QUAINT COURTSHIPS

Harper's Novelettes

EDITED BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS AND HENRY MILLS ALDEN

1906

MARGARET DELAND

AN ENCORE

NORMAN DUNCAN

A ROMANCE OF WHOOPING HARBOR

MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

HYACINTHUS

SEWELL FORD

JANE'S GRAY EYES

HERMAN WHITAKER

A STIFF CONDITION

MAY HARRIS

IN THE INTERESTS OF CHRISTOPHER

FRANCIS WILLING WHARTON

THE WRONG DOOR

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

BRAYBRIDGE'S OFFER

ELIA W. PEATTIE

THE RUBAIYAT AND THE LINER

ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL

THE MINISTER

Introduction

To the perverse all courtships probably are quaint; but if ever humannature may be allowed the full range of originality, it may very well bein the exciting and very personal moments of making love. Our ownpeculiar social structure, in which the sexes have so much innocentfreedom, and youth is left almost entirely to its own devices in thearrangement of double happiness, is so favorable to the expression ofcharacter at these supreme moments, that it is wonderful there is solittle which is idiosyncratic in our wooings. They tend rather to atype, very simple, very normal, and most people get married for thereason that they are in love, as if it were the most matter-of-courseaffair of life. They find the fact of being in love so entirelysatisfying to the ideal, that they seek nothing adventitious fromcircumstance to heighten their tremendous consciousness. 

Yet, here and there people, even American people, are so placed thatthey take from the situation a color of eccentricity, if they impartnone to it, and the old, old story, which we all wish to have end well, zigzags to a fortunate close past juts and angles of individuality whichthe heroes and heroines have not willingly or wittingly thrown out. Theywould have chosen to arrive smoothly and uneventfully at the goal, as byfar the greater majority do; and probably if they are aware of lookingquaint to others in their progress, they do not like it. But it is thispeculiar difference which renders them interesting and charming to thespectator. If we all love a lover, as Emerson says, it is not because ofhis selfish happiness, but because of the odd and unexpected chanceswhich for the time exalt him above our experience, and endear him to oureager sympathies. In life one cannot perhaps have too little romance inaffairs of the heart, or in literature too much; and in either one maybe as quaint as one pleases in such affairs without being ridiculous. 

W. D. H. 

AN ENCORE

BY MARGARET DELAND

According to Old Chester, to be romantic was just one shade lessreprehensible than to put on airs. Captain Alfred Price, in all hisseventy years, had never been guilty of airs, but certainly he hadsomething to answer for in the way of romance. 

However, in the days when we children used to see him pounding up thestreet from the post-office, reading, as he walked, a newspaper held atarm's length in front of him, he was far enough from romance. He wasseventy years old, he weighed over two hundred pounds, his big head wascovered with a shock of grizzled red hair; his pleasures consisted inpolishing his old sextant and playing on a small mouth-harmonicon. As tohis vices, it was no secret that he kept a fat black bottle in thechimney-closet in his own room; added to this, he swore strange oathsabout his grandmother's nightcap. "He used to blaspheme, " hisdaughter-in-law said, "but I said, 'Not in my presence, if you please!'So now he just says this foolish thing about a nightcap. " Mrs. Draytonsaid that this reform would be one of the jewels in Mrs. Cyrus Price'scrown; and added that she prayed that some day the Captain would give uptobacco and _rum_. "I am a poor, feeble creature, " said Mrs. Drayton; "Icannot do much for my fellow men in active mission-work. But I give myprayers. " However, neither Mrs. Drayton's prayers nor Mrs. Cyrus'sactive mission-work had done more than mitigate the blasphemy; the "rum"(which was good Monongahela whiskey) was still on hand; and as fortobacco, except when sleeping, eating, playing on his harmonicon, ordozing through one of Dr. Lavendar's sermons, the Captain smoked everymoment, the ashes of his pipe or cigar falling unheeded on a vast andwrinkled expanse of waistcoat. 

No; he was not a romantic object. But we girls, watching him stump pastthe schoolroom window to the post-office, used to whisper to each other, "Just think! _he eloped_. "

There was romance for you!

To be sure, the elopement had not quite come off, but, except for thevery end, it was all as perfect as a story. Indeed, the failure at theend made it all the better: angry parents, broken hearts, --only, theworst of it was, the hearts did not stay broken! He went and marriedsomebody else; and so did she. You would have supposed she would havedied. I am sure, in her place, any one of us would have died. And yet, as Lydia Wright said, "How could a young lady die for a young gentlemanwith ashes all over his waistcoat?"

However, when Alfred Price fell in love with Miss Letty Morris, he wasnot indifferent to his waistcoat, nor did he weigh two hundred pounds. He was slender and ruddy-cheeked, with tossing red-brown curls. If heswore, it was not by his grandmother nor her nightcap; if he drank, itwas hard cider (which can often accomplish as much as "rum"); if hesmoked, it was in secret, behind the stable. He wore a stock, and (onSunday) a ruffled shirt; a high-waisted coat with two brass buttonsbehind, and very tight pantaloons. At that time he attended the Seminaryfor Youths in Upper Chester. Upper Chester was then, as in our time, theseat of learning in the township, the Female Academy being there, too. Both were boarding-schools, but the young people came home to spendSunday; and their weekly returns, all together in the stage, wereresponsible for more than one Old Chester match. . . . 

"The air, " says Miss, sniffing genteelly as the coach jolts past theblossoming May orchards, "is most agreeably perfumed. And how fair isthe prospect from this hilltop!"

"Fair indeed!" responded her companion, staring boldly. 

Miss bridles and bites her lip. 

"_I_ was not observing the landscape, " the other explains, carefully. 

In those days (Miss Letty was born in 1804, and was eighteen when sheand the ruddy Alfred sat on the back seat of the coach)--in those daysthe conversation of Old Chester youth was more elegant than in our time. We, who went to Miss Bailey's school, were sad degenerates in the way ofmanners and language; at least so our elders told us. When Lydia Wrightsaid, "Oh my, what an awful snow-storm!" dear Miss Ellen was displeased. "Lydia, " said she, "is there anything 'awe'-inspiring in this display ofthe elements?"

"No, 'm, " faltered poor Lydia. 

"Then, " said Miss Bailey, gravely, "your statement that the storm is'awful' is a falsehood. I do not suppose, my dear, that youintentionally told an untruth; it was an exaggeration. But anexaggeration, though not perhaps a falsehood, is unladylike, and shouldbe avoided by persons of refinement. " Just here the question arises:what would Miss Ellen (now in heaven) say if she could hear Lydia'sLydia, just home from college, remark--But no: Miss Ellen's preceptsshall protect these pages. 

But in the days when Letty Morris looked out of the coach window, andyoung Alfred murmured that the prospect was fair indeed, conversationwas perfectly correct. And it was still decorous even when it got beyondthe coach period and reached a point where Old Chester began to takenotice. At first it was young Old Chester which giggled. Later old OldChester made some comments; it was then that Alfred's mother mentionedthe matter to Alfred's father. "He is young, and, of course, foolish, "Mrs. Price explained. And Mr. Price said that though folly wasincidental to Alfred's years, it must be checked. 

"Just check it, " said Mr. Price. 

Then Miss Letty's mother awoke to the situation, and said, "Fy, fy, Letitia. "

So it was that these two young persons were plunged in grief. Oh, glorious grief of thwarted love! When they met now, they did not talk ofthe landscape. Their conversation, though no doubt as genteel as before, was all of broken hearts. But again Letty's mother found out, and wentin wrath to call on Alfred's family. It was decided between them thatthe young man should be sent away from home. "To save him, " says thefather. "To protect my daughter, " says Mrs. Morris. 

But Alfred and Letty had something to say. . . . It was in December; therewas a snow-storm--a storm which Lydia Wright would certainly have called"awful"; but it did not interfere with true love; these two children metin the graveyard to swear undying constancy. Alfred's lantern cametwinkling through the flakes, as he threaded his way across the hillsideamong the tombstones, and found Letty just inside the entrance, standingwith her black serving-woman under a tulip-tree. The negress, chatteringwith cold and fright, kept plucking at the girl's pelisse; but onceAlfred was at her side, Letty was indifferent to storm and ghosts. Asfor Alfred, he was too cast down to think of them. 

"Letty, they will part us. "

"No, my dear Alfred, no!"

"Yes. Yes, they will. Oh, if you were only mine!"

Miss Letty sighed. 

"Will you be true to me, Letty? I am to go on a sailing-vessel to China, to be gone two years. Will you wait for me?"

Letty gave a little cry; two years! Her black woman twitched her sleeve. 

"Miss Let, it's gittin' cole, honey. "

"(Don't, Flora. )--Alfred, _two years!_ Oh, Alfred, that is an eternity. Why, I should be--I should be twenty!"

The lantern, set on a tombstone beside them, blinked in a snowy gust. Alfred covered his face with his hands, he was shaken to his soul; thelittle, gay creature beside him thrilled at a sound from behind thosehands. 

"Alfred, "--she said, faintly; then she hid her face against his arm; "mydear Alfred, I will, if you desire it--fly with you!"

Alfred, with a gasp, lifted his head and stared at her. His slower mindhad seen nothing but separation and despair; but the moment the word wassaid he was aflame. What! Would she? Could she? Adorable creature!

"Miss Let, my feet done get cole--"

("Flora, be still!)--Yes, Alfred, yes. I am thine. "

The boy caught her in his arms. "But I am to be sent away on Monday! Myangel, could you--fly, _to-morrow_?"

And Letty, her face still hidden against his shoulder, nodded. 

Then, while the shivering Flora stamped, and beat her arms, and thelantern flared and sizzled, Alfred made their plans, which were simpleto the point of childishness. "My own!" he said, when it was allarranged; then he held the lantern up and looked into her face, blushingand determined, with snowflakes gleaming on the curls that pushed outfrom under her big hood. "You will meet me at the minister's?" he said, passionately. "You will not fail me?"

"I will not fail you!" she said; and laughed joyously; but the youngman's face was white. 

She kept her word; and with the assistance of Flora, romantic again whenher feet were warm, all went as they planned. Clothes were packed, savings-banks opened, and a chaise abstracted from the Price stable. 

"It is my intention, " said the youth, "to return to my father the valueof the vehicle and nag, as soon as I can secure a position which willenable me to support my Lefty in comfort and fashion. "

On the night of the elopement the two children met at the minister'shouse. (Yes, the very old Rectory to which we Old Chester children wentevery Saturday afternoon to Dr. Lavendar's Collect class. But of coursethere was no Dr. Lavendar there in those days. )

Well; Alfred requested this minister to pronounce them man and wife; buthe coughed and poked the fire. "I am of age, " Alfred insisted; "I amtwenty-two. " Then Mr. Smith said he must go and put on his bands andsurplice first; and Alfred said, "If you please, sir. " And off went Mr. Smith--_and sent a note to Alfred's father and Letty's mother!_

We girls used to wonder what the lovers talked about while they waitedfor the traitor. Ellen Dale always said they were foolish to wait. "Whydidn't they go right off?" said Ellen. "If I were going to elope, Ishouldn't bother to get married. But, oh, think of how they felt when inwalked those cruel parents!"

The story was that they were torn weeping from each other's arms; thatLetty was sent to bed for two days on bread and water; that Alfred waspacked off to Philadelphia the very next morning, and sailed in lessthan a week. They did not see each other again. 

But the end of the story was not romantic at all. Letty, although shecrept about for a while in deep disgrace, and brooded upon death--thatinteresting impossibility, so dear to youth, --_married_, if you please!when she was twenty, and went away to live. When Alfred came back, sevenyears later, he got married, too. He married a Miss Barkley. He used togo away on long voyages, so perhaps he wasn't really fond of her. Wetried to think so, for we liked Captain Price. 

In our day Captain Price was a widower. He had given up the sea, andsettled down to live in Old Chester; his son, Cyrus, lived with him, andhis languid daughter-in-law--a young lady of dominant feebleness, whoruled the two men with that most powerful domestic rod--foolishweakness. This combination in a woman will cause a mountain (a masculinemountain) to fly from its firm base; while kindness, justice, and goodsense leave it upon unshaken foundations of selfishness. Mrs. Cyrus wasa Goliath of silliness; when billowing black clouds heaped themselves inthe west on a hot afternoon, she turned pale with apprehension, and theCaptain and Cyrus ran for four tumblers, into which they put the legs ofher bed, where, cowering among the feathers, she lay cold with fear andperspiration. Every night the Captain screwed down all the windows onthe lower floor; in the morning Cyrus pulled the screws out. Cyrus had apretty taste in horseflesh, but Gussie cried so when he once bought atrotter that he had long ago resigned himself to a friendly beast oftwenty-seven years, who could not go much out of a walk because he hadstring-halt in both hind legs. 

But one must not be too hard on Mrs. Cyrus. In the first place, she wasnot born in Old Chester. But, added to that, just think of her name! Theeffect of names upon character is not considered as it should be. If oneis called Gussie for thirty years, it is almost impossible not to becomegussie after a while. Mrs. Cyrus could not be Augusta; few women can;but it was easy to be gussie--irresponsible, silly, selfish. She had avague, flat laugh, she ate a great deal of candy, and she was afraidof--But one cannot catalogue Mrs. Cyrus's fears. They were as the sandsof the sea for number. And these two men were governed by them. Onlywhen the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed will it be understoodwhy a man loves a fool; but why he obeys her is obvious enough: Fear isthe greatest power in the world; Gussie was afraid of thunder-storms, orwhat not; but the Captain and Cyrus were afraid of Gussie! A hint oftears in her pale eyes, and her husband would sigh with anxiety andCaptain Price slip his pipe in his pocket and sneak out of the room. Doubtless Cyrus would often have been glad to follow him, but the oldgentleman glared when his son showed a desire for his company. 

"Want to come and smoke with me? 'Your granny was Murray!'--you'resojering. You're first mate; you belong on the bridge in storms. I'mbefore the mast. Tend to your business!"

It was forty-eight years before Letty and Alfred saw each otheragain--or at least before persons calling themselves by those old namessaw each other. Were they Letty and Alfred--this tousled, tangled, good-humored old man, ruddy and cowed, and this small, bright-eyed oldlady, led about by a devoted daughter? Certainly these two persons boreno resemblance to the boy and girl torn from each other's arms that coldDecember night. Alfred had been mild and slow; Captain Price (exceptwhen his daughter-in-law raised her finger) was a pleasant old roaringlion. Letty had been a gay, high-spirited little creature, not asretiring, perhaps, as a young female should be, and certainlyself-willed; Mrs. North was completely under the thumb of her daughterMary. Not that "under the thumb" means unhappiness; Mary North desiredonly her mother's welfare, and lived fiercely for that single purpose. From morning until night (and, indeed, until morning again, for she roseoften from her bed to see that there was no draught from the crack ofthe open window), all through the twenty-four hours she was on duty. 

When this excellent daughter appeared in Old Chester and said she wasgoing to hire a house, and bring her mother back to end her days in thehome of her girlhood, Old Chester displayed a friendly interest; whenshe decided upon a house on Main Street, directly opposite CaptainPrice's, it began to recall the romance of that thwarted elopement. 

"Do you suppose she knows that story about old Alfred Price and hermother?" said Old Chester; and it looked sidewise at Miss North withpolite curiosity. This was not altogether because of her mother'sromantic past, but because of her own manners and clothes. With painfulexactness, Miss North endeavored to follow the fashion; but she lookedas if articles of clothing had been thrown at her and some had stuck. Asto her manners, Old Chester was divided. Mrs. Barkley said she hadn'tany. Dr. Lavendar said she was shy. But, as Mrs. Drayton said, that wasjust like Dr. Lavendar, always making excuses for wrong-doing!--"Which, "said Mrs. Drayton, "is a strange thing for a minister to do. For mypart, I cannot understand impoliteness in a _Christian_ female. But wemust not judge, " Mrs. Drayton ended, with what Willy King called her"holy look. " Without wishing to "judge, " it may be said that, in thematter of manners, Miss Mary North, palpitatingly anxious to be polite, told the truth. She said things that other people only thought. WhenMrs. Willy King remarked that, though she did not pretend to be a goodhousekeeper, she had the backs of her pictures dusted every other day, Miss North, her chin trembling with shyness, said, with a panting smile:

"That's not good for housekeeping; it's foolish waste of time. " Whichwas very rude, of course--though Old Chester was not as displeased asyou might have supposed. 

While Miss North, timorous and truthful (and determined to be polite), was putting the house in order before sending for her mother, OldChester invited her to tea, and asked her many questions about Letty andthe late Mr. North. But nobody asked whether she knew that her oppositeneighbor, Captain Price, might have been her father;--at least that wasthe way Miss Ellen's girls expressed it. Captain Price himself did notenlighten the daughter he did not have; but he went rolling across thestreet, and pulling off his big shabby felt hat, stood at the foot ofthe steps, and roared out: "Morning! Anything I can do for you?" MissNorth, indoors, hanging window-curtains, her mouth full of tacks, shookher head. Then she removed the tacks and came to the front door. 

"Do you smoke, sir?"

Captain Price removed his pipe from his mouth and looked at it. "Why! Ibelieve I do, sometimes, " he said. 

"I inquired, " said Miss North, smiling tremulously, her hands grippedhard together, "because, if you do, I will ask you to desist whenpassing our windows. "

Captain Price was so dumbfounded that for a moment words failed him. Then he said, meekly, "Does your mother object to tobacco smoke, ma'am?"

"It is injurious to all ladies' throats, " said Miss North, her voicequivering and determined. 

"Does your mother resemble you, madam?" said Captain Price, slowly. 

"Oh no! my mother is pretty. She has my eyes, but that's all. "

"I didn't mean in looks, " said the old man; "she did not look in theleast like you; not in the least! I mean in her views?"

"Her views? I don't think my mother has any particular views, " MissNorth answered, hesitatingly; "I spare her all thought, " she ended, andher thin face bloomed suddenly with love. 

Old Chester rocked with the Captain's report of his call; and Mrs. Cyrustold her husband that she only wished this lady would stop his father'ssmoking. 

"Just look at his ashes, " said Gussie; "I put saucers round everywhereto catch 'em, but he shakes 'em off anywhere--right on the carpet! Andif you say anything, he just says, 'Oh, they'll keep the moths away!' Iworry so for fear he'll set the house on fire. "

Mrs. Cyrus was so moved by Miss North's active mission-work that thevery next day she wandered across the street to call. "I hope I'm notinterrupting you, " she began, "but I thought I'd just--"

"Yes; you are, " said Miss North; "but never mind; stay, if you want to. "She tried to smile, but she looked at the duster which she had put downupon Mrs. Cyrus's entrance. 

Gussie wavered as to whether to take offence, but decided not to;--atleast not until she could make the remark which was buzzing in her smallmind. It seemed strange, she said, that Mrs. North should come, not onlyto Old Chester, but right across the street from Captain Price!

"Why?" said Mary North, briefly. 

"_Why_?" said Mrs. Cyrus, with faint animation. "Why, don't you knowabout your mother and my father-in-law?"

"Your father-in-law?--my mother?"

"Why, you know, " said Mrs. Cyrus, with her light cackle, "your motherwas a little romantic when she was young. No doubt she has conquered itnow. But she tried to elope with my father-in-law. "

"What!"

"Oh, bygones should be bygones, " Mrs. Cyrus said, soothingly; "forgiveand forget, you know. If there's anything I can do to assist you, ma'am, I'll send my husband over;" and then she lounged away, leaving poor MaryNorth silent with indignation. But that night at tea Gussie said thatshe thought strong-minded ladies were very unladylike; "they say she'sstrong-minded, " she added, languidly. 

"Lady!" said the Captain. "She's a man-o'-war's man in petticoats. "

Gussie giggled. 

"She's as thin as a lath, " the Captain declared; "if it hadn't been forher face, I wouldn't have known whether she was coming bow or stern on. "

"I think, " said Mrs. Cyrus, "that that woman has some motive in bringingher mother back here; and _right across the street_, too!"

"What motive?" said Cyrus. 

But Augusta waited for conjugal privacy to explain herself: "Cyrus, Iworry so, because I'm sure that woman thinks she can catch your fatheragain. --Oh, just listen to that harmonicon downstairs! It sets my teethon edge!"

Then Cyrus, the silent, servile first mate, broke out: "Gussie, you're afool!"

And Augusta cried all night, and showed herself at the breakfast-tablelantern-jawed and sunken-eyed; and her father-in-law judged it wise tosprinkle his cigar ashes behind the stable. 

The day that Mrs. North arrived in Old Chester, Mrs. Cyrus commanded thesituation; she saw the daughter get out of the stage, and hurry into thehouse for a chair so that the mother might descend more easily. She alsosaw a little, white-haired old lady take that opportunity to leapnimbly, and quite unaided, from the swinging step. 

"Now, mother!" expostulated Mary North, chair in hand, and breathless, "you might have broken your limb! Here, take my arm. "

Meekly, after her moment of freedom, the little lady put her hand onthat gaunt arm, and tripped up the path and into the house, where, alas!Augusta Price lost sight of them. Yet even she, with all her disapprovalof strong-minded ladies, must have admired the tenderness of theman-o'-war's man. Miss North put her mother into a big chair, andhurried to bring a dish of curds. 

"I'm not hungry, " protested Mrs. North. 

"Never mind. It will do you good. "

With a sigh the little old lady ate the curds, looking about her withcurious eyes. "Why, we're right across the street from the old Pricehouse!" she said. 

"Did you know them, mother?" demanded Miss North. 

"Dear me, yes, " said Mrs. North, twinkling; "why, I'd forgotten allabout it, but the eldest boy--Now, what was his name? Al--something. Alfred, --Albert; no, Alfred. He was a beau of mine. "

"Mother! I don't think it's refined to use such a word. "

"Well, he wanted me to elope with him, " Mrs. North said, gayly; "if thatisn't being a beau, I don't know what is. I haven't thought of it foryears. "

"If you've finished your curds you must lie down, " said Miss North. 

"Oh, I'll just look about--"

"No; you are tired. You must lie down. "

"Who is that stout old gentleman going into the Price house?" Mrs. Northsaid, lingering at the window. 

"Oh, that's your Alfred Price, " her daughter answered; and added thatshe hoped her mother would be pleased with the house. "We have boardedso long, I think you'll enjoy a home of your own. "

"Indeed I shall!" cried Mrs. North, her eyes snapping with delight. "Mary, I'll wash the breakfast dishes, as my mother used to do!"

"Oh no, " Mary North protested; "it would tire you. I mean to take everycare from your mind. "

"But, " Mrs. North pleaded, "you have so much to do; and--"

"Never mind about me, " said the daughter, earnestly; "you are my firstconsideration. "

"I know it, my dear, " said Mrs. North, meekly. And when Old Chester cameto make its call, one of the first things she said was that her Mary wassuch a good daughter. Miss North, her anxious face red withdetermination, bore out the assertion by constantly interrupting theconversation to bring a footstool, or shut a window, or put a shawl overher mother's knees. "My mother's limb troubles her, " she explained tovisitors (in point of modesty, Mary North did not leave her mother a legto stand on); then she added, breathlessly, with her tremulous smile, that she wished they would please not talk too much. "Conversation tiresher, " she explained. At which the little, pretty old lady opened andclosed her hands, and protested that she was not tired at all. But thecallers departed. As the door closed behind them, Mrs. North was readyto cry. 

"Now, Mary, really!" she began. 

"Mother, I don't care! I don't like to say things like that, though I'msure I always try to say them politely. But to save you I would sayanything!"

"But I enjoy seeing people, and--"

"It is bad for you to be tired, " Mary said, her thin face quiveringstill with the effort she had made; "and they sha'n't tire you while Iam here to protect you. " And her protection never flagged. When CaptainPrice called, she asked him to please converse in a low tone, as noisewas bad for her mother. "He had been here a good while before I camein, " she defended herself to Mrs. North, afterwards; "and I'm sure Ispoke politely. "

The fact was, the day the Captain came, Miss North was out. Her motherhad seen him pounding up the street, and hurrying to the door, calledout, gayly, in her little, old, piping voice, "Alfred--Alfred Price!"

The Captain turned and looked at her. There was just one moment's pause;perhaps be tried to bridge the years, and to believe that it was Lettywho spoke to him--Letty, whom he had last seen that wintry night, paleand weeping, in the slender green sheath of a fur-trimmed pelisse. Ifso, he gave it up; this plump, white-haired, bright-eyed old lady, in awide-spreading, rustling black silk dress, was not Letty. It was Mrs. North. 

The Captain came across the street, waving his newspaper, and saying, "So you've cast anchor in the old port, ma'am?"

"My daughter is not at home; do come in, " she said, smiling and nodding. Captain Price hesitated; then he put his pipe in his pocket and followedher into the parlor. "Sit down, " she cried, gayly. "Well, _Alfred!_"

"Well, --_Mrs. North!_" he said; and then they both laughed, and shebegan to ask questions: Who was dead? Who had so and so married? "Thereare not many of us left, " she said. "The two Ferris girls and TheophilusMorrison and Johnny Gordon--he came to see me yesterday. And MattyDilworth; she was younger than I, --oh, by ten years. She married theoldest Barkley boy, didn't she? I hear he didn't turn out well. Youmarried his sister, didn't you? Was it the oldest girl or the secondsister?"

"It was the second--Jane. Yes, poor Jane. I lost her in fifty-five. "

"You have children?" she said, sympathetically. 

"I've got a boy, " he said; "but he's married. "

"My girl has never married; she's a good daughter, "--Mrs. North brokeoff with a nervous laugh; "here she is, now!"

Mary North, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway, gave a questioningsniff, and the Captain's hand sought his guilty pocket; but Miss Northonly said: "How do you do, sir? Now, mother, don't talk too much and gettired. " She stopped and tried to smile, but the painful color came intoher face. "And--if you please, Captain Price, will you speak in a lowtone? Large, noisy persons exhaust the oxygen in the air, and--"

_"Mary!"_ cried poor Mrs. North; but the Captain, clutching his old felthat, began to hoist himself up from the sofa, scattering ashes about ashe did so. Mary North compressed her lips. 

"I tell my daughter-in-law they'll keep the moths away, " the oldgentleman said, sheepishly. 

"I use camphor, " said Miss North. "Flora must bring a dust-pan. "

"Flora?" Alfred Price said. "Now, what's my association with that name?"

"She was our old cook, " Mrs. North explained; "this Flora is herdaughter. But you never saw old Flora?"

"Why, yes, I did, " the old man said, slowly. "Yes. I remember Flora. Well, good-by, --Mrs. North. "

"Good-by, Alfred. Come again, " she said, cheerfully. 

"Mother, here's your beef tea, " said a brief voice. 

Alfred Price fled. He met his son just as he was entering his own house, and burst into a confidence: "Cy, my boy, come aft and splice themain-brace. Cyrus, what a female! She knocked me higher than Gilroy'skite. And her mother was as sweet a girl as you ever saw!" He drew hisson into a little, low-browed, dingy room at the end of the hall. Itsgrimy untidiness matched the old Captain's clothes, but it was his onespot of refuge in his own house; here he could scatter his tobacco ashesalmost unrebuked, and play on his harmonicon without seeing Gussie winceand draw in her breath; for Mrs. Cyrus rarely entered the "cabin. " "Iworry so about its disorderliness that I won't go in, " she used to say, in a resigned way. And the Captain accepted her decision withresignation of his own. "Crafts of your bottom can't navigate in thesewaters, " he agreed, earnestly; and, indeed, the room was so clutteredwith his belongings that voluminous hoop-skirts could not getsteerageway. "He has so much rubbish, " Gussie complained; but it wasprecious rubbish to the old man. His chest was behind the door; ablowfish, stuffed and varnished, hung from the ceiling; two coloredprints of the "Barque _Letty M_. , 800 tons, " decorated the walls; hissextant, polished daily by his big, clumsy hands, hung over themantelpiece, on which were many dusty treasures--the mahogany spoke ofan old steering-wheel; a whale's tooth; two Chinese wrestlers, in ivory;a fan of spreading white coral; a conch-shell, its beautiful red lipserving to hold a loose bunch of cigars. In the chimney-breast was alittle door, and the Captain, pulling his son into the room after thatcall on Mrs. North, fumbled in his pockets for the key. "Here, " he said;("as the Governor of North Carolina said to the Governor of SouthCarolina)--Cyrus, she gave her mother _beef tea!_"

But Cyrus was to receive still further enlightenment on the subject ofhis opposite neighbor:

"She called him in. I heard her, with my own ears! 'Alfred, ' she said, 'come in. ' Cyrus, she has designs; oh, I worry so about it! He ought tobe protected. He is very old, and, of course, foolish. You ought tocheck it at once. "

"Gussie, I don't like you to talk that way about my father, " Cyrusbegan. 

"You'll like it less later on. He'll go and see her to-morrow. "

"Why shouldn't he go and see her to-morrow?" Cyrus said, and added amodest bad word; which made Gussie cry. And yet, in spite of what hiswife called his "blasphemy, " Cyrus began to be vaguely uncomfortablewhenever he saw his father put his pipe in his pocket and go across thestreet. And as the winter brightened into spring, the Captain went quiteoften. So, for that matter, did other old friends of Mrs. North'sgeneration, who by and by began to smile at each other, and say, "Well, Alfred and Letty are great friends!" For, because Captain Price livedright across the street, he went most of all. At least, that was whatMiss North said to herself with obvious common sense--until Mrs. Cyrusput her on the right track. . . . 

"What!" gasped Mary North. "But it's impossible!"

"It would be very unbecoming, considering their years, " said Gussie;"but I worry so, because, you know, nothing is impossible when peopleare foolish; and of course, at their age, they are apt to be foolish. "

So the seed was dropped. Certainly he did come very often. Certainly hermother seemed very glad to see him. Certainly they had very long talks. Mary North shivered with apprehension. But it was not until a week laterthat this miserable suspicion grew strong enough to find words. It wasafter tea, and the two ladies were sitting before a little fire. MaryNorth had wrapped a shawl about her mother, and given her a footstool, and pushed her chair nearer the fire, and then pulled it away, andopened and shut the parlor door three times to regulate the draught. Then she sat down in the corner of the sofa, exhausted but alert. 

"If there's anything you want, mother, you'll be sure and tell me?"

"Yes, my dear. "

"I think I'd better put another shawl over your limbs?"

"Oh no, indeed!"

"Are you _sure_ you don't feel a draught?"

"No, Mary; and it wouldn't hurt me if I did!"

"I was only trying to make you comfortable, --"

"I know that, my dear; you are a very good daughter. Mary, I think itwould be nice if I made a cake. So many people call, and--"

"I'll make it to-morrow. "

"Oh, I'll make it myself, " Mrs. North protested, eagerly; "I'd reallyenjoy--"

"_Mother!_ Tire yourself out in the kitchen? No, indeed! Flora and Iwill see to it. "

Mrs. North sighed. 

Her daughter sighed too; then suddenly burst out: "Old Captain Pricecomes here pretty often. "

Mrs. North nodded, pleasantly. "That daughter-in-law doesn't half takecare of him. His clothes are dreadfully shabby. There was a button offhis coat to-day. And she's a foolish creature. "

"Foolish? she's an unladylike person!" cried Miss North, with so muchfeeling that her mother looked at her in mild astonishment. "And coarse, too, " said Mary North; "I think married ladies are apt to be coarse. From association with men, I suppose. "

"What has she done?" demanded Mrs. North, much interested. 

"She hinted that he--that you--"

"Well?"

"That he came here to--to see you. "

"Well, who else would he come to see? Not you!" said her mother. 

"She hinted that he might want to--to marry you. "

"Well, --upon my word! I knew she was a ridiculous creature, butreally--!"

Mary's face softened with relief. "Of course she is foolish; but--"

"Poor Alfred! What has he ever done to have such a daughter-in-law?Mary, the Lord gives us our children; but _Somebody Else_ gives us ourin-laws!"

"Mother!" said Mary North, horrified, "you do say such things! Butreally he oughtn't to come so often. I'll--I'll take you away from OldChester rather than have him bother you. "

"Mary, you are just as foolish as his daughter-in-law, " said Mrs. North, impatiently. 

And, somehow, poor Mary North's heart sank. 

Nor was she the only perturbed person in town that night. Mrs. Cyrus hada headache, so it was necessary for Cyrus to hold her hand and assureher that Willy King said a headache did not mean brain fever. 

"Willy King doesn't know everything. If he had headaches like mine, hewouldn't be so sure. I am always worrying about things, and I believe mybrain can't stand it. And now I've got your father to worry about!"

"Better try and sleep, Gussie. I'll put some Kaliston on your head. "

"Kaliston! Kaliston won't keep me from worrying. --Oh, listen to thatharmonicon!"

"Gussie, I'm sure he isn't thinking of Mrs. North. "

"Mrs. North is thinking of him, which is a great deal more dangerous. Cyrus, you _must_ ask Dr. Lavendar to interfere. "

As this was at least the twentieth assault upon poor Cyrus's commonsense, the citadel trembled. 

"Do you wish me to go into brain fever before your eyes, just fromworry?" Gussie demanded. "You _must_ go!"

"Well, maybe, perhaps, to-morrow--"

"To-night--to-night, " said Augusta, faintly. 

And Cyrus surrendered. 

"Look under the bed before you go, " Gussie murmured. 

Cyrus looked. "Nobody there, " he said, reassuringly; and went on tiptoeout of the darkened, cologne-scented room. But as he passed along thehall, and saw his father in his little cabin of a room, smokingplacidly, and polishing his sextant with loving hands, Cyrus's heartreproached him. 

"How's her head, Cy?" the Captain called out. 

