shoulder and say words I had never beforeheard, made my heart beat with a rapidity that was as genuine as if Iwere soon to become a bride in very truth. The sensation wasexhilarating. I liked it. 

On the platform of the little station a few negroes in overalls, twoboys, and five men, having apparently nothing to do, were hangingaround, hands in their pockets; and, looking about me, I waited. Nothing happened. Ahead of us and across a muddy road half a dozenstores, hunched together in a row of detached and shabby framehouses, with upper stories seemingly used for residential purposes, comprised the business portion of the little town, and on our rightthe post-office, telegraph and express offices, and telephoneexchange were in the one large building of the place. Out of eachwindow facing us some one was looking, and in the open door a man wasstanding, hat off and sweater-coated, who, at regular intervals, andwith unfailing accuracy of aim, ejected tobacco juice into a puddleof water some distance away. No one but ourselves got off the train, and, its stay at the station being short, the attention of theloungers near by and those resting themselves on boxes and barrels infront of the stores across the road was turned determinatedly to us. I looked at Selwyn. In his face was relief. In mine was anxietyand, I'm afraid, disappointment. The situation was flat. 

I had read various accounts of runaway marriages which had takenplace at Claxon, several of which had only succeeded after eludingthe sheriff, waiting under orders from irate parents to arrest them;and feeling confident Mrs. Swink would wire the proper person toprevent the marriage of her daughter, I looked around for the onemost likely to do the work. No one appeared. What if my plan hadfailed and Madeleine, in my un-wedding garments, was to be taken intocustody in Shelby? I turned to Selwyn. 

"Do you suppose--" My voice was low. A man close to me, with handsin his pockets, hat on the back of his head, and his left cheeklumpy, was looking at us appraisingly. "Do you suppose anything willhappen at Shelby? Nothing is happening here. "

Selwyn's sigh of relief was long. "If nothing happens here I'llthank God. To keep it out of the papers would have been impossible. Stay here while I see if there is a decent hotel. " He looked aroundspeculatively. In the distance a man could be seen on horsebackcoming down the road which wound from the top of a mountain to thevalley below, while at our left a covered ox-cart, a farm wagon, anda Ford car were waiting for their owners. Nothing in which we couldride, however, was seemingly in sight. A sudden desire to gosomewhere, do something, possessed me. The day was mild, and the airclean and clear and calling, and the sunshine brilliant. It was abeautiful day. We must go somewhere. 

For weeks I had been face to face with cruel conditions of life, hadseen hardships and denials and injustices, and dreary monotony ofdays, and I wanted for a while to get away from it all, to breathedeep of that which would renew and reinforce and revitalize; wantedto be a child again, and, with Selwyn as my playmate, wander alongthe winding road with faces to the sun, and hearts of hope, and faiththat God would not forget, and the world would yet be well. Ifnobody was going to do anything to us, if we were not needed to playa part, the hours ahead could be ours. The train on which we were toreturn did not leave until three-thirty. I looked at my watch. Itwas ten-thirty. 

"Get something from somebody. " My hand made movement toward the menabout us and then in the direction of the shacks and sheds and cabinsof the negroes, scattered at wide intervals apart from the village, which consisted of a long, rambling street with a white frame churchat one end, a gray one at the other, a court-house in the middle, anda school-house at its back. "Get a buggy and something you can driveand let's have a holiday--just by ourselves. What is that house overthere?"

I pointed to a square, old-fashioned red-brick building set well backfrom the road and surrounded by great oak-trees, and smaller ones ofbirch and maple and spruce and pine, and shrubs of various kinds. Itwas Claxon's one redemption. Shading my eyes, I read the tin signswinging in the wind from a rod nailed at right angles to a saggingpost at its gateless yard. "Swan Tavern. " The name thrilled. I wasno longer a twentieth-century person, but a lady of other days, andif a coach and four with outriders had appeared I would have steppedin it with delight. It did not appear, nor was Selwyn suddenly inknee-breeches and buckles and satin coat and brocaded vest. Not evenmy imagination could so clothe him. His practicality recalled me. 

"I'll go over and find out what sort of place it is, and see if wecan get anything to ride in. Perhaps this man can tell me. Waithere. " He put out his hand as if to prevent my speaking first to theman. I didn't intend to speak to him. 

The man could tell him nothing. He lived seven miles back and hadcome to the station to meet a friend who had failed to appear. Therewere teams in the neighborhood that might be gotten. Swan Taverndidn't have any. Used to, but most people nowaday, speciallydrummers, wanted automobiles, and old Colonel Tavis, who owned theplace, wouldn't let an automobile come in his yard. Perhaps MajorBresee might let him have his horse and buggy. The person who gavethe information changed his quid of tobacco from his left to hisright cheek and, spitting on the ground below the plank-looseplatform on which we were standing, pointed to a one-roomoffice-building down the street, then again surveyed us. Two orthree men across the road came over, and two or three others hangingaround the station drew nearer and nodded to us, while both of theboys, hands in their pants pockets, stared up at Selwyn as ifsomething new had indeed come to town. 

From each of the group, now uncomfortably close to us, the impressionradiated that the right of explanation was theirs as to why we shouldappear in Claxon with no apparent purpose for so appearing. Seemingly we were not the sort who usually applied for aid to theminister of the little town, known far and near for his matrimonialactivities, and just what we wanted was a matter concerning whichthey were entitled to enlightenment. They said nothing, but lookedmuch. Frowningly, Selwyn bit his lip. Presently he spoke. 

"Can you tell me where I can get a horse and buggy for a few hours?"He looked first at one man and then another. "We have to wait herefor friends who will return with us on the three-thirty train, andwe'd like to see something of the country round about here whilewe're waiting. Can we get lunch over there? And what time do theyhave it?" His hand pointed to Swan Tavern. 

"Don't have lunch. Dinner's at twelve o'clock. " The man farthestaway took his hands from the pockets of his pants and put them inthose of his coat. "I reckon you can get Major Bresee's horse andbuggy if he ain't using 'em. The horse ain't much, but it movesalong. Want me to see if I can get him for you?"

"I would be very much obliged. " Selwyn turned to me. "Shall we havethe buggy sent over to us while we see about lunch?" he asked, butnot waiting for an answer spoke again to the man whose kindly officeshe had accepted. "If you can get anything we can ride incomfortably, bring it over, will you? And bring it as soon as youcan. "

Lifting his hat, he turned from the staring strangers and helped medown the three rickety steps that led to the road across which we hadto go before turning in to the tree-lined lane that led to the quaintold tavern; and as we walked we were conscious of being watched withspeculation that would become opinion as soon as we were out ofhearing. 

Picking our way through the mud, we soon reached the house, and atits door an untidy old gentleman, with the grace and courtesy of thedays that are no more, greeted us as a gracious host greets warmlywelcomed guests, and we were led to a roaring fire and told to makeourselves at home. 

As he left the room to call his wife I touched Selwyn's arm andpointed to an open book on an old desk near the window at whichtravelers were supposed to register. "Ask him if he can't have alunch fixed for us to take with us. Then you won't have to registeror explain. Tell him anything will do, and please to hurry!"

He did not hurry. Nobody hurries in Claxon. It was twelve o'clockbefore the buggy was at the door, a basket of lunch in it, andgood-bys said; and giving a last look around the big, dusty, sunshinyroom with cobwebs on its walls and furniture in it that would havemade a collector sick with desire, I walked out on the porch, andwith me went the three dogs which had been stretched in front of thebig log fire. Together we went down the steps. 

Tucking a robe around me, the old gentleman nodded to Selwyn. "Don'tlet your wife get cold, suh, and don't stay out too long. The sun'sdeceiving and it ain't as warm as it looks. " Being deaf, he spokeloudly. "The battlefields are to your left about half a mile fromthe creek with a water-oak hanging over it, and nigh about two milesfrom here. You can't miss 'em. Over yonder"--he pointed to the topof a modest mountain--"is where we had a signal station during thewar. The view from there can't be beat this side of heaven. I ain'tsure the battlements of heaven itself--"

But our horse had started and Selwyn, looking at me, laughed. "Battlefields have their interest, but not to-day. It's nice, isn'tit, to be--just by ourselves and all the world away? Are you allright? I have orders to keep my wife warm. "

"She's very warm. Where are we going?" I turned from Selwyn's eyes. 

"I don't know. Don't care. It is enough that we are to be together. "

"Wouldn't you feel better if you said 'I told you so'? Any one wouldwant to say it. It was a pretty long trip to take unnecessarily, andas we haven't been of service we needn't have come. I'm sorry--"

"I'm not. " Selwyn, paying no attention to the horse, who had turnedinto the road leading to the top of the mountain, kept his eyes stillon me. "I don't deserve what has come of our venture, but I shallenjoy it the more, perhaps, because of undeserving. It is just 'wetwo' to-day. I get so mortally tired of people--"

"I don't. I like people. Perhaps if I only knew one sort I wouldget tired of them. I used to think my people were those I was bornamong, but I'm beginning to glimpse a little that my family is muchlarger than I thought, and that all people are my people. Still--"I laughed and drew in a deep breath of pine-scented air. 

"Still--?" Selwyn waited. 

"It _is_ nice to get away from everybody now and then, and be withjust you. I mean--" Certainly I had not meant to say what I hadsaid, and, provoked at my thoughtless revealing, at the chance itwould give Selwyn to say what I did not want him to say, I stoppedabruptly, then quickly spoke again. "Why don't you make the horse gofaster? We'll never get to Signal Hill at this rate. He's crawling. "

"What difference does it make whether we get anywhere or not? Idon't want to get anywhere. To be going with you is enough. You area cruel person, Danny, or you would not make me go so long a wayalone. "

"I am not making you go alone. It is you who are making me. I ammuch more alone than you. " Again I stopped and stared ahead. Whatwas the matter with me that I should be saying things I must not say?In the silence of earth and air I wondered if Selwyn could hear thequick, thick beating of my heart. 

On the winding road no one was in sight, and from our elevation aview of the tiny town below could be glimpsed through the barebranches of the trees of the little mountain we were ascending; andabout us was no sound save the crunch of the buggy-wheels on thegravel road, and the tread of the slow-moving horse. It was a newworld we were in--a kindly, simple, strifeless world of peace andplenty, and calm and content, and the crowded quarters close toScarborough Square, with their poignant problems of sin andsuffering, of scant beauty and weary joy, seemed a life apart andvery far away. And the world of the Avenue, the world of handsomehomes and deadening luxuries, of social exactions and selfishindulgence, of much waste and unused power, seemed also far away, andjust Selwyn and I were together in a little world of our own. 

"We might as well have this out, Danny. " An arm on the back of thebuggy, Selwyn looked at me, and in his eyes was that which made meunderstand he was right. We might as well have it out. "For threeyears you have refused to marry me, and now you say you are morealone than I. We've been beating the air, been evading something;refusing to face the thing that is keeping us apart. What is it?You know my love for you. But yours for me-- You have never told methat you loved me. Look at me, Danny. " He turned my face towardhim. "Tell me. Is it because you do not love me that you will notmarry me?"

"No. " A bird on a bough ahead of us piped to another across theroad, and as mate to mate was answered. "It is not because I do notlove you--Selwyn. I do--love you. " The crushing of my hands hurt, but he said nothing. "I shall never marry unless I marry you--but Iam not sure--we should be happy. "

"Why not? Is there anything that man could do I would not do to makeyou happy? All that I am or may be, all that I have to give--and oflove I have much--is for you. What is it, then, you fear? Yourfreedom? I should never interfere with that. "

I shook my head. "It is not my freedom. What I fear is our lack ofsympathy with, our lack of understanding of, certain points of view. We look at life so differently. "

"But certainly a woman doesn't expect a man to think just as shethinks, to feel as she feels, to see as she sees, nor does he expecther to see and feel and think his way in all things. As individualsthey--"

"Of course I wouldn't expect, wouldn't want my husband to feel towardall things as I feel. I would not want a stupid husband with no mindof his own! You know very well it is nothing of that sort. If, however, we cared not at all for the same sort of books; if we sawlittle alike in art and literature, in music or morals, in science orreligion; if the same interests did not appeal; if to the sameimpulse there was no response--we could hardly hope for genuinecomradeship. In most of those things we are together, but life is somuch bigger than things, and in our ideas of life and what to do withit we are pretty far apart. "

"Are we? Are you very sure? Are you perfectly sure, Danny, that weare so very far apart?"

Something warm and sweet, so tempestuously sweet that it terrified, for a moment surged, and, half-blinded, I looked up at him. "Do youmean--?" My fingers interlocked with his. 