"Oh, better, I guess, " Cyrus said. --("I'll be hanged if I speak to Dr. Lavendar!")

"That's good, " said the Captain, beginning to hoist himself up out ofhis chair. "Going out? Hold hard, and I'll go 'long. I want to call onMrs. North. "

Cyrus stiffened. "Cold night, sir, " he remonstrated. 

"'Your granny was Murray, and wore a black nightcap!'" said the Captain;"you are getting delicate in your old age, Cy. " He got up, and plungedinto his coat, and tramped out, slamming the door heartily behind him;for which, later, poor Cyrus got the credit. "Where you bound?"

"Oh--down-street, " said Cyrus, vaguely. 

"Sealed orders?" said the Captain, with never a bit of curiosity in hisbig, kind voice; and Cyrus felt as small as he was. But when he left theold man at Mrs. North's door, he was uneasy again. Maybe Gussie wasright! Women are keener about those things than men. And his uneasinessactually carried him to Dr. Lavendar's study, where he tried to appearat ease by patting Danny. 

"What's the matter with you, Cyrus?" said Dr. Lavendar, looking at himover his spectacles. (Dr. Lavendar, in his wicked old heart, alwayswanted to call this young man Cipher; but, so far, grace had been givenhim to withstand temptation. ) "What's wrong?" he said. 

And Cyrus, somehow, told his troubles. 

At first Dr. Lavendar chuckled; then he frowned. "Gussie put you up tothis, Cy--_rus_?" he said. 

"Well, my wife's a woman, " Cyrus began, "and they're keener on suchmatters than men; and she said perhaps you would--would--"

_"What?"_ Dr. Lavendar rapped on the table with the bowl of his pipe, soloudly that Danny opened one eye. "Would what?"

"Well, " Cyrus stammered, "you know, Dr. Lavendar, as Gussie says, 'there's no fo--'"

"You needn't finish it, " Dr. Lavendar interrupted, dryly; "I've heard itbefore. Gussie didn't say anything about a young fool, did she?" Then heeyed Cyrus. "Or a middle-aged one? I've seen middle-aged fools thatcould beat us old fellows hollow. "

"Oh, but Mrs. North is far beyond middle age, " said Cyrus, earnestly. 

Dr. Lavendar shook his head. "Well, well!" he said. "To think thatAlfred Price should have such a--And yet he is as sensible a man as Iknow!"

"Until now, " Cyrus amended. "But Gussie thought you'd better cautionhim. We don't want him, at his time of life, to make a mistake. "

"It's much more to the point that I should caution you not to make amistake, " said Dr. Lavendar; and then he rapped on the table again, sharply. "The Captain has no such idea--unless Gussie has given it tohim. Cyrus, my advice to you is to go home and tell your wife not to bea goose. I'll tell her, if you want me to?"

"Oh no, no!" said Cyrus, very much frightened. "I'm afraid you'd hurther feelings. "

"I'm afraid I should, " said Dr. Lavendar. 

He was so plainly out of temper that Cyrus finally slunk off, uncomforted and afraid to meet Gussie's eye, even under its bandage of acologne-scented handkerchief. 

However, he had to meet it, and he tried to make the best of his ownhumiliation by saying that Dr. Lavendar was shocked at such an idea. "Hesaid father had always been so sensible; he didn't believe he wouldthink of such a dreadful thing. And neither do I, Gussie, honestly, "Cyrus said. 

"But Mrs. North isn't sensible, " Gussie protested, "and she'll--"

"Dr. Lavendar said 'there was no fool like a middle-aged fool, '" Cyrusagreed. 

"Middle-aged! She's as old as Methuselah!"

"That's what I told him, " said Cyrus. 

By the end of April Old Chester smiled. How could it help it? Gussieworried so that she took frequent occasion to point out possibilities;and after the first gasp of incredulity, one could hear a faint echo ofthe giggles of forty-eight years before. Mary North heard it, and herheart burned within her. 

"It's got to stop, " she said to herself, passionately; "I must speak tohis son. "

But her throat was dry at the thought. It seemed as if it would kill herto speak to a man on such a subject--even to such a man as Cyrus. But, poor, shy tigress! to save her mother, what would she not do? In herpain and fright she said to Mrs. North that if that old man kept onmaking her uncomfortable and conspicuous, they would leave Old Chester!

Mrs. North twinkled with amusement when Mary, in her strained andquivering voice, began, but her jaw dropped at those last words; Marywas capable of carrying her off at a day's notice! The little old ladytrembled with distressed reassurances; but Captain Price continued tocall. 

And that was how it came about that this devoted daughter, after days ofexasperation and nights of anxiety, reached a point of tensedetermination. She would go and see the man's son, and say . . . Thatafternoon, as she stood before the swinging glass on her high bureau, tying her bonnet-strings, she tried to think what she would say. Shehoped God would give her words--polite words; "for I _must_ be polite, "she reminded herself desperately. When she started across the street herpaisley shawl had slipped from one shoulder, so that the point draggedon the flagstones; she had split her right glove up the back, and herbonnet was jolted over sidewise; but the thick Chantilly veil hid thequiver of her chin. 

Gussie met her with effusion, and Mary, striving to be polite, smiledpainfully, and said, "I don't want to see you; I want to see your husband. "

Gussie tossed her head; but she made haste to call Cyrus, who cameshambling along the hall from the cabin. The parlor was dark; for thoughit was a day of sunshine and merry May wind, Gussie kept the shuttersbowed, but Cyrus could see the pale intensity of his visitor's face. There was a moment's silence, broken by a distant harmonicon. 

"Mr. Price, " said Mary North, with pale, courageous lips, "you must stopyour father. "

Cyrus opened his weak mouth to ask an explanation, but Gussie rushed in. 

"You are quite right, ma'am. Cyrus worries so about it (of course weknow what you refer to). And Cyrus says it ought to be checkedimmediately, to save the old gentleman!"

"You must stop him, " said Mary North, "for my mother's sake. "

"Well--" Cyrus began. 

"Have you cautioned your mother?" Gussie demanded. 

"Yes, " Miss North said, briefly. To talk to this woman of her mothermade her wince, but it had to be done. "Will you speak to your father, Mr. Price?"

"Well, I--"

"Of course he will!" Gussie broke in; "Cyrus, he is in the cabin now. "

"Well, to-morrow I--" Cyrus got up and sidled towards the door. "Anyhow, I don't believe he's thinking of such a thing. "

"Miss North, " said Gussie, rising "_I_ will do it. "

"What, _now?_" faltered Mary North. 

"Now, " said Mrs. Cyrus, firmly. 

"Oh, " said Miss North, "I--I think I will go home. Gentlemen, when theyare crossed, speak so--so earnestly. "

Gussie nodded. The joy of action and of combat entered suddenly into herlittle soul; she never looked less vulgar than at that moment. Cyrus haddisappeared. 

Mary North, white and trembling, hurried out. A wheezing strain from theharmonicon followed her into the May sunshine, then ended, abruptly;--Mrs. Price had begun! On her own door-step Miss North stoppedand listened, holding her breath for an outburst. . . . It came. A roar oflaughter. Then silence. Mary North stood, motionless, in her own parlor;her shawl, hanging from one elbow, trailed behind her; her other glovehad split; her bonnet was blown back and over one ear; her heart waspounding in her throat. She was perfectly aware that she had done anunheard-of thing. "But, " she said, aloud, "I'd do it again. I'd doanything to protect her. But I hope I was polite?" Then she thought howcourageous Mrs. Cyrus was. "She's as brave as a lion!" said Mary North. Yet had Miss North been able to stand at the Captain's door, she wouldhave witnessed cowardice. 

"Gussie, I wouldn't cry. Confound that female, coming over and stirringyou up! Now don't, Gussie! Why, I never thought of--Gussie, I wouldn'tcry--"

"I have worried almost to death. Pro-promise!"

"Oh, your granny was Mur--Gussie, my dear, now _don't_. "

"Dr. Lavendar said you'd always been so sensible; he said he didn't seehow you could think of such a dreadful thing. "

"What! Lavendar? I'll thank Lavendar to mind his business!" CaptainPrice forgot Gussie; he spoke "earnestly. " "Dog-gone these people thatpry into--Oh, now, Gussie, _don't!_"

"I've worried so awfully, " said Mrs. Cyrus. "Everybody is talking aboutyou. And Dr. Lavendar is so--so angry about it; and now the daughter hascharged on me as though it is my fault!--Of course, she is queer, but--"

"Queer? she's queer as Dick's hatband! Why do you listen to her? Gussie, such an idea never entered my head, --or Mrs. North's either. "

"Oh yes, it has! Her daughter said that she had had to speak to her--"

Captain Price, dumbfounded, forgot his fear and burst out: "You're apack of fools, the whole caboodle! I swear I--"

"Oh, _don't_ blaspheme!" said Gussie, faintly, and staggered a little, so that all the Captain's terror returned. _If she fainted!_

"Hi, there, Cyrus! Come aft, will you? Gussie's getting white around thegills--Cyrus!"

Cyrus came, running, and between them they get the swooning Gussie toher room. Afterwards, when Cyrus tiptoed down-stairs, he found theCaptain at the cabin door. The old man beckoned mysteriously. 

"Cy, my boy, come in here;"--he hunted about in his pocket for the keyof the cupboard;--"Cyrus, I'll tell you what happened: that femaleacross the street came in, and told poor Gussie some cock-and-bull storyabout her mother and me!" The Captain chuckled, and picked up hisharmonicon. "It scared the life out of Gussie, " he said; then, withsudden angry gravity, --"These people that poke their noses into otherpeople's business ought to be thrashed. Well, I'm going over to see Mrs. North. " And off he stumped, leaving Cyrus staring after him, open-mouthed. 

If Mary North had been at home, she would have met him with all theagonized courage of shyness and a good conscience. But she had fled outof the house, and down along the River Road, to be alone and regain herself-control. 

The Captain, however, was not seeking Miss North. He opened the frontdoor, and advancing to the foot of the stairs, called up: "Ahoy, there!Mrs. North!"

Mrs. North came trotting out to answer the summons. "Why, Alfred!" sheexclaimed, looking over the banisters, "when did you come in? I didn'thear the bell ring. I'll come right down. "

"It didn't ring; I walked in, " said the Captain. And Mrs. North camedownstairs, perhaps a little stiffly, but as pretty an old lady as youever saw. Her white curls lay against faintly pink cheeks, and her lacecap had a pink bow on it. But she looked anxious and uncomfortable. 

("Oh, " she was saying to herself, "I do hope Mary's out!)--Well, Alfred?" she said; but her voice was frightened. 

The Captain stumped along in front of her into the parlor, and motionedher to a seat. "Mrs. North, " he said, his face red, his eye hard, "somejack-donkeys have been poking their noses (of course they're females)into our affairs; and--"

"Oh, Alfred, isn't it horrid in them?"

"Darn 'em!" said the Captain. 

"It makes me mad!" cried Mrs. North; then her spirit wavered. "Mary isso foolish; she says she'll--she'll take me away from Old Chester. Ilaughed at first, it was so foolish. But when she said that-oh _dear!_"

"Well, but, my dear madam, say you won't go. Ain't you skipper?"

"No, I'm not, " she said, dolefully. "Mary brought me here, and she'lltake me away, if she thinks it best. Best for _me_, you know. Mary is agood daughter, Alfred. I don't want you to think she isn't. But she'sfoolish. Unmarried women are apt to be foolish. "

The Captain thought of Gussie, and sighed. "Well, " he said, with thesimple candor of the sea, "I guess there ain't much difference in 'em, married or unmarried. "

"It's the interference makes me mad, " Mrs. North declared, hotly. 

"Damn the whole crew!" said the Captain; and the old lady laugheddelightedly. 

"Thank you, Alfred!"

"My daughter-in-law is crying her eyes out, " the Captain sighed. 

"Tck!" said Mrs. North; "Alfred, you have no sense. Let her cry. It'sgood for her!"

"Oh no, " said the Captain, shocked. 

"You're a perfect slave to her, " cried Mrs. North. 

"No more than you are to your daughter, " Captain Price defended himself;and Mrs. North sighed. 

"We are just real foolish, Alfred, to listen to 'em. As if we didn'tknow what was good for us. "

"People have interfered with us a good deal, first and last, " theCaptain said, grimly. 

The faint color in Mrs. North's cheeks suddenly deepened. "So theyhave, " she said. 

The Captain shook his head in a discouraged way; he took his pipe out ofhis pocket and looked at it absent-mindedly. "I suppose I can stay athome, and let 'em get over it?"

"Stay at home? Why, you'd far better--"

"What?" said the Captain, dolefully. 

"Come oftener!" cried the old lady. "Let 'em get over it by getting usedto it. "

Captain Price looked doubtful. "But how about your daughter?"

Mrs. North quailed. "I forgot Mary, " she admitted. 

"I don't bother you, coming to see you, do I?" the Captain said, anxiously. 

"Why, Alfred, I love to see you. If our children would just let usalone!"

"First it was our parents, " said Captain Price. He frowned heavily. "According to other people, first we were too young to have sense; andnow we're too old. " He took out his worn old pouch, plugged some shaginto his pipe, and struck a match under the mantelpiece. He sighed, withdeep discouragement. 

Mrs. North sighed too. Neither of them spoke for a moment; then thelittle old lady drew a quick breath and flashed a look at him; openedher lips; closed them with a snap; then regarded the toe of her slipperfixedly. 

The Captain, staring hopelessly, suddenly blinked; then his honest redface slowly broadened into beaming astonishment and satisfaction. _"Mrs. North--"_

"Captain Price!" she parried, breathlessly. 

"So long as our affectionate children have suggested it!"

"Suggested--what?"

"Let's give 'em something to cry about!"

"_Alfred!_"

"Look here: we are two old fools; so they say, anyway. Let's live up totheir opinion. I'll get a house for Cyrus and Gussie, --and your girl canlive with 'em, if she wants to!" The Captain's bitterness showed then. 

"She could live here, " murmured Mrs. North. 

"What do you say?"

The little old lady laughed excitedly, and shook her head; the tearsstood in her eyes. 

"Do you want to leave Old Chester?" the Captain demanded. 

"You know I don't, " she said, sighing. 

"She'd take you away _to-morrow_, " he threatened, "if she knew I had--Ihad--"

"She sha'n't know it. "

"Well, then, we've got to get spliced to-morrow. "

"Oh, Alfred, no! I don't believe Dr. Lavendar would--"

"I'll have no dealings with Lavendar, " the Captain said, with suddenstiffness; "he's like all the rest of 'em. I'll get a license in UpperChester, and we'll go to some parson there. "

Mrs. North's eyes snapped; "Oh, no, no!" she protested; but in anotherminute they were shaking hands on it. 

"Cyrus and Gussie can live by themselves, " said the Captain, joyously, "and I'll get that hold cleaned out; she's kept the ports shut eversince she married Cyrus. "

"And I'll make a cake! And I'll take care of your clothes; you reallyare dreadfully shabby;" she turned him round to the light, and brushedoff some ashes. The Captain beamed. "Poor Alfred! and there's a buttonoff! that daughter-in-law of yours can't sew any more than a cat (andshe _is_ a cat!). But I love to mend. Mary has saved me all that. She'ssuch a good daughter--poor Mary. But she's unmarried, poor child. "

However, it was not to-morrow. It was two or three days later that Dr. Lavendar and Danny, jogging along behind Goliath under the buttonwoodson the road to Upper Chester, were somewhat inconvenienced by the dustof a buggy that crawled up and down the hills just a little ahead. Thehood of this buggy was up, upon which fact--it being a May morning ofrollicking wind and sunshine--Dr. Lavendar speculated to his companion:"Daniel, the man in that vehicle is either blind and deaf, or else hehas something on his conscience; in either case he won't mind our dust, so we'll cut in ahead at the watering-trough. G'on, Goliath!"

But Goliath had views of his own about the watering-trough, and insteadof passing the hooded buggy, which had stopped there, he insisted upondrawing up beside it. "Now, look here, " Dr. Lavendar remonstrated, "youknow you're not thirsty. " But Goliath plunged his nose down into thecool depths of the great iron caldron, into which, from a hollow log, ran a musical drip of water. Dr. Lavendar and Danny, awaiting hispleasure, could hear a murmur of voices from the depths of the eccentricvehicle which put up a hood on such a day; when suddenly Dr. Lavendar'seye fell on the hind legs of the other horse. "That's Cipher's trotter, "he said to himself, and leaning out, cried: "Hi! Cy?" At which the otherhorse was drawn in with a jerk, and Captain Price's agitated face peeredout from under the hood. 

"Where! Where's Cyrus?" Then he caught sight of Dr. Lavendar. "'_Thedevil and Tom Walker!_'" said the Captain with a groan. The buggy backederratically. 

"Look out!" said Dr. Lavendar, --but the wheels locked. 

Of course there was nothing for Dr. Lavendar to do but get out and takeGoliath by the head, grumbling, as he did so, that Cyrus "shouldn't ownsuch a spirited beast. "

"I am somewhat hurried, " said Captain Price, stiffly. 

The old minister looked at him over his spectacles; then he glanced atthe small, embarrassed figure shrinking into the depths of the buggy. 

("Hullo, hullo, hullo!" he said, softly. "Well, Gussie's done it. ) You'dbetter back a little, Captain, " he advised. 

"I can manage, " said the Captain. 

"I didn't say 'go back, '" Dr. Lavendar said, mildly. 

"Oh!" murmured a small voice from within the buggy. 

"I expect you need me, don't you, Alfred?" said Dr. Lavendar. 

"What?" said the Captain, frowning. 

"Captain, " said Dr. Lavendar, simply, "if I can be of any service to youand Mrs. North, I shall be glad. "

Captain Price looked at him. "Now, look here, Lavendar, we're going todo it this time, if all the parsons in--well, in the church, try to stopus!"

"I'm not going to try to stop you. "

"But Gussie said you said--"

"Alfred, at your time of life, are you beginning to quote Gussie?"

"But she said you said it would be--"

"Captain Price, I do not express my opinion of your conduct to yourdaughter-in-law. You ought to have sense enough to know that. "

"Well, why did you talk to her about it?"

"I didn't talk to her about it. But, " said Dr. Lavendar, thrusting outhis lower lip, "I should like to. "

"We were going to hunt up a parson in Upper Chester, " said the Captain, sheepishly. 

Dr. Lavendar looked about, up and down the silent, shady road, thenthrough the bordering elderberries into an orchard. "If you have yourlicense, " he said, "I have my prayer-book. Let's go into the orchard. There are two men working there we can get for witnesses, --Danny isn'tquite enough, I suppose. "

The Captain turned to Mrs. North. "What do you say, ma'am?" he said. Shenodded, and gathered up her skirts to get out of the buggy. The two oldmen led their horses to the side of the road and hitched them to therail fence; then the Captain helped Mrs. North through the elder-bushes, and shouted out to the men ploughing at the other side of the orchard. They came, --big, kindly young fellows, and stood gaping at the three oldpeople standing under the apple-tree in the sunshine. Dr. Lavendarexplained that they were to be witnesses, and the boys took off theirhats. 

There was a little silence, and then, in the white shadows and perfumeof the orchard, with its sunshine, and drift of petals falling in thegay wind, Dr. Lavendar began. . . . When he came to "Let no man putasunder--" Captain Price growled in his grizzled red beard, "Nor woman, either!" But only Mrs. North smiled. 

When it was over, Captain Price drew a deep breath of relief. "Well, this time we made a sure thing of it, Mrs. North!"

"_Mrs. North?_" said Dr. Lavendar; and then he did chuckle. 

"Oh--" said Captain Price, and roared at the joke. 

"You'll have to call me Letty, " said the pretty old lady, smiling andblushing. 

"Oh, " said the Captain; then he hesitated. "Well, now, if you don'tmind, I--I guess I won't call you Lefty; I'll call you Letitia?"

"Call me anything you want to, " said Mrs. Price, gayly. 

Then they all shook hands with each other, and with the witnesses, whofound something left in their palms that gave them great satisfaction, and went back to climb into their respective buggies. 

"We have shore leave, " the Captain explained; "we won't go back to OldChester for a few days. You may tell 'em, Lavendar. "

"Oh, may I?" said Dr. Lavendar, blankly. "Well, good-by, and good luck!"

He watched the other buggy tug on ahead, and then he leaned down tocatch Danny by the scruff of the neck. 

"Well, Daniel, " he said, "'_if at first you don't succeed_'--"

And Danny was pulled into the buggy. 

A ROMANCE OF WHOOPING HARBOR

BY NORMAN DUNCAN

The trader _Good Samaritan_--they called her the _Cheap and Nasty_ onthe Shore; God knows why! for she was dealing fairly for the fish, ifsomething smartly--was wind-bound at Heart's Ease Cove, riding safe inthe lee of the Giant's Hand: champing her anchor chain; nodding to theswell, which swept through the tickle and spent itself in the landlockedwater, collapsing to quiet. It was late of a dirty night, but theschooner lay in shelter from the roaring wind; and the forecastle lampwas alight, the bogie snoring, the crew sprawling at case, purring inthe light and warmth and security of the hour. . . . By and by, when theskipper's allowance of tea and hard biscuit had fulfilled its destiny, Tumm, the clerk, told the tale of Whooping Harbor, wherein the maid metFate in the person of the fool from Thunder Arm; and I came down fromthe deck--from the black, wet wind of the open, changed to a wrathfulflutter by the eternal barrier--in time to hear. And I was glad, for weknow little enough of love, being blind of soul, perverse and proud; andlove is strange past all things: wayward, accounting not, of infiniteaspects--radiant to our vision, colorless; sombre, black as hell; but ofunfailing beauty, we may be sure, had we but the eyes to see, the heartto interpret. . . . 

"We was reachin' up t' Whoopin' Harbor, " said Tumm, "t' give the _WhiteLily_ a night's lodgin', it bein' a wonderful windish night; clearenough, the moon sailin' a cloudy sky, but with a bank o' fog sneakin'round Cape Muggy like a fish-thief. An' we wasn't in no haste, anyhow, t' make Sinners' Tickle, for we was the first schooner down the Labradorthat season, an' 'twas pick an' choose your berth for we, with a cleanbill t' every head from Starvation Cove t' the Settin' Hen, so quick asthe fish struck. So the skipper he says we'll hang the ol girl up t'Whoopin' Harbor 'til dawn; an' we'll all have a watch below, says he, with a cup o' tea, says he, if the cook can bile the water 'ithoutburnin' it. Which was wonderful hard for the cook t' manage, look you!as the skipper, which knowed nothin' about feelin's, would never stoptellin' un: the cook bein' from Thunder Arm, a half-witted, glossy-eyedlumpfish o' the name o' Moses Shoos, born by chance and brung uplikewise, as desperate a cook as ever tartured a stummick, but meanin'so wonderful well that we loved un, though he were like t' finish usoff, every man jack, by the slow p'ison o' dirt. 

"'Cook, you dunderhead!' says the skipper, with a wink t' the crew. 'Youbeen an' scarched the water agin. '

"Shoos he looked like he'd give up for good on the spot--just like he_knowed_ he was a fool, an' _had_ knowed it for a long, long time, --sorto' like he was sorry for we an' sick of hisself. 

"'Cook, ' says the skipper, 'you went an' done it agin. Yes, you did!Don't you go denyin' of it. You'll kill us, cook, ' says he, 'if you goeson like this. They isn't nothin' worse for the system, ' says he, 'thanthis here burned water. The alamnacs, ' says he, shakin' his finger atthe poor cook, ''ll tell you _that!_'

"'I 'low I did burn that water, skipper, ' says the cook, 'if you saysso. But I isn't got all my wits, ' says he, the cry-baby; 'an' God knowsI'm doin' my best!'

"'I always did allow, cook, ' says the skipper, 'that God knowed more'n Iever thunk. '

"'An' I never _did_ burn no water, ' blubbers the cook, 'afore I shippedalong o' you in this here dam' ol' flour-sieve of a _White Lily_. '

"'This here _what_?' snaps the skipper. 

"'This here dam' ol' basket. '

"'Basket!' says the skipper. Then he hummed a bit o' 'Fishin' for theMaid I Loves, ' 'ithout thinkin' much about the toon. 'Cook, ' says he, 'Iloves you. You is on'y a half-witted chance-child, ' says he, 'but Iloves you like a brother. '

"'Does you, skipper?' says the cook, with a grin, like the fool he was. 'I isn't by no means hatin' you, skipper, ' says he. 'But I can't _help_burnin' the water, ' says he, 'an' I 'low I don't want no blame for it. I'm sorry for you an' the crew, ' says he, 'an' I wisht I hadn't took theberth. But when I shipped along o' you, ' says he, 'I 'lowed I _could_cook. I knows I isn't able for it now, ' says he, 'for you says so, skipper; but I'm doin' my best, an' I 'low if the water gets scarched, 'says he, 'the galley fire's bewitched. '

"'Basket!' says the skipper. 'Ay, ay, cook, ' says he. 'I just _loves_you. '

"They wasn't a man o' the crew liked t' hear the skipper say that; for, look you! the skipper didn't know nothin' about feelin's, an' the cookhad more feelin's 'n a fool can make handy use of aboard a Labradorfishin'-craft. No, zur; the skipper didn't know nothin' about feelin's. I'm not wantin' t' say it about that there man, nor about no other man;for they isn't nothin' harder t' be spoke. But he _didn't;_ an' they'snothin' else _to_ it. There sits the ol' man, smoothin' his big redbeard, singin', 'I'm Fishin' for the Maid I Loves, ' while he looks atthe poor cook, which was washin' up the dishes, for we was through withthe mug-up. An' the devil was in his eyes--the devil was fair grinnin'in them little blue eyes. Lord! it made me sad t' see it; for I knowedthe cook was in for bad weather, an' he wasn't no sort o' craft t' beout o' harbor in a gale o' wind like that. 

"'Cook, ' says the skipper. 

"'Ay, zur?' says the cook. 

"'Cook, ' says the skipper, 'you ought t' get married. '

"'I on'y wisht I could, ' says the cook. 

"'You ought t' try, cook, ' says the skipper, 'for the sake o' the crew. We'll all die, ' says he, 'afore we sights of Bully Dick agin, ' says he, 'if you keeps on burnin' the water. You _got_ t' get married, cook, t'the first likely maid you sees on the Labrador, ' says he, 't' save thecrew. She'd do the cookin' for you. It 'll be the loss o' all hands, 'says he, 'an you don't, This here burned water, ' says he, 'will be theend of us, cook, an you keeps it up. '

"'I'd be wonderful glad t' 'blige you, skipper, ' says the cook, 'an' I'dlike t' 'blige all hands. 'Twon't be by my wish, ' says he, 'thatanybody'll die o' the grub they gets. '

"'Cook, ' says the skipper, 'shake! I knows a _man_, ' says he, 'when Isees one. Any man, ' says he, 'that would put on the irons o' matrimony, 'says he, 't' 'blige a shipmate, ' says he, 'is a better man 'n me, an' Iloves un like a brother. '

"Which cheered the cook up considerable. 

"'Cook, ' says the skipper, 'I 'pologize. Yes, I do, cook, ' says he, 'I'pologize. '

"'I isn't got no feelin' agin' matrimony, ' says the cook. 'But I isn'table t' get took. I been tryin' every maid t' Thunder Arm, ' says he, 'an' they isn't one, ' says he, 'will wed a fool. '

"'Not one?' says the skipper. 

"'Nar a one, ' says the cook. 

"'I'm s'prised, ' says the skipper. 

"'Nar a maid t' Thunder Arm, ' says the cook, 'will wed a fool, an' I'low they isn't one, ' says he, 'on the Labrador. '

"'It's been done afore, cook, ' says the skipper, 'an' I 'low 'twill bedone agin, if the world don't come to an end t' oncet. Cook, ' says he, 'I _knows_ the maid t' do it. '

"The poor cook begun t' grin. 'Does you, skipper?' says he. 'Ah, skipper, no, you doesn't!' And he sort o' chuckled, like the fool hewas. 'Ah, now, skipper, ' says he, '_you_ doesn't know no maid wouldmarry me!"

"'Ay, b'y, ' says the skipper, 'I got the girl for _you_. An' she isn't athousand miles, ' says he, 'from where that dam' ol' basket of a _WhiteLily_ lies at anchor, ' says he, 'in Whoopin' Harbor. She isn't whatyou'd call handsome an' tell no lie, ' says he, 'but--'

"'Never you mind about that, skipper. '

"'No, ' says the skipper, 'she isn't handsome, as handsome goes, even inthese parts, but--'

"'Never you mind, skipper, ' says the cook. 'If 'tis anything in theshape o' woman, ' says he, ''twill do. '

"'I 'low that Liz Jones would take you, cook, ' says the skipper. 'Youain't much on wits, but you got a good-lookin' hull; an' I 'low she'd bemore'n willin' t' skipper a craft like you. You better go ashore, cook, when you gets cleaned up, an' see what she says. Tumm, ' says he, 'issort o' shipmates with Liz, ' says he, 'an' I 'low he'll see you throughthe worst of it. '

"'Will you, Tumm?' says the cook. 

"'Well, ' says I, 'I'll see. 

"I knowed Liz Jones from the time I fished Whoopin' Harbor with SkipperBill Topsail in the _Love the Wind_, bein' cotched by the measlesthereabouts, which she nursed me through; an' I 'lowed she _would_ wedthe cook if he asked her, so, thinks I, I'll go ashore with the fool t'see that she don't. No; she wasn't handsome--not Liz. I'm wonderful fondo' yarnin' o' good-lookin' maids; but I can't say much o' Liz; for Lizwas so far t' l'eward o' beauty that many a time, lyin' sick there inthe fo'c's'le o' the _Love the Wind_, I wished the poor girl would turninside out, for, thinks I, the pattern might be a sight better on theother side. I _will_ say she was big and well-muscled; an' muscles, t'my mind, courts enough t' make up for black eyes, but not forcross-eyes, much less for fuzzy whiskers. It ain't in my heart t' makesport o' Liz, lads; but I _will_ say she had a club foot, for she wasborn in a gale, I'm told, when the _Preacher_ was hangin' on off a leeshore 'long about Cape Harrigan, an' the sea was raisin' the devil. An', well--I hates t' say it, but--well, they called her 'Walrus Liz. 'No; she wasn't handsome, she didn't have no good looks; but once you gota look into whichever one o' them cross-eyes you was able to cotch, youseen a deal more'n your own face; an' she _was_ well-muscled, an' I 'lowI'm goin' t' tell you so, for I wants t' name her good p'ints so well asher bad. Whatever--

"'Cook, ' says I, 'I'll go along o' you. '

"With that the cook fell to on the dishes, an' 'twasn't long afore hewas ready to clean hisself; which done, he was ready for the courtin'. But first he got out his dunny-bag, an' he fished in there 'til hepulled out a blue stockin', tied in a hard knot; an' from the toe o'that there blue stockin' he took a brass ring. 'I 'low, ' says he, talkin' to hisself, in the half-witted way he had, 'it won't do no hurtt' give her mother's ring. ' Then he begun t' cry. "Moses, " says mother, "you better take the ring off my finger. It isn't no weddin'-ring, " saysshe, "for I never was what you might call wed, " says she, "but I got itfrom the Jew t' make believe I was; for it didn't do nobody no hurt, an'it sort o' pleased me. You better take it, Moses, b'y, " says she, "forthe dirt o' the grave would only spile it, " says she, "an' I'm notwantin' it no more. Don't wear it at the fishin', dear, " says she, "forthe fishin' is wonderful hard, " says she, "an' joolery don't stand muchwear an' tear. " 'Oh, mother!' says the cook, 'I done what you wanted!'Then the poor fool sighed an' looked up at the skipper. 'I 'low, skipper, ' says he, ''t wouldn't do no hurt t' give the ring to a man'swife, would it? For mother wouldn't mind, would she?'

"The skipper didn't answer that. 

"'Come, cook, ' says I, 'leave us get under way, ' for I couldn't stand itno longer. 

"So the cook an' me put out in the punt t' land at Whoopin' Harbor, withthe crew wishin' the poor cook well with their lips, but thinkin', Godknows what! in their hearts. An' he was in a wonderful state o' fright. I never _seed_ a man so took by scare afore. For, look you! he thunk shewouldn't have un, an' he thunk she would, an' he wisht she would, an' hewisht she wouldn't; an' by an' by he 'lowed he'd stand by, whatever comeof it, 'for, ' says he, 'the crew's g-g-got t' have better c-c-cookin' ifI c-c-can g-g-get it. Lord! Tumm, ' says he, ''tis a c-c-cold night, 'says he, 'but I'm sweatin' like a p-p-porp-us!' I cheered un up so wellas I could; an' by an' by we was on the path t' Liz Jones's house, up onGray Hill, where she lived alone, her mother bein' dead an' her fathershipped on a barque from St. Johns t' the West Indies. An' we found Lizsittin' on a rock at the turn o' the road, lookin' down from the hill atthe _White Lily:_ all alone--sittin' there in the moonlight, allalone--thinkin' o' God knows what!

"'Hello, Liz!' says I. 

"'Hello, Tumm!' says she. 'What vethel'th that?'

"'That's the _White Lily, _ Liz, ' says I. An' here's the cook o' thatthere craft, ' says I, 'come up the hill t' speak t' you. '

"'That's right, ' says the cook. 'Tumm, you're right. '

"'T' thpeak t' _me!_' says she. 

"I wisht she hadn't spoke quite that way. Lord! it wasn't nice. It makesa man feel bad t' see a woman hit her buzzom for a little thing likethat. 