"That I would like to live in Scarborough Square?" He smiledunsteadily and shook his head. "No, I wouldn't know how to livethere. I wouldn't fit in. I am just myself. You are a dozen selvesin one. But I am beginning to see dimly what you see clearly. Concerning my selfishness there is certainly nothing hazy. The wallsaround my house have been pretty high, and perhaps they should comedown. You have much to teach me. I have a habit of questioning--"

"So have I. All thinking people question. But in spite of myquestioning, perhaps because of it, I know now that my life--mustcount. It isn't mine to use just for myself, or in the easiest way. If there's anything to it, I've got to share it. Down in ScarboroughSquare I've been seeing myself in the old life, and when I go back toit I cannot--keep silent concerning what I have learned. I thinkperhaps we've failed--the men and women of our world even morediscouragingly than the men and women of the worlds I've learned toknow. As your wife you might not care to have me say--"

I stopped, silenced by the view which lay revealed before us, then Igave a little cry. Peak after peak of tree-filled mountains raisedtheir heads to a sky of brilliant blue whose foam-clouds curled andtumbled in fantastic shapes, and in the valley below was the silenceand peace of a place unpeopled. I turned to Selwyn, and longresistance yielding to that for which there was no words, I let himsee the fulness of surrender. For a long moment we did not speak, then I drew away from his arms. "We must get out. It is a heavenlyvision. I want--"

Getting down from the high, old-fashioned buggy, Selwyn held his armsout to me, lifted me in them to the ground. "I, too, want here--myheavenly vision. " It was difficult to hear him. Drawing my face tohis, he kissed me again. "You have told me that you loved me. _Youare mine and I am going to marry you_. "

He turned his head and listened, in his face something of the oldimpatience. The soft whir of an automobile broke the silence of thesun-filled, breeze-blown air, and I made effort to draw away fromSelwyn's arms. "Some one is coming, " I said, under my breath. "Shall we go on or stay here?"

"Stay here. Why not?" Frowningly, Selwyn for a moment waited, then, with his hand holding mine, we walked nearer the edge of themountain's plateau and looked at the ribbon-like road that wound upto its top. The noise of the engine was more distinct than the car, but gradually the latter could be seen clearly, and presently threefigures were distinguished in it. 

"They'll have to pass us. There's no other way. " Words notutterable were smothered under Selwyn's breath. "A few more minutesand they'll be going down the mountain, however, and will soon be outof sight. Are you cold? Do you mind staying up here for a littlewhile--with all the world away?"

"No. I want to stay. " I leaned forward. In the machine, now nearenough to see that two people were in its back seat and the driveralone in front, there was also leaning forward; then hurriedmovement, then the man behind got up and waved his hat, and the girlbeside him got up also. 

Slowly Selwyn turned to me, in his eyes rebellious protest. "It isMr. And Mrs. Cressy, and there's no way of getting rid of them. They've motored over instead of waiting for the train. Have they nosense, no understanding?"

"And they think they've been so considerate in hurrying to us!" Thetone of my voice was that of Selwyn's. "Is there nothing we can do?"

"Nothing--unless we tell them to wait here while we go over toShelby. The reward of virtue was never to my taste! Our one daytogether--"

He turned away, but quickly I followed him; in his hand slipped mine. "I'm sorry, Selwyn--but there will be another day--be many days. "

CHAPTER XXVI

Many undeserved blessings have come to me in life and have made metemporarily meek and humble, but when punishments come which areunwarranted, meekness and humility (of which I have never possessed asufficient amount, inasmuch as I am a person without money)disappear, and I am not a lowly-minded lady. I was punished for mypart in helping Tom and Madeleine get married by action of Mrs. Swinkthat was as astounding as it was unexpected. Mrs. Swink is a wilywoman. She has little education and large understanding of humannature. She knows when she is beaten. In a woman such knowledge isunusual. 

The day after our return from Claxon she appeared in my sitting-roomin Scarborough Square and, throwing her arms around me, kissed methree times. She attempted a fourth kiss, which I prevented, andfollowed the kisses with an outburst of tears that was proportionateto her person in volume and abundance. Feeling as one does who isovertaken by a shower when the sun is shining, I made effort to drawaway, but my head was again pressed on her broad bosom, and withfresh tears I was thanked for my kindness in chaperoning her daughteron her matrimonial adventure; an adventure which would have subjectedher to much criticism had I not been along. Also Mr. Thorne. Theunexpectedness of these thanks was disconcerting and, with anexpression that was hardly appreciative of the pose she was assuming, I finally rescued myself from her arms and, drawing off, looked ather for explanation. Mrs. Swink is not a person I care to have kissme. 

"Oh, my dear, you do not know the anguish of a mother's heart! Youcouldn't know it unless you were a mother, and when you are one Ihope your heart won't be wrung as mine has been wrung! But poor, dear Mr. Swink always said bygones ought to be bygones, and nowthey're married I suppose it's a bygone and I ought not to let myheart be wrung; but it is, and I've been thinking about poor, dearMr. Swink all day. " She took her seat and, wiping her eyes and nose, began to cry again. "Oh, my dear, you don't know the anguish of amother's heart!"

"Would you like a fresh handkerchief?" I asked. The one in Mrs. Swink's hand was too wet for further use. I started toward mybedroom door, but she shook her head. 

"I've got two or three, I think. I'm so easily affected when myheart is wrung that I have to keep a good many on hand. But I had tocome and thank you. It would have been so dreadful for them to havegone off alone. It makes it very different to have had you and Mr. Thorne along. Yes, indeed--a mother's heart--"

What was she up to? Fearing that my face would indicate too clearlythat I was not deceived by her change of tactics, I shielded it fromthe fire by the screen, close to the chair in which I sat, and madeeffort to wait politely, if not with inward patience, for what Iwould discover if I only gave her time. Something had happened I didnot understand. I had forgotten the letter Selwyn had sent her. 

"They went away an hour ago on their wedding-trip. " A freshhandkerchief was drawn from the heaving bosom for the fresh tearswhich again flowed. "My poor head is all in a whirl. So many thingshad to be done, though Madeleine wouldn't take but one trunk and nomaid, though I told her she could have Freda, and there are so manythings that have got to be attended to before they get back that Idon't know where to begin, and I had to come down here right away andthank you the first thing. And of course she will have to have atrousseau, for her poor, dear father wouldn't like it if she didn'thave one, and the best that could be bought. He was very particular, her father was, and I know he would thank you, too, if he could. Andthere will have to be a reception, and it's about that, and a fewother things, I felt I must talk to you this morning, being you areresponsible, in a way, for the marriage--"

"I am nothing of the sort. You are responsible for its being thesort of marriage it was. I went with them because--"

"Yes, indeed, I understand! Tom says it was splendid in you and Ihad to come and thank you. Everybody will take it so differentlywhen they know you and Mr. Thorne were along. I think it was noblein Mr. Thorne when his poor brother wanted so much to marryMadeleine. I feel it was such a narrow escape--her not marrying him. I've been hearing all sorts of sad things about him lately. Realsad. I was deceived in him. "

"Who deceived you?"

I might as well not have asked the question. No attention was paidto it. 

"He was such a dear boy, Harrie was. So handsome and his family sowell known, and he was so in love with Madeleine that I was deceivedin him. Yes indeed, I was deceived. A woman is so helpless wheremen are concerned. "

"She isn't a bit helpless unless she prefers to be. A great manywomen do. Had you made any inquiries concerning Harrie's character?"

"In my day it wasn't expected of a woman to make inquiries. " Mrs. Swink's voice was that of righteous reserve. "It's very hard on amother to ask questions about character and things like that. I knewof the Thorne family very well, and of the Thorne house, which Ithought Harrie would live in until he and Madeleine could build amoderner one, and-- Oh no, my child, you don't know the anguish of amother's heart! You don't know!" Tears not of anguish, but ofblighted ambition, caused the flow of words to cease temporarily, andlight came to me. Selwyn's letter had done the work. 

Harrie being eliminated, the fat old hypocrite was trimming her sailswith hands hardened from long experience. Her embraces and gratitudewere a veer in a new direction. In a measure I was to be held toaccount for the present situation; in a sense to be social sponsorfor Mrs. Thomas Cressy. A homeless Harrie, disapproved of by familyand friends, would not have made a desirable son-in-law, and I hadbeen seized upon as the most available opportunity within reach tobring her daughter's marriage desirably before the public. Mrs. Swink had seemingly little understanding of the little use societyhas for people who do not entertain. I do not entertain. 

Nothing was due her, but hoping if I promised help she might go away, I suggested the possibility of Kitty's entertaining Tom and Madeleineon their return from their wedding-trip, and at the suggestion thebeady little eyes brightened, and immediately I was deluged withdetails of the reception she had determined to give the bride andgroom, implored for help in making out the list of guests to beinvited, and begged to be one of the receiving party. The last Ideclined. 

When at last she was safely gone I locked the door and sprayed myselfwith a preparation that is purifying. I was dispirited. There aretimes when the world seems a weary place and certain of its peoplebeyond hope or pardon. 

Last night I had a talk with Mrs. Mundy. She had seen the girl Ioverheard speaking of an ill man who was being nursed by some one sheknew, and this girl had admitted that the "some one" was Etta Blake. By another name she had been living in Lillie Pierce's world. Forthe past two weeks, however, she had been away from it. When Mrs. Mundy told me, something within gave way, and my head went down in myarms, which fell upon the table, and I held them back no longer--theaching tears which came at last without restraint. "The pity--oh, the pity of it!" was all that I could say, and wisely Mrs. Mundy letme cry it out--the pain and horror which were obsessing me. Hand onmy head, she smoothed my hair as does one's mother when her child isgreatly troubled, and for a while neither of us spoke. 

I had feared for some time what I knew now was true, and it was notfor Etta alone that pity possessed me. Somehow, for all younggirlhood, for the weak and wayward, the bold and brazen, theunprotected and helpless, I seemed somehow responsible, I and otherwomen like me, who were shielded from their temptations and ignorantof the dangers to which they were exposed; and Etta was but one ofmany who had gone wrong, perhaps, because I had not done right. Something was so wrong with life when such things could happen, asthrough all ages had happened; things which men said were impossibleto prevent. Perhaps they are, but women are different from men inthat they attempt the impossible. When they understand, this, too, must be attempted--

After a while Mrs. Mundy began to tell me what she had learned. Itwas an old story. The girl who told her of Etta was a friend of thelatter's and had been a waitress in the same restaurant in which Ettawas cashier. It was at this restaurant that Harrie met her. 

"She was crazy to think he meant to marry her, " the girl had toldMrs. Mundy, "but at first she did think it. For some time he wasjust nice to her, taking her to ride in his automobile, and out toplaces where he was not apt to meet any one he knew, and then--then--"

"She doesn't blame Harrie, though. That is, at first she didn't. She was that dead in love with him she would have gone with himanywhere, but after a while, when she found out the sort he was, she--cursed him. It was about the child they had a split. "

"Was it born here?" I was cold and moved closer to the fire. 

Mrs. Mundy shook her head. "He sent her to a hospital out of town, but when she came back with the child he told her she would have tosend it away somewhere, put it in some place, or he'd quit her. Heseemed to hate the sight of it. It was on account of the child theyhad a fuss. Etta wouldn't give it up. She can be a little fury whenshe's mad, the girl said, and they had an awful row and he went offsomewhere and stayed four months. She tried to get work, but eachtime some one told about her and she was turned off because--of thechild. At one place one of the bosses tried to take some libertywith her and she threw an ink-bottle at him and he drove her away. She knew there wasn't any straight way left to her after that unlessshe starved or went in a rescue place. She tried to get in one andtake the baby with her, but it was full, and then, too, she kepthoping she could get work. Then the baby got sick and needed whatshe couldn't give it, and after a while she gave up. She got a womanto look after the child, promised to pay her well, and went down intoLillie Pierce's world. Since the day she went she has never been outexcept to see the baby, until two weeks ago, when she moved into adecent place and took two rooms. Harrie had come back to her. "

"How old is the child?"

"Ten months. She never intended it to know anything of its mother. She hoped she would die before it was old enough to understand. It'sa little girl. Etta is eighteen. "

The room grew still and, getting up, Mrs. Mundy put more coal on thefire, made blaze spring from it, warm and red. I waited for her togo on. 

"It seems like Mr. Harrie can't stay away from her, the girl says. He never sees the child, though. The other woman, who's married andhas children of her own, still keeps it for her. She's named Banch. "Mrs. Mundy looked up. "I've found where the Banches live. It's onlytwo squares from where Etta is now living. "

"But Harrie?" I turned off the light behind me. 