"'Ay, Liz, ' says I, 't' speak t' you. An' I'm thinkin', Liz, ' says I, 'he'll say things no man ever said afore--t' you. '

"'That's right, Tumm, ' says the cook. 'I wants t' speak as man t' man, 'says he, 't' stand by what I says, ' says he, meanin' it afore G-g-god!'

"Liz got off the rock. Then she begun t' kick at the path; an' she waslookin' down, but I 'lowed she had an eye on the cook all the time. 'For, ' thinks I, 'she's sensed the thing out, like all the women. '

"'I'm thinkin', ' says I, 'I'll go up the road a bit. '

"'Oh no, you won't, Tumm, ' says she. 'You thtay right here. Whath thecook wantin' o' me?'

"'Well, ' says the cook, 'I 'low I wants t' get married. '

"'T' get married!' says she. 

"'That's right, ' says he. 'Damme! Tumm, ' says he, 'she got it right. T'get married, ' says he, 'an' I 'low you'll do. '

"'Me?' says she. 

"'You, Liz, ' says he. 'I got t' get me a wife right away, ' says he, 'an'they isn't nothin' else I've heared tell of in the neighborhood. '

"She begun to blow like a whale; an' she hit her buzzom with her fists, an' shivered. I 'lowed she was goin' t' fall in a fit. But. She lookedaway t' the moon, an' somehow that righted her. 

"'You better thee me in daylight, ' says she. 

"'Don't you mind about that, ' says he. 'You're a woman, an' a big one, 'says he, 'an' that's all I'm askin' for. '

"She put a finger under his chin an' tipped his face t' the light. 

"'You ithn't got all your thentheth, ith you?' says she. 

"'Well, ' says he, 'bein' born on Hollow eve, ' says he, 'I isn't quiteall there. But, ' says he, 'I wisht I was. An' I can't do no more. '

"'An' you wanth t' wed me?' says she. 'Ith you sure you doth?'

"'I got mother's ring, ' says the cook, 't' prove it. '

"'Tumm, ' says Liz t' me, '_you_ ithn't wantin' t' get married, ith you?'

"'No, Liz, ' says I. 'Not, ' says I, 't' you. '

"'No, ' says she. 'Not--t' me' She took me round the turn in the road. 'Tumm, ' says she, 'I 'low I'll wed that man. I wanth t' get away fromhere, ' says she, lookin' over the hills. 'I wanth t' get t' theThouthern outporth, where there'th life. They ithn't no life here. An'I'm tho wonderful tired o' all thith! Tumm, ' says she, 'no man everafore athked me t' marry un, an' I 'low I better take thith one. He'thon'y a fool, ' says she, 'but not even a fool ever come courtin' me, an'I 'low nobody but a fool would. On'y a fool, Tumm!' says she. 'But _I_ithn't got nothin' t' boatht of. God made me, ' says she, 'an' I ithn'tmad that He done it. I 'low He meant me t' take the firth man that come, an' be content. I 'low _I_ ithn't got no right t' thtick up my nothe ata fool. For, Tumm, ' says she, 'God made that fool, too. An', Tumm, ' saysshe, 'I wanth thomethin' elthe. Oh, I wanth thomethin' elthe! I hatetht' tell you, Tumm, ' says she, 'what it ith. But all the other maidthhath un, Tumm, an' I wanth one, too. I 'low they ithn't no woman happywithout one, Tumm. An' I ithn't never had no chanth afore. No chanth, Tumm, though God knowth they ithn't nothin' I wouldn't do, ' says she, 't' get what I wanth! I'll wed the fool, ' says she. 'It ithn't a man Iwanth tho much; no, it ithn't a man. Ith--'

"'What you wantin', Liz?' says I. 

"'It ithn't a man, Tumm, ' says she. 

"'No?' says I. 'What is it, Liz?'

"'Ith a baby, ' says she. 

"God! I felt bad when she told me that. . . . "

Tumm stopped, sighed, picked at a knot in the table. There was silencein the forecastle. The _Good Samaritan_ was still nodding to theswell--lying safe at anchor in Heart's Ease Cove. We heard the gustsscamper over the deck and shake the rigging; we caught, in theintervals, the deep-throated roar of breakers, far off--all the noisesof the gale. And Tumm picked at the knot with his clasp-knife; and wesat watching, silent, all. . . . And I felt bad, too, because of the maidat Whooping Harbor--a rolling waste of rock, with the moonlight lying onit, stretching from the whispering mystery of the sea to the greaterdesolation beyond; and an uncomely maid, wishing, without hope, for thatwhich the hearts of women must ever desire. . . . 

"Ay, " Tumm drawled, "it made me feel bad t' think o' what she'd beenwantin' all them years; an' then I wished I'd been kinder t' Liz. . . . An', 'Tumm, ' thinks I, 'you went an' come ashore t' stop this herething; but you better let the skipper have his little joke, for t'willon'y s'prise him, an' it won't do nobody else no hurt. Here's thisfool, ' thinks I, 'wantin' a wife; an' he won't never have anotherchance. An' here's this maid, ' thinks I, 'wantin' a baby; an' _she_won't never have another chance. 'Tis plain t' see, ' thinks I, 'that GodA'mighty, who made un, crossed their courses; an' I 'low, ecod!' thinksI, 'that 'twasn't a bad idea He had. If He's got to get out of itsomehow, ' thinks I, 'why, _I_ don't know no better way. Tumm, ' thinks I, 'you sheer off. Let Nature, ' thinks I, 'have doo course an' beglorified. ' So I looks Liz in the eye--an' says nothin'. 

"'Tumm, ' says she, 'doth you think he--'

"'Don't you be scared o' nothin', ' says I. 'He's a lad o' goodfeelin's, ' says I, 'an' he'll treat you the best he knows how. Is yougoin' t' take un?'

"'I wathn't thinkin' o' that, ' says she. 'I wathn't thinkin' o' _not_. Iwath jutht, ' says she, 'wonderin'. '

"'They isn't no sense in that, Liz, ' says I. 'You just wait an' findout. '

"'What'th hith name?' says she. 

"'Shoos, ' says I. 'Moses Shoos. '

"With that she up with her pinny an' begun t' cry like a young swile. 

"'What you cryin' for, Liz?' says I. 

"I 'low I couldn't tell what 'twas all about. But she was like all thewomen. Lord! 'tis the little things that makes un weep when it comes t'the weddin'. 

"'Come, Liz, ' says I, 'what you cryin' about?'

"'I lithp, ' says she. 

"'I knows you does, Liz, ' says I; 'but it ain't nothin' t' cry about. '

"'I can't thay Joneth, ' says she. 

"'No, ' says I; 'but you'll be changin' your name, ' says I, 'an' it won'tmatter no more. '

"'An' if I can't say Joneth, ' says she, 'I can't thay--'

"'Can't say what?' says I. 

"'Can't thay Thooth!' says she. 

"Lord! No more she could. An' t' say Moses Shoos! An' t' say M'issusMoses Shoos! Lord! It give me a pain in the tongue, t' think of it. 

"'Jutht my luck, ' says she; 'but I'll do my betht. '

"So we went back an' told the cook that he didn't have t' worry no moreabout gettin' a wife; an' he said he was more glad than sorry, an', sayshe, she'd better get her bonnet, t' go aboard an' get married rightaway. An' she 'lowed she didn't want no bonnet, but _would_ like tochange her pinny. So we said we'd as lief wait a spell, though a cleanpinny wasn't _needed_. An' when she got back, the cook said he 'lowedthe skipper could marry un well enough 'til we over-hauled a realparson; an' she thought so, too, for, says she, 'twouldn't be longerthan fall, an' any sort of a weddin', says she, would do 'til then. An'aboard we went, the cook an' me pullin' the punt, an' she steerin'; an'the cook he crowed an' cackled all the way, like a half-witted rooster;but the maid didn't even cluck, for she was too wonderful solemn t' doanything but look at the moon. 

"'Skipper, ' said the cook, when we got in the fo'c's'le, 'here she is. _I_ isn't afeared, ' says he, 'and _she_ isn't afeared; an' now I 'lowwe'll have you marry us. '

"Up jumps the skipper; but he was too much s'prised t' say a word. 

"'An' I'm thinkin', ' says the cook, with a nasty little wink, 'that theyisn't a man in this here fo'c's'le, ' says he, 'will _say_ I'm afeared. '

"'Cook, ' says the skipper, takin' the cook's hand, 'shake! I neverknowed a man like you afore, ' says he. 'T' my knowledge, you're the on'yman in the Labrador fleet would do it. I'm proud, ' says he, 't' take thehand o' the man with nerve enough t' marry Walrus Liz o' Whoopin'Harbor. '

"The devil got in the eyes o' the cook--a jumpin' little brimstonedevil, ecod!

"'Ay, lad, ' says the skipper, 'I'm proud t' know the man that isn'tafeared o' Walrus--'

"'Don't you call her that!' says the cook. 'Don't you do it, skipper!'

"I was lookin' at Liz. She was grinnin' in a holy sort o' way. Neverseed nothin' like that afore--no, lads, not in all my life. 

"'An' why not, cook?' says the skipper. 

"'It ain't her name, ' says the cook. 

"'It ain't?' says the skipper. 'But I been sailin' the Labrador fortwenty year, ' says he, 'an' I ain't never heared her called nothin' butWalrus--'

"The devil got into the cook's hands then. I seed his fingers clawin'the air in a hungry sort o' way. An' it looked t' me like squallyweather for the skipper. 

"'Don't you do it no more, skipper, ' says the cook. 'I isn't got nowits, ' says he, 'an' I'm feelin' wonderful queer!'

"The skipper took a look ahead into the cook's eyes. 'Well, cook, ' sayshe, I 'low, ' says he, 'I won't. '

"Liz laughed--an' got close t' the fool from Thunder Arm. An' I seed hertouch his coat-tail, like as if she loved it, but didn't dast do nomore. 

"'What you two goin' t' do?' says the skipper. 

"'We 'lowed you'd marry us, ' says the cook, ''til we come across aparson. '

"'I will, ' says the skipper. 'Stand up here, ' says he. 'All hands standup!' says he. 'Tumm, ' says he, 'get me the first Book you comes across. '

"I got un a Book. 

"'Now, Liz, ' says he, 'can you cook?'

"'Fair t' middlin', ' says she. 'I won't lie. '

"''Twill do, ' says he. 'An' does you want t' get married t' this heredam' fool?'

"'An it pleathe you, ' says she. 

"'Shoos, ' says the skipper, 'will you let this woman do the cookin'?'

"'Well, skipper, ' says the cook, 'I will; for I don't want nobody t' dieo' my cookin' on this here v'y'ge. '

"'An' will you keep out o' the galley?' "'I 'low I'll _have_ to. '

"'An', look you! cook, is you sure--is you _sure_, ' says the skipper, with a shudder, lookin' at the roof, 'that you wants t' marry thishere--'

"'Don't you do it, skipper!' says the cook. 'Don't you say that no more!By God!' says he, 'I'll kill you if you does!'

"'Is you sure, ' says the skipper, 'that you wants t' marry thishere--woman?'

"'I will. '

"'Well, ' says the skipper, kissin' the Book, 'I'low me an' the crewdon't care; an' we can't help it, anyhow. '

"'What about mother's ring?' says the cook. 'She might's well havethat, ' says he, 'if she's careful about the wear an' tear. For joolery, 'says he t' Liz, 'don't stand it. '

"'It can't do no harm, ' says the skipper. 

"'Ith we married, thkipper?' says Liz, when she got the ring on. 

"'Well, ' says the skipper, 'I 'low that knot 'll hold 'til fall. For, 'says he, 'I got a rope's end an' a belayin'-pin t' make it hold, ' sayshe, 'til we gets long-side of a parson that knows more about matrimonialknots 'n me. We'll pick up your goods. Liz, ' says he, 'on the s'uthardv'y'ge. An' I hopes, ol girl, ' says he, 'that you'll be able t' boil thewater 'ithout burnin' it. '

"'Ay, Liz. I been makin' a awful fist o' b'ilin' the water o' late. '

"She gave him one look--an' put her clean pinny to her eyes. 

"'What you cryin' about?' says the cook. 

"'I don't know, ' says she; 'but I 'low 'tith becauthe now I knowth you_ith_ a fool!'

"'She's right, Tumm, ' says the cook. 'She's got it right! Bein' born onHollow eve, ' says he, 'I couldn't be nothin' else. But, Liz, ' says he, 'I'm glad I got you, fool or no fool. '

"So she wiped her eyes, an' blowed her nose, an' give a little sniff, an' looked up, an' smiled. 

"'I isn't good enough for you, ' says the poor cook. 'But, Liz, ' says he, 'if you kissed me, ' says he, 'I wouldn't mind a bit. An' they isn't aman in this here fo'c's'le, ' says he, lookin' around, 'that'll _say_ I'dmind. Not one, ' says he, with the little devil jumpin' in his eyes. 

"Then she stopped cryin' for good. 

"'Go ahead, Liz!' says he. 'I ain't afeared. Come on! Give us a kiss!'

"'Motheth Thooth, ' says she, 'you're the firtht man ever athked me t'give un a kith!'

"She kissed un. 'Twas like a pistol-shot. An', Lord! her poor face wasshinin'. . . . "

In the forecastle of the _Good Samaritan_ we listened to the wind as itscampered over the deck; and we watched Tumm pick at the knot in thetable. 

"Was she happy?" I asked, at last. 

"Well, " he answered, with a laugh, "she sort o' got what she waswantin'. More'n she was lookin' for, I 'low. Seven o' them. An' allstraight an' hearty. Ecod! sir, you never _seed_ such a likely litter o'young uns. Spick an' span, ecod! from stem t' stern. Smellin' clean an'sweet; decks as white as snow; an' every nail an' knob polished 'til itmade you blink t' see it. An' when I was down Thunder Arm way, lastseason, they was some talk _o' one o' them bein' raised for a parson!_"

I went on deck. The night was still black; but beyond--high over theopen sea, hung in the depths of the mystery of night and space--therewas a star. 

HYACINTHUS

BY MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

The group was seated on the flat door-stone and the gravel walk in frontof it, which crossed the green square of the Lynn front yard. On thewide flat stone, in two chairs, sat Mrs. Rufus Lynn and her oppositeneighbor, Mrs. Wilford Biggs. On a chair on the gravel walk sat Mr. JohnMangam, Mrs. Biggs's brother--an elderly unmarried man who lived in thevillage. On the step itself sat Mrs. Samson, an old lady of eighty-five, as straight as if she were sixteen, and by her side, her long body bentgracefully, her elbows resting on her knees, her chin resting in the cupof her two hands, Sarah Lynn, her great-granddaughter. Sarah Lynn wasoften spoken of as "pretty if she wasn't so slouchy, " in Adams, thevillage in which she had been born and bred. Adams people were not, generally speaking, of the kind who understand the grace which may existin utter freedom of attitude and motion. 

It was a very hot evening of one of the hottest days of July, and Mrs. Rufus Lynn wore in deference to the climate a gown of white cambric witha little black sprig thereon, but nothing could excel the smoothly bonedfit of it. And she did not lean back in her chair, but was as erect asthe very old lady on the door-step, who was her grandmother, and who wasalso stiffly gowned, in a black cashmere as straightly made as if it hadbeen armor. The influence of heredity showed strongly in the two, but inSarah showed the intervening generation. 

Sarah was a great beauty with no honor in her own country. Her longsoftly curved figure was surmounted by a head wound with braids of thepurest flax color, and a face like a cameo. She was very fair, with thefairness of alabaster. Her mother's face had a hard blondness, pink andwhite, but fixed, and her great-grandmother had the same. 

Mrs. Samson often glanced disapprovingly at her great-granddaughter, seated by her side in her utterly lax attitude. "Don't set so hunchedup, " she whispered to her in a sharp hiss. She did not want Mr. JohnMangam, whom she regarded as a suitor of Sarah's, to have his attentioncalled to the girl's defects. 

But Sarah had laughed softly, and replied, quite aloud, in a languid, sweet voice, "Oh, it is so hot, grandma!"

"What if it is hot?" said the old woman. "You ain't no hotter settin' upthan you be slouchin'. " She still spoke in a whisper, and Sarah had onlylaughed and said nothing more. 

As for Mrs. Wilford Biggs and her brother, Mr. John Mangam, theymaintained, as always, silence. Neither of the two ever spoke, as arule, unless spoken to. John was called a very rich man in Adams. He hadgone to the far West in his youth and made money in cattle. 

"And how in creation he ever made any money in cattle, a man that don'ttalk no more than he does, beats me, " Mrs. Samson often said to hergranddaughter, Mrs. Lynn. She was quite out-spoken to her about JohnMangam, although never to Sarah. "It does seem as if a man would have tosay somethin', to manage critters, " said the old woman. 

Mr. John Mangam and Mrs. Wilford Biggs grated on her nerves. Sheprivately considered it an outrage for Mrs. Biggs to come over nearlyevery evening and sit and rock and say nothing, and often fall asleep, and for Mr. Mangam to do the same. It was not so much the silence as theattitude of almost injured expectancy which irritated. Both gave theeffect of waiting for other people to talk to them, to tell theminteresting bits of news, to ask them questions--to set them going, asit were. 

Mrs. Lynn and her grandmother tried to fulfil their duty in thisdirection, but Sarah did not trouble herself in the least. She continuedto sit bent over like a lily limp with the heat, and she stared with hertwo great blue eyes in her cameo face forth at the wonders of the summernight, and she had apparently very little consciousness of the peoplearound her. Her loose white gown fell loosely around her; her whiteelbows were quite visible from the position in which she held her arms. Her lovely hair hung in soft loops over her ears. She was the only onewho paid the slightest attention to the beauty of the night. She wasfilling her whole soul with it. 

It was a wonderful night, and Adams was a village in which to see awonderful night. It was flanked by a river, upon the opposite bank ofwhich rose a gentle mountain. Above the mountain the moon was appearingwith the beauty of revelation, and the tall trees made superb shadoweffects. The night also was not without its voices and its fragrances. Katydids were shrilling from every thicket, and over somewhere near theriver a whippoorwill was persistently calling. As for the fragrances, they were those of the dark, damp skirts and wings of the night, theevidences as loud as voices of green shrubs and flowers blooming in lowwet places; but dominant above all was the scent of the lilies. Onebreathed in lilies to that extent that one's thought seemed fairlyscented with them. It was easy enough, by looking toward the left, tosee where the fragrance came from. There was evident, on the other sideof a low hedge, a pale florescence of the flowers. Beyond them rose, pale likewise, the great Ware house, the largest in the village, and theoldest. Hyacinthus Ware was the sole representative of the old familyknown to be living. Presently the group on the Lynn door-step began totalk about him, leading up to the subject from the fragrance of thelilies. 

"Them lilies is so sweet they are sickish, " said the old grandmother. 

"Yes, they be dreadful sickish, " said Mrs. Lynn. Mrs. Wilford Biggs andMr. Mangam, as usual, said nothing. 

"Hyacinthus is home, I see, " said Mrs. Lynn. 

"Yes, I see him on the street t'other day, " said the old woman, in herthick dialect. She sat straighter than ever as she gazed across at thegarden of lilies and the great Ware house, and the cold step-stoneseemed to pierce her old spinal column like a rod of steel; but shenever flinched. 

Mrs. Wilford Biggs and Mr. John Mangam said nothing. 

"He is the handsomest man I ever saw, " said Sarah Lynn, unexpectedly, inan odd, shamed, almost awed voice, as if she were speaking of adivinity. 

Then for the first time Mr. John Mangam gave evidence of life. He didnot speak, but he made an inarticulate noise between a grunt and asniff. 

"Well, if you call that man good-lookin', " said Mrs. Lynn, "you don'tsee the way I do, that's all. " She looked straight at Mr. John Mangam asshe spoke. 

"I don't call him good-looking at all, " said the old woman; "dreadfulwhite-livered. "

Sarah said nothing at all, but the face of the man, Hyacinthus Ware, wasbefore her eyes still, as beautiful and grand as the face of a god. 

"Never heerd such a name, either, " said the old woman. "His mother wasdreadful flowery. She had some outlandish blood. I don't know whethershe was Eyetalian or Dutch. "

"Her mother was Greek, I always heard, " said Mrs. Lynn. "I dun'no' as Iever heard of any other Greek round these parts. I guess they don'temigrate much. "

"I guess it was Greek, now you speak of it, " said the old woman. "I knewshe was outlandish on one side, anyhow. An' as fur callin' himgood-lookin'--" She looked aggressively at her great-granddaughter, whose beautiful face was turned toward the moonlit night. 

It was a long time that they sat there. It had been a very hot day, andthe cool was grateful. Hardly a remark was made, except one from Mrs. Lynn that it was a blessing there were so few mosquitoes and they couldsit outdoors such a night. 

"I ain't heerd but one all the time I've been settin' here, " said theold woman, "and I ketched him. "

Sarah, the girl, continued to drink, to eat, to imbibe, to assimilate, toward her spiritual growth, the beauty of the night, the gentle slopeof the mountain, the wavering wings of the shadows, the song of theriver, the calls of the whippoorwill and the katydids, the perfume ofthe unseen green things in the wet places, and the overmasteringsweetness of the lilies. 

At last Mrs. Wilford Biggs arose to go, and also John Mangam. Both saidthey must be goin', they guessed, and that was the first remark that hadbeen made by either of them. Mrs. Biggs moved with loose flops down thefront walk, and John Mangam walked stiffly behind her. She had merely tocross the road; he had half a mile to walk to his bachelor abode. 

"I should think he must be lonesome, poor man, with only that no-accounthousekeeper to home, " said the old woman, as she also rose, with pain, of which she resolutely gave no evidence. Her poor old joints seemed tostab her, but she fought off the pain angrily. Instead she pitied withmeaning John Mangam. 

"It must be pretty hard for him, " assented Mrs. Lynn. She also thoughtit would be a very good thing for her daughter to marry John Mangam. 

Sarah said nothing. The old woman, after saying, like the others, thatshe guessed she must be goin', crept off alone across the field to herlittle house. She would have resented any offer to accompany her, andMrs. Lynn arose to enter the house. 

"Well, be you goin' to set there all night?" she asked, rather sharply, of Sarah. It had seemed to her that Sarah might have made a littleeffort to entertain Mr. John Mangam. 

"No. I am coming in, mother, " Sarah said. Sarah spoke differently fromthe others. She had had, as they expressed it in Adams, "advantages. "She had, in fact, graduated from a girls' school of considerable repute. Her father had insisted upon it. Mrs. Lynn had rather rebelled againstthe outlay on Sarah's education. She had John Mangam in mind, and shethought that a course at the high school in Adams would fit heradmirably for her life. However, she deferred to Rufus Lynn, and Sarahhad her education. 

The Lynn house was a large story-and-a-half cottage, the prevalent typeof house in Adams. Mrs. Lynn slept in the room she had always occupiedon the second floor. In hot weather Sarah slept in the bedroom openingout of the best parlor, because the other second-floor room was hot. Mrs. Lynn went up-stairs with her lamp and left Sarah to go to bed inthe bedroom out of the parlor. Sarah went in there with her own littlelamp, but even that room seemed stuffy. The heat of the day seemed tohave become confined in the house. Sarah stood irresolute for a moment. She looked at the high mound of feather bed, at the small window at thefoot, whence came scarcely a whiff of the blessed night air. Them shewent back out on the door-step and again seated herself. As she satthere the scent of the lilies came more strongly than ever, and now witha curious effect. It was to the girl as if the fragrance were twiningand winding about her and impelling her like leashes. All at once animpulse of yielding which was really freedom came to her. Why in theworld should she not cross the little north yard, step over the lowhedge, and go into that lily-garden? She knew that it would be beautifulthere. She looked forth into the crystalline light and the soft plumyshade, --she would go over into the Ware garden. With all this, there wasno ulterior motive. She had seen the man who lived in the house, and sheadmired him as one from afar, but she was a girl innocent not only infact, but in dreams. Of course she had thought of a possible lover andhusband, and that some day he might come, and she resented thesupposition that John Mangam might be he, but she held even herimagination in a curious respect. While she dreamed of love, sheworshipped at the same time. 

When she had stepped lightly over the hedge and was moving among thelilies in the strange garden where she had no right, she was beautifulas any nymph. Now that she was in the midst of the lilies, it was as iftheir fragrance were a chorus sung with a violence of sweet breath inher very face. She felt exhilarated, even intoxicated, by it. She feltas if she were drawing the lilies so into herself that her ownpersonality waned. She seemed to realize what it would be to bloom withthat pale glory and exhale such sweetness for a few days. There wereother flowers than lilies in the garden, but the lilies were veryplentiful. There were white day-lilies, and tiger-lilies which were notsweet at all, and marvellous pink freckled ones which glistened as withdrops of silver and were very fragrant. There were also low-growingspider-lilies, but those were not evident at this time of night, and thelilies-of-the-valley, of course, were all gone. There were, however, many other flowers of the old-fashioned varieties--verbenassweet-williams, phlox, hollyhocks, mignonette, and the like. There wasalso a quantity of box. The garden was divided into rooms by the box, and in each room bloomed the flowers. 

Sarah moved along at her will through the garden. Moving from enclosureto enclosure of box, she came, before she knew it, to the house itself. It loomed up before her a pale massiveness, with no lights in any of thewindows, but on the back porch sat the owner. He sat in a high-backchair, with his head tilted back, and his eyes were closed and he seemedto be asleep, but Sarah was not quite sure. She stopped short. Shebecame all at once horribly ashamed and shocked at what she was doing. What would he think of a girl roaming around his garden so late atnight--a girl to whom he had never spoken? She was standing against abackground of blooming hollyhocks. Her slender height shrank delicatelyaway; she was like a nymph poised for flight, but she dared not even flylest she wake the man on the porch if he were asleep, or arouse hisattention were he awake. 

She dared do nothing but remain perfectly still--as still as one of thetall hollyhocks behind her which were crowded with white and yellowrosettes of bloom. She had her long dress wound around her, holding itup with one hand, and the other hand and arm hung whitely at her side inthe folds. She stood perfectly still and looked at the man in the porch, on whose face the moon was shining. He looked more than ever to her likesomething wonderful beyond common. The man had really a wonderfulbeauty. He was not very young, but no years could affect the classicoutlines of his face, and his colorless skin was as clear and smooth asa boys. And more than anything to be remarked was the majestic serenityof his expression. He looked like a man who all his life had dominatednot only other men, but himself. And there was, besides the appearanceof the man, a certain fascination of mystery attached to him. Nobody inAdams knew just how or where he had spent his life. The old Ware househad been occupied for many years only by an old caretaker, who stillremained. This caretaker was a man, but with all the housekeepingability of a woman. He was never seen by Adams people except when hemade his marketing expeditions. He was said to keep the house inimmaculate order, and he also took care of the garden. He had alwaysbeen in the Ware household, and there was a tradition that in his youthhe had been a very handsome man. "As handsome as any handsome woman youever saw, " the old inhabitants said. He had come not very long beforeJoseph Ware, the father of Hyacinthus, had died. Joseph's wife hadsurvived him several years. She died quite suddenly of pneumonia whenstill a comparatively young woman and when Hyacinthus was a boy. Then amaternal uncle had come and taken the boy away with him, to live nobodyknew where nor how, until his return a few months since. 

There was, of course, much curiosity in Adams concerning him, and thecuriosity was not, generally speaking, of a complimentary tendency. Someyoung and marriageable girls esteemed him very handsome, but themajority of the people said that he was odd and stuck up, as his motherhad been before him. He led a quiet life with his books, and he had aroom on the ground-floor fitted up as a studio. In there he made thingsof clay and plaster, as the Adams people said, and curious-looking boxeswere sent away by express. It was rumored that a statue by him had beenexhibited in New York. 

Some faces show more plainly in the moonlight, or one imagines so. Hyacinthus Ware's showed as clearly as if carved in marble. He inreality looked so like a statue that the girl standing in the enclosureof box with the background of hollyhocks had for a moment imagined thathe might be one of his own statues. The eyes, either closed in sleep orappearing to be, heightened the effect. 

But the girl was not now in a position to do more than tremble at theplight into which she had gotten herself. It seemed to her that no girl, certainly no girl in Adams, had ever done such a thing. Her freedom ofmind now failed her. Another heredity asserted itself. She felt verymuch as her mother or her great-grandmother might have felt in a similarpredicament. It was as horrible as dreams she had sometimes had ofwalking into church in her nightgear. She was sure that she must notmove, and the more so because at a very slight motion of hers there hadbeen a motion as if in response from the man on the porch. Then therewas another drawback. Some roses grew behind the hollyhocks, and herskirt was caught. She had felt a little pull at her skirt when sheessayed a slight tentative motion. Therefore, in order to fly she couldnot merely slip away; she would have to make extra motions todisentangle her dress. She therefore remained perfectly still in theattitude of shrinking and flight. She thought that her only course untilthe man should wake and enter the house; then she could slip away. Shehad not much fear of being discovered unless by motion; she stood inshadow. Besides, the man had no reason whatever to apprehend thepresence of a girl in his garden at that hour, and would not be lookingfor her. She had an intuitive feeling that unless she moved he would notperceive her. Cramps began to assail even her untrammelled limbs. Tomaintain one pose so long was almost an impossible feat. She kept hopingthat he would wake, that he must wake. It did not seem possible that hecould sit there much longer and not wake; and yet the night was sohot--hot, probably, even in the great square rooms of the old Warehouse. It was quite natural that he should prefer sleeping there in thecool out-of-door if he could, but an unreasoning rage seized upon herthat he should. She rebelled against the very freedom in another whichshe had always coveted for herself. 

And still he sat there, as white and beautiful and motionless as astatue, and still she kept her enforced attitude. She suffered tortures, but she said to herself that she would not yield, that she would notmove. Rather than have that man discover her at that hour in his garden, she would suffer everything. It did not occur to her that possibly thissuffering might have consequences which she did not foresee. All thatshe considered was a simple question of endurance; but all at once herhead swam, and she sank down at the feet of the hollyhocks like a brokenflower herself. She had completely lost consciousness. 

When she came to herself she was lying on the back porch of the old Warehouse and a pile of pillows was under her head, and she had a confusedimpression of vanishing woman draperies, which later on she thought shemust have been mistaken about, as she knew, of course, that there was nowoman there. Hyacinthus Ware himself was bending over her and fanningher with a great fan of peacock feathers, and the old caretaker had alittle glass of wine on a tray. The first thing Sarah heard wasHyacinthus's voice, evenly modulated, with a curious stillness about it. 

"I think if you can drink a little of this wine, " he said, "you willfeel better. "

Sarah looked up at the face looking down at her, and all at once aconviction seized upon her that he had not been asleep at all; that hehad pretended to be so, and had been enjoying himself at her expense, simply waiting to see how long she would stand there. He probablythought that she--she, Sarah Lynn--had come into his garden at midnightto see him. A sudden fury seized upon her, but when she tried to raiseherself she found that she could not. Then she reached out her hand forthe wine, and drank it with a fierce gulp, spilling some of it over herdress. It affected her almost instantly. She raised herself, the winegiving her strength, and she looked with a haughty anger at the man, whose expression seemed something between compassion and mocking. 

"You saw me all the time, " she said. "You did, I know you did, and youlet me think you were asleep to see how long I would stand still there, and you think--you think--I was sitting on my door-step--I live in thenext house--and it was very warm in the house, so I came out again and Ismelled the lilies over the hedge, and--and--I did not think of you atall. " She was quite on her feet then, and she looked at him with herhead thrown back with an air of challenge. "I thought I would like tocome over here in the garden, " she continued, in the same angrilyexcusing tone, "and I did not dream of seeing any one. It was so late, Ithought the house would be closed, and when I saw you I thought you wereasleep. "

The man began to look genuinely compassionate; the half-smile faded fromhis lips. "I understand, " he said. 

"And I thought if I moved you would wake and see me, and you were awakeall the time. You knew all the time, and you waited for me to standthere and feel as I did. I never dreamed a man could be so cruel. "

"I beg your pardon with all my heart, " began Hyacinthus Ware. 

But the girl was gone. She staggered a little as she ran, leaping overthe box borders. When she was at last in her own home, with the doorsoftly closed and locked behind her, and she was in the parlor bedroom, she could not believe that she was herself. She began to look at thingsdifferently. The influence of the intergeneration waned. She thought howher mother would never have done such a thing when she was a girl, howshocked she would be if she knew, and she herself was as shocked as hermother would have been. 

It was only a week from the night of the garden episode that Mr. Warecame to make a call, and he came with the minister, who had been an oldfriend of his father's. 

She lay awake a long time that night, thinking with angry humiliationhow her mother wanted her to marry John Mangam, and she thought of Mr. Hyacinthus Ware and his polished, gentle manner, which was yet strong. Then all at once a feeling which she had never known before came overher. She saw quite plainly before her, in the moonlit dusk of the room, Hyacinthus Ware's face, and she felt that she could go down on her kneesbefore him and worship him. 

"Never was such a man, " she said to herself. "Never was a man sobeautiful and so good. He is not like other men. "

It was not so much love as devotion which possessed her. She looked outof her little window opposite the bed, at the moonlit night, for thestorm had cleared the air. She had the window open and a cool wind wasblowing through the room. She looked out at the silver-lit immensity ofthe sky, and a feeling of exaltation came over her. She thought ofHyacinthus as she might have thought of a divinity. Love and marriagewere hardly within her imagination in connection with him. But they camelater. 