"He is with Etta. He was taken ill on Christmas night. Except thedoctor, no one knows he is with her. He would have been dead by nowhad it not been for Etta, the doctor says. He had pneumonia. Mr. Guard and Mr. Crimm have gone to see him to-night, to see when he canbe moved away. "

"And Etta--what will become of her?"

Mrs. Mundy looked into the fire. "What can become of any girl likethat but to go back to the old life? She's an outcast forever. "

"And he--" I got up. All the repression of past ages was breakinginto revolt. "He will go home and feed on the leaven of Phariseesand hypocrites, and later he will marry a girl of his world, and theworld that will give him welcome will keep Etta in her hell. Iwonder sometimes that God doesn't give us up--we who call ourselvesclean and good! We are a lot of cowards, most of us women, of'fraid-cats and cowards!"

My hands made gesture, and, going to the window, I looked out, ashamed of my outburst. Beating one's head against the walls ofcustom and convention accomplished nothing. All sane people agreedconcerning the injustice of one person paying the price of the sin oftwo people; all normal ones admitted that what was wicked in a womanwas wicked in a man, but agreement and admission were terms ofspeech. Translation into action would have meant a bigger price thaneven sane and normal and righteous people were willing to pay. Mencould hardly be blamed, but women should be, for the continuance ofold points of view. Women are no longer ignorant or dependent, andthe time for silence and acceptance is past. Perhaps the women ofLillie Pierce's world are not so much to be despaired of as some ofmine and other sheltered worlds; the soulless, spineless, selfishones who cannot always justly draw their skirts aside, and yet dodraw them with eyebrows raised, and curling lips, and gesture thatmeans much. I, too, have been a coward. I, too, have been longasleep. But there were other women who had been making splendidfight while I was wasting time, and at thought of them came courage, and under my breath I prayed God to make it grow. 

"You must bring Etta here. " I turned from the window. "I want totalk to her, to see if something can't be done. Surely something canbe done! She might get some rooms not far from here and take thechild to live with her. Mr. Thorne will doubtless make his brothergo away. Can you see her to-morrow and bring her here?"

Mrs. Mundy got up. "You are dead tired and ought to go to bed. Night before last you didn't sleep two hours, and I heard you up latelast night. You mustn't take things too hard, Miss Dandridge. " Sheput her warm hands on my cold ones. "You're young, but for overthirty years I have been looking life in the face, and I've learned alot that nothing but time can teach. One of the things is that weall ain't made in the same mold, and our minds and hearts ain't anymore alike than our bodies. Every day we live we have to get in anew supply of patience and politeness to keep from hitting out, attimes, at folks who don't see our way. Some people ain't ever goingto look at things they don't want to see, or to listen to what theydon't want to hear, but there ain't as many people like that as youthink. There's many a woman in this world to-day that God is proudof; in the Homes and places what they're the head of, and on theirboards and things they are learning that all women are their kin, andafter a while they'll make other women understand. I'll see Ettato-morrow, and if she will come I will bring her to see you. Butuntil Mr. Harrie is gone she won't come--won't leave him. Sometimesit seems a pity he didn't die. Go to bed, Miss Dandridge! you areall tired out. "

CHAPTER XXVII

For two weeks Etta Blake refused to come to Mrs. Mundy's, refused tosee the latter when she went to see her, to see me when I went; butyesterday she came to both of us. Ten days ago Harrie was taken toSelwyn's home and is now practically well. Mr. Guard tells me he isgoing away; going West. 

I have seen Selwyn but twice since he learned where Harrie was found, and then not alone. Both times some one was here and he stayed but ashort while. He has bitten dust of late and even with me he is incasedin a reserve that is impenetrable. There has been no chance to mentionHarrie's name had he wished to do so. I do not know that he will evermention it again. Selwyn is the sort of person who rarely speaks ofpainful or disgraceful things. 

I was in my sitting-room when Mrs. Mundy came up with Etta. As thelatter stood in the doorway prayer sprang in my heart that I would notshrink, but the heritage of the ages was upon me, and for a half-minuteI could only think of her as one is taught to think--as a depraved, polluted creature, hardly human, and then I saw she was a suffering, sinful child, and I took her hands in mine and led her to the fire. 

To see clearly, see without confusion, and with no blinding ofsentimental sympathy, but as woman should see woman, I had been tryingto face life frankly for some months past; yet when I saw Etta Irealized I had gone but a little way on the long and lonely roadawaiting if I were to do my part. And then I remembered Harrie. Hehad gone back to the proudest, haughtiest home in town; and Etta--wherecould Etta go?

Hatless, and in a shabby dress, with her short, dark, curly hair partedon the side, she looked even younger than when I had first seen her, but about her twisting mouth were lines that hardened it, and in heropalescent eyes, which now shot flame and fire and now paled withweariness, I saw that which made me know in bitter knowledge she wasold and could never again be young. Youth and its rights for her weregone beyond returning. 

She would not sit down; grew rigid when I tried to make her. "You wantto see me?" She looked from me to Mrs. Mundy and back again to me. "What do you want to see me about? Why did you want me to come here?"

"We want to talk to you, to see what is best for you to do. " I spokehaltingly. It was difficult to speak at all with her eyes upon me. They were strange eyes for a girl of eighteen. 

"Best for me to do?" She laughed witheringly and turned from the fire, her hands twisting in nervous movements. "There are only two thingsahead of me. Death--or worse. Which would you advise me--to do?"

Without waiting for answer the slight shoulders straightened and wentback. Scorn, hate, bitterness were in her unconscious pose, and fromher eyes came fire. "If you sent for me to preach you can quit beforeyou start. There ain't anything you can do for me. I'm done for. What do people like you care what becomes of girls like us? Maybe wesend ourselves to hell, but you see to it that we stay there. You'regood at your job all right. I hate you--you good women! Hate you!"

I heard Mrs. Mundy's indrawn breath, saw her quick glance of shock anddistress, then I went over to Etta. She was trembling with hot emotionlong repressed, and, as one at bay, she drew back, reckless, defiant, and breathing unsteadily. 

"I do not wonder that you hate us. I am sorry--so sorry for you, Etta. "

For a full minute she stared at me as if she had not heard aright andthe dull color in her face deepened into crimson, then with a springshe was at the door, her face buried in her arms. Leaning heavilyagainst it, she made convulsive effort to keep back sound. 

"Sorry--oh, my God!" In a heap she crumpled on the floor, her facestill hidden in her hands. "I did not know--in all the world--anybodywas sorry. You can't be sorry--I'm a--"

I motioned Mrs. Mundy to go out. "Leave her with me, " I said. "Comeback presently, but leave her awhile with me. "

Going over to the window, I stood beside it until the choking sobs grewfainter and fainter, and then, turning away, I drew two chairs close tothe fire and told Etta to come and sit by me. For a while neither ofus spoke, and when at last she tried to speak it was difficult to hearher. 

"I didn't mean to let go like that. I wouldn't have done it if youhadn't said--you were sorry. You've no cause to be sorry for me. I'mnot worth it. I was crazy--to care as I cared. I ought to have knowngentlemen like him don't marry girls like me, but I didn't have thestrength to--to make him leave me, or to go away myself. And then oneday he told me it had to be a choice between him and the baby. Heseemed to hate the sight of the baby. He said I must send it away. "Swaying slightly, she caught herself against the side of the tableclose to her, and again I waited. "She's a delicate little thing, andI couldn't put her in a place where I didn't know how they'd treat her. He told me it had to be one or the other--and I'd rather he'd killed methan made me say which one. But I couldn't give the baby up. Sheneeded me. "

"And then--" My voice, too, was low. 

"He got mad and went away. I thought I hated him, but I can't hatehim. I've tried and I can't. When he came back and found where I wasliving--" A long, low shiver came from the twisting lips. "About fiveweeks ago I moved to where he was taken sick. And now--now he has gonehome again and I--" She got up as if the torment of her soul made itimpossible for her to sit still, and again she faced me. "It doesn'tmatter what becomes of me. What do rich people and good people andpeople who could change things care about us? And neither do they carewhat we think of them, and specially of good women. Do you suppose wethink you really believe in the Christ who did not stone us? We don't. We laugh at most Christians, spit at them. We know you don't believein Him or you'd remember what He said. "

She turned sharply. Mrs. Mundy with Kitty behind her was at the door. The latter hesitated, and, seeing it, Etta nodded to her. "Come in. Iwon't hurt you. You need not be afraid. "

Speaking first to Etta, Kitty kissed me, and I saw she had comeup-stairs because she, too, was wondering if there was something shecould do. Kitty is no longer the child she once was. She is going, some day, to be a brave and big and splendid woman. At the window shesat down, and as though she were not in the room Etta turned toward me. 

"You said just now you wanted to help. Wanting won't do that!" Shesnapped her fingers. "You've got to stop wanting and will to dosomething. Men laugh at the laws men make, but we don't blame men likewe blame women who let their men be bad and then smile on them, marrythem, and pretend they do not know. They do not want to know. If youmade men pay the price you make us pay, the world would be a saferplace to live in. Men don't do what women won't stand for. "

Kitty leaned forward, and Etta, with twisting hands, looked at her andthen at Mrs. Mundy and then at me, and in her eyes was piteous appeal. "There's no chance for me, but I've got a little baby girl. What'sgoing to become of her? In God's name, can't you do something to makegood women understand? Make them know the awfulness--awfulness--"

Again the room grew still and presently, with dragging steps, Ettaturned toward the door. Quickly I followed her. She must not go. Ihad said nothing, gotten nowhere, and there was much that must be saidthat something might be done. To have her leave without some plan towork toward would be loss of time. She was but one of thousands ofbits of human wreckage, in danger herself and of danger to others, andsomebody must do something for her. I put my hand on her shoulder todraw her back and as I did so the door, half ajar, opened more widely. Motionless, and as one transfixed, she stared at it wide-eyed, and intoher face crept the pallor of death. 

Selwyn and Harrie were standing in the doorway. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

Stumbling back as if struck, Harrie leaned against the door-frame, and the hat in his hand dropped to the floor. Selwyn, too, for ahalf-minute drew back, then he came inside and spoke to Etta, and tome, and to Mrs. Mundy, and to Kitty. Pushing a chair close to thefire, he took Harrie by the arm and led him to it. 

"Sit down, " he said, quietly. "You'll be better in a minute. "

Harrie had given Etta no sign of recognition, but the horror in hisonce-handsome face, now white and drawn, told of his shock at findingher with me, and fear and recoil weakened him to the point offaintness. In his effort to recover himself, to resist what might becoming, he struggled as one for breath, but from him came no word, nosound. 

Infinite pity for Selwyn made it impossible for me to speak for amoment, and before words would come Mrs. Mundy and Kitty had gone outof the room and Selwyn had turned to Etta. 

With shoulders again drawn back, and eyes dark with fear anddefiance, she looked at him. "Why have you come here?" she asked. "What are you going to do? You've taken him home and left me to goback to where he drove me. Isn't that enough? Why have you broughthim here?"

"To ask Miss Heath to say what he must do. That is why I have come. "Pushing the trembling girl in a chair behind Harrie's, Selwyn lookedup at me. "You must decide what is to be done, Dandridge. This is amatter beyond a man's judgment. I do not seem able to think clearly. You must tell me what to do. "

"I? Oh no! It is not for me. Surely you cannot mean that I musttell you--" The blood in my body surged thickly, and I drew back, appalled that such decision should be laid upon me, suchresponsibility be mine. "What is it you want--of me?"

"To tell me--what Harrie must do. " In Selwyn's face was thewhiteness of death, but his voice was quiet. "I did not know, untilDavid Guard told me, that there was a child, and that Harrie was itsfather, and that because of the child Etta would not go away as I hadtried to make her. I did not know she had no father or brother tosee that, as far as possible, her wrong is righted. I want you toforget that Harrie is my brother and remember the girl, and tellme--what he must do. "

From the chair in which Harrie sat came a lurching movement, and Isaw his body bend forward, saw his elbows on his knees, his faceburied in his hands, and then I heard a sudden sob, a soft, littlecry that stabbed, and Etta was on the floor beside him, crouching athis feet, holding his hands to her heart, and uttering broken, foolish words and begging him to speak to her, to tell her that hewould marry her--that he would marry her and take her away. 

"Harrie--oh, Harrie!" Faintly we could hear the words that camestumblingly. "Could we be married, Harrie, and go away, oh, faraway, where nobody knows? I will work for you--live for you--die foryou, if need be, Harrie! We could be happy. I would try--oh, Iwould try so hard to make you happy, and the baby would have a name. You would not hate her if we were married. She was never to know shehad a mother, she was to think her real mother was dead and that Iwas just some one who loved her. But if we were married I would nothave to die to her. Tell me--oh, tell me, Harrie, that we can bemarried--and go away--where nobody knows!"