Ware quite often called at the Lynn house. He often joined the group onthe door-step in the summer nights. He often came when John Mangamoccupied his usual chair in his usual place, and his graceful urbanityon such occasions seemed to make more evident the other man's stolid orstupid silence. Hyacinthus and Sarah usually had the most of theconversation to themselves, as even Mrs. Lynn and the old woman, whowere not backward in speech, were at a loss to discuss many of thetopics introduced. One evening, after they had all gone home, Mrs. Lynnlooked fiercely at her daughter as she turned, holding her little lamp, which cast a glorifying reflection upon her face, into the parlor whenceled her little bedroom. 

"You are a good-for-nothin' girl, " she said. "You ought to be ashamed ofyourself. "

"What do you mean, mother?" asked Sarah. She stood fair and white, confronting her mother, who was burning and coarse with wrath. 

"You talk about things you and him know that the rest of us can't talkabout. You take advantage because your father and me sent you to schoolwhere you could learn more than we could. It wasn't my fault I didn't goto school, and 'twa'n't his fault, poor man. He had to go to work andget all that money he has. " By the last masculine pronoun Mrs. Lynnmeant John Mangam. 

Sarah had a spirit of her own, and she turned upon her mother, and forthe time the two faces looked alike, being swayed with one emotion. "If, " she said, "Mr. Ware and I had to regulate our conversation inorder to enable Mr. Mangam to talk with us, I am sure I don't know whatwe could say. Mr. Mangam never talks, anyway. "

"It ain't always the folks that talks that knows the most and is thebest, " said Mrs. Lynn. Then her face upon her daughter's turnedmalevolent, triumphant, and cruel. "I wa'n't goin' to tell you what Iheard when I was in Mis' Ketchum's this afternoon, " she said. "I thoughtat first I wouldn't, but now I'm goin' to. "

"What do you mean, mother?" asked Sarah, in an angry voice; but shequailed. 

"I thought at first I wouldn't, " her mother continued, pitilessly, "butI see to-night how things are goin'. "

"What do you mean by that, mother?"

"I see that you are fool enough to get to likin' a man that has got thegift of the gab, and that you think is good-lookin', and that wearsclothes made in the city, better than a good honest feller that we haveall known about ever since he was born, and that ain't got no outlandishblood in him, neither. "

"Mother!"

"You needn't say mother that way. I ain't a fool, if I haven't been toschool like some folks, and I see the way you two looked at each otherto-night right before that poor man that has been comin' here steady andmeans honorable. "

"Nobody asked or wanted him to come, " said Sarah. 

"Maybe you'll change your mind when you hear what I've got to tell you. And I'm goin' to tell you. _Hyacinthus Ware has got a woman livin' overthere in that house. _" Sarah turned ghastly pale, but she spoke firmly. "You mean he is married?" she said. 

"I dun'no' whether he is married or not, but there is a woman livin'there. "

"I don't believe a word of it. "

"It don't make no odds whether you believe it or not, she's there. "

"I don't believe it. "

"She's been seed. "

"Who has seen her. "

"Abby Jane Ketchum herself, when she went round to the back door daybefore yesterday afternoon to ask if Mr. Ware would buy some of hersoap. You know she's sellin' soap to get a prize. "

"Where was the woman?"

"She was sittin' on the back porch with Mr. Ware, and she up and runwhen she see Abby Jane, and Mr. Ware turned as white as a sheet, and hebought all the soap Abby Jane had left to git out of it, so she's gotenough to get a sideboard for a prize. And Abby Jane she kept her eyesopen and she see a blind close in the southwest chamber, and that'swhere the woman sleeps. "

"What kind of a looking woman was she?" asked Sarah, in a strange voice. 

"As handsome as a picture, Abby Jane said, and she had on an awfulstylish dress. Now if you want to have men like that comin' here to seeyou, and want to make more of them than you do of a man that you know isall right and is good and honest, you can. "

There was something about the girl's face, as she turned away without aword, that smote her mother's heart. "I felt as if I had to tell you, Sarah, " she said, in a voice which was suddenly changed to pity andapology. 

"You did perfectly right to tell me, mother, " said Sarah. When at lastshe got in her little bedroom she scarcely knew her own face in theglass. Hyacinthus Ware had kissed that face the night before, and eversince the memory of it had seemed like a lamp in her heart. She had methim when she was coming home from the post-office after dark, and he hadkissed her at the gate and told her he loved her, and she expected, ofcourse, to marry him. Even now she could not bring herself to entirelydoubt him. "Suppose there is a woman there, " she said to herself, "whatdoes it prove?" But she felt in her inmost heart that it did prove agood deal. 

She remembered just bow Hyacinthus looked when he spoke to her; therehad been something almost childlike in his face. She could not believe, and yet in the face of all this evidence! If there was a woman living inthe house with him, why had he kept it secret? Suddenly it occurred toher that she could go over in the garden and see for herself. It was abright moonlight night and not yet late. If the woman was there, if sheinhabited the southwest chamber, there might be some sign of her. Sarahplaced her lamp on her bureau, gathered her skirts around her, and ranswiftly out into the night. She hurried stealthily through the garden. The lilies were gone, but there was still a strong breath of sweetness, a bouquet, as it were, of mignonette and verbena and sweet thyme andother fragrant blossoms, and the hollyhocks still bloomed. She went verycarefully when she reached the last enclosure of box; she peeped throughthe tall file of hollyhocks, and there was Hyacinthus on the porch andthere was a woman beside him. In fact, the woman was sitting in the oldchair and Hyacinthus was at her feet, on the step, with his head in herlap. The moon shone on them; they looked as if they were carved withmarble. 

Sarah never knew how she got home, but she was back there in her littleroom and nobody knew that she had been in the Ware garden exceptherself. The next morning she had a talk with her mother. "Mother, " saidshe, "if Mr. John Mangam wants to marry me why doesn't he say so?" Shewas fairly brutal in her manner of putting the question. She did notchange color in the least. She was very pale that morning, and she stoodmore like her mother and her great-grandmother than herself. 

Mrs. Lynn looked at her, and she was almost shocked. "Why, Sarah Lynn!"she gasped. 

"I mean just what I say, " said Sarah, firmly. "I want to know. JohnMangam has been coming here steadily for nearly two years, and he nevereven says a word, much less asks me to marry him. Does he expect me todo it?"

"I suppose he thinks you might at least meet him half-way, " said hermother, confusedly. 

That afternoon she went over to Mrs. Wilford Biggs's, and the nextnight, it being John Mangam's night to call, Mrs. Biggs waylaid him ashe was just about to cross the street to the Lynn house. 

After a short conversation Mrs. Biggs and her brother crossed the streettogether, and it was not long before Mrs. Lynn asked Mrs. Biggs and theold grandmother, who had also come over, to go in the house and see hernew black silk dress. Then it was that John Mangam mumbled somethinginarticulate, which Sarah translated into an offer of marriage. "Verywell, I will marry you if you want me to, Mr. Mangam, " she said. "Idon't love you at all, but if you don't mind about that--"

John Mangam said nothing at all. 

"If you don't mind that, I will marry you, " said Sarah, and nobody wouldhave known her voice. It was a voice to be ashamed of, full of despairand shame and pride, so wronged and mangled that her very spirit seemedviolated. John Mangam said nothing then. She and the man sat there quitestill, when Hyacinthus came stepping over the hedge. 

Sarah found a voice when she saw him. She turned to him. "Good evening, Mr. Ware, " she said, clearly. "I would like to announce my engagement toMr. Mangam. "

Hyacinthus stood staring at her. Sarah repeated her announcement. ThenHyacinthus Ware disregarded John Mangam as much as if he had been a postof the white fence that enclosed the Lynn yard. "What does it mean?" hecried. 

"You have no right to ask, " said she, also disregarding John Mangam, whosat perfectly still in his chair. 

"No right to ask after--Sarah, what do you mean? Why have I no right toask, after what we told each other?--and I intended to see your motherto-night. I only waited because--"

"Because you had a guest in the house, " said Sarah, in a cold, lowvoice. Then John Mangam looked up with some show of animation. He hadheard the gossip. 

Hyacinthus looked at her a moment, speechless, then he left her withoutanother word and went home across the hedge. 

It was soon told in Adams that Sarah Lynn and John Mangam were to bemarried. Everybody agreed that it was a good match and that Sarah was alucky girl. She went on with her wedding preparations. John Mangam cameas usual and sat silently. Sometimes when Sarah looked at him andreflected that she would have to pass her life with this automaton asort of madness seized her. 

Hyacinthus she almost never saw. Once in a great while she met him onthe street, and he bowed, raising his hat silently. He never made theslightest attempt at explanation. 

One night, after supper, Sarah and her mother sat on the frontdoor-step, and by and by the old grandmother came across the fields, andMrs. Wilford Biggs across the street, and Mr. John Mangam from his ownhouse farther down. He looked preoccupied and worried that night, andwhile he was as silent as ever, yet his silence had the effect ofspeech. 

They sat in their customary places: Mrs. Lynn and Mrs. Biggs in thechairs on the broad step-stone, Sarah and the old woman on the step, andMr. John Mangam in his chair on the gravel path, --when a strange ladycame stepping across the hedge from the Ware garden. She was not so veryyoung, although she was undeniably very handsome, and her clothes wereof a fashion never seen in Adams. She went straight up to the group onthe door-step, and although she had too much poise of manner to appearagitated, it was evident that she was very eager and very much inearnest. Mrs. Lynn half arose, with an idea of giving her a chair, butthere was no time, the lady began talking so at once. 

"You are Miss Sarah Lynn, are you not?" she asked of Sarah, and she didnot wait for a reply, "and you are going to be married to him?" andthere was an unmistakable emphasis of scorn. 

"I have just returned, " said the lady; "I have not been in the househalf an hour, and my father told me. You do not know, but the gentlemanwho has lived so long in the Ware house, the caretaker, is my father, and--and my mother was Hyacinthus's mother; her second marriage wassecret, and he would never tell. My father and my mother were cousins. Hyacinthus never told. " She turned to Sarah. "He would not even tellyou, when he knew that you must have seen or heard something that madeyou believe otherwise, because--because of our mother. No, he would noteven tell you. "

She spoke again with a great impetuosity which made her seem very young, although she was not so very young. "I have been kept away all my life, "she said, "all my life from here, that the memory of our mother shouldnot suffer, and now I come to tell, myself, and you will marry mybrother, whom you must love better than that gentleman. You must. Willyou not? Tell me that you will, " said she, "for Hyacinthus is breakinghis heart, and he loves you. "

Before anything further could be said John Mangam rose, and walkedrapidly down the gravel walk out of the yard and down the street. 

Sarah felt dizzy. She bent lower as she sat and held her head in her twohands, and the strange lady came on the other side of her, and she wasenveloped in a fragrance of some foreign perfume. 

"My brother has been almost mad, " she whispered in her ear, "and I havejust found out what the trouble was. He would not tell on account of ourmother, but poor mother is dead and gone. "

Then the old woman on the other side raised her voice unexpectedly, andshe spoke to her granddaughter, Mrs. Lynn. "You are a fool, " said she, "if you wouldn't rather hev Serrah merry a man like Hyacinthus Ware, with all his money and livin' in the biggest house in Adams, than a manlike John Mangam, who sets an' sets an' sets the hull evenin' and neveropens his mouth to say boo to a goose, and beside bein' threatened witha suit for breach. "

"I don't care who she marries, as long as she is happy, " said Sarah'smother. 

"Well, I'm goin', " said the old woman. "I left my winders open, and Ithink there's a shower comin' up. "

She rose, and Mrs. Wilford Biggs at the same time. Sarah's mother wentinto the house. 

"Won't you?" whispered the strange lady, and it was as if a rosewhispered in Sarah's ear. 

"I didn't know that he--I thought--" stammered Sarah. 

Sarah did not exactly know when the lady left and when Hyacinthus came, but after a while they were sitting side by side on the door-step, andthe moon was rising over the mountain, and the wonderful shadows weregathering about them like a company of wedding-guests. 

JANE'S GRAY EYES

BY SEWELL FORD

When _The Insurgent_ took its place among the "best six sellers, "Decatur Brown formed several good resolutions. He would not have himselfphotographed in a literary pose, holding a book on his knee, or proppinghis forehead up with one hand and gazing dreamily into space; he wouldnot accept the praise of newspaper reviewers as laurel dropped fromOlympus; and he would not tell "how he wrote it. "

Firmly he held to this commendable programme, despite frequent urgingsto depart from it. Yet observe what pitfalls beset the path of thepopular fictionist. There came a breezy, shrewd-eyed young woman ofbeguiling tongue who announced herself as a "lady journalist. "

"Now for goodness' sake don't shy, " she pleaded. "I'm not going to askabout your literary methods, or do a kodak write-up of the way you brushyour hair, or any of that rot. I merely want you to say something aboutSunday Weeks. That's legitimate, isn't it? Sunday's a public characternow, you know. Every one talks about her. So why shouldn't you, who knowher best?"

It was the voice of the siren. Decatur Brown should have recognized itas such. But the breezy young person was so plausible, she bubbled withsuch enthusiasm for his heroine, that in the end he yielded. He talkedof Sunday Weeks. And such talk!

Obviously the "lady journalist" had come all primed with the rathershop-worn theory that the Sunday Weeks who figured as the heroine of_The Insurgent_ must be a real personage, a young woman in whom DecaturBrown took more than a literary interest. Possibly the cards were readyto be sent out. 

Had she put these queries point-blank, he would have denied themdefinitely and emphatically, and there would have been an end. But shewas far too clever for that. She plied him with sly hints and deftinsinuation. Then, when he began to scent her purpose, she took anothertack. "Did he really admire women of the Sunday Weeks type? Did hehonestly think that the unconventional, wilful, whimsical Sunday, whileperfectly charming in the unmarried state, could be tamed to matrimony?Was he willing to have his ideal of womanhood judged by thisdisturbingly fascinating creature of the 'sober gray eyes and piquantchin'?"

Naturally he felt called upon to endorse his heroine, to defend her. Loyalty to his art demanded that much. Then, too, there recurred to himthoughts of Jane Temple. He could truthfully say that Sunday was awholly imaginative character, that she had no "original. " And yetsubconsciously he knew that all the time he was creating her there hadbeen before him a vision of Jane. Not a very distinct vision, to besure. It had been some years since he had seen her. But that bit aboutthe sober gray eyes and the piquant chin Jane was responsible for. Hecould never forget those eyes of Jane's. He was not so certain about thechin. It might have been piquant; and then again, it might not. At anyrate, it had been adorable, for it was Jane's. 

So, while some of his enthusiasm in the defence of Sunday Weeks was dueto artistic fervor, more of it was prompted by thoughts of Jane Temple. He did not pretend, he declared, to speak for other men; but as forhimself, he liked Sunday--he liked her very much. 

The shrewd eyes of the "lady journalist" glistened. She knew her cuewhen she heard it. Throwing her first theory to the four winds, sheeagerly gripped this new and tangible fact. 

"Then she really is your ideal?"

He had not thought much about it, but he presumed that in a sense shewas. 

"But suppose now, Mr. Brown, just suppose you should some day run acrossa young woman exactly like the Sunday Weeks you have described: wouldyou marry her?"

Decatur Brown laughed--a light, irresponsible, bachelor laugh. "I shouldprobably ask her if I might first. "

"But you _would_ ask her?"

"Oh, assuredly. "

"And would you like to find such a girl?"

Decatur gazed sentimentally over the smart little polo-hat of the "ladyjournalist" and out of the window at a sky--a sky as gray as Jane's eyeshad been that last night when they had parted, she to travel abroad withher aunt, he to become a cub reporter on a city daily. 

"Yes, I would like very much to find her, " he replied. 

Do you think, after this, that the interviewer waited for more? Not she. Leaving him mixed up with his daydream, she took herself off before hecould retract, or modify, or in any way spoil the story. 

Still, considering what she might have printed, she was really quitedecent about it. Leaving out the startling head-lines, hers was a nice, readable, chatty article. It contained no bald announcement that theauthor of _The Insurgent_ was hunting, with matrimonial intent, for agray-eyed prototype of Sunday Weeks. Yet that was the impressionconveyed. Where was there a girl with sober gray eyes and a piquant chinwho could answer to certain other specifications, duly set forth in oneof the most popular novels of the day? Whoever she might be, wherevershe was, she might know what to expect should she be discovered. 

Having survived the first shock to his reticence, Decatur Brown wasinclined to dismiss the matter with a laugh. He had been cleverlyexploited, but he could not see that any great harm had been done. Hesupposed that he must become used to such things. Anyway, he wasaltogether too busy to give much thought to the incident, for he was inthe middle of another novel that must be ready for the public before_The Insurgent_ was forgotten. 

He was yet to learn the real meaning of publicity. First there appearedan old friend, one who should have understood him too well to put faithin such an absurdity. 

"Say, Deck, you've simply got to dine with us Thursday night. My wifeinsists. She wants you to meet a cousin of hers--Denver girl, mightybright, and"--this impressively--"she has gray eyes, you know. "

Decatur grinned appreciatively, but he begged off. He was really verysorry to miss a gray-eyed girl, of course, but there was his work. 

One by one his other friends had their little shy at him. Mayhew sent bymessenger a huge placard reading, "Wanted, A Wife. " Trevors called himup by telephone to advise him to see _Jupiter Belles_ at once. 

"Get a seat in A, " he chuckled, "and take a good look at the third fromthe left, first row. She has gray eyes. "

By the time he received Tiddler's atrocious sketch, representing theauthor of _The Insurgent_ as a Diogenes looking for gray-eyed girls, hehad ceased to smile over the thing. The joke was becoming a triflestale. 

Then the letters began to come in, post-marked from all over thecountry. They were all from young persons who had read _The Insurgent_, and evidently the interview; for, no matter what else was said, eachmissive contained the information that the writer of it possessed grayeyes. All save one. That was accompanied by a photograph on which anarrow had been drawn pointing towards the eyes. Under the arrow wasnaively inscribed, "Gray. "

Decatur was not flattered. His dignity suffered. He felt cheapened, humiliated. The fact that the waning boom of his novel had received newimpetus did not console him. His mildly serious expression gave place toa worried, injured look. 

And then Mrs. Wheeler Upton swooped down on him with a demand for hisappearance at one of her Saturday nights. For Decatur there was nochoice. He was her debtor for so many helpful favors in the past that hecould not refuse so simple a request. Yet he groaned in spirit as heviewed the prospect. Once it would have been different. Was it not inher pleasant drawing-rooms that he had been boosted from obscurity toshine among the other literary stars? Mrs. Upton knew them all. She madeit her business to do so, bless the kindly heart of her, and to see thatthey knew each other. No wonder her library table groaned under theweight of autographed volumes. 

But to face that crowd at Mrs. Wheeler Upton's meant to run a rapid-firegauntlet of jokes about gray-eyed girls. However, go he must, and go hedid. 

He was not a little relieved to find so few there, and that most of themwere young women. A girl often hesitates at voicing a witticism, becauseshe is afraid, after all, that it may not be really funny. A man neverdoubts the excellence of his own humor. So, when a quarter of an hourhad passed without hint of that threadbare topic, he gradually threw offhis restraint and began to enjoy himself. He was talking Meredith to atall girl in soft-blue China silk, when suddenly he became aware thatthey had been left entirely to themselves. Every one else seemed to havedrifted into an adjoining room. Through the doorway he could see themabout Mrs. Upton, who was evidently holding their attention. 

"Why, what's up, I wonder? Why do they leave us out, I'd like to know?"and he glanced inquiringly at the girl in soft blue. She flushedconsciously and dropped her lashes. When she looked at him again, andrather appealingly, he saw that she had gray eyes. 

It was Decatur's turn to flush. Could Mrs. Upton have done thisdeliberately? He was loath to think so. The situation was awkward, andawkwardly he got himself out of it. 

"I say, let's see what they're up to in there, " he suggested, andmarched her into the other room, wondering if he showed hisembarrassment as much as she did. As he sidled away from her hedetermined to pick out a girl whose eyes were not gray, and to stick toher for the remainder of the evening. Accordingly he began hisinspection. A moment later and the whole truth blazed enlighteninglyupon him. They were all gray-eyed girls, every last one of them. 

If he had been waiting for a climax, he was entirely satisfied. Ofcourse it was rather silly of him to take it all so seriously, but, sitting safely in his rooms long after his panicky retreat from Mrs. Upton's collection, he could not make light of the situation. It _was_serious. He was losing sleep, appetite, and self-respect over it. 

Not that he was vain enough to imagine that every gray-eyed girl in thecountry, or any one of them, wished to marry him. No; he was fairlymodest, as men go. He suspected that the chief emotions he inspired werecuriosity and mischievousness. It was the thought of what thoseuncounted thousands of gray-eyed girls must conceive as his attitudetowards them that hurt. Why, it was almost as though he had put amatrimonial advertisement in the newspapers. When he pictured himselflooked upon as assuming to be a connoisseur of a certain type offemininity he felt as keenly disgraced as if he had set himself up foran Apollo. 

In next morning's mail he noted an increased number of letters fromunknown gray-eyed correspondents. That settled it. Hurriedly packing acapacious kit-bag, with the uncompleted manuscript on top, he took thefirst train for Ocean Park. Where else could he find a more habitablesolitude than Ocean Park in early June? Once previously he had gonethere before the season opened, and he knew. Later on the popular bigseashore resort would seethe with vacationists. They would crowd thehotels, over-flow the board walk, cover the sands, and polka-dot theocean. But in June the sands would be deserted, the board walk untrod, the hotels empty. 

And so it was. The landlord of The Empress welcomed him effusively, notas Decatur Brown, author of _The Insurgent_ and seeker of an ideal girlwith gray eyes, but as plain, every-day Mr. Brown, whom Providence hadsent as a June guest. Decatur was thankful for it. The barren verandaswere grateful in his sight. When he had been installed in a cornersuite, spread out his writing things on a flat-topped table that facedthe sea, filled his ink-well, and lighted his pipe, he seemed to haveescaped from a threatening presence. 

He could breathe freely here, thank goodness, and work. He was justsettling down to it when through the open transom behind him came thesound of rustling skirts and a voice which demanded:

"But how do you suppose he found that we were here? You're certain thatit was Decatur Brown, are you?"

"Oh yes, quite certain. He has changed very little. Besides, there wasthe name on the register. "

Decatur thrilled at the music of that answering voice. There was alittle quaver in it, a faint but fascinating breaking on the low notes, such as he had never heard in any voice save Jane Temple's. 

"Then Mabel must not come down to dinner to-night. She must--" The restwas lost around the corner of a corridor. 

What Mabel must do remained a mystery. Must she go without her dinneraltogether? He hoped not, for evidently his arrival had something to dowith it. Why? Decatur gave it up. Who was Mabel, anyway? The owner ofthe other voice he could guess at. That must be Mrs. Philo Allen, Jane'saunt Judith, the one who had carried her off to Europe and forbiddenthem to write to each other. But Mabel? Oh yes! He had almost forgottenthat elaborately gowned miss who at sixteen had assumed suchyoung-ladyfied airs. Mabel was Jane's young cousin, of course, the oneto whom he used to take expensive bonbons, his intent being topropitiate Aunt Judith. 

So they were guests at The Empress, too--Jane and her aunt and thepampered Mabel? Chiefly, however, there was Jane. The others did notmatter much. Ah, here was a gray-eyed girl that he did not dread tomeet. And she had not forgotten him!

An hour later he was waiting for her in the lower hallway. Luckily shecame down alone, so they had the hall seat to themselves for those firstfew minutes. She was the same charming Jane that he had known of old. There was an added dignity in the way she carried her shapely littlehead, a deeper sweetness in the curve of her thin lips. Perhaps hermanner was a little subdued, too; but, after all those years with Mrs. Philo Allen, why not?

"How nice of you, " she was saying, "to hunt us up and surprise us inthis fashion. Auntie has been expecting you at home for weeks, you know, but when Mabel's rose-cold developed she decided that we must go to theseashore, even though we did die of lonesomeness. And here we findyou--or you find us. The sea air will make Mabel presentable in a day orso, we hope. "

"I'm sure I hope so, too, " he assented, without enthusiasm. Really, hedid not see the necessity of dragging in Mabel. Nor did he understandwhy Mrs. Allen had expected him, or why Jane should assume that he hadhunted them up. Now that she had assumed it, though, he could hardlyexplain that it was an accident. He asked how long they had remainedabroad. 

"Oh, ages! There was an age in France, while Mabel was perfecting heraccent; then there was another age in Italy, where Mabel tookvoice-culture and the old masters; and yet another age in Germany, whileMabel struggled with the theory of music. Our year in Devon was notquite an age; we went there for the good of Mabel's complexion. "

"Indeed! Has she kept those peaches-and-cream checks?"

"Ah, you must wait and see, " and Jane nodded mysteriously. 

"But I--" protested Decatur. 

"Oh, it will be only for a day or so. Rose-colds are so hard on theeyes, you know. In the mean time perhaps you will tell us how youhappened to develop into a famous author. We are immensely proud of you, of course. Aunt Judith goes hardly anywhere without a copy of _TheInsurgent_ in her hand. If the persons she meets have not read it, shescolds them good. And you must hear Mabel render that chapter in whichSunday runs away from the man she loves with the man she doesn't. "

There they were, back to Mabel again. 

"But what about yourself, Jane?" suggested Decatur. 

"About me! Why, I only--Oh, here is Aunt Judith. "

Yes, there was no mistaking her, nor overlooking her. She was just ascolossally commanding as ever, just as imperious. At sight of her, Decatur understood Jane's position clearly. She was still the dependentniece, the obscure satellite of a star of the first magnitude. Verydistinctly had Mrs. Philo Allen once explained to him this dependence ofJane's, incidentally touching on his own unlikely prospects. That hadbeen just before she had swept Jane off to Europe with her. 

All this Aunt Judith now seemed to have forgotten. In her own imperialway she greeted him graciously, inspecting him with critical butfavorable eyes. 

"Really, you do look quite distinguished, " was her verdict, as she tookhis arm in her progress towards her dinner. "I am sure Mabel will sayso, too. "

Whereupon they reverted once more to Mabel. The maid was bathing Mabel'seyes with witch-hazel and trying to persuade her to eat a little hotsoup. Such details about Mabel seemed to be regarded as of firstimportance. By some mysterious reasoning, too, Mrs. Allen appeared toconnect them with Decatur Brown and his presence at Ocean Park. 

"To-morrow night, if all goes well, you shall see her, " she whispered, exultantly, in his ear, as they left the dining-hall. 

Decatur was puzzled. What if he _could_ see Mabel the next night? Orwhat if he could not? He should survive, even if the event wereindefinitely postponed. What he desired just then was that Jane shouldaccompany him on an early-evening tramp down the board walk. 

"Wouldn't it be better to wait until to-morrow evening?" asked Jane. "Perhaps Mabel can go then. "

"The deuce take Mabel!" He half smothered the exclamation, and Janeappeared not to hear, yielding at last to his insistence that they startat once. But it was not the kind of a talk he had hoped to have withJane Temple. The intimate and personal ground of conversation towardswhich he sought to draw her she avoided as carefully as if it had beenstuck with the "No Trespassing" notices. When they returned to thehotel, Decatur felt scarcely better acquainted with her than before hehad found her again. 

Next evening, according to schedule, Mabel appeared. She was anexquisite young woman, there was no doubt about that. She carriedherself with an almost royal air which impressed even the head waiter. Her perfect figure, perfectly encased, was graceful in every long curve. Her Devon-repaired complexion was of dazzling purity, all snowy whiteand sea-shell pink. One could hardly imagine how even so aristocratic amalady as a rose-cold could have dared to redden slightly the tip ofthat classic nose. 

Turning to Decatur with languid interest she murmured:

"Ah, you see I have not forgotten you, although I often do forget faces. You may sit here, if you please, and talk to me. "

It was quite like being received by a sovereign, Decatur imagined. Hedid his best to talk, and talk entertainingly, for no other reason thanthat it was expected of him. At last he said something which struck theright chord. The perfect Mabel smiled approvingly at him, and he noticedfor the first time that her eyes were gray. Suspiciously he glancedacross the table at Jane. Was that a mocking smile on her thinly curvedlips, or was it meant for kindly encouragement?

Little by little during the succeeding two days he pieced out thesituation. It was not a plot exactly, unless you could dignify Mrs. Philo Allen's confident plans by such a name. But, starting with whatbasis Heaven only knew, she had reached the conclusion that when theauthor of _The Insurgent_ had described Sunday Weeks he could have hadin mind but one person, the one gray-eyed girl worthy of suchdistinction, the girl to whom he had shown such devotion but a few yearsbefore--her daughter Mabel. Then she had begun expecting him to appear. And when he had seemingly followed them to the seaside--well, what wouldany one naturally think? Flutteringly she had doubtless put the questionto Jane, who had probably replied as she was expected to reply. 

The peerless Mabel, of course, was the only one not in the secret. Anyway, she would have taken no interest in it. Her amazing egoism wouldhave prevented that. Nothing interested Mabel acutely unless itpertained to some attribute of her own loveliness. 

As for Jane Temple's view of this business, that remained an enigma. Hadshe grown so accustomed to her aunt Judith's estimate of Mabel that shecould accept it? That was hardly possible, for Jane had a keen sense ofhumor. Then why should she help to throw Mabel at his head, or him atMabel's?

Meanwhile he walked at Mabel's side, carrying her wraps, while hermother and Jane trailed judiciously in the rear. He drove out withMabel, Mabel's mother sitting opposite and smiling at him with an air ofcomplacent proprietorship. He stood by the piano and turned the musicwhile Mabel executed sonatas and other things for which he had not theleast appreciation. He listened to solos from _Lucia_, which Mabel sangat Jane's suggestion. Also, Jane brought forth Mabel's sketch-books andthen ostentatiously left them alone with each other. 

There was much meekness in Decatur. When handled just right he waswonderfully complaisant. But after a whole week of Mabel he decided thatthe limit had been reached. Seizing an occasion when Mabel was in thehands of the hairdresser and manicurist, he led her mother to a secludedveranda corner and boldly plunged into an explanation. 

"I have no doubt you thought it a little strange, Mrs. Allen, " he began, "my appearing to follow you down here, but really--"

"There, there, Decatur, it isn't at all necessary. It was all perfectlynatural and entirely proper. In fact, I quite understood. "

"But I'm afraid that you--"

"Oh, but I do comprehend. We old folks are not blind. When it was amatter of those foreign gentlemen, German barons, Italian counts, Austrian princes, and so on, I was extremely particular, perhapsoverparticular. Their titles are so often shoddy. But I know all aboutyou. You come from almost as good New England stock as we do. You aretalented, almost famous. Besides, your attachment is of no suddengrowth. It has stood the test of years. Yes, my dear Decatur, I heartilyapprove of you. However"--here she rested a plump forefinger simperinglyon the first of her two chins, "your fate rests with Mabel, you know. "

Once or twice he had gaspingly tried to stop her, but smilingly she hadwaved him aside. When she ended he was speechless. Could he tell her, after all that, what a precious bore her exquisite Mabel was to him? Ithad been difficult enough when the situation was only a tacit one, butnow that it had been definitely expressed--well, it was proving to be agood deal like those net snares which hunters of circus animals use, themore he struggled to free himself the more he became entangled. 

Abruptly, silently, he took his leave of Mrs. Allen. He feared that ifhe said more she might construe it as a request, that she shouldimmediately lay his proposal before Mabel. With a despairing, hauntedlook he sought the board walk. 

Carpenters were hammering and sawing, painters were busy in the booths, a few old ladies sat about in the sun, here and there a happy youngsterdug in the sand with a tin shovel. Decatur envied them all. They weresane, rational persons, who were not likely to be interviewed andtrapped into saying fool things. Their acts were not liable to bemisconstrued. 

Seeing a pier jutting out, he heedlessly followed it to the very end. And there, on one of the seats built for summer guests, he found Jane. 

"Where is Mabel?" she asked, anxiously. 

"She is having her hair done and her nails polished, I believe, " saidDecatur, gloomily, dropping down beside Jane. "She is being prepared, asnearly as I can gather, to receive a proposal of marriage. "

"Ah! Then you--" She turned to him inquiringly. 

"It appears so now, " he admitted. "I have been talking to her mother. "

"Oh, I see. " She said it quietly, gently, in a tone of submission. 

"But you don't see, " he protested. "No one sees; that is, no one seesthings as they really are. Do you think, Jane, that you could listen tome for a few moments without jumping at conclusions, without assumingthat you know exactly what I am going to say before I have said it?"

She said that she would try. 

"Then I would like to make a confession to you. "

"Wouldn't it be better to--to make it first to Mabel?"

"No, it would not, " he declared, doggedly. "It concerns that interviewin which I was quoted as saying things about gray-eyed girls. "

"Yes, I read it. We all read it. "

"I guessed that much. Well, I said those things, just as I was quoted assaying them, but I did not mean all that I was credited with meaning. Iwant you to believe, Jane, that when I admitted my preference for grayeyes and--and all that, I was thinking of one gray-eyed girl inparticular. Can you believe that?"

"Oh, I did from the very first; that is, I did as soon as Aunt Judith--"

"Never mind about Aunt Judith, " interrupted Decatur, firmly. "We willget to her in time. We are talking now about that interview. You mustadmit, Jane, that there are many gray-eyed girls in the country; I don'tknow just how many, thank Heaven, but there are a lot of them. And mostof them seem not only to have read that interview, but to have made apersonal application of my remarks. Have you any idea what that means tome?"

"Then you think that they are all in--"

"No, no! I don't imagine there's a single one that cares a bone buttonfor me. But each and every one of them thinks that I am in love withher, or willing to be. If she doesn't think so, her friends do. Theyexpect me to propose on sight, simply because of what I have said aboutgray eyes. You doubt that? Let me tell you what occurred just before Ileft town: A person whom I had counted as a friend got together a wholehouseful of gray-eyed girls, and then sent for me to come and make mychoice. That is what drove me from the city. That is why I came to OceanPark in June. "

"But the one particular gray-eyed girl that you mentioned? How was itthat you happened to--"

"It was sheer good fortune, Jane, that I found you here. "

Decatur had slipped a tentative arm along the seat-back. He was leaningtowards Jane, regarding her with melancholy tenderness. 

"That you found me?" she said, wonderingly. "Oh, you mean that it wasfortunate you found _us_ here?"

"No, I don't. I mean you--y-o-u, second person singular. Haven't youguessed by this time who was the particular gray-eyed girl I had inmind?"

"Of course I have; it was Mabel, wasn't it?"

"Mabel! Oh, hang Mabel! Jane, it was you. "

"Me! Why, Decatur Brown!" Either surprise or indignation rang in hertone. He concluded that it must be the latter. 

"Oh, well, " he said, dejectedly, "I had no right to suppose that you'dlike it. It's the truth, though, and after so much misunderstanding I amglad you know it. I want you to know that it was you who inspired SundayWeeks, if any one did. I have never mentioned this before, have notadmitted it, even to myself, until now. But I realize that it is true. We have been a long time apart, but the memory of you has never fadedfor a day, for an hour. So, when I tried to describe the most charminggirl of whom I could think, I was describing you. As I wrote, there wasconstantly before me the vision of your dear gray eyes, and--"

"Decatur! Look at me. Look me straight in the eyes and tell me if theyare gray. "

He looked. As a matter of fact, he had been looking into her eyes forseveral moments. Now there was something so compelling about her tonethat he bent all his faculties to the task. This time he looked not withthat blindness peculiar to those who love, but, for the moment, discerningly, seeingly. And they were not gray eyes at all. They were aclear, brilliant hazel. 

"Why--why!" he gasped out, chokingly. "I--I have always thought of themas gray eyes. "

"If that isn't just like a man!" she exclaimed, shrugging away from him. Her quarter profile revealed those thinly curved lips pursed into a mostdelicious pout. "You acknowledge, don't you, that they're _not_ gray?"she flung at him over her shoulder--an adorable shoulder, Decaturthought. 

"Oh, I admit it, " he groaned. 

"Then--then why don't you go away?" It was just that trembling littlequaver on the low notes which spurred him on to cast the die. 

"Jane, " he whispered, "I don't want to go away, and I don't want you tosend me. It isn't gray eyes that I care for, or ever have cared for. It's been just you, your own dear, charming self. "

"No, it hasn't been. I haven't even a piquant chin. "

"That doesn't matter. What is a piquant chin, anyway?"

"You ought to know; you wrote it. "

"So I did, but I didn't know what it meant. I just knew that it ought tomean something charming, which you are. "

"I'm not. And I am not accomplished. I don't sing, I don't play, I don'tdraw. "

"Thanks be for that! I don't, either. But I think you are the dearestgirl in the world. "

At that she turned to him and smiled a little as only Jane could smile. 

"You told me that once before, a long time ago, you know. "

"And you have not forgotten?"

"No. I--you see--I didn't want to forget. "

Had it been August, or even July, doubtless a great number ofvacationists would have been somewhat shocked at what Decatur did then. But it was early June, you remember, and on the far end of the OceanPark fishing-pier were only these two, with just the dancing blue oceanin front. 

"But, " she said at length, after many other and more important thingshad been said between them, "what will Aunt Judith say?"

"I suppose she'll think me a lucky dog--and slightly color-blind, "chuckled Decatur, joyously. "But come, " he went on, helping her to riseand retaining both her hands, swaying them back and forth clasped inhis, as children do in the game of London Bridge, --"come, " he repeated, impulsively, "while my courage is high let us go and break the news toyour aunt Judith. "

There was, however, no need. Looming ponderously in the middle distanceof the pier's vista, a lorgnette held to her eyes, and a frozen look ofhorror on her ample features, was Aunt Judith herself. 

A STIFF CONDITION

BY HERMAN WHITAKER

An Ontario sun shed a pleasant warmth into the clearing where ElderHector McCakeron sat smoking. His gratified consciousness was pleasantlytitillated by sights and sounds of worldly comfort. From the sty behindthe house came fat gruntings; in the barn-yard hens were shrillyannouncing that eggs would be served with the bacon; moreover, Janet wasvigorously agitating a hoe among the potatoes to his left, while hiswife performed similarly in the cabbage-garden. And what better could aman wish than to see his women profitably employed?

It was a pause in Janet's labors that gave the elder first warning of anintruder on his peace. A man was coming across the clearing--a shortfellow, thick-set and bow-legged in figure, slow and heavy of face. Theelder observed him with stony eyes. 

"It's the Englisher, " he muttered. "What'll he be wanting wi' me?"

His accent was hostile as his glance. Since, thirty years before, a waveof red-haired Scots inundated western Ontario, no man of Saxon birth hadsettled in Zorra, the elder's township. That in peculiar had been heldsealed as a heritage to the Scot, and when Joshua Timmins bought outSandy Cruikshanks the township boiled and burned throughout its lengthand breadth. 

Not that it had expected to suffer the contamination. It was simplyastounded at the man's impudence. "We'll soon drum him oot!" ElderMcCakeron snorted, when he heard of the invasion; to which, on learningthat Timmins was also guilty of Methodism, he added, "Wait till themeenister lays claws on the beast. "

It was confidently expected that he would be made into a notableexample, a warning to all intruders from beyond the pale; and the firstSunday after his arrival a full congregation turned out to see theminister do the trick. Interest was heightened by the presence of thevictim, who, lacking a chapel of his own faith, attended kirk. Hisentrance caused a sensation. Forgetting its Sabbath manners, thecongregation turned bodily and stared till recalled to its duty by theminister's cough. Then it shifted its gaze to him. What thunders werebrewing behind that confident front? What lightnings lurked in thedepths of those steel-gray eyes? Breathlessly Zorra had waited for theanathema which should wither the hardy intruder and drive him as chafffrom a burning wind. 

But it waited in vain. By the most liberal interpretation no phrase ofhis could be construed as a reflection on the stranger. Worse! Afterkirk-letting the minister hailed Timmins in the door, shook hands in thescandalized face of the congregation, and hoped that he might see himregularly at service. 

Scandalous? It was irreligious! But if disappointed in its minister, Zorra had no intention of neglecting its own duty in the premises: theEnglisher was not to be let off while memories of Bruce and Bannockburnlived in Scottish hearts. Which way he turned that day and in the monthsthat followed he met dour faces. Excepting Cap'en Donald McKay, aretired mariner, whose native granite had been somewhat disintegrated byexposure to other climates, no man gave him a word;--this, of course, without counting Neil McNab, who called on Timmins three times a week tooffer half-price for the farm. 

With one exception, too, the women looked askance upon him, wondering, doubtless, how he dared to oppose their men-folks' wishes. Calling thecows of evenings, Janet McCakeron sometimes came on Timmins, whose farmcornered on her father's, and thus a nodding acquaintance arose betweenthem. That she should have so demeaned herself is a matter of reproachwith many, but the fair-minded who have sufficiently weighed the meritsof her case are slower with their blames. For though Zorra can boastmaidens who have hung in the wind till fifty and still, as thevernacular has it, "married on a man, " a girl was counted well on theway to the shelf at forty-five. Janet, be it remembered, lacked but twoyears of the fatal age. Already chits of thirty-five or seven weregenerously alluding to her as the prop of her father's age; so smallwonder if she simpered instead of passing with a nifty air when Timminsspoke one evening. 

His remark was simple in tenor--in effect that her bell-cow was "a weecat-ham'ed"; but Janet scented its underlying tenderness as a hungrytraveller noses a dinner on a wind, and after that drove her cows roundby the corner which was conveniently veiled by heavy maple-bush. Indeed, it was to the friendly shadows which shrouded it, day or dark, thatCap'en McKay--a man wise in affairs of the heart by reason of muchsailing in and out of foreign ports--afterward attributed the recordwhich Timmins set Zorra in courting. 

"He couldna see her bones, nor her his bow-legs, " the mariner phrasedit. But be this as it may, whether or no each made love to a voice, Cupid ran a swift course with them, steeplechasing over obstacles thatwould have taken years for a Zorra lad to plod around. In less than sixmonths they passed from a bare goodnight to the exchange of soulthoughts on butter-making, the raising of calves, fattening of swine, and methods of feeding swedes that they might not taint cow's milk, andso had progressed by such tender paths through gentle dusks to the pointwhere Timmins was ready to declare himself in the light of this presentmorning. 

Assured by one glance that Timmins's courage still hung at the point towhich she had screwed it the preceding evening, Janet drooped again toher work. 

To his remark that the potatoes were looking fine, however, the eldermade no response--unless a gout of tobacco smoke could be so counted. With eyes screwed up and mouth drawn down, he gazed off into space--aHighland sphinx, a Gaelic Rhadamanthus. 

His manner, however, made no impression on Timmins's stolidity. Thelatter's eye followed the elder's in its peregrinations till it came torest, when, without further preliminaries, he began to unfold his suit, which in matter and essence was such as are usually put forward by thosewhom love has blinded. 

It was really an able plea, lacking perhaps those subtilities of detailwith which a Zorra man would have trimmed it, but good enough for a manwho labored under the disadvantages which accrue to birth south of theTweed and Tyne. But it did not stir the elder's sphinxlike calm. "Ha' yedone?" he inquired, without removing his gaze from the clouds; and whenTimmins assented, he delivered judgment in a cloud of tobacco smoke. "Weel--ye canna ha' her. " After which he resumed his pipe and smokedplacidly, wearing the air of one who has settled a difficult questionforever. 

But if stolid, Timmins had his fair share of a certain slow pugnacity. 

"Why?" he demanded. 

The elder smoked on. 

"Why?"

"Weel, "--the elder spoke slowly to the clouds, --"I'm no obliged to quotechapter an' verse, but for the sake of argyment--forbye should Janetmarry on an Englisher when there's good Scotchmen running loose?"

This was a "poser. " Born to a full realization of the vast gulf whichprovidence has fixed between the Highlands and the rest of the world, Janet recognized it as such. Pausing, she leaned on her hoe, anxiouslywaiting, while Timmins chewed a straw and the cud of reflection. 

"Yes, " he slowly answered, "they've been runnin' from 'er this twentyyear. " Nodding confirmation to the brilliant rejoinder, Janet fell againto work. 

But the elder was in no wise discomposed. Withdrawing one eye from theclouds, he turned it approvingly upon her hoe practice. "She's youngyet, " he said, "an' a lass o' her pairts wull no go til the shelf. "

"Call three-an'-forty young?"

"Christy McDonald, " the elder sententiously replied, "marrit on NeilMcNab at fifty. Janet's labor's no going to waste. An' if you were theon'y man i' Zorra, it wad behoove me to conseeder the lassie's prospectsi' the next world. Ye're a Methodist. "

"Meanin', " said Timmins, when his mind had grappled with the charge, "asthere's no Methodists there?"

Questions of delicacy and certain theological difficulties involvedcalled for reflection, and the elder smoked a full minute on thequestion before be replied: "No, I wadna go so far as that. It stan's toreason as there's some of 'em there; on'y--I'm no so sure o' theirwhereaboots. "

Timmins thoughtfully scratched his head ere he came back to the charge. "Meanin' as there's none in 'eaven?"

Again the elder blew a reflective cloud over the merits of the question. "Weel, " he said, delivering himself with slow caution, "if so--it's noon record. "

Again Janet looked up, with defeat perching amid her freckles. "He's gotye this time, " her face said, and the elder's expression of placidsatisfaction affirmed the same opinion. But Timmins rose to a suddeninspiration. 

"In 'eaven, " he answered, "there's neither marriage nor givin' inmarriage. "

"Pish, mon!" the elder snorted. "It's no a question o' marrying; it's aquestion o' getting theer, an' Janet's no going to do it wi' a Methodisthanging til her skirts. "

Silence fell in the clearing--silence that was broken only by the crashand tinkle of Janet's hoe as she buried Timmins under the clod. A Scotchdaughter, she would bide by her father's word. Unaware of his funeral, Timmins himself stood scratching his poll. 

"So you'll not give her to me?" he futilely repeated. 

For the first time the elder looked toward him. "Mon, canna ye see theimpossibility o' it? No, ye canna ha' her till--till"--he cast about forthe limit of inconceivability--"till ye're an elder i' the PresbyterianKirk. " He almost cracked a laugh at Timmins's sudden brightening. He hadevolved the condition to drive home and clinch the ridiculousimpossibility of the other's suit, and here he was, the doddered fule, taking hope! It was difficult to comprehend the workings of such a mind, and though the elder smoked upon it for half an hour after Timmins leftthe clearing, he failed of realization. 

"Yon's a gay fule, " he said to Janet, when she answered his call tohitch the log farther into the cabin. "He was wanting to marry on you. "

"Ay?" she indifferently returned, --adding, without change of feature, "There's no lack o' fules round here. "

Meanwhile Timmins was making his way through the woods to his own place. As he walked along, the brightness gradually faded from his face, and bythe time he reached the trysting-corner his mood was more in harmonywith his case. His face would have graced a funeral. 

Now Cap'en McKay's farm lay cheek by jowl with the elder's, and as themariner happened to be fixing his fence at the corner, he notedTimmins's signals of distress. "Man!" he greeted, "ye're lookinghipped. " Then, alluding to a heifer of Timmins's which had _bloated_ onmarsh-grass the day before, he added, "The beastie didna die?" Assuredthat it was only a wife that Timmins lacked, he sighed relief. "Ah, weel, that's no so bad; they come cheaper. But tell us o't"

"Hecks, lad!" he commented, on Timmins's dole, "I'd advise ye to driveyour pigs til anither market. "

"Were?" Timmins asked--"w'ere'll I find one?"

"That's so. " The mariner thoughtfully shaved his jaw with a redforefinger, while his comprehensive glance took in the other's bow-legs. "There isna anither lass i' Zorra that wad touch ye with a ten-footpole. "

Reddening, Timmins breathed hard, but the mariner met his stare with theserene gaze of one who deals in undiluted truth; so Timmins gulped andwent on: "Say! I 'ear that you're mighty clever in these 'ere affairs. Can't you 'elp a feller out?"

The cap'en modestly bowed to reputation, admitting that he had assisted"a sight of couples over the broomstick, " adding, however, that theknack had its drawbacks. There were many door-stones in Zorra that hedared not cross. And he wagged his head over Timmins's case, wisely, asa lawyer ponders over the acceptance of a hopeless brief. Finally hesuggested that if Timmins was "no stuck on his Methodisticals, " he mightjoin the kirk. 

"You think that would 'elp?"

The cap'en thought that, but he was not prepared to endorse Timmins'sfollowing generalization that it didn't much matter what name a manworshipped under. It penetrated down through the aforesaid rubble ofdisintegration and touched native granite. Stiffly enough he returnedthat Presbyterianism was good enough for him, but it rested on Timminsto follow the dictates of his own conscience. 

Now when bathed in love's elixir conscience becomes very pliable indeed, and as the promptings of Timmins's inner self were all toward Janet, hisouter man was not long in making up his mind. But though, following thecap'en's advice, he joined himself to the elect of Zorra, his change offaith brought him only a change of name. 

Elder McCakeron officiated at the "christening" which took place in thecrowded market the day after Timmins's name had been spread on the kirkregister. "An' how is the apoos-tate the morning?" the elder inquired, meeting Timmins. And the name stuck, and he was no more known as the"Englisher. "

"Any letters for the Apoos-tate?" The postmaster would mouth thequestion, repeating it after Timmins when he called for his mail. Smallboys yelled the obnoxious title as he passed the log school on thecorner; wee girls gazed after him, fascinated, as upon one destined fora headlong plunge into the lake of fire and brimstone. Summing thesituation at the close of his second month's fellowship in the kirk, Timmins confessed to himself that it had brought him only a fullrealization of the "stiffness" of Elder McCakeron's "condition. " He wasno nearer to Janet, and never would have been but for the sudden deceaseof Elder Tammas Duncan. 

In view of what followed, many hold that Elder Tammas made a vitalmistake in dying, while a few, less charitable, maintain that hisdecease was positively sinful. 

But if Elder Tammas be not held altogether blameless in the premises, what must be said of Saunders McClellan, who loaded himself withcorn-juice and thereby sold himself to the fates? Saunders was abachelor of fifty and a misogynist by repute. Twenty years back he hadpaid a compliment to Jean Ross, who afterward married on Rab Murray. Itwas not a flowery effort; simply to the effect that he, Saunders, wouldrather sit by her, Jean, than sup oatmeal brose. But though he did notsoar into the realms of metaphor, the compliment seems to have been astrain on Saunders's intellect, to have sapped his being of tenderness;for after paying it he reached for his hat and fled, and never againplaced himself in such jeopardy. 

"Man!" he would exclaim, when, at threshing or logging bees, hairbreadthescapes from matrimony cropped up in the conversation, --"man! but I wasnear done for yon time!" And yet, all told, Saunders's dry bachelorhoodseems to have been caused by an interruption in the flow rather than adrying up of his wells of feeling, as was proven by his conduct cominghome from market the evening he overloaded with "corn-juice. "

For as he drove by Elder McCakeron's milk-yard, which lay within easyhailing distance of the gravel road, Saunders bellowed to Janet: "Hoots, there! Come awa, my bonnie bride! Come awa to the meenister!" In frontof her mother and Sib Sanderson, the cattle-buyer--who was pricing a fatcow, --Saunders thus committed himself, then drove on, chuckling over hisown daring. 

"Ye're a deevil! man, ye're a deevil!" he told himself, giving his hat arakish cock. "Ye're a deevil wi' the weemen, a sair deceever. "

He did feel that way--just then. But when, next morning, memorydisentangled itself from a splitting headache, Saunders's red hairbristled at the thought of his indiscretion. It was terrible! He, Saunders, the despair of the girls for thirty years, had fallen into apit of his own digging! He could but hope it a nightmare; but as doubtwas more horrible than certainty, he dressed and walked down the line toMcCakeron's. 

Once again he found Janet at the milking; or rather, she had just turnedthe cows into the pasture, and as she waited for him by the bars, Saunders thought he had never seen her at worse advantage. The sharpmorning air had blued her nose, and he was dimly conscious that thecolor did not suit her freckles. 

"Why, no!" she said, answering his question as to whether or no he hadnot acted a bit foolish the night before. "You just speired me to marryon you. Said I'd been in your eye this thirty years. "

In a sense this was true. He had cleared from her path like a boltingrabbit, but gallantry forbade that manifest explanation. "'Twas thewhuskey talking, " he pleaded. "Ye'll no hold me til a drunken promise?"

But he saw, even before she spoke, that she would. 

"'Deed but I will!" she exclaimed, tossing her head. "An' them says yewere drunken will ha' to deal wi' me. Ye were sober as a sermon. "

Though disheartened, Saunders tried another tack. "Janet, " he said, solemnly, "I dinna think as a well-brought lass like you wad care tomarry on a man like me. I'm terrible i' the drink. I might beat ye. "

Janet complacently surveyed an arm that was thick as a club from heavychoring. "I'll tak chances o' that. "

Saunders's heart sank into his boots; but, wiping the sweat from hisbrow, he made one last desperate effort: "But ye're promised tothe--the--Apoos-tate. "

"I am no. Father broke that off. "

Saunders shot his last bolt. "I believe I'm fickle, Janet. There'll be asair heart for the lass that marries me. I wouldna wonder if I jiltedye. "

"Then, " she calmly replied, "I'll haul ye into the justice coort forbreach o' promise. "

With this terrible ultimatum dinging in his ears Saunders fled. Zorrajuries were notoriously tender with the woman in the case, and he sawhimself stripped of his worldly goods or tied to the apron of thehomeliest girl in Zorra. One single ray illumined the dark prospect. That evening be called on Timmins, whom he much astonished by the extentand quality of his advice and encouragement. He even went so far as toinvite the Englisher to his own cabin, thereby greatly scandalizing hishousekeeper--a maiden sister of fifty-two, who had forestalled fate bydeclaring for the shelf at forty-nine. 

"What'll he be doing here?" the maiden demanded, indicating Timmins withaccusatory finger on the occasion of his first visit. But his meeknessand the propitiatory manner in which he sat on the very edge of hischair, hat gripped between his knees, mollified her so much that shepresently produced a bowl of red-cheeked apples for his refreshment. 

But her thawing did not save Saunders after the guest was gone. "There'salways a fule in every family, " she cried, when he had explained hispredicament, "an' you drained the pitcher. "

"But you'll talk Janet to him, " Saunders urged, "an' him to her? She'sthat hard put to it for a man that wi' a bit steering she'll consent toan eelopement. "

But, bridling, Jeannie tossed a high head. "'Deed, then, an' I'll no doither folk's love-making. "

"Then, " Saunders groaned, "I'll ha' the pair of ye in this hoose. "

This uncomfortable truth gave Jeannie pause. The position of maidensister carried with it more chores than easements, and Jeannie was notminded to relinquish her present powers. For a while she seriouslystudied the stove, then her face cleared; she started as one whosuddenly sees her clear path, and giving Saunders a queer look, shesaid: "Ah, weel, you're my brother, after all. I'll do my best wi' both. Tell the Englisher as I'll be pleased to see him any time in theevening. "

Matters were at this stage when Elder McCakeron's cows committed theirdire trespass on Neil McNab's turnips. 

Who would imagine that such unlike events as Saunders McClellan's lapsefrom sobriety, the death of Elder Duncan, and the trespass ofMcCakeron's cows could have any bearing upon one another? Yet from theirconcurrence was born the most astounding hap in the Zorra chronicles. Even if Elder McCakeron had paid Neil's bill of damage instead ofremarking that he "didna see as the turnips had hurt his cows, " thething would have addled in the egg; and his recalcitrancy, so necessaryto the hatching, has caused many a wise pow to shake over theinscrutability of Providence. But the elder did not pay, and in revengeNeil placed Peter Dunlop, the elder's ancient enemy, in nomination forTammas Duncan's eldership. 

It was Saunders McClellan who carried the news to the McCakeronhomestead. According to her promise, Jeannie had visited early and latewith Janet; and dropping in one evening to check up her report ofprogress, Saunders found the elder perched on a stump. 

Saunders discharged him of his news, which dissipated the elder's calmas thunder shatters silence. 

"What?" he roared. "Yon scunner? Imph! I'd as lief . . . As lief . . . Elect"--_the devil_ quivered back of his teeth, but as that savored ofirreverence, he substituted "the Apoostate!"

Right here a devil entered in unto Saunders McClellan--the mocking devilwhose mission it was to abase Zorra to the dust. But it did not make itspresence known until, next day, Saunders carried the news of ElderMcCakeron's retaliation to Cap'en McKay's pig-killing. 

"He's going, " Saunders informed the cap'en and Neil McNab betweenpigs, --"he's going to run Sandy 'Twenty-One' against your candidate. "

Now between Neil and Sandy lay a feud which had its beginnings what timethe latter _doctored_ a spavined mare and sold her for a price to theformer's cousin Rab. 

"Yon scunner?" Neil exclaimed, using the very form of the elder's words, "yon scunner? I'd as lief . . . As lief . . . Elect . . . "

". . . The Apoos-tate, " said the Devil, though Neil thought that Saunderswas talking. 

"Ay, the Apoos-tate, " he agreed. 

"It wad be a fine joke, " the Devil went on by the mouth of Saunders, "torun the Apoos-tate agin' his candidate. McCakeron canna thole the man. "

"But what if he was elected?" the mariner objected. 

The Devil was charged with glib argument. "We couldna very weel. It's tobe a three-cornered fight, an' Robert Duncan, brother to Tammas, has itsure. "

"'Twad be a good one on McCakeron, " Neil mused. "To talk up Dunlop, whodoesna care a cent for the eldership, an' then spring the Apoos-tate onhim. "

"'Twould be bitter on 'Twenty-One, '" the cap'en added. He had beendiddled by Sandy on a deal of seed-wheat. 

"It wad hit the pair of 'em, " McNab chuckled, and with that word theDevil conquered. 

So far, as aforesaid, Saunders had been unconscious of the Devil, butgoing home the latter revealed himself in a heart-to-heart talk. "Ye'reno pretty to look at, " Saunders said. "I'm minded to throw ye oot!"

The Devil chuckled. "Janet's so bonny. Fancy her on the pillow beside, ye--scraggy--bones--freckles. Hoots, man! a nightmare!"

Shuddering, Saunders reconsidered proceedings of ejectment. "But thething is no posseeble?"

"You know your men, " the Devil answered. "Close in the mouth as they arein the fist. McCakeron will never get wind o' the business till theyspring it on him in meeting. "

"That is so, " Saunders acknowledged. "'Tis surely so-a. "

"Then why, " the Devil urged, --"then why not rig the same game on him?"

"Bosh! He wouldna think o't. "

"Loving Dunlop as himself?" The Devil was apt at paraphrasing Scripture. "Imph!"

"It _would_ let me out?" Saunders mused. 

"Ye can but fail, " argued the Devil. "Try it. "

"I wull. "

"This very night!" It is a wonder that the sparks did not fly, the Devilstruck so hard on the hot iron. "To-night! Ye ken the election comes offnext week. "

"To-night, " Saunders agreed. 

Throughout that week the din of contending factions resounded beneathbrazen harvest skies; for if there was a wink behind the clamor of anyfaction, it made no difference in the volume of its noise. Wherever twomen foregathered, there the spirit of strife was in their midst; theburr of hot Scot's speech travelled like the murmur of robbed bees alongthe Side Lines, up the Concession roads, and even raised an echo in thehallowed seclusion of the minister's study. And harking back to certaineldership elections in which the breaking of heads had taken the placeof "anointing with oil, " Elder McIntosh quietly evolved a plan wherebythe turmoil should be left outside the kirk on election night. 

But while it lasted no voice rang louder than that of SaundersMcClellan's devil. Not a bit particular in choice of candidates, heroared against Dunlop, Duncan, or "Twenty-One" according to the companywhich Saunders kept. "Ye havna the ghaist of a show!" he assured Cap'enMcKay, chief of the Dunlopers. "McCakeron drew three mair to him lastnight. " While to the elder he exclaimed the same day: "Yon crazysailorman's got all the Duncanites o' the run. He has ye spanked, Elder. Scunner the deil!" So the Devil blew, hot and cold, with Saunders'smouth, until the very night before the election. 

The morning of the election the sun heaved up on a brassy sky. It wasintensely hot through the day, but towards evening gray clouds scuddedout of the east, veiling the sun with their twisting masses; at twilightheavy rain-blots were splashing the dust. At eight o'clock, meeting-time, rain flew in glistening sheets against the kirk windowsand forced its way under the floor. There was but a scantattendance--twoscore men, perhaps, and half a dozen women, who sat, indecent Scotch fashion, apart from the men--that is, apart from all butJoshua Timmins. Not having been raised in the decencies as observed inZorra, he had drifted over to the woman's side and sat with JanetMcCakeron and Jean McClellan, one on either side. 

But if few in number, the gathering was decidedly formidable inappearance. As the rain had weeded out the feeble, infirm, andpacifically inclined, it was distinctly belligerent in character. Grim, dour, silent, it waited for the beginning of hostilities. 

Nor did the service of praise which preceded the election induce amilder spirit. When the precentor led off, "Howl, ye Sinners, Howl! Letthe Heathen Rage and Cry!" each man's look told that he knew well whomthe psalmist was hitting at; and when the minister invoked the "blind, stubborn, and stony-hearted" to "depart from the midst, " one-half of hishearers looked their astonishment that the other half did notimmediately step out in the rain. A heavy inspiration, a hard sigh, toldthat all were bracing for battle when the minister stepped down from thepulpit, and noting it, he congratulated himself on his precautionsagainst disturbance. 

"For greater convenience in voting, " he said, reaching paper slips and abox of pencils from behind the communion rail, "we will depart from theoral method and elect by written ballot"

He had expected a protest against such a radical departure fromancestral precedent, but in some mysterious way the innovation seemed tojibe with the people's inclination. 

"Saunders McClellan, " the minister went on, "will distribute and collectballoting-papers on the other aisle. "

"Give it to him, Cap'en!" Saunders whispered, as he handed him a slip. "He's glowering at ye. "

The elder was indeed surveying the mariner, McNab, and Dunlop with aglance of comprehensive hostility over the top of his ballot. "See whatI'm aboot!" his look said, as he folded the paper and tossed it intoSaunders's hat. 

"The auld deevil!" McNab whispered, as the minister unfolded the firstballot. "He'll soon slacken his gills. "

"That'll be one of oor ballots, " the cap'en hoarsely confided. 

The minister was vigorously rubbing his glasses for a second perusal ofthe ballot, but when the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth were added tothe first, his face became a study in astonishment. And presently hissurprise was reflected by the congregation. For whereas three candidateswere in nomination, the ballots were forming but two piles. 

Whispers ran through the kirk; the cap'en nudged McNab. 

"McCakeron must ha' swung all the Duncanites?"

"Ah, " Neil muttered. "An' that wad account for the stiff look o' thereptile. See the glare o't. "

They would have stiffened in astonishment could they have translated the"glare. " "Got the Duncanites, did ye?" the elder was thinking. "Bide awee, bide a wee! He laughs best that laughs last. "

Saunders McClellan and his Devil alone sensed the inwardness of thosetwo piles, and they held modest communion over it in the back of thekirk. "You may be ugly, but ye've served me well, " Saunders began. 

The Devil answered with extreme politeness: "You are welcome to all yeget through me. If no honored, ye are at least aboot to become famous inyour ain country. "

"Infamous, I doobt, ye mean, " Saunders corrected. Then, glancinguneasily toward the door, he added, "I think as we'd better be leaving. "

"Pish!" the Devil snorted. "They are undone by their ain malignancy. Seeit oot. "

"That's so, " Saunders agreed. "That is surely so-a. Hist! Themeenister's risen. Man, but he's tickled to death over the result. Hisface is fair shining. "

The minister did indeed look pleased. Stepping down to the floor that hemight be closer to these his people, he beamed benevolently upon themwhile he made a little speech. "People of Scottish birth, " he said, closing, "are often accused of being hard and uncharitable to thestranger in their gates, but this can never be said of you who haveextended the highest honor in your gift to a stranger; who have electedBrother Joshua Timmins elder in your kirk by a two-thirds majority. "

The benediction dissolved the paralysis which held all but SaundersMcClellan; but stupefaction remained. Astounding crises are generallyattended with little fuss, from the inability of the human intellect tograsp their enormous significance. As John "Death" McKay afterward putit, "Man, 'twas so extraordin'ry as to seem ordin'ry. " Of course neitherDunlopers nor "Twenty-One's" were in a position to challenge theelection, and if the Duncanites growled as they pawed over the ballots, their grumbling was presently silenced by a greater astonishment. 

For out of such evenings history is made. While the minister had heldforth on the rights and duties of eldership, Saunders McClellan's gazehad wandered over to Margaret McDonald--a healthy, red-cheeked girl--andhe had done a little moralizing on his own account. In the presence ofsuch an enterprising spinsterhood, bachelorhood had become anexceedingly hazardous existence, and if a man must marry, be might asweel ha' something young an' fresh! Margaret, too, was reputedindustrious as pretty! Of Janet's decision, Saunders had no doubts. Between himself and Jeannie, and Timmins--meek, mild, andunencumbered--there could be no choice. Still there was nothing likecertainty; 'twas always best to be off wi' the old, an' so forth!

Rising, he headed for Janet, who, with her father, Jeannie, Timmins, andthe minister, stood talking at the vestry door. As he made his wayforward, he reaped a portion of the Devil's promised fame. As they filedsheepishly down the aisle, the Dunlopers gave him the cold shoulder, andwhen he joined the group, Elder McCakeron returned a stony stare to hisgreeting. 

"But ye needna mind that, " the Devil encouraged. "He daurna tell, forhis own share i' the business. "

So Saunders brazened it out. "Ye ha' my congratulations, Mr. McCakeron. I hear you're to get a son-in-law oot o' this?"

If Elder McCakeron had given Saunders the tempter the glare which he nowbestowed on Saunders the successfully wicked, he had not been in suchlamentable case. 

"Why, what is this?" the minister exclaimed. "Cause for furthercongratulation, Brother Timmins?"

Saunders now shone as Cupid's assistant. "He was to ha' Janet oncondeetion that he made the eldership, " he fulsomely explained. 

The minister's glance questioned the elder. 

"Well, " he growled, "I'm no going back on my word. "

Saunders glowed all over, and in exuberance of spirit actually winked atMargaret McDonald across the kirk. Man, but she was pretty!

"It's to your credit, Mr. McCakeron, that you should hold til apromise, " Jeannie was saying. "But ye'll no be held. A man may changehis mind, and since you refused Joshua, he's decided to marry on me. "

Saunders blenched. He half turned to flee, but Janet's strong fingersclosed on his sleeve; and as her lips moved to claim him before ministerand meeting, he thought that he heard the Devil chuckling, a great wayoff. 

IN THE INTERESTS OF CHRISTOPHER

BY MAY HARRIS

Mrs. Manstey's big country-house was temporarily empty of the guests shehad gathered for a week-end in June when the two Eversley girls reachedit, Saturday at noon. Their hostess met them at the door when thecarriage wheels crunched on the gravelled curve of the drive before thehouse--a charming gray-haired woman of sixty, with a youthful face and adelicate girlish color. 