But he would tell her nothing. With twitching shoulders and headturned from her he tried to draw his hands from those which held hisin piteous appeal, and presently she seemed to understand, and intoher face came a ghastly, shuddering smile, and slowly she got up anddrew a deep breath. 

As she stood aside Harrie, with a sudden movement, was on his feetand at the door. His hand was on the knob and he tried to open thedoor, but instantly Selwyn was by him, and with hold none too gentlehe was thrust back into the room. 

"You damned coward!" Selwyn's voice was low. "She is the mother ofyour child, and you want to quit her; to run, rather than pay yourprice! By God! I'll see you dead before you do!"

Again the room grew still. The ticking of the clock and the beat ofraindrops on the windowpanes mingled with the soft purring of thefire's flames, and each waited, we knew not for what; and then Ettaspoke. 

"But you, too, would have to pay--if he were made to pay--the price. "She looked at Selwyn. "It is not fair that you should pay. I willgo away--somewhere. It does not matter about the baby or me. Thankyou, but-- Good-by. I'm going--away. "

Before I could reach her, hold her back, she was out of the room andrunning down the steps and the front door had closed. Mrs. Mundylooked up as I leaned over the banister. "It is better to leave heralone to-day, " she said, and I saw that she was crying. "We can seeher to-morrow. She had better be by herself for a while. "

Back in the room Selwyn and I looked at each other with white andtroubled faces. We had bungled badly and nothing had been done. 

"Come to-morrow night. I must see David Guard, must see Etta again, before I-- Come to-morrow and I will tell you. I must be sure. " Iturned toward Harrie, but he had gone into the hall. Quickly myhands went out to Selwyn, and for a long moment he held them in his, then, without speaking, he turned and left me. 

CHAPTER XXIX

I know I should not think too constantly about it. I try not to, butI cannot shake off the shock, the horror of Etta's death. Selwyninclosed the note she wrote him in the letter he sent me just beforeleaving with Harrie for the West, but he did not come to see mebefore he left. 

When I try to sleep the words of Etta's note pass before me likefrightened children, crying--crying, and then again these childrensing a dreary chant, and still again the chant becomes a chorus whichrepeats itself until I am unnerved; and they seem to be calling me, these little children, and begging me to help make clean and safe thepaths that they must tread. I am just one woman. What can I do?

I knew Etta was dead before Selwyn received her note. Mrs. Banch, the woman who kept the child for her, came running to Mrs. Mundy theday after Etta had been to see me, and incoherently, sobbingly, withhands twisting under her apron, she told us of finding Etta, with thebaby in her arms, lying on her bed, as she thought, asleep. But shewas not asleep. She was dead. 

"She had done it as deliberate as getting ready to go on a longjourney, " the woman had sobbed. "Everything was fixed and in itsplace, and after bathing and dressing the baby in a clean gown, shewrote on a piece of paper that all of its clothes were for my littlegirl, and that she wouldn't do what she was doing if there was anyother way. "

With a fresh outburst of tears, the woman handed me a half-sheet ofnote-paper. "Bury us as we are, " it read. "I am taking the babywith me. --Etta. "

"We will come with you. " Mrs. Mundy, who had gotten out her hat andcoat to go to see Etta before Mrs. Banch came in, hurriedly put themon, while I went for mine, and together we followed the woman to thesmall and shabby house in the upper part of which Etta had beenliving for some weeks past; the lower part being occupied by an oldshoemaker and his wife who had been kind to her; and as we enteredthe room where the little mother and her baby lay I did not try tokeep them back--the tears that were too late. 

"Last night I was standing in the door when she came by with a letterin her hand. " As Mrs. Banch talked, she was still quivering from theshock of her discovery, and her words came brokenly. "On her wayback from mailing it I asked her to come in and set with me, but shewouldn't do it; she said she was going to take the baby with her tospend the night, as she didn't want to be by herself; and, goingup-stairs, she wrapped her up good and took her away with her. Idon't know why, but I felt worried all last night, and this morning Icouldn't get down to nothing 'til I ran around to see how she was andhow the baby was, and when I went up in her room--" The woman'swork-worn hands were pressed to her breast. "God--this world is ahard place for girls who sin! It don't seem to matter about men, butwomen--" Presently she raised her head and looked at us. "I neverseen a human being what had her spirit for enduring. She paid herprice without whining, but something must have happened what shecouldn't stand. She had a heart if she was--if she was--"

Two days later, as quietly as her life had ended, Etta's body, withher baby on its breast, was put into the ground, and mingled withDavid Guard's voice as he read the service for the dead was thefar-off murmur of city noises, the soft rise and fall of city sounds. With Mrs. Mundy and Mrs. Banch, the old shoemaker and his wife, Istood at the open grave and watched the earth piled into a mound thatmarked a resting-place at last for a broken body and a soul no onehad tried to reach that it might save, but I did not hear the beatingof the clods of clay, nor the twittering of the birds in the trees, nor the wind in their tops. I heard instead Etta's cry to Kitty andto me: "In God's name, can't somebody do something to make good womenunderstand!"

It is these words that beat into my brain at night; these and thewords I did not speak in time and which, on the next day, were toolate. The note she sent Selwyn also keeps me awake. 

"I am going, " she wrote, "so the thought of me will not make youafraid. You tried to help me, but there isn't any help for girlslike me. I am taking the baby with me. I want to be sure she willbe safe. It would be too hard for her, the fight she'd have to make. I can't leave her here alone. ETTA. "

Last night David Guard came in for a few minutes. Leaning back in abig chair, he half closed his eyes and in silence watched the flamesof the fire, and, seeing he was far away in thought, I went on withthe writing of the letter I had put aside when he came in. I alwaysknow when he is tired and worn, and I have learned to say nothing, tobe as silent as he when I see that the day's work has so wearied himhe does not wish to talk. At other times we talk much--talk of lifeand its possibilities, of old cults and new philosophies, of booksand places; of the endless struggles of men like himself to beintellectually honest and spiritually free. But oftenest we speak ofthe people around us, the people on whom the injustices of a selfishsocial system fall most heavily; and among them, sharing theirhardships, understanding their burdens, recognizing their limitationsand weaknesses, leading and directing them, he has found life inlosing it, and it now has meaning for him that is bigger and finerthan the best that earth can give. 