"I've sent everybody away to explore--to ravage the country, " she gaylyexplained the emptiness of the large hall, where the grouped chairsseemed recently vacated and pleasantly suggestive of suspendedtête-à-tête. "I've had Rose before, " Mrs. Manstey pursued, taking themup the stairs to their rooms, "but not _you!_" She gave Edith's shoulderan affectionate little pat. She thought the younger girl extremelybeautiful--which she was, with a vivid, piquant face and charming eyes. 

"I've had my day, " Rose Eversley acknowledged, with her usual air ofjesting gravity, that, almost ironic, made one always a little unsure ofher. "Dear Mrs. Manstey, you perfectly see--don't you?--that Edith ispapa's image, and--"

"And he was my old sweetheart!" Mrs. Manstey completed, with humorousappreciation of her own repetition of an old story. 

"Was he, really?" Edith wondered. "Mamma says you were _her_ friend. "

Mrs. Manstey laughed. "Couldn't I have been--both?" she gayly put it. "Friends are better than sweethearts--they last longer. Though of courseyou won't agree, at your age, to such heresy. "

"Sweethearts?" the girl pondered as she lifted her hands to take off herhat. "I--don't know. It's such a pretty word, but it doesn't mean muchthese days--there aren't any!" She shrugged her shoulders with apetulant pessimism her youth made amusing. "Papa was the last of thekind--he's a _love!_--and you let mamma have him!"

"I didn't 'let. '" Mrs. Manstey enjoyed it. "When he met your mother heforgot all about me. Think of it! I haven't seen either him or yourmother in years, years, years!"

"_My_ years!" Edith said. "I was a baby, mamma says, when she saw youlast. "

"So you were. "

A servant knocked, with a note for Mrs. Manstey. As she took it andturned to leave the room, her smile, caressingly including Rose, wentpast her and lingered a thought longer--as people's smiles had a way ofdoing--with Edith. 

"I know you're tired, " she added to her smile. "Five hours of train--Getinto something cool and rest. Luncheon isn't until two. "

She disappeared, and Rose looked at her sister, who, with her hat in herhand, was going into her room. 

"Well--?" Rose lifted her voice in its faint drawl of interrogation. 

Edith looked at her absently. "I don't know, " she said, drawing herstraight brows into a puzzled frown. "I'm as far away as ever--I'm soperplexed. "

"Well--you'll _have_ to decide, you know. "

Edith shook her head impatiently and went into her room, closing thedoor. She hurried out of her dusty travelling things into coolfreshness, and, settled in the most comfortable chair, gave herself upto an apparently endless fit of musing. She was so physically contentthat her mind refused to respond with any vigorous effort; to think atall was a crumpled rose-leaf. 

From the lower hall the clock chimed one with musical vibrations. Edithleaned forward with her chin on her hand, driving her thoughts into adefinite path. The curtains stirred in a breeze from the out-of-doorswhose domain swept with country greenness and adventitious care awayfrom the window under the high brilliance of the sun. 

Close to the window a writing-table, with blotter, pens, and ink, made afocal-point for her gaze. At first a mere detail in her line of vision, it attained by degrees, it seemed, a definite relevancy to her train ofthought. She looked in her portmanteau for her desk, and getting outsome note-paper, went to the table and began to write a letter. 

What she had to say seemed difficult to decide. She wrote a line, staredout of the window with fixity, and then wrote again--a flurry of quick, decisive strokes as if at determinate pressure. But a sigh struck acrossher mood, and almost against her will the puzzled crinkle returned toher brow. The curtain blew against her face, disarranging her hair, andas she lifted her hand to put back a straggling lock, the wind tossedthe sheet of the letter she was writing out of the window. Her eyes, asshe sprang up, followed its flight, but it whirled around the corner ofthe house and was lost to her desperate gaze. 

Négligé, even of the most-becoming description, was not to be thought ofin pursuing the loss, for the silence of the house had stirred to thesound of gay voices, the movement of feet. 

Rose, also in négligé, opened the door between them and found her madlytearing off her pale-blue kimono. "What's the matter?" She paused, staring. 

"Heavens! My shoes--please!--there by the table. " She kicked off herridiculous blue slippers and pulled on the small colonials her sister inopen wonder handed her. "If you had only been dressed, " she almostwailed, "you might have been able to get it. "

"Get what?"

"My letter!" Tragic, in spite of a mouthful of pins--which is a woman'sundoubted preference, no matter how many befrilled pincushions entreat adivision of spoils, --she turned her face with its import of suddenthings to her sister in explanation. "I was writing a letter and it blewout of the window!"

"Well, if it did--"

"But, don't you see?--I was writing to _Christopher!_ I had been thinkingand thinking, and at last I screwed up my courage to answer his letter. I had all but signed my name!"

Rose Eversley began to laugh helplessly; heartlessly, her sisterthought. 

"If you hadn't signed it--" she at last comforted her sister's indignantface that was reflected from the mirror, where she stood as she fastenedthe white stock at her throat and snapped the clasp of her belt. 

"Signed it!" She was almost in tears. "What difference will that makewhen I claim the letter? I _must_ find it! But of course some one whoknows me will be sure to find it. And _that_ letter, of all letters!"

"If I were you, Edith, " Rose advised, calmly, "I shouldn't--"

"Well?"--with her hand on the door-knob. 

"--try to find it. It will be impossible to trace it to you, in thatcase. "

"But _don't_ you see--"

"Wait!" Rose caught and pulled her back. "How _could_ they know? You'llget in much deeper. What had you written?"

"I said, 'Dear Christopher'--"

Rose laughed. "I'm glad you didn't say 'Dear Mr. Brander. ' In that caseyou'd have given _him_ away. But 'Christopher' is such an unusual name, they might--Sherlock Holmes could trace him by it alone. "

"You _are_ a Job's comforter--a perfect Eliphaz the Temanite! Oh, oh!"Her soft crescendo was again tragic. 

"In effect you said: 'Dear Christopher, as you have so often entreated, I have at last decided to be thine. The tinkle of thy shekels, now thatI am so nearly shekelless myself, has done its fatal worst. I amthine--'"

"Oh, let me go!" Edith cried, in a fury close to tears. "You haven't anyfeeling. You are not going to sacrifice _your_self!"

"To a good-looking young man who loves me exceedingly, and to somethingover a million? No, I am not!" Rose said, dryly. 

"Oh, it's dreadful! Perfectly!" Edith cried, and on her indecision Rosehung another bit of wisdom:

"Why don't you go down in a leisurely way and investigate? You know thedirection it blew away; follow it. If you meet any one, be admiring thescenery!"

Again Edith's look deserved the foot-lights, but Rose shrugged hershoulders and withdrew her detaining hand. Edith caught up her parasoland ran down the stairs. The big hall was empty. From a room on theright came a click of billiard-balls. 

"Perhaps they are all in the house!" she thought, and drew a smallbreath of relief. 

On the door-step she paused, with her parasol open, and considered. Thehouse faced the west; her room was to the south, and the letter haddisappeared to the east. She chose her line of advance carefullycareless. 

The lawn on the eastern side of the house sloped to an artificial pond, and near it a vine-covered summer-house made a dim retreat from the Junesun. Look as she would, though, no faintest glimpse of white paperrewarded her gaze. 

She strolled on--daunted, but still persistent, with the wind blowingher hair out of order--to the door of the summer-house. Within it ayoung man was standing, reading her letter. He looked up and took offhis hat hastily, crumpling the letter in his hand. She saw he was quiteugly, with determined-looking eyes, and the redemption of a pleasantmouth. 

She hesitated, the words "That is my letter!" absolutely frozen on herlips. He had been reading it! It seemed impossible for her to claim it, and so for a moment's silence she stood, with the green vines of thedoorway--

 Half light, half shade--

framing herself and her white umbrella. 

"You are looking for a cool spot?"--he deprecatingly took theinitiative. "This is a good choice. There's a wind--"

"Horrid!" she interrupted, so vehemently that she caught his involuntarysurprise. "I don't like the wind, " she added. 

"'It's an ill wind, ' you know, 'that doesn't blow some one good. '"

"I assure you _this_ is an ill wind! It has blown me all of the ill itcould. "

"Do come out of it, " he begged. "The vines keep it off. It's a half-houruntil luncheon, " he added, "unless they've changed since I was herelast. " He put up his watch. "We're fellow guests. You came this morning, didn't you?--while we were out. I came last night. "

She seated herself provisionally on the little bench by the door, anddug the point of her umbrella into the ground. Her mind was busy. Hestill held the letter. She had had a forlorn hope that he would throwdown the sheet; but he did not. Was there any strategy, she wondered. But none suggested itself; and indeed, as if divining her thought, heput the crumpled sheet in his pocket. Her eyes followed despairingly the"Dear Christopher, " in her clear and, she felt, unfortunately individualwriting, as it disappeared in his capacious blue serge pocket. 

Different ideas wildly presented themselves, but none would do. Couldshe ask him to climb a tree? Of course in that case he would have totake off his coat and put it down, and give her the opportunity torecover the horrible letter from his pocket. But one cannot ask astranger to climb a tree simply to exhibit his acrobatic powers. Andtrees!--there were none save saplings in a radius of fifty yards! Couldshe tumble in the pond? It would be even less desirable, and he wouldsimply wade in and pull her out, with no need to remove his coat. 

"Mrs. Manstey, " he was saying, a little tentatively, upholding theburden of conversation, "sent some of us out riding this morning, andRalph Manstey raced us home by a short cut cross country. That is, hetook the short cut. _We_ gave it the cut direct and looked for gaps. "

"If I had been out, I'd have taken every fence, " she said, boastfully, and then laughed. He laughed too. 

"If I--if you were my sister, I shouldn't let you follow Ralph Mansteyon horseback. He's utterly reckless. "

"So am I, " she came in, with spirit. "At home I ride anything and jumpeverything. "

"Well, you shouldn't if you were my sister, " he repeated, decisively. 

"I'm sorry for your sister, " she declared. 

"Well, you see, I haven't one, " he said, gayly, and smiled down at herlifted face. Remembering the letter, she corrected her expression tocolder lines. 

"There's no one to introduce us, "--he broke the pause. "Mayn't I--" Hecolored and put his hand into his pocket, and taking out her letter, folded the blank sheet out and produced a pencil. "It's hard to callone's own name, " he continued. "Suppose we write our names?"

As he was clumsy in finesse, she understood his idea, and her eyesflashed. But she said nothing as he scribbled and handed the paper toher. She read, "C. K. Farringdon, " and played with the pencil. 

"Mr. Farringdon, "--she said it over meditatively. "How plainly youwrite! My name's Edith Eversley, " she added, tranquilly, and, becauseshe must, per force, returned the sheet to him. She had a wicked delightin the defeat of his strategy which she could cleverly conceal. 

"I wish, " he deprecated, gently, but with persistence, "that you wouldwrite your name here--won't you, as a souvenir?"

But she shook her head and rose--angry, which she hid, but also amusedat his pertinacity. 

"I can't write decently with a pencil, " she said, carelessly, and hereyes followed his hand putting the letter back into his pocket. That sheshould have actually had the letter in her hand, and had to give itback! But no quick-witted pretext had occurred to help her. Rose wouldthink her stupid--utterly lacking in expedients. 

She left the summer-house, unfurling her umbrella, and Farringdonfollowed instantly, his failure apparently forgotten. 

They passed the tennis-court on their way to the house, and--

"Do you play?" he asked. 

"A little. " Her intonation mocked the formula. 

"Might we, then, this afternoon--"

She gave him a side glance. "If you don't mind losing, " she suggested. 

"But I play to win, " he modestly met it, and again they laughed. 

Rose Eversley looked with curiosity at her sister when she entered thedining-room for luncheon, followed by Farringdon, but Edith's face wasnon-committal. She was bright and vivacious, and made herself verypleasant to Farringdon, who sat by her. After luncheon they went to thetennis-court together. 

"A delightful young man, " Mrs. St. Cleve commented, putting up herlorgnette as she stood at the window with Rose, watching theirdisappearing figures, "but so far as money is concerned, a hopelessdetrimental. Don't let your pretty sister get interested in him. Hehasn't a cent except what he makes--he's an architect. "

"Edith is to be depended upon, " Rose said, enigmatically. She was fiveyears older than her sister, and had drawn the inference of her ownplainness, comparatively, ever since Edith had put on long dresses. 

"Have you written to Christopher?" she asked, that night, invadingEdith's room with her hair-brushes. 

"No, I haven't, " Edith said, thoughtfully. "I tried just now. Itseems--I don't know how, exactly, but I just _can't_ write it overagain! If I had the letter I wrote this morning, I suppose I would sendit; but to write it all over again--it's too horrible!"

"'Horrible'!" Rose repeated. "Very few people would think it that! He'srich, thoroughly good, and devoted to you. "

"You put the least last, " Edith said, slowly, "and you're right. I'm notsure Christopher is so devoted to me, after all. He may only fancy thatI like him, and from his high estate--"

"Nonsense!" Rose said, warmly. "He isn't, as you know, that sort of aman. I've known him for years--" She paused. 

Edith said nothing; she brushed her hair with careful slowness. 

"He is so sincere--so straight-forward, " Rose went on, in an impersonaltone; "and as papa has had so much ill luck and our circumstances havechanged--they _are_ changed, you know, though we are still able to keepup a certain appearance--he has been unchanged. You ought to consider--"

"You consider Christopher's interests altogether, " Edith said. "I'vesome, too. "

"Oh no! You needn't think of them with Christopher, " Rose said, seriously. "That's just it! He would so completely look after _yours!_It's _his_, in this regard, that need consideration. "

"Well--I'll consider Christopher's interests, " Edith said, quietly. 

She remembered perfectly the letter she had written--which was in anugly young man's pocket! It had been

"DEAR CHRISTOPHER, --Do you think you really want me? If you are verysure, I am willing. I don't care for anybody else, so perhaps I canlearn to care for you. 

"The only thing is, you will spoil me, and they've done that at homealready! and Rose says I need a strong hand! So in your interests--" andthen it had blown away!

When Rose, after some desultory talk, went back to her room, Edith wroteanother letter:

"DEAR CHRISTOPHER, --I know you have made a mistake. I don't care foryou--to marry you--a bit, but I like you, oh, a quantity! We have alwaysbeen such friends, and we always will be, won't we? but not _that_ way. 

"Some day you will be very happy with some one else who will suit youbetter. Then you will know how right I am. 

With kindest wishes, EDITH EVERSLEY. "

She took this letter down the next morning to put in the bag, but thepostman had come and gone. As she stood in the hall holding the letter, Farringdon came up. 

"Good morning, " he said. "You've missed the postman? I will be veryhappy to post it for you on my way to church. "

"Thank you. But if it's on the way to church, I'm going myself, so Ineedn't trouble you. "

Farringdon merely bowed, without saying anything banal about the absenceof trouble. She was demurely conscious beneath his courtesy of theeffort he was making to see her handwriting, and she wondered if hethought her refusal rude and a confirmation of his suspicion, or simplycasual. 

Whatever he thought, it did not prevent the steps as she came out a fewhours later in the freshness of white muslin, with her umbrella, prayer-book, and an unobtrusive white envelope in her hands. 

They were going together down then drive--under his umbrella--before shequite grasped the situation. 

"We seem to be the only ones, " she hazarded. 

"We are, " he nodded. 

"Mrs. Manstey has a headache, " Edith said, "but the others--"

"The sun is too hot!"--he smiled. 

"But you--I shouldn't have thought--" She paused, a little embarrassed. 

"Yes?" he helped her. "That I was one of those who go to church, youmean?"

"Oh no!" she protested; but it was what she had meant. 

"You are right, " he said, without heeding the protest, and his ugly butcompellingly attractive face was turned to hers. "I'm not in the least ascoffer, though; pray believe that. It's just that I--" he hesitated. "Doyou remember a little verse:

 'Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Sometimes I hover, And at the sacred gate With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her. '"

Her face flushed. "But, " she reverted, with naïveté, "you said you weregoing to church--"

"But because I knew you were one of the women who would be sure to go!"he said, positively. 

She rebelled. "I don't look devotional at all!"

"But your eyes do, " he declared. "They're suggestive of cathedrals andbeautiful dimness, and a voice going up and up, like the 'Lark' song ofSchubert's, don't you know!"

"No, I _don't!_" she said, wilfully; but she was conscious of his eyeson her face, and angry that her cheeks flushed. 

They both were silent for a little, and when they left Mrs. Manstey'sgrounds for the uneven country road, that became shortly, by courtesy, the village street, they had a view of the little church with its tinytower. 

"The post-office, " Farringdon explained, "is at the other end of thestreet. Service is beginning, I dare say. Shall we wait until it isover, or post the letter now?"

"No; after service, " she agreed, and inopportunely the letter slippedfrom her hand and fell, with the address down, on the grass. She stoopedhurriedly, but he was before her, and picking it up, returned itscrupulously, with the right side down, as it had fallen. She slipped itquickly, almost guiltily, into her prayer-book. 

The church was small, the congregation smaller, and the clergyman alittle weary of the empty benches. But the two faces in the Manstey pewwere so bright, so vivid with the vigor of youth, that his jaded mindfreshened to meet the interest of new hearers. 

But neither Edith nor Farringdon listened attentively to the sermon, fortheir minds were busy with other things. He was thinking of the girlbeside him, whose hymnal he was sharing, and whose voice, very sweet andclear, if of no great compass, blended with his own fine tenor. Herthoughts could not stray far from the letter and--from other things!

The benediction sent them from the cool dimness into the sunlight, andshe looked down the street toward the post-office. 

"It's quite at the other end of the street, " Farringdon said, openinghis umbrella and tentatively discouraging the effort. "By the way, yourletter won't leave, I remember, until the seven-o'clock train. TheBrathwaites are leaving by that train; you can send your letter downthen. "

She found herself accepting this proposition, for the blaze of the sunon the length of the dusty street was deterring. They walked back almostin silence the way they had come; but with his hand on Mrs. Manstey'sgate and the house less than two hundred yards away, Farringdon paused. 

"You have been writing to 'Christopher, '" he said, quietly. "I don'twant you to send the letter. " He was quite pale, but she did not noticeit or the tensity of his face; his audacity made her for the momentdumb. 

"You don't want me to--!" She positively gasped. "I never heard ofsuch--"

"Impertinence, " he supplied, gravely. "It looks that way, I know, but itisn't. I can't stand on conventions--I've too much at stake. I don'tmean to lose _you_--as you lost your letter!"

She thought she was furious. "You knew it was my letter!" she accused. 

They had paused just within the gate, in the shade of a greatmulberry-tree that stood sentinel. 

"Forgive me, " he said. "Not at first--but I guessed it. My name, " headded, "is Christopher, too. "

He took a crumpled sheet, that had been smoothed and folded carefully, from his pocket. "Do you remember what you wrote?" he asked, in a lowvoice. 

Her face was crimson. 

"It blew to me. Such things don't happen every day. " He had taken offhis hat, and, bareheaded, he bent and looked questioningly into hereyes. "My name is Christopher, " he repeated. "I can't--it isn'tpossible--that I can let another Christopher have that letter. "

Her eyes fell before his. 

"I"--he paused--"I play tennis very well, you said. I play to win! WhatI give to the interest of a game--"

"Is nothing to what you give to the interests of Christopher!"

As she mockingly spoke, Farringdon caught a glimpse of one or two peoplestrolling down from the house. "That letter, " he hastily said, --"youcan't take it from me! Do you remember that wind? It blew _you_ to _me!_Dearest, _darling_, don't be angry. You _can't_ take yourself away. "

A little smile touched her lips--mutinous, but tremulous, too, andsomething in her look made his heart beat fast. 

"I didn't--The last letter wasn't like the first, " she said, incoherently, but it seemed he understood. 

"I knew you were _you_ as soon as I saw you, " he said, idiotically. 

"And, " she murmured, as they walked perforce to meet the people comingtoward them down the drive, "after all, you _were_ Christopher!"

THE WRONG DOOR

BY FRANCIS WILLING WHARTON

The stairs were long and dark; they seemed to stretch an interminablelength, and she was too tired to notice the soft carpet and wonder whyMrs. Wilson had departed from her iron-clad rules and for onceconsidered the comfort of her lodgers. The rail of the banisters laycold but supporting under the pressure of her weary hand, and, at herown door at last, she fitted the key in the lock. Something was wrong;it would not turn; she drew it out and tried the handle. The dooropened, and entering, she stood rooted to the spot. 

Had her poor little room doubled its size and trebled its furniture? Herimagination, always active, for one wild moment suggested that oldGrandaunt Crosbie from over the seas had remembered her poor relativesand worked the miracle; she always had Grandaunt Crosbie as a possibletrump in the hand of fate. And then the dull reality shattered herfoolish castle--she was in the wrong room. All this comfort had alegitimate possessor, whose Aunt Crosbie did her proper part in life. 

She walked mechanically to a window and looked down; yes, there was thebleak yard she usually found below her, four houses off; she had comeinto the wrong door, and now to retrace her useless steps. 

She paused a moment, and slowly revolving, made bitter inventory of thecharming interior. Soft, bright stuffs at the windows, on the chairs;pictures; books; flowers even; a big bunch of holly on the mantelpiece. A sitting-room--no obnoxious bed behind an inadequate screen, no horridwhite china pitcher in full view! What woman owned all this? She staredabout for characteristic traces. No sewing! Pipes! It belonged to a man. 

She must go. She moved toward the door, and dropped her eyes on thelittle hard-coal fire in the grate; it tempted her, and, with a sort ofdefiance, she moved over to it and warmed her chilled fingers. A piano, too, and not to teach children on! To play upon, to enjoy! When was hertime to come? Every dog has his day! Where was hers? Here some man wassurrounded with comforts and pleasures, and she slaved all day at herteaching, and came home at night tired, cold, to a miserable littlehalf-furnished room--alone. 

Resting her arms on the mantelpiece, she dropped her face a moment onthem and rebelled, kicking hard against the pricks; and sunk in thatprofitless occupation, heard vaguely the sound of rapid steps andsuddenly realized what they might mean. 

She straightened her young form and stared, fascinated, at the door. Good heavens! What should she do? What should she say? If she appearedconfused, she would be thought a thief; she must have some excuse: shehad come--to--find a lady--was waiting! She sank into a little chair andtried not to tremble visibly to the most unobservant eye, and the dooropened, shut, and the owner of the room stood before her. 

"How do you do?" said Amory, and coming forward, he shook hands warmly. "Please forgive me for being late, but I could not get away a momentbefore. Where" he looked about the room--"where is Mrs. White?"

The girl had risen nervously, and stood with her fingers clasped, looking at him; she answered, stammering, "She--I--she--couldn't come. "

"Couldn't come?" repeated the young man. "I'm awfully sorry. Do sitdown. "

She still stood, holding to the back of her chair. "She said she wouldcome if she could, and I was to--but I had better go. "

Amory laughed. "Not a bit of it. Now I've got you, I sha'n't let you go. It was very brave of you to come alone. You know brothers-in-law arepresumptuous sometimes. " He smiled down into the soft, shy, dark eyesraised to his, and looked at his watch. "You must have waited ahalf-hour; I said four o'clock. I'm so sorry. "

Her eyes dropped. "I was late, too, " she answered, and felt a horribleweight lifted from her. (They surely could not be coming; she could goin a moment; he would never know until she was beyond his reach. But shereckoned without her host. )

"Draw up to the fire, " he began, and wheeled up a big armchair, andgently made her sit in it. "Put your feet on the fender and let's have along talk. You know I sha'n't see you before the wedding, and I'd liketo know something of my brother's wife. Tom said I must see you oncebefore you and he got off to Paris, and I may not be able to get Westfor the wedding; so this is the one chance I shall have. " He drew hischair near, and looked down at her with friendly, pleasant eyes. 

She must say something. She rested her head on the high back of herchair, and felt a sensation of bewildered happiness. It was dangerous;she must get away in a moment; but for a moment she might surely enjoythis extraordinary situation that fortune had thrust upon her--the charmof the room, the warmth, and something more wonderfulstill--companionship. She looked at him; she must say something. 

"You think you can't come to the wedding?" she said, and blushed. 

Amory shook his head. "I'm afraid not, though of course I shall try. Now"--he stared gravely at her--"now tell me how you came to know Tomand why you like him. I wonder if it is for my reasons or ones of yourown. "

He was surprised by the deep blush which answered his words. What awonderful wild-rose color on her rather pale cheek!

"Don't you think it very warm in here?" said the girl. 

Amory got up, and going to the window, opened it a little; then, stopping at his desk, picked up a note and brought it to the fire. 

"Why, here is a note from Mrs. White, " he said. "Why didn't you tellme?"

She had risen, and laid her hand an instant on his arm. "Don't openit--yet, " she said. Her desperation lent her invention; just in this oneway he must not find her out. She gave him a look, half arch, halfpleading. "I'll explain later, " she said. 

Amory felt a stir of most unnecessary emotion; he understood Tom. 

"Of course, " he said, dropping it on the mantelpiece, --"just as youlike. Now let's go back to Tom. You see, "--he sat down, and tipping hischair a little, gave her a rather curious smile, --"Tom and I have beenenigmas to each other always, deeply attached and hopelesslyincomprehensible, and I had my own ideas of what Tom wouldmarry--and--you are not it;--not in the least!" He leant forward andbrought his puzzled gaze to bear upon her. 

She settled deeply into her chair, half to get farther away from thosesearching gray eyes, half because she was taking terrible risks, and shemight as well enjoy it; the chair was so comfortable, and the fire socheerful, and Amory--it occurred to her with a sort of exhilaration whatit would be to please him. She had pleased other people, why not him?Her lids drooped; she looked down at her shabby gloves. 

"What did you expect?" she said. 

He leant back and laughed. "What did I expect? Well, frankly, a sillylittle blond thing, all curls and furbelows!"

She raised those heavy lids of hers and gazed straight at him. "Was thatTom's description?" she asked, and raised her eyebrows. They weredelicately pencilled, and Amory watched her and noted them. 

"No, " he answered; "he didn't describe you, but I thought that was histaste. Now, you are neither silly nor little; no blonde; you have nocurls and no furbelows. In fact"--he smiled with something delightfullyintimate in his eyes--"in fact, you are much more the kind of girl _I_should like to marry. "

It gave her an absurd little thrill. She sat up, rebellious. "If _I_would have liked you, " she returned. 

Amory laughed and put his hands in his pockets. "Of course, " he said;"but you would, you know!"

"Why?" she demanded, opening her eyes very wide; and again he inwardlycomplimented her on her eyebrows, and above them her hair grew in acharming line on her forehead. The little points are all pretty, hethought, and it is the details that count in the long run. How much onecould grow to dislike blurry eyebrows and ugly ears, even if a woman hadrosy cheeks and golden hair!

"Why? Because I should bully you into it. I'm an obstinate kind ofcreature, and get things by hanging on. Women give in if you worry themlong enough. But tell me more about Tom, " he went on. "Did he dance andshoot his way into your heart? I wish I'd been there to see! You take avery bad tintype, by the way. Tom sent me that. " He got up, and taking apicture from the mantelpiece, tossed it into her lap, and leaning overthe back of her chair, looked down on it. "Have you a sentiment aboutit?" he added, smiling. "It does look like Tom. "

She held it and gravely studied it. She colored, and, still looking atthe picture, felt her way suddenly open. "Yes, it does look like him, "she said, and putting it down, leant forward and looked into the fire. "Do you want to know why I accepted Tom?" she added, slowly. She wasfully launched on a career of deception now, and felt a desperateexultation. 

Amory stared at her and nodded. 

She kept her eyes on the fire. "I wanted--a home. "

Amory sat motionless, then spoke. "Why--why, weren't you happy with youraunt and uncle?"

She shook her head. "No; and Tom was good and kind and very--"

Amory got up and shook himself. "Oh, but that's an awful mistake, " hesaid. 

"I know, " said the girl, and turning, looked at him a moment. "Well, I've come to tell you that I have--" She hesitated. 

Amory slid down into the chair beside her. "Changed your mind?"

"Yes. "

"That note of your aunt's?"

"Yes"

He sat back and folded his arms. "I see, " he said, and there followed along silence. 

The girl began buttoning and unbuttoning her glove. She must go; she wasfrightened, elated, amused. She did not want to go, but go she must. Would he ever forgive her?

"Don't--don't hate me!" she said. 

Amory awoke from his stunned meditation. "My dear young lady, of coursenot, " he began; "only, Tom will be terribly broken up. It's the onlything to do now, I suppose, but why did you do the other?"

She looked at him. As well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, she thought. "I was unhappy and foolish. " She hesitated. "But you needn't be troubledabout Tom. He--" Again she hesitated. 

"Not troubled about old Tom!" expostulated Amory. 

"Wait. " She put up her hand. "He made a mistake, too; he doesn't care sovery much, and he has already flirted--"

Amory laid his hand on her chair. "Tom!"

"Yes, " she repeated; "he really is rather a flirt, and--"

"Tom!"

She nodded. "Yes; really, it did hurt me a little, only--"

"Tom!"

She faced him. "Yes, Tom. What do you think Tom is--blind and deaf anddumb? Any man worth his salt can flirt. "

Amory stared at her. "Oh, he can, can he?"

She nodded. "He was very good and kind, but I saw that he was changing;and then he met a little fair-haired, blue-eyed--"

Amory interposed. "I told you. "

She gave him a curious smile. "Yes, a silly little blond thing, justthat. "

But his satisfaction in his perspicacity was short-lived; he walked upand down the room in his perplexity. "I can't get over it, " he murmured. "I thought it a mad love-match, all done in a few weeks; and to have itturn out like this! You--"

"Mercenary, " she interjected, with a sad little smile. 

He looked at her. "Yes; and Tom--"

"Fickle, " she ended again. 

"Yes, and Tom fickle. Why, it shakes the foundations!"

The girl felt a sudden wave of shame and weariness. She must go. Shehadn't been fair, but it had been so sudden, so difficult. She looked athim, and getting up, wondered if she would ever see him again. 

"I must go, " she said. "I came--" She hesitated, and a sudden desire tohave him know her as herself swept over her. It needed only another lieor two in the beginning, and then some truth would come through tosustain her. She went on: "I came because I wanted to know what you werelike; Tom had talked so much of you, and I wanted some one to understandand perhaps explain; and now I must go and leave your warm, delightfulroom for the comfortless place I live in. Don't think too hardly of me. "

Amory shook his head. "You don't leave me until you have had your tea. "He rang the bell. "But what do you mean by a comfortless home? Does Mrs. White neglect you?"

She looked at the fire. "I don't live with her--now; I live alone; Iwork for my living. "

Amory got up as the maid brought in the tea-tray, and setting it besidethem, he poured out her tea; as he handed her the cup, he brought hisbrows together sternly, as though making out her very mysterious words. 

"You work for your living?" he repeated. "I thought you lived with Mrs. White, and that they were well off. "

"I did, but now I've come back to my real life, which I would have lefthad I married Tom. "

He nodded. "I see. I had heard awfully little about it all; I was away, and then it was so quickly done. "

"I know, " she went on, hurriedly; "but let me tell you, and you willunderstand me better later--that is, if you want to understand me. "

"Most certainly I do. " Amory sustained the strange sad gaze of hercharming, heavy-lidded eyes in a sort of maze. Her mat skin lookedwhite, now that her blushes were gone, and her delicate, irregularfeatures a little pinched. He drank his tea and watched her while shetalked. 

"I teach music, " she began; "to do it I left my relations in the countryand came to this horrible great city. I have one dreary, cold room, asunlike this as two rooms can be. I have tried to make it seem like ahome, but when I saw this I knew how I had failed. "

"Poor little girl!" said Amory. 

"I have the ordinary feelings of a girl, " she went on, "and yet I seebefore me the long stretch of a dreary life. I love music; I hear nonebut the strumming of children. I like pictures, books, people; I seenone. I like to laugh, to talk; there is no one to laugh with, to talkto. I am very--unhappy. " The last words were spoken very low, but themisery in them touched Amory deeply. 

"Poor little girl!" he said again, and gently laid his hand on the armof her chair. "But how can Tom know this and let you go? You aremistaken in Tom, I am sure, and--"

The girl straightened her slender figure and rose. "Oh no! it is allright. He doesn't love me, your Tom; and so the world goes--I must go, too. I--"

"Don't go, " said Amory. "Let me--" She shook her head. "You have no moreto do; you have comforted and warmed and fed a hungry wanderer, and shemust make haste home. Thank you for everything; thank you. "

Amory felt a pang as she stood up. Not to see her again--why, that wasabsurd! Why should he not see her? She had quarrelled with Tom, yes, andperhaps the family might be hard on her; but he--he understood, and whyshould he shake off her acquaintance? She was not for Tom. Well, it wasjust as well. How could any one think this girl would suitTom--big-bearded, clumsy, excellent fellow that he was?

He put out his hand. "Mary, " he said. The girl stared at him with eyessuddenly wide open; he smiled into them. 

"I have a right to call you that, " he proceeded, "haven't I? I mighthave been your brother. " He took her hand, and then laughed a little. "Iam almost glad I am not. You wouldn't have suited Tom, and as a sister, somehow, you wouldn't have suited me!" He laughed again. "But"--hehesitated; she still stared straight up at him with her soft, dark eyes, and he thought them very beautiful--"but why shouldn't I see you--not asa brother, but an acquaintance--friend? You say you need them. Tell mewhere you have this room of yours?"

The vivid beauty of her blush startled him, and she drew her handquickly from his. 

"Oh no!" she said, hurriedly. "Let things drop between us;here--forever. "

Amory stood before her with an expression which reminded her of hisdescription of himself--obstinate; yes, he looked it. 

"Why?" he urged. "Just because you are not to marry Tom, is there anyreason why we should not like each other--is there? That is--if we do! Ido, " he laughed. "Do you?"

Her lids had dropped; she looked very slim, and young, and shy. "Yes, "she said. 

It gave Amory a good deal of pleasure for a monosyllable. 

"Well, then, your number?" he said. 

She shook her head. 

"I'll ask Tom, " he retorted. "He will tell me. "

He was baffled and curiously charmed by the smile that touched hersharply curved young mouth. 

"Tom may, " she said. 

"I was ready to accept you as a sister, " he persisted, "and you won'teven admit me as a casual visitor!"

She took a step toward the door. "Wait till you hear Tom's story, " shesaid. 

Amory stared curiously at her. "Do you think he will be vindictive, after all?" he said. "Why should he be, if what you say is just?"

She paused. "Wait till you see Tom and Mrs. White; then if you want toknow me, why--" She was blushing again. 

"Well, " Amory demanded, "what shall I do?"

She looked up with a sort of childish charm, curling her lip, lightingher eyes with something of laughter and mischief. "Why, look for me andyou'll find me. "

"Find you?" repeated Amory, bewildered. 

She nodded. "Yes, if you look. To-morrow will be Sunday; every one willbe going to church, and I with them. Stand on the steps of this house at10. 30 precisely, and look as far as you can, and you will see--me. Goodnight. "

"Good night. " Amory took her hand. "Let me see you home; it's dark. "

She laughed. "You don't lack persistency, do you?" she said, with asweetness which gave the words a pleasant twist. "But don't come, please. I'm used to taking care of myself; but--before I go let me writemy note also. " She went to the desk and scratched a line, and foldingit, handed it to him. "There, " she said; "read Mrs. White's note andthen that, but wait till you hear the house door bang. Promise notbefore. "

"Please--" began Amory. 

"Promise, " she repeated. 

"I promise, " he said, and again they shook hands for good-by. 

"That's three times, " thought the girl as she went to the door, andturning an instant, she smiled at him. "Good-by. " The door closed softlybehind her, and Amory waited a moment, then went to it, and opening it, listened; the house door shut lightly, and seizing his notes, he stoodby the window in the twilight and read them. The first was as follows:

"DEAR MR. AMORY, --Mary and I had to return unexpectedly to Cleveland. Forgive our missing this chance of meeting you, but Mr. White's note isurgent, as his sister is very ill. Mary regrets greatly not seeing youbefore the wedding. 

Yours sincerely, BARBARA WHITE. "

Amory threw the paper down. "Do I see visions?" he cried, and hastilyunfolded the second; it ran as follows:

"Forgive me; I got into the wrong house, the wrong room. I was verytired, and my latch-key fitted, and I didn't know until I saw your fire, and then you came. Don't think me a very bold and horrid girl, andforgive me. Your fire was so warm and bright, and--you were kind. 

M. "

Amory stared at the paper a moment; then, catching his hat and flyingdown the stairs, opened the outer door. 

The night was bitter cold, with a white frost everywhere; but in thetwilight no solitary figure was in view; the long street was empty. Heran the length of it, then back to his room, and throwing down his hat, he lit his pipe. It needed thought. 

BRAYBRIDGE'S OFFER

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

We had ordered our dinners and were sitting in the Turkish room at theclub, waiting to be called, each in his turn, to the dining-room. Withits mixture of Oriental appointments in curtains, cushions, and littletables of teak-wood the Turkish room expressed rather an adventurousconception of the Ottoman taste; but it was always a cozy place whetheryou found yourself in it with cigars and coffee after dinner, or withwhatever liquid or solid appetizer you preferred in the half-hour ormore that must pass before dinner after you had made out your menu. Itintimated an exclusive possession in the three or four who happenedfirst to find themselves together in it, and it invited the philosophicmind to contemplation more than any other spot in the club. 

Our rather limited little down-town dining club was almost a celibatecommunity at most times. A few husbands and fathers joined us at lunch;but at dinner we were nearly always a company of bachelors, dropping inan hour or so before we wished to dine, and ordering from a bill of farewhat we liked. Some dozed away the intervening time; some read theevening papers, or played chess; I preferred the chance society of theTurkish room. I could be pretty sure of finding Wanhope there in thesesympathetic moments, and where Wanhope was there would probably beRulledge, passively willing to listen and agree, and Minver ready tointerrupt and dispute. I myself liked to look in and linger for eitherthe reasoning or the bickering, as it happened, and now seeing the threethere together, I took a provisional seat behind the painter, who madeno sign of knowing I was present. Rulledge was eating a caviar sandwich, which he had brought from the afternoon tea-table near by, and hegreedily incited Wanhope to go on, in the polite pause which thepsychologist had let follow on my appearance, with what he was saying. Iwas not surprised to find that his talk related to a fact just thenintensely interesting to the few, rapidly becoming the many, who wereprivy to it; though Wanhope had the air of stooping to it from a higherrange of thinking. 

"I shouldn't have supposed, somehow, " he said with a knot of deprecationbetween his fine eyes, "that he would have had the pluck. "

"Perhaps he hadn't, " Minver suggested. 

Wanhope waited for a thoughtful moment of censure eventuating intoleration. "You mean that she--"

"I don't see why you say that, Minver, " Rulledge interposedchivalrously, with his mouth full of sandwich. 

"I didn't say it, " Minver contradicted. 

"You implied it; and I don't think it's fair. It's easy enough to buildup a report of that kind on the half-knowledge of rumor which is allthat any outsider can have in the case. "

"So far, " Minver said, with unbroken tranquillity, "as any such edificehas been erected, you are the architect, Rulledge. I shouldn't think youwould like to go round insinuating that sort of thing. Here is Acton, "and he now acknowledged my presence with a backward twist of his head, "on the alert for material already. You ought to be more careful whereActon is, Rulledge. "

"It would be great copy if it were true, " I owned. 

Wanhope regarded us all three, in this play of our qualities, with thescientific impartiality of a bacteriologist in the study of a cultureoffering some peculiar incidents. He took up a point as remote as mightbe from the personal appeal. "It is curious how little we know of suchmatters, after all the love-making and marrying in life and all theinquiry of the poets and novelists. " He addressed himself in this turnof his thought, half playful, half earnest, to me, as if I united withthe functions of both a responsibility for their shortcomings. 

"Yes, " Minver said, facing about toward me. "How do you excuse yourselffor your ignorance in matters where you're always professionally makingsuch a bluff of knowledge? After all the marriages you have broughtabout in literature, can you say positively and specifically how theyare brought about in life?"

"No, I can't, " I admitted. "I might say that a writer of fiction is agood deal like a minister who continually marries people without knowingwhy. "

"No, you couldn't, my dear fellow, " the painter retorted. "It's part ofyour swindler to assume that you _do_ know why. You ought to find out. "

Wanhope interposed abstractly, or as abstractly as he could: "Theimportant thing would always be to find which of the lovers theconfession, tacit or explicit, began with. "

"Acton ought to go round and collect human documents bearing on thequestion. He ought to have got together thousands of specimens fromnature. He ought to have gone to all the married couples he knew, andasked them just how their passion was confessed; he ought to have sentout printed circulars, with tabulated questions. Why don't you do it, Acton?"

I returned, as seriously as could have been expected: "Perhaps it wouldbe thought rather intimate. People don't like to talk of such things. "

"They're ashamed, " Minver declared. "The lovers don't either of them, ina given ease, like to let others know how much the woman had to do withmaking the offer, and how little the man. "

Minver's point provoked both Wanhope and myself to begin a remark at thesame time. We begged each other's pardon, and Wanhope insisted that Ishould go on. 

"Oh, merely this, " I said. "I don't think they're so much ashamed asthat they have forgotten the different stages. You were going to say?"

"Very much what you said. It's astonishing how people forget the vitalthings, and remember trifles. Or perhaps as we advance from stage tostage what once seemed the vital things turn to trifles. Nothing can bemore vital in the history of a man and a woman than how they becamehusband and wife, and yet not merely the details, but the main fact, would seem to escape record if not recollection. The next generationknows nothing of it. "

"That appears to let Acton out, " Minver said. "But how do _you_ knowwhat you were saying, Wanhope?"

"I've ventured to make some inquiries in that region at one time. Notdirectly, of course. At second and third hand. It isn't inconceivable, if we conceive of a life after this, that a man should forget, in itsmore important interests and occupations, just how he quitted thisworld, or at least the particulars of the article of death. Of course, we must suppose a good portion of eternity to have elapsed. " Wanhopecontinued, dreamily, with a deep breath almost equivalent to somethingso unscientific as a sigh: "Women are charming, and in nothing more thanthe perpetual challenge they form for us. They are born defying us tomatch ourselves with them. "

"Do you mean that Miss Hazelwood--" Rulledge began, but Minver's laugharrested him. 

"Nothing so concrete, I'm afraid, " Wanhope gently returned. "I mean, tomatch them in graciousness, in loveliness, in all the agile contests ofspirit and plays of fancy. There's something pathetic to see them caughtup into something more serious in that other game, which they are sogood at. "

"They seem rather to like it, though, some of them, if you mean the gameof love, " Minver said. "Especially when they're not in earnest aboutit. "

"Oh, there are plenty of spoiled women, " Wanhope admitted. "But I don'tmean flirting. I suppose that the average unspoiled woman is ratherfrightened than otherwise when she knows that a man is in love withher. "

"Do you suppose she always knows it first?" Rulledge asked. 

"You may be sure, " Minver answered for Wanhope, "that if she didn't knowit, _he_ never would. " Then Wanhope answered for himself:

"I think that generally she sees it coming. In that sort of wirelesstelegraphy, that reaching out of two natures through space towards eachother, her more sensitive apparatus probably feels the appeal of hisbefore he is conscious of having made any appeal. "

"And her first impulse is to escape the appeal?" I suggested. 

"Yes, " Wanhope admitted after a thoughtful reluctance. 

"Even when she is half aware of having invited it?"

"If she is not spoiled she is never aware of having invited it. Take thecase in point; we won't mention any names. She is sailing through time, through youthful space, with her electrical lures, the natural equipmentof every charming woman, all out, and suddenly, somewhere from theunknown, she feels the shock of a response in the gulfs of air wherethere had been no life before. But she can't be said to have knowinglysearched the void for any presence. "

"Oh, I'm not sure about that, professor, " Minver put in. "Go a littleslower, if you expect me to follow you. "

"It's all a mystery, the most beautiful mystery of life, " Wanhoperesumed. "I don't believe I could make out the case, as I feel it tobe. "

"Braybridge's part of the case is rather plain, isn't it?" I invitedhim. 

"I'm not sure of that. No man's part of any case is plain, if you lookat it carefully. The most that you can say of Braybridge is that he israther a simple nature. But nothing, " the psychologist added with one ofhis deep breaths, "is so complex as a simple nature. "

"Well, " Minver contended, "Braybridge is plain, if his case isn't. "

"Plain? Is he plain?" Wanhope asked, as if asking himself. 

"My dear fellow, you agnostics doubt everything!"

"I should have said picturesque. Picturesque, with the sort ofunbeautifulness that takes the fancy of women more than Greekproportion. I think it would require a girl peculiarly feminine to feelthe attraction of such a man--the fascination of his being grizzled, andslovenly, and rugged. She would have to be rather a wild, shy girl to dothat, and it would have to be through her fear of him that she woulddivine his fear of her. But what I have heard is that they met underrather exceptional circumstances. It was at a house in the Adirondacks, where Braybridge was, somewhat in the quality of a bull in a china-shop. He was lugged in by the host, as an old friend, and was suffered by thehostess as a friend quite too old for her. At any rate, as I heard (andI don't vouch for the facts, all of them), Braybridge found himself atodds with the gay young people who made up the hostess's end of theparty, and was watching for a chance to--"

Wanhope cast about for the word, and Winver supplied it: "Pull out. "

"Yes. But when he had found it Miss Hazelwood took it from him. "

"I don't understand, " Rulledge said. 

"When he came in to breakfast, the third morning, prepared with anexcuse for cutting his week down to the dimensions it had reached, hesaw her sitting alone at the table. She had risen early as a consequenceof having arrived late, the night before; and when Braybridge foundhimself in for it, be forgot that he meant to go away, and saidgood-morning, as if they knew each other. Their hostess found themtalking over the length of the table in a sort of mutual fright, andintroduced them. But it's rather difficult reporting a lady verbatim atsecond hand. I really had the facts from Welkin, who had them from hiswife. The sum of her impressions was that Braybridge and Miss Hazelwoodwere getting a kind of comfort out of their mutual terror because onewas as badly frightened as the other. It was a novel experience forboth. Ever seen her?"

We others looked at each other. Minver said: "I never wanted to paintany one so much. It was at the spring show of the American Artists. There was a jam of people; but this girl--I've understood it wasshe--looked as much alone as if there were nobody else there. She mighthave been a startled doe in the North Woods suddenly coming out on atwenty-thousand-dollar camp, with a lot of twenty-million-dollar peopleon the veranda. "

"And you wanted to do her as The Startled Doe, " I said. "Good sellingname. "

"Don't reduce it to the vulgarity of fiction. I admit it would be aselling name. "

"Go on, Wanhope, " Rulledge puffed impatiently. "Though I don't see howthere could be another soul in the universe as constitutionally scaredof men as Braybridge is of women. "

"In the universe nothing is wasted, I suppose. Everything has itscomplement, its response. For every bashful man, there must be a bashfulwoman, " Wanhope returned. 

"Or a bold one, " Minver suggested. 

"No; the response must be in kind, to be truly complemental. Through thesense of their reciprocal timidity they divine that they needn't beafraid. "

"Oh! _That's_ the way you get out of it!"

"Well?" Rulledge urged. 

"I'm afraid, " Wanhope modestly confessed, "that from this point I shallhave to be largely conjectural. Welkin wasn't able to be very definite, except as to moments, and he had his data almost altogether from hiswife. Braybridge had told him overnight that he thought of going, and hehad said he mustn't think of it; but he supposed Braybridge had spokenof it to Mrs. Welkin, and he began by saying to his wife that he hopedshe had refused to hear of Braybridge's going. She said she hadn't heardof it, but now she would refuse without hearing, and she didn't giveBraybridge any chance to protest. If people went in the middle of theirweek, what would become of other people? She was not going to have theequilibrium of her party disturbed, and that was all about it. Welkinthought it was odd that Braybridge didn't insist; and he made a longstory of it. But the grain of wheat in his bushel of chaff was that MissHazelwood seemed to be fascinated by Braybridge from the first. WhenMrs. Welkin scared him into saying that he would stay his week out, thebusiness practically was done. They went picnicking that day in eachother's charge; and after Braybridge left he wrote back to her, as Mrs. Welkin knew from the letters that passed through her hands, and--Well, their engagement has come out, and--" Wanhope paused with an air thatwas at first indefinite, and then definitive. 

"You don't mean, " Rulledge burst out in a note of deep wrong, "thatthat's all you know about it?"

"Yes, that's all I know, " Wanhope confessed, as if somewhat surprisedhimself at the fact. 

"Well!"

Wanhope tried to offer the only reparation in his power. "I canconjecture--we can all conjecture--"

He hesitated; then, "Well, go on with your conjecture, " Rulledge saidforgivingly. 

"Why--" Wanhope began again; but at that moment a man who had beenelected the year before, and then gone off on a long absence, put hishead in between the dull-red hangings of the doorway. It was Halson, whom I did not know very well, but liked better than I knew. His eyeswere dancing with what seemed the inextinguishable gayety of histemperament, rather than any present occasion, and his smile carried hislittle mustache well away from his handsome teeth. "Private?"

"Come in, come in!" Minver called to him. "Thought you were in Japan?"

"My dear fellow, " Halson answered, "you must brush up your contemporaryhistory. It's more than a fortnight since I was in Japan. " He shookhands with me, and I introduced him to Rulledge and Wanhope. He said atonce: "Well, what is it? Question of Braybridge's engagement? It'shumiliating to a man to come back from the antipodes, and find thenation absorbed in a parochial problem like that. Everybody I've methere to-night has asked me, the first thing, if I'd heard of it, and ifI knew how it could have happened. "

"And do you?" Rulledge asked. 

"I can give a pretty good guess, " Halson said, running his merry eyesover our faces. 

"Anybody can give a good guess, " Rulledge said. "Wanhope is doing itnow. "

"Don't let me interrupt. " Halson turned to him politely. 

"Not at all. I'd rather hear your guess. If you know Braybridge betterthan I, " Wanhope said. 

"Well, " Halson compromised, "perhaps I've known him longer. " He asked, with an effect of coming to business, "Where were you?"

"Tell him, Rulledge, " Minver ordered, and Rulledge apparently askednothing better. He told him in detail, all we knew from any source, downto the moment of Wanhope's arrested conjecture. 

"He did leave you at an anxious point, didn't he?" Halson smiled to therest of us at Rulledge's expense, and then said: "Well, I think I canhelp you out a little. Any of you know the lady?"

"By sight, Minver does, " Rulledge answered for us. "Wants to paint her. ""Of course, " Halson said, with intelligence. "But I doubt if he'd findher as paintable as she looks, at first. She's beautiful, but her charmis spiritual. "

"Sometimes we try for that, " the painter interposed. 

"And sometimes you get it. But you'll allow it's difficult. That's all Imeant. I've known her--let me see--for twelve years, at least; eversince I first went West. She was about eleven then, and her father wasbringing her up on the ranche. Her aunt came along, by and by, and tookher to Europe; mother dead before Hazelwood went out there. But the girlwas always homesick for the ranche; she pined for it; and after they hadkept her in Germany three or four years they let her come back, and runwild again; wild as a flower does, or a vine--not a domesticatedanimal. "

"Go slow, Halson. This is getting too much for the romantic Rulledge. "

"Rulledge can bear up against the facts, I guess, Minver, " Halson said, almost austerely. "Her father died two years ago, and then she _had_ tocome East, for her aunt simply _wouldn't_ live on the ranche. Shebrought her on, here, and brought her out; I was at the coming-out tea;but the girl didn't take to the New York thing at all; I could see itfrom the start; she wanted to get away from it with me, and talk aboutthe ranche. "

"She felt that she was with the only genuine person among thoseconventional people. "

Halson laughed at Minver's thrust, and went on amiably: "I don't supposethat till she met Braybridge she was ever quite at her ease with any manor woman, for that matter. I imagine, as you've done, that it was hisfear of her that gave her courage. She met him on equal terms. Isn'tthat it?"

Wanhope assented to the question referred to him with a nod. 

"And when they got lost from the rest of the party at that picnic--"

"Lost?" Rulledge demanded. 

"Why, yes. Didn't you know? But I ought to go back. They said therenever was anything prettier than the way she unconsciously went forBraybridge, the whole day. She wanted him, and she was a child whowanted things frankly, when she did want them. Then his being ten orfifteen years older than she was, and so large and simple, made itnatural for a shy girl like her to assort herself with him when all therest were assorting themselves, as people do at such things. Theconsensus of testimony is that she did it with the most transparentunconsciousness, and--"

"Who are your authorities?" Minver asked; Rulledge threw himself back onthe divan, and beat the cushions with impatience. 

"Is it essential to give them?"

"Oh, no. I merely wondered. Go on. "

"The authorities are all right. She had disappeared with him before theothers noticed. It was a thing that happened; there was no design in it;that would have been out of character. They had got to the end of thewood-road, and into the thick of the trees where there wasn't even atrail, and they walked round looking for a way out, till they wereturned completely. They decided that the only way was to keep walking, and by and by they heard the sound of chopping. It was some Canucksclearing a piece of the woods, and when she spoke to them in French, they gave them full directions, and Braybridge soon found the pathagain. "

Halson paused, and I said, "But that isn't all?"

"Oh, no. " He continued thoughtfully silent for a little while before heresumed. "The amazing thing is that they got lost again, and that whenthey tried going back to the Canucks, they couldn't find the way. "

"Why didn't they follow the sound of the chopping?" I asked. 

"The Canucks had stopped, for the time being. Besides, Braybridge wasrather ashamed, and he thought if they went straight on they would besure to come out somewhere. But that was where he made a mistake. Theycouldn't go on straight; they went round and round, and came on theirown footsteps--or hers, which he recognized from the narrow tread andthe dint of the little heels in the damp places. "

Wanhope roused himself with a kindling eye. "That is very interesting, the movement in a circle of people who have lost their way. It has oftenbeen observed, but I don't know that it has ever been explained. Sometimes the circle is smaller, sometimes it is larger; but I believeit is always a circle. "

"Isn't it, " I queried, "like any other error in life? We go round andround; and commit the old sins over again. "

"That is very interesting, " Wanhope allowed. 

"But do lost people really always walk in a vicious circle?" Minverasked. 

Rulledge would not let Wanhope answer. "Go on, Halson, " he said. 

Halson roused himself from the reverie in which he was sitting withglazed eyes. "Well, what made it a little more anxious was that he hadheard of bears on that mountain, and the green afternoon light among thetrees was perceptibly paling. He suggested shouting, but she wouldn'tlet him; she said it would be ridiculous, if the others heard them, anduseless if they didn't. So they tramped on till--till the accidenthappened. "

"The accident!" Rulledge exclaimed in the voice of our joint emotion. 

"He stepped on a loose stone and turned his foot, " Halson explained. "Itwasn't a sprain, luckily, but it hurt enough. He turned so white thatshe noticed it, and asked him what was the matter. Of course that shuthis mouth the closer, but it morally doubled his motive, and he kepthimself from crying out till the sudden pain of the wrench was over. Hesaid merely that he thought he had heard something, and he had--an awfulringing in his ears; but he didn't mean that, and he started on again. The worst was trying to walk without limping, and to talk cheerfully andencouragingly, with that agony tearing at him. But he managed somehow, and he was congratulating himself on his success, when he tumbled downin a dead faint. "

"Oh, come, now!" Minver protested. 

"It _is_ like an old-fashioned story, where things are operated byaccident instead of motive, isn't it?" Halson smiled with radiantrecognition. 

"Fact will always imitate fiction, if you give her time enough, " I said. 

"Had they got back to the other picnickers?" Rulledge asked with a tensevoice. 

"In sound, but not in sight of them. She wasn't going to bring him intocamp in that state; besides she couldn't. She got some water out of thetrout-brook they'd been fishing--more water than trout in it--andsprinkled his face, and he came to, and got on his legs, just in time topull on to the others, who were organizing a search-party to go afterthem. From that point on, she dropped Braybridge like a hot coal, and asthere was nothing of the flirt in her, she simply kept with the women, the older girls, and the tabbies, and left Braybridge to worry alongwith the secret of his turned ankle. He doesn't know how he ever gothome alive; but he did somehow manage to reach the wagons that hadbrought them to the edge of the woods, and then he was all right tillthey got to the house. But still she said nothing about his accident, and be couldn't; and he pleaded an early start for town the nextmorning, and got off to bed, as soon as he could. "

"I shouldn't have thought he could have stirred in the morning, "Rulledge employed Halson's pause to say. 

"Well, this beaver _had_ to, " Halson said. "He was not the only earlyriser. He found Miss Hazelwood at the station before him. "

"What!" Rulledge shouted. I confess the fact rather roused me, too; andWanhope's eyes kindled with a scientific pleasure. 

"She came right towards him. 'Mr. Braybridge, ' says she, 'I couldn't letyou go without explaining my very strange behavior. I didn't choose tohave these people laughing at the notion of _my_ having played the partof your preserver. It was bad enough being lost with you; I couldn'tbring you into ridicule with them by the disproportion they'd have feltin my efforts for you after you turned your foot. So I simply had toignore the incident. Don't you see?' Braybridge glanced at her, and hehad never felt so big and bulky before, or seen her so slender andlittle. He said, 'It _would_ have seemed rather absurd, ' and he brokeout and laughed, while she broke down and cried, and asked him toforgive her, and whether it had hurt him very much; and said she knew hecould bear to keep it from the others by the way he had kept it from hertill he fainted. She implied that he was morally as well as physicallygigantic, and it was as much as he could do to keep from taking her inhis arms on the spot. "

"It would have been edifying to the groom that had driven her to thestation, " Minver cynically suggested. 

"Groom nothing!" Halson returned with spirit. "She paddled herselfacross the lake, and walked from the boat-landing to the station. "

"Jove!" Rulledge exploded in uncontrollable enthusiasm. 

"She turned round as soon as she had got through with her hymn ofpraise--it made Braybridge feel awfully flat--and ran back through thebushes to the boat-landing, and--that was the last he saw of her till hemet her in town this fall. "

"And when--and when--did he offer himself?" Rulledge entreatedbreathlessly. "How--"

"Yes, that's the point, Halson, " Minver interposed. "Your story is allvery well, as far as it goes; but Rulledge here has been insinuatingthat it was Miss Hazelwood who made the offer, and he wants you to bearhim out. "

Rulledge winced at the outrage, but he would not stay Halson's answereven for the sake of righting himself. 

"I _have_ heard, " Minver went on, "that Braybridge insisted on paddlingthe canoe back to the other shore for her, and that it was on the waythat he offered himself. " We others stared at Minver in astonishment. Halson glanced covertly toward him with his gay eyes. "Then that wasn'ttrue?"

"How did you hear it?" Halson asked. 

"Oh, never mind. Is it true?"

"Well, I know there's that version, " Halson said evasively. "Theengagement is only just out, as you know. As to the offer--the when andthe how--I don't know that I'm exactly at liberty to say. "

"I don't see why, " Minver urged. "You might stretch a point forRulledge's sake. "

Halson looked down, and then he glanced at Minver after a furtivepassage of his eye over Rulledge's intense face. "There was somethingrather nice happened after--But really, now!"

"Oh, go on!" Minver called out in contempt of his scruple. 

"I haven't the right--Well, I suppose I'm on safe ground here? It won'tgo any farther, of course; and it _was_ so pretty! After she had pushedoff in her canoe, you know, Braybridge--he'd followed her down to theshore of the lake--found her handkerchief in a bush where it had caught, and he held it up, and called out to her. She looked round and saw it, and called back: 'Never mind. I can't return for it, now. ' ThenBraybridge plucked up his courage, and asked if he might keep it, andshe said 'Yes, ' over her shoulder, and then she stopped paddling, andsaid 'No, no, you mustn't, you mustn't! You can send it to me. ' He askedwhere, and she said, 'In New York--in the fall--at the Walholland. 'Braybridge never knew how he dared, but he shouted after her--she waspaddling on again--'May I _bring_ it?' and she called over her shoulderagain, without fully facing him, but her profile was enough, 'If youcan't get any one to bring it for you. ' The words barely reached him, but he'd have caught them if they'd been whispered; and he watched heracross the lake, and into the bushes, and then broke for his train. Hewas just in time. "

Halson beamed for pleasure upon us, and even Minver said, "Yes, that'srather nice. " After a moment he added, "Rulledge thinks she put itthere. "

"You're too bad, Minver, " Halson protested. "The charm of the wholething was her perfect innocence. She isn't capable of the slightestfinesse. I've known her from a child, and I know what I say. "

"That innocence of girlhood, " Wanhope said, "is very interesting. It'sastonishing how much experience it survives. Some women carry it intoold age with them. It's never been scientifically studied--"

"Yes, " Minver allowed. "There would be a fortune for the novelist whocould work a type of innocence for all it was worth. Here's Acton alwaysdealing with the most rancid flirtatiousness, and missing the sweetnessand beauty of a girlhood which does the cheekiest things without knowingwhat it's about, and fetches down its game whenever it shuts its eyesand fires at nothing. But I don't see how all this touches the pointthat Rulledge makes, or decides which finally made the offer. "

"Well, hadn't the offer already been made?"

"But how?"

"Oh, in the usual way. "

"What is the usual way?"

"I thought everybody knew _that_. Of course, it was _from_ Braybridgefinally, but I suppose it's always six of one and half a dozen of theother in these cases, isn't it? I dare say he couldn't get any one totake her the handkerchief. My dinner?" Halson looked up at the silentwaiter who had stolen upon us and was bowing toward him. 

"Look here, Halson, " Minver detained him, "how is it none of the rest ofus have heard all those details?"

"_I_ don't know where you've been, Minver. Everybody knows the mainfacts, " Halson said, escaping. 

Wanhope observed musingly: "I suppose he's quite right about thereciprocality of the offer, as we call it. There's probably, inninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a perfect understanding beforethere's an explanation. In many cases the offer and the acceptance mustreally be tacit. "

"Yes, " I ventured, "and I don't know why we're so severe with women whenthey seem to take the initiative. It's merely, after all, the call ofthe maiden bird, and there's nothing lovelier or more endearing innature than that. "

"Maiden bird is good, Acton, " Minver approved. "Why don't you institutea class of fiction, where the love-making is all done by the maidenbirds, as you call them--or the widow birds? It would be tremendouslypopular with both sexes. It would lift a tremendous responsibility offthe birds who've been expected to shoulder it heretofore if it could beintroduced into real life. "

Rulledge fetched a long, simple-hearted sigh. "Well, it's a charmingstory. How well he told it!"

The waiter came again, and this time signalled to Minver. 

"Yes, " he said, as he rose. "What a pity you can't believe a word Halsonsays. "

"Do you mean--" we began simultaneously. 

"That be built the whole thing from the ground up, with the start thatwe had given him. Why, you poor things! Who could have told him how itall happened? Braybridge? Or the girl? As Wanhope began by saying, people don't speak of their love-making, even when they distinctlyremember it. "

"Yes, but see here, Minver!" Rulledge said with a dazed look. "If it'sall a fake of his, how came _you_ to have heard of Braybridge paddlingthe canoe back for her?"

"That was the fake that tested the fake. When he adopted it, I _knew_ hewas lying, because I was lying myself. And then the cheapness of thewhole thing! I wonder that didn't strike you. It's the stuff that athousand summer-girl stories have been spun out of. Acton might havethought he was writing it!"

He went away, leaving us to a blank silence, till Wanhope managed tosay: "That inventive habit of mind is very curious. It would beinteresting to know just how far it imposes on the inventor himself--howmuch he believes of his own fiction. "

"I don't see, " Rulledge said gloomily, "why they're so long with mydinner. " Then he burst out, "I believe every word Halson said. Ifthere's any fake in the thing, it's the fake that Minver owned to. "

THE RUBAIYAT AND THE LINER

ELIA W. PEATTIE

"Chug-chug, chug-chug!"

That was the liner, and it had been saying the same thing for two nightsand two days. Therefore nobody paid any attention to it--except ChalmersPayne, the moodiest of the passengers, who noticed it and said tohimself that, for his part, it did as well as any other sound, and wasmuch better than most persons' conversation. 

It will be guessed that Mr. Chalmers Payne was in an irritable frame ofmind. He was even retaliative, and to the liner's continued iteration ofits innocent remark he retorted in the words of old Omar:

 "Perplext no more with Human or Divine, To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign, And lose your fingers in the tresses of The cypress-slender Minister of Wine. 

 "And if the wine you drink, the Lip you press, End in what All begins and ends in--Yes; Think then you are To-day what Yesterday You were--To-morrow you shall not be less. 

 "So when the Angel of the Darker Drink At last shall find you by the River-brink, And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink. "

To these melancholy mutterings, the liner, insouciant, and not caring apeg for any philosophy--save that of the open road--shouldered alongthrough jewel-green waves, and remarked, "Chug-chug, chug-chug!"

Mr. Payne was inclined to quarrel with the Tent-Maker on one score only. He did not think that he was to-day what he was yesterday. Yesterday--figuratively speaking--he had hope. He was conscious of hisyouth. A fine, buoyant egotism sustained him, and he believed that hewas about to be crowned with a beautiful joy. 

He had sauntered up to his joy, so to speak, cocksure, hands in pockets, and as he smiled with easy assurance, behold the joy turned into asorrow. The face of the dryad smiling through the young grape leaves wasthat of a withered hag, and the leaves of the vine were dead and flappedon sapless stems!

Well, well, there was always a sorry fatalism to comfort one in joy'sdespite. 

 "Then to the rolling Heav'n itself, I cried, Asking, 'What Lamp had Destiny to guide Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?'"

The answer was old as patience--as old as courage. But to theorize aboutit was really superfluous! Why think at all? Why not say chug-chug likethe liner?

 "We are no other than a moving row Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go--"

Dinner! Was it possible? The day had been a blur! Well, probably all therest of life would be a blur. Anyway, one could still dine, and herecollected that the purée of tomatoes at last night's dinner had beenrather to his liking. He seated himself deliberately at the board, congratulating himself that he would be allowed to go through the dutyof eating without interruption. The place at his right had been vacantever since they left Southampton. At his left was a gentleman ofuncertain hearing and a bullet-proof frown. 

As the seat at his right had been vacant so long, he took the liberty oflaying it his gloves, his sea-glass, a book with uncut leaves, and acrimson silk neck-scarf. 

"I beg your pardon, " said the waiter, "but the lady who is to sit hereis coming, sir. "

"The devil she is!" thought Payne. "Will the creature expect me to talk?Will she require me to look after her in the matter of pepper and salt?Why couldn't I have been left in peace?"

He gathered up his possessions, and arose gravely with an automaticcourtesy, and lifted eyes with a wooden expression to stare at theintruder. 

He faced the one person in the world whom it was most of pain andhappiness to meet--the woman between whom and himself he meant to put agood half of the round world; and he read in her troubled gray eyes theconfession that if there was anything or anybody from which she wouldwillingly have been protected it was he--Chalmers Payne. 