Presently he stirred, drew a long breath as one awaking, but when hespoke he did not turn toward me. 

"I saw Mr. Thorne the night before he left with Harrie for hisfriend's ranch in Arizona. He is going to give him another chance, and it's pretty big of him to do it, but I doubt if anything willcome of it. Harrie belongs to a type of humanity beyond awakening toa realization of moral degeneracy; a type that believes soconfidently in the divine right of class privilege that it believeslittle else. Harrie's failure to appreciate the hideousness ofcertain recent experiences has made them all the more keenly felt byhis brother. I have rarely seen a man suffer as the latter hassuffered in the past few days, but unless I am mistaken--"

The pen in my hand dropped upon the desk, and for a while I did notspeak. Then I got up and went toward David Guard, who had alsorisen. "You mean--" The words died in my throat. 

"That he is beginning to understand why you came to ScarboroughSquare; to grasp the necessity of human contact for humaninterpretation. He, too, is seeing himself, his life, his world, from the viewpoint of Scarborough Square, and what he sees givesneither peace nor pride nor satisfaction. He will never see soclearly as you, perhaps, but certain cynicisms, certain intolerances, certain indifferences and endurances will yield to keener perceptionof the necessity for new purposes in life. " He held out his hand. "He needs you very much. I've got to go. Good-by. "

For a long time I sat by the fire and watched it die. Was DavidGuard right, or had it been in vain, the venture that had brought meto Scarborough Square? I had told Selwyn I had come that I might seefrom its vantage-ground the sort of person I was and what I was doingwith life; but it was also in the secret hope that he, too, might seethe kindred of all men to men, the need of each for each, that I hadcome. If together we could stand between those of high and lowdegree, between the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak, withhands outstretched to both, and so standing bring about, perhaps, abetter understanding of each other, then my coming would have beenworth while. But would we ever so stand? All that I had hoped forseemed as dead as the ashes on the hearth. I had brought him painand humiliation, drawn back, without intention, curtains that hidugly, cruel things, and for him Scarborough Square would mean foreverbitter memories of bitter revealing. I had failed. I had tried, andI had failed, and I could hold out no longer. 

Getting up, I pressed my hands to my heart to still triumphantthrobbing. It had won, I did not hate his house. I hated its walls. But I could no longer live without him. I would marry him when hecame back. 

CHAPTER XXX

My hands in his, Selwyn looked long at me, then again drew me to him, again raised my face to his. "A thousand times I've asked. Athousand times could give myself no answer. Why did you wire me tocome back, Danny?"

"You were staying too long. "

He smiled. "No; it was not that. There was something else. Whatwas it?"

"I wanted to see you. "

He shook his head. "What was it? Why did you send for me?"

"To--tell you I would marry you whenever you wish me to--"

His face whitened and the grip of his hands hurt. Presently he spokeagain. "But there was something else. You had other reasons. Surely between us there is to be complete and perfect understanding. What is it, Danny?"

I drew away and motioned him to sit beside me on the sofa. In thefirelit room faint fragrance of the flowers with which he kept itfilled crept to us, and around it we both glanced as if its spiritwere not intangible; and at unspoken thought his hands again heldmine. 

"You sent for me--" He leaned toward me. 

"Because I heard--an unbelievable thing. David Guard tells me--youhave sold--your house. I can think of nothing else. Tell me it isnot true, Selwyn! Surely it is not true!"

"It is true. "

With a little cry my fingers interlaced with his and words died on mylips. As quietly as if no fight had been fought, no sleepless nightsendured, no surrender made at cost of pride beyond computing, heanswered me, but in his face was that which made me turn my faceaway, and in silence I clung to him. The room grew still, so stillwe could hear each other's breathing, quick and unsteady, then againI looked up at him. 

"But why, Selwyn? Why did you sell your house?"

"You would not be happy in it. You do not care for it. I am readynow to live--wherever you wish. "

"But I am ready, too, to live--where you wish. Don't you see it doesnot matter where one lives? What matters is one must be verysure--one cannot live apart, and that one's spirit must have chance. Why did you not tell me, Selwyn? Why did you do this without lettingme know?"

"You would have told me not to do it; would not have consented. There was no other way to be sure that I was willing--to do my part. I know now there is something to be done, know I must no longer livebehind high walls. "

"But the house will be needed when the walls come down! It is notwhere one lives, but how, that counts. You must not sell your house. "

"But I have sold it--" Something of the old impatience was in hisvoice, then the frown faded. "There was no other way--to be sure. Were the walls down-- I did not think, perhaps, that walls could beanywhere. It is too late now. The house was sold while I was away. The papers will be signed next week. "

Again the room grew still and I made effort to think quickly, definitely. I was not willing that Selwyn should make such sacrificefor me. I would let the sunshine into his house and love it when itscold aloofness became friendly warmth, and together we could learn init what life would teach. The house must not be sold, but howprevent? I bent my head down to the violets on my breast, drew indeep breath. Suddenly a thought came to me. I looked up. 

"When a man sells a piece of property doesn't his wife have to signthe papers as well as himself?"

"She does. " Selwyn smiled. 

"And the sale couldn't be consummated unless she signed them?"

"It could not. You know the law. " Again he smiled. "Not having awife--"

"But you will have--before those papers are ready to be signed. I amnot going to sign them. I mean-- Don't you see what I mean?"

"I'm not quite sure I do. " Selwyn's voice was grave, uncertain. "Isit that--"

"We will have to be married next week and then you can tell the partywho wants your house that your wife does not wish it to be sold. Putthe blame on me. It would be disappointing to many people if therewas not something, even about my marriage, for which they couldcriticize me. You mustn't sell the house, Selwyn. That is why Iwired you to come. I was afraid it might be too late--if I waited. "

Still doubting, Selwyn looked at me as if it could not be true, thatwhich I was saying, and again the room grew still. Then--

Presently, and after a long and understanding while, he broke itsstillness, though when he spoke it was difficult to hear him. "Wewill always keep them, these rooms in Scarborough Square. We willneed them as well as the house without its walls. And I-- You musthave patience with me, Danny. Are you sure you have enough?" "I havenot quite as much as you will need for me. And yet--when there islove enough there is enough of all things else. We have waited longto be sure. Surely--oh, surely now--"

"We know?" He bent lower. "Yes, I think now--we know. "