Conscious of their neighbors, they bowed. Payne saw her comfortablyseated. He sat down and slowly emptied his glass of ice-water. Hepreserved his wooden expression of countenance and turned towards her. 

"The old man on my right is deaf, " he said. 

"So am I, " she retorted. 

"Not so deaf, I hope, that you won't hear me explain that I had no morenotion of your being on this ship than of Sappho being here!"

"You refer to--the Greek Sappho, Mr. Payne?"

"Assuredly. You told me--'fore Heaven, why are women soinconsistent?--you told me you were going anywhere rather than toAmerica--that you were at the beginning of your journeyings--that youhad an engagement with some Mahatmas on the top of the Himal--"

"And you--you were going to South Africa. "

"I said nothing of the sort. I--"

"Well, I couldn't go about another day. No matter whether I wasconsistent or inconsistent! I was worn out and ill. I've been seeing toomuch--"

"You told me you could never see enough!"

"Well, never mind all that. I acted impulsively, I confess. My aunt wasshocked. She thought I was ungrateful--particularly when I openlyrejoiced that she was not able to find a chaperon for me. "

"It's none of my business, anyway. I was stupid to show my surprise. Iought never to be surprised at anything you do, I know that. As for me, I'm tired of imitating the Wandering Jew. Besides, my father's oldpartner--mine he is now, I suppose, though I can't get used to thatidea--wants me to come home. He says I'm needed. So I'm rolling up mysleeves, figuratively speaking. But I should certainly have delayed myjourney if I had guessed you were to be on this boat. "

"It's very annoying altogether, " she said, with open vexation. "It looksso silly! What will my aunt say?"

"I don't think she'll say anything. You are on an Atlantic liner, withnine hundred and ninety-nine souls who are nothing to you, and one whois less than nothing. I believe that was the expression you used theother day--less than nothing?"

The girl's delicate face flushed hotly. 

"I'm not so strong, " she murmured. "It's true that I am worn out, and myvoyage has done nothing so far towards restoring me. On the contrary, Ihave been suffering. I fainted again and again yesterday, and it took agreat deal of courage for me to venture out to-day. So you must bemerciful for a little while. Your enemy is down, you see. "

"My enemy!" He gave the words an accent at once bitter and humorous. "I'll not say another personal word, " he murmured, contritely. "Tell meif you feel faint at any moment, and let me help you. Please treat me asif I were your--your uncle!"

She smiled faintly. 

"You are asking a great deal, " she couldn't help saying, somewhatcoquettishly, and then he remembered how he had seen her hanging abouther uncle's neck, and he flushed too. 

There was quite a long silence. She picked at her food delicately, andPayne suggested some claret. Her face showed that she would havepreferred not to accept any favor from him, no matter how trifling, butshe evidently considered it puerile to refuse. 

"It _is_ mighty awkward for you!" he burst out, suddenly, "my beinghere. I suppose you actually find it hard to believe that it was anaccident--"

"I haven't the least occasion to doubt your word, Mr. Payne. Have I everdone anything to make you suppose that I didn't respect you?"

"Oh, I didn't mean that! Heavens! what a cad you must think me! I have afaculty for being stupid when you are around, you know. It's mymisfortune. But--behold my generosity!--I shall have a talk with thepurser, Miss Curtis, and get him to change my place for me. Somegood-natured person will consent to make the alteration"

"You mean you will put some one else here in your place beside me?"

"It's the least I can do, isn't it? Now, whom would you suggest? Pickout somebody. There's that motherly-looking German woman over there. She's a baroness--"

"She? She'll tell me twice every meal that American girls are notbrought up with a knowledge of cooking. She will tell me how she has metthem at Kaffeeklatsches, and how they confessed that they didn't cook!No, no; you must try another one!"

"Well, if you object to her, there's that quiet gentleman who is eatinghis ice with the aid of two pairs of spectacles. That gentleman is aspecialist in bacilli. He has little steel-bound bottles in his roomwhich, if you were to break them among this ship-load of passengers, would depopulate the ship. I think he is taking home the bacilli of thebubonic plague as a present to our country. Remember, if you got on theright side of him, that you would have a vengeance beyond the dreams ofthe Borgias at your command!"

"Oh, the terrible creature! Mr. Payne, how could you mention him? Whatif he were to take me for a guinea-pig or a rabbit? No, I prefer theEnglish-looking mummy over there. "

"Who? Miss Hull? She's not half bad. She's a great traveller. She hasbeen almost everywhere, and is now hastening to make it everywhere. Shecarries her own tea with her, and steeps it at five exactly everyafternoon. She tells me that once, being shipwrecked, she grasped hertea-caddy, her alcohol-stove, and a large bottle of alcohol, andprepared for the worst. They drifted four days on a raft, and she madefive-o'clock tea every day, to the great encouragement of theunfortunates. Miss Hull is an English spinster, who has a fortune and nohousehold, and who is going about to see how other folks keephouse--Feejee-Islanders, and Tagals, and Kafirs. She likes them all, Ibelieve. Indeed, she says she likes everything--except the snug Englishvillage where she was brought up. She says that when she lived there shedid exactly the same thing between sunup and sundown for eight years. For example, she had the curate to tea every Wednesday evening duringthat entire time, and when possible she had periwinkles. "

"And nothing came of it?"

"Oh yes, an enormous consumption of tea-biscuits-nothing more. Then itoccurred to her to travel. So she went to the next shire, and liked itso well that she plunged off to London, then to the Hebrides. After thatthere was no stopping her. She likes the islands better than thecontinents, and is collecting hats made of sea-grass. She already hasfive hundred and forty-two varieties. Really, you would not find herhalf so bad. "

Helen Curtis finished her coffee, and laid her napkin beside her plate. 

"Oh, if it comes to the negative virtues, you haven't been sodisagreeable yourself to-day as you might have been. I'm underobligations to you. It _was_ rather nice to meet an old acquaintance. "

The tone was formal, and put Payne ten thousand leagues away from her. "Thank you, " he said, with mock gratitude. "_I'm_ under obligations foryour courtesy, madam. " She dropped her handkerchief as she arose, and hepicked up the trifle and gave it to her. Their fingers met, and hewithdrew his hand with a quick gesture. 

"You must allow me to see you safely to your room, " he urged. "Or elseto your deck chair. "

"Thank you. I'll go on deck, I think, and you may call the boy to go formy rug. "

He put her on the lee side, and wrapped her in a McCallum plaid, andbrought her some magazines from his own stateroom. Then he stood erectand saluted. 

"Madam, have I the honor to be dismissed?"

She looked up and gave a friendly smile in spite of herself. 

"You are very good, " she said. "I am always remembering that you aregood, and the thought annoys me. "

"Oh, it needn't, " he responded, in a philosophic tone, looking offtowards the jagged line of the horizon, where the purple waves showedtheir changing outline. "If you are wondering why it is that you dislikeme when you find nothing of which to disapprove in my conduct, don't letthat puzzle you any longer. Regard does not depend upon character. Themystery of attraction has never been solved. Now, I've seen women morebeautiful than you; I know many who are more learned; as for a sense ofjustice and fairness, why, I don't think you understand the firstprinciples. Yet you are the one woman, in the world for me. Now thatyou've taken love out of my life, this world is nothing more to me thana workshop. I shall get up every morning and put myself at my bench, soto speak, and work till nightfall. Then I shall sleep. It is dull, butit doesn't matter. I have been at some trouble to convince myself of thefact that it doesn't matter, and I value the conviction. Life isn't asdisheartening as it would be if it lasted longer. 

 "'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest A Sultan to the realms of Death addrest; The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash Strikes, and prepares it for another guest. "

Miss Curtis sat up in her chair, and her eyes were flashing indignation. 

"I won't listen in silence to the profanity of that old heathen, " shecried. 

"You refer to my friend Omar?" inquired Paine, quizzically, dropping hisearnestness as soon as she assumed it. 

"I consider him one of the most dangerous of men! Once you would havebeen above advancing such philosophy! The idea of your talking thatinert fatalism! It's incredible that you should admire what is supineand cowardly--"

Payne's eyes were twinkling. He lit his pipe with a "By yourpermission, " and between the puffs chanted:

 "Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry scheme of Things entire Would we not shatter it to bits--and then Remould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!"

"Even that is blasphemous impertinence!" the lady protested, knowingthat she was angry, and rejoicing in the sensation. 

"You think so?" cried Payne, not waiting for her to finish. "Why did youcomplain, then, of taking up the burden of common things? Do you want tobe reminded of what you told me? You said that the roving life you hadbeen leading in Europe for the past two years had unsettled you. Yousaid you wanted to live among the old things and the dreams of oldthings. You liked the sense of irresponsible delight, and weren'tprepared to say that you could ever assume the dull domestic round in acommonplace town. You considered the love of one human creaturealtogether too small and banal a thing to make you forego yourintellectual incursions into the lands of delight. You were of theopinion that you loved many thousand creatures, most of them dead, andto enjoy their society to the full it was necessary for you to look atthe cathedrals they had builded, to read the books they had written, orgaze upon the canvases they had painted. You were in a poppy sleep onthe mystic flowers of ancient dreams. Wasn't that it? So I, a merepractical, every-day fellow, who had shown an unaccountable weakness instaying away from home a full year longer than I had any business to, was to go back alone to my work and my empty house, and console myselfwith the day's work. You were to go walking along the twilight pathwhere the half-gods had walked before you, and I was to trudge up adusty road fringed with pusley, and ending in a summer kitchen. Isn'tthat about it?"

She spread out the folds of her gown and looked down at them in asomewhat embarrassed manner, seemingly submerged by this flood ofprotesting eloquence. 

"You were afraid to look anything in the face, " he went on, not givingher time to recover her breath. "You thought you could live in a worldof beauty and never have any hard work. I suppose if you had seen thegardener wiping the sweat off his brow you would not have picked any ofthe roses in that garden at Lucerne. I suppose not! Well, let me assureyou of one thing-there's commonplaceness everywhere. Probably some onehad to wash those white dresses Sappho used to wear when she sat besidethe sea. Maybe Sappho did them up herself, eh?"

He stopped and gave way to his bathos, throwing back his head andlaughing heartily. 

"Well, well, I'm through with railing at you. But I left you eatinglotus, hollow-eyed and steeped in dreams. You were listening to the surfon Calypso's Isle. I was hearing nothing but the sound of your voice. Now I've stumbled on a soporific philosophy, and am getting all I canout of the anaesthesia, and you are reproaching me. It's like yourinconsistency, isn't it?"

She put up one hand to stop him, but he went on, recurring once more tothe poet:

 "The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon, Like snow upon the Desert's dusty Face Lighting a little Hour or two, is gone. "

She tried to speak, but he lifted his hat and left her, and going to theother side of the deck, paced up and down there swiftly, and thought ofa number of things. For one thing, he reflected how ludicrous was life!Here was Helen Curtis, fleeing from the recollection of him; here washimself, fleeing from the too-sweet actuality of her calm face andlambent eyes; and they were set down face to face in midocean! Such apreposterous trick on the part of the Three!

"I suppose happiness is never anything more than a mirage, " he said tohimself as he paced. "It is bright at times and then dim, and atpresent, for me, it is inverted. The business of the traveller, however, is to tramp on in the sun and the sand, with an eye to the compass andgiving no heed to evanishing gleams of fairy lakes and plumelike palms. Tramping on in the sand isn't as bad as it might be, either, when onegets used to it. The simoon is on me now, but I'll weather it. I've_got_ to. I _won't be_ downed!"

He put his head up and tried to think he was courageous. The gloom ofthe night was about him now, and the strange voices of the sea calledone to the other. He tried to turn his thought to practical things. Hewould go home to the vacant old house where he had been born; he wouldmake it livable, let the sunshine into it, modernize it to an extent, and then get some one under its roof. While there were so many homelessfolk in the world it wasn't right to have an untenanted house. Then he'dget down to business, good and hard, and bring the thing up. It was agood business, and it had an honorable reputation. He had been toounappreciative of this fine legacy. Well, there were excuses. At schoolhe had thought of other things--and the life of the fraternity house hadbeen a gallant one! Then came his wander year--which stretched into two. And now, having eaten of the apples of Paradise and felt them turn tobitterness in his mouth, he would go back to duty. 

He wished he had never seen her again--after that night when she beliedher long-continued kindness to him with her indifferent rejection of hisdevotion. He devoutly wished he had not been forced to feel again thesubtle fascination of those deep eyes, and hear the thrilling contraltoof that rich voice! She was unscrupulous in her cold selfishness--

A sudden, inexplicable trembling of the whole great ship! A frightenedquivering, a lurch, a crash!

The chug-chug ceased. No--it couldn't! Nothing like that ever happenedto a ship of the line on a comparatively quiet night! Of course not!

Of course not--but for all of that, they were as inert as a raft, andthe passengers were beginning to skurry about and to ask the thirdofficer and the fourth officer what t' dickens it meant. The thirdofficer and the fourth officer did not know, but feltconvinced--professionally convinced--that it was nothing. The firstengineer? He had gone below. Oh, it was nothing. The captain? Really, they could not say where he was. 

Chalmers Payne strode around the after-cabin, and then ran to the spotwhere he had left Helen Curtis. She was still there. She sat up and putboth her hands in his. 

"I knew you'd be here as soon as you could, so I didn't move! I didn'twant to put you to the trouble to look for me!"

He held her hands hard. 

"I don't think it is much of anything, " he said. "It can't be. There'sno smell of fire. The sea is not heavy. At the very worst--"

"Be sure, won't you, that we're not separated? One of us might be put inone boat and one in another, you know, if it should really be--be fireor something. Then, if a storm came up and--"

People were running with vague rumors. They called out this and thatalarm. It was possible to feel the panic gathering. 

"Remember, " Helen Curtis whispered, "whatever comes, that we belongtogether. "

"We do!" he acquiesced, saying the words between his teeth. "I haveknown it a long time. But you--"

"Oh, so have I! But what made you so sure? What was there about yourhome and your work and yourself to make you so perfectly sure I would beinterested in them all my life? You didn't lay out any scheme for me atall, or act as if you thought I had any dreams or aspirations. I was tocome and observe you become distinguished--I was to watch what you coulddo! Oh, Chalmers, I was willing, but what made you so sure?"

"Then you loved me? You loved me?" She looked white and scared, and hecould feel her hands chill and tremble. 

"How ready you are to use that word! I'm afraid of it. I always said Iwouldn't speak it till I _had_ to. It frightens me--it means so much. IfI said it to you I could never say it to any one else, no matter how--"

"Not on any account! Say it, Helen!"

"I wish to explain. I--I couldn't stand the aimlessness of life afteryou left. I began to suspect that it was you who made everything sointeresting. I wasn't so enamoured with the ancients as I thought I was;but I was enamoured with your contemplation of my pose. Oh, I've beendissecting myself! Should I really have cared so much for Lucerne andNuremberg if you hadn't been with me? I concluded that I should not. Well, said I to myself, if he can make the Old World so fascinating, canhe not do something for the New World, too?"

An alarmist rushed by. 

"They are going to lower the boats!" he cried. "Better get yourvaluables together. "

"There's a panic in the steerage, " another cried. 

"Oh, Helen! Go on. Don't let anything interrupt you. "

"I won't. I realize that you ought to be told that I love you. I do. Ilove you. I'm twenty-three, and I never said the words to any one else, even though I'm an American girl. And I'll never speak them to any onebut you. I'm sure of it now. But I wouldn't say it till I was quite, quite sure. "

The captain came pacing down the deck leisurely. He lifted his hat as hepassed Payne and Miss Curtis. 

"We shall be on our way in a few minutes, " he said, agreeably. "I hopethis young lady has not suffered any alarm. "

Helen showed him a face on which anything was written rather than fear. 

"The port shaft broke off somewhere near the truss-block at the mouth ofthe sleeve of the shaft, and the outer end of the shaft and thepropeller dropped to the bottom of the sea. It's quite inexplicable, butI find in my experience that inexplicable things frequently happen. We shall finish our run with the starboard shaft only, and shall beobliged to reduce our speed to an average of three hundred and sixtyknots daily. "

He repeated this in a voice of impersonal courtesy, and went on to thenext group. Helen Curtis settled back in her chair and smiled up at herlover. 

"We shall be at sea at least two days longer, " he said, exultantly. 

"Ah, what shall we do to pass the time?" she interrupted, with mockingcoquetry. 

"Chug-chug, chug-chug!"

It was the liner. 

 "Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears To-day of past Regret and future Fears--"

This was Omar, but Miss Curtis would not listen. 

"I've an aversion to your eloquent old heathen, " she pleaded. "You mustnot quote him, really. "

"If you insist, I'll refrain. Can't I even quote 'A book of versesunderneath the bough--'"

"Oh, not on any account! That least of all. "

"You don't want me to be hackneyed? Well, I'll be perfectly original. Iknow one thing I can say which will always sound mysterious andmarvellous!"

"Say it, say it!" she commanded, imperiously, knowing quite well what itwas. 

So he said it, and the two sat and looked off across the darkened waterand at the pale, reluctant stars, beholding, for that night at least, the passionate inner sense of the universe. They said nothing more. 

But as for the liner, it continued with its emphatic reiteration. 

THE MINISTER

ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL

Mrs. Leah Bloodgood walked heavily, without the painstaking littlespringy leaps she usually adopted as an offset to her stoutness. Shemounted Cornelia Opp's door-steps with an air of gloomy abstraction thatsat uneasily on the plump terraces of her face as if at any moment itmight slide off. It slid off now at sight of Cornelia Opp's serene, sweet face. 

"My gracious! Cornelia, is this your house?" laughed Mrs. Bloodgood, pantingly. "Here I thought I was going up Marilla Merritt's steps! Youdon't mean to tell me that I turned into Ridgway Street instead ofPenn?"

"This isn't Penn Street, " smiled Cornelia Opp. She had flung the doorwide with a gesture of welcome. 

"No--mercy, no, I can't come in!" panted the woman on the steps. "I'vegot to see Marilla Merritt, right off. When I come calling on _you_, Cornelia, I want my mind easy so we can have a good time. "

"Poor Mrs. Merritt!"

"Well, Marilla ought to suffer if I do--she's on the SufferingCommittee! Good-by, Cornelia. Don't you go and tell anybody howabsent-minded I was. They'll say it's catching. "

"It's the minister, then, " mused Cornelia in the doorway, watching thestout figure go down the street. "Now what has the poor man been doingthis time?" A gentle pity grew in her beautiful gray eyes. It was sohard on ministers to be all alone in the world, especially certain kindsof ministers. No matter how long-suffering Suffering Committees mightbe, they could not make allowances _enough_. "Poor man! Well, the Lord'son his side, " smiled in the doorway Cornelia Opp. 

Marilla Merritt was not like Mrs. Leah Bloodgood. Marilla was littlewhere Leah was big, and nothing daunted Marilla. She was shaking a rugout on her sunny piazza, and descried the toiling figure while it wasyet afar off. 

"There's Leah Bloodgood coming, or my name's Sarah! _What_ is LeahBloodgood out this time of day for, with the minister's dinner to get?Something is up. " She waved the rug gayly. "Mis' Merritt isn't at home!"she called; "she's out--on the door-steps shaking rugs! Leah Bloodgood, "as the figure drew near, "you look all tuckered out! Come in quick andsit down. Don't try to talk. You needn't tell me something's up--justsay _what_. Has that blessed man been--"

"Yes, he has!" panted the caller, vindictively. It is harder to belong-suffering when one is out of breath. "You listen to this. I'vebrought his letter to read to you. "

"His letter!" Marilla could not have been much more astonished if theother had taken the minister himself out of her dangling black bag. 

"Yes; it came this morn--Mercy! Marilla, don't look so amazed! Didn'tyou know he'd gone away on his vacation? He forgot it was next monthinstead of this, and I found him packing his things, and hadn't theheart to tell him. I thought a man with a pleased look like that on hisface better _go_, --but, mercy! didn't I send you word? It _is_ catching. I shall be bad as he is. "

"Good as he is, do you mean? Don't worry about being that!" laughedlittle Marilla Merritt. "Well, I'm glad he's gone, dear man. "

"You won't be glad long, 'dear man'! Here's his letter. Take a longbreath before you read it. I suppose I ought to prepare you, but I wantyou see how I felt. "

"I might count ten first, " deliberated smiling Marilla, fingering thewhite envelope with a certain tenderness. A certain tenderness and theminister went together with them all. "But, no, I'm going to sail rightin. "

"Take your own risks, of course, but my advice is to reef all yourmain--er--jibsails first, " Mrs. Leah Bloodgood wearily murmured. "You'llfind the sea choppy. "

"'Dear Sister Bloodgood, '" read Marilla, aloud, with reckless glibness, "'Will you be so kind as to send me my best suit? I am going to marry myold friend whom I have met here after twenty years. The wedding willtake place next Wednesday morn--'

"_What!_"

"Read on, " groaned Mrs. Bloodgood. "He says the fishing's excellent. "

"I should say so! And that's what he's caught! Leah Bloodgood, what didyou ever let him go away for without a body-guard? That poor dear, innocent, kind-hearted man, to go and fall among--among _thieves_ likethat!"

"He's just absent-minded enough to go and do it himself. I don't supposewe ought to blame _them_. Read on. "

"'Next Wednesday morning, at ten o'clock, '" moaned little Marilla, glibness all gone. "'It would be most embarrassing to do so in theseclothes, as I am sure you will see, dear sister. Kindly see that my bestwhite tie is included. I would not wish to be unbecomingly attired on sojoyous an occasion. She is a widow with five chil--'"

"Mercy! don't faint away! Where's your fans? Didn't I tell you therewere breakers ahead? I don't wonder you're all broken up! Give it to me;I'll read the rest. M--m--m, 'joyous occasion'--'five children'--'she isa widow with five children, all of them most lovable little creatures. You know my fondness for children. I have been greatly benefited by mysojourn in this lovely spot. I cannot thank you too warmly forrecommending it. I find the fish--'"

"Leah Bloodgood, that will do! Don't read another word. Don't fan me, don't ask me how I feel now. Let me get my breath, and then we will goover and open the parsonage windows. That, I suppose, is the first thingto do. It's something to be thankful for that it's a good-sizedparsonage. "

"Be thankful, then--_I'm_ not. I'm not anything but incensed clearthrough. After I'd taken every precaution that was ever thought of, andsome that weren't ever, to keep that man out of mischief! I thought ofall the absent-minded things he might do, but I never thought of this, no, I never! And we wanted him to marry Cornelia so much, Marilla!Cornelia would have made him such a beautiful wife!"

"Beautiful!" sighed Marilla, hopelessly. It had been the dear pet planthey had nursed in common with all the parish. Everybody but theminister and Cornelia had shared in it. 

"And five children! Marilla Merritt, think of five children romping overour parsonage, knocking all the corners off!"

"I'm thinking, " mourned Marilla, gustily. She felt a dismal suspicionthat this was going to daunt her. But her habit of facing things came tothe front. "Wednesday's only four days off, " she said, with a fineassumption of briskness. "I don't suppose he said anything about awedding tour, did he?"

"No. But even if he took one he'd probably forget and stop off here. Sowe can't count on that. What's done has got to be done in four days. What _has_ got to be done, Marilla?"

"Everything. We must start this minute, Leah Bloodgood! The house mustbe aired and painted and papered, and window-glass set--there's no end!And all in four days! We can't let our minister bring his wife and fivechildren home to a shabby house. Cornelia Opp must go round and getmoney for new dining-room chairs, and there ought to be more beds with afamily like that. Dishes, too. Cornelia ought to start at _once_. She'sthe best solicitor we have. "

"There's another thing, " broke out Mrs. Bloodgood; "the minister musthave some new shirts. He ought to have a whole trousseau. He hasn'tboarded with me, and I done all his mending, without my knowing what heought to have, now that he's going to go and get married. We can't let_him_ be shabby, either. "

"Then, of course, there ought to be a lot of cooked food in the house, and supper all ready for them when they come. Oh, I guess we'll findplenty to do! I guess we can't stop to groan much. But, oh, howdifferent we'd all feel if it was Cornelia!"

"Different! I'd give 'em my dining-room chairs and my cellar stairs! I'dmake shirts and sit up all night to cook! It's--it's wicked, Marilla, that's what it is. "

"I know _it_ is, but he isn't, " championed Marilla. "He's just a goodman gone wrong. It's his guardian angel that's to blame--a guardianangel has no business to be napping. "

At best, it was pretty late in the day to overhaul a parsonage that hadbeen closed so long and sinking gently into mild decay. The littleparish woke with a dismayed start and went to work, to a woman. Operations were begun within an amazingly brief time; cleaners andrepairers were hurried to the parsonage, and the women of the parishwere told off into relays to assist them. 

"Somebody go to Mrs. Higginbotham Taylor's and get a high chair, "directed Marilla Merritt. "I'll lend my tea-chair for thenext-to-the-baby, anyway, till they can get something better. We don'twant our minister's children sitting round on dictionaries andencyclopaedias. "

The minister had come to them, a lone bachelor, with kind, absent eyesand the faculty of making himself beloved. For six years they had takencare of him and loved him--watched over his outgoings and his incomingsand forgiven all his absent-mindednesses. They had picked out CorneliaOpp for him, and added it to their prayers like an earnest codicil--"OLord, bring Cornelia Opp and the minister together. Amen. "

Cornelia Opp herself lived on her sweet, unselfish, single life, andprayed, "Lord, bless the minister, " unsuspectingly. She was as muchbeloved among them all as the minister. They were proud of her slender, beautiful figure and her serene face, and of her many capabilities. Whatthe minister lacked, Cornelia had; Cornelia lacked nothing. 

Marilla Merritt and Cornelia Opp were appointed receiving committee, tobe at the parsonage when the minister and his wife and five childrenarrived. A bountiful supper was to be in readiness, prepared by all thegood women impartially. The duty of the receiving committee was merely, as Mrs. Leah Bloodgood said, "to smile, and tell pleasant littlelies--'Such a delightful surprise, --so glad to welcome, etc. '

"Cornelia and Marilla Merritt are just the ones, " she said, succinctly. "_I_ should say: 'You awful man, you! Can't we trust you out of oursights?' And I suppose that wouldn't be the best way to welcome 'em. "

The minister had sent a brief notice of his expected arrival home onWednesday evening, and, unless he forgot and went somewhere else, therewas good reason to expect him then. Everything was hurried intoreadiness. At the last moment some one sent in a doll to make theminister's children feel more at home. Cornelia laughed and set thelittle thing on the sofa, stiffly erect and endlessly smiling. 

"Looks nice, doesn't it?" sighed tired little Marilla, returning from alast round of the tidy rooms. "I don't see anything else left to do, unless--Is that dust?"

"No, it's bloom, " hastened Cornelia, covertly wiping it off. "You poor, tired thing, don't look at anything else! Just go home and rest a littlebit before you change your dress. Mine's all changed, and I can stayhere and mount guard. I can be practising my lies!"

"I've got mine by heart, " laughed Marilla, "I could say 'so delighted'if he brought two wives and ten children!"

"Don't!" Cornelia's sweet voice sounded a little severe. "We've saidenough about the poor man. It's four o'clock. If you're going--"

"I am. Cornelia Opp, turn that child back to! She makes me nervoussitting there on that sofa staring at me! Will you see her!"

"She does look a little out of place, " Cornelia admitted, but she leftthe stiff little figure undisturbed. After the other woman had gone shesat down beside it on the sofa, and smoothed absently its gaudy littledress. Cornelia's face was gently pensive, she could scarcely have toldwhy. Not the minister, but the trimly appointed house with itsindefinable atmosphere of a home with little children in it was what shewas thinking of without conscious effort of her own. The smiling dollbeside her, the high chair that she could see through an inner door, andthe foolish little gilt mug that some one had donated to the minister'sbabyest one--they all contributed to the gentle pensiveness onCornelia's sweet face. She was but a step by thirty, and a woman atthirty has not settled down resignedly into a lonely old age. Let alittle child come tilting by, or a little child's foolish belongingsintrude themselves upon her vision, and old, odd longings creep out ofsecret crannies and haunt her, willy-nilly. It is the latent motherhoodwithin her that has been denied its own. It was the secret of the softwistfulness in Cornelia's eyes. So she sat until the minister came home. It was the sound of his big step on the walk that roused her and sentthe color into her face and made it perilously beautiful. 

Cornelia was frightened. Where was Marilla Merritt? Why had they come sosoon? Must she meet them alone? She hurried to the door, her perturbedmind groping blindly for the "lies" she had misplaced while she sat anddreamed. 

The minister was striding up the walk alone! He did not even look backat the village hack that was turning away with his wife and fivechildren! He looked instead at the beautiful vision that stood in theparsonage doorway, glimpses of home behind it, welcome and comfort init. The minister was in need of welcome and comfort. His loneliness hadbeen accentuated cruelly by the bit of happiness he had caught a briefglimpse of and left behind him. Perhaps the loneliness was in his face. 

"Welcome home, " Cornelia said, in the doorway. She put aside herastonishment at his coming alone, and answered the need in his face. Herhands were out in a gracious greeting. To the minister how good it was!

"They told me to come right here, " he said, "or I should have gone toMrs. Bloodgood's as usual. I don't quite understand--"

"Never mind understanding, " Cornelia smiled, leading the way into thepretty parlor, "anyway, till you get into a comfortable rocker. It's somuch easier to understand in a rocking-chair! I--well, I think I needone, too! You see, we expected--we _didn't_ expect you alone. "

"No?" his puzzled gaze taking in all the kind little appointments of theroom, and coming to a stop at the smiling doll. The two of them sat andstared at each other. 

"We thought you would bring--we got all ready for your wife and thechildren, " Cornelia was saying. The doll stared on, but the ministerlooked up. 

"My wife and the children?" he repeated after her. "I don't think I knowwhat you mean, Miss Cornelia. I must be dreaming--No, wait; please don'ttell me what it all means just yet! Give me a little time to enjoy thedream. " But Cornelia went on. 

"You wrote Mrs. Bloodgood about your marriage, " she said. Sweet voicescan be severe. "It hurried us a little, but we have tried to geteverything in readiness. If there is another bed needed for the chil--"

"I wrote Mrs. Bloodgood about my marriage?" he said, slowly; then asunderstanding dawned upon him the puzzled lines in his face loosenedinto laughter that would out. He leaned back in his rocker and gavehimself up to it helplessly. As helplessly Cornelia joined in. The dollon the sofa smiled on--no more, no less. 

"Will you ex--excuse me?" he laughed. 

"No, " laughed she. 

"But I can't help it, and you're l-laughing yourself. "

"No!"

He got to his feet and caught her hands. 

"Let's keep on, " he pleaded, unministerially. "I'm having a beautifultime. Aren't you? I wish you'd say yes, Miss Cornelia!"

"Yes, " she smiled, "but we can't sit here laughing all the rest of theafternoon. Marilla Merritt will be here--"

"Oh, Marilla Merritt--" He sighed. The minister was young, too. 

"And she will want to know--things, " hinted Cornelia, mildly. She drewthe smiling doll into her lap and smoothed its dress absently. Theminister retreated to his rocker again. 

"I think I would rather tell you, " he said, quietly. "I did marry my oldfriend this morning, but I married her to another man. It was amistake--all a mistake. "

"Then you ought not to have married her, ought you?" commented Cornelia, demurely. Over the doll's little foolish head her eyes were dancing. Marilla Merritt might not see that it was funny, Mrs. Bloodgoodmightn't, but it was. Unless--unless it was pathetic. Suddenly Corneliafelt that it was. 

The minister was no longer laughing. He sat in the rocker strangelyquiet. Perhaps he did not realize that his eyes were on Cornelia'sbeautiful face; perhaps he thought he was looking at the doll. He knewwhat he was thinking of. The utter loneliness behind him and ahead ofhim appalled him in its contrast to this. This woman sitting oppositehim with the face of the woman that a man would like always near him, this little home with the two of them in it alone--the minister knewwhat it was he wanted. He wanted it to go right on--never to end. Heknew that he had always wanted it. All the soul of the man rose up toclaim it. And because there was need of hurry, because Marilla Merrittwas coming, he held out his hands to Cornelia and the foolish, unastonished doll. 

"Come, " he said, pleadingly, and of course the doll could not have gonealone. He dropped it gently back into its place on the sofa. 

Marilla Merritt had been unwarrantably delayed. She came in flushed andpanting, but indomitably smiling. Her sharp glance sought for a wife andfive children. 

"Such a delightful surprise!" she panted, holding out her hand to theminister. "We are so glad to welcome--Why!--have you shown them to theirrooms, Cornelia?"

"They--they didn't come, " murmured Cornelia, retreating to her unfailingally on the sofa. In the stress of the moment--for Cornelia was notready for Marilla Merritt--it had seemed to her that the time for "lies"had come. She had even beckoned to the nearest one. But the ghosts ofministers' wives that had been and that were to be had risen in awarning cloud about her and saved her. 

"Didn't come!" shrilled Marilla Merritt in her astonishment. "His wifeand children didn't come! Do you know what you are saying, Cornelia? Youdon't mean--Then I don't wonder you look flustered--" She caught herselfup hurriedly, but her thoughts ran on unchecked. Of all things thatever! Could absent-mindedness go further than this--to marry a wife andforget to bring her home with him?--and _five children!_

Marilla Merritt turned sharply upon the minister. 

"Where is your wife?" she demanded, the frayed ends of her patiencetrailing from her tone. The minister crossed the room to Cornelia andthe doll. He laid his big white hand gently on Cornelia's small whiteone. There was protective tenderness in the gesture and the touch. 

"I found her here waiting for me, " the minister said. 

THE END