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_The_ ROMANCE OF AN OLD FOOL

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 THE ROMANCE

 OF

 AN OLD FOOL

 BY

 ROSWELL FIELD

 EVANSTONWILLIAM S. LORD 1902

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_Copyright, 1902, by_ ROSWELL FIELD

UNIVERSITY PRESS · JOHN WILSON AND SON · CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 

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 _To_ MY GODCHILDREN

_With the somewhat unnecessary assurance that it is not an autobiography, this little tale of misconceived attachment is affectionately inscribed_

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THE ROMANCE _of_ AN OLD FOOL

If it had not been for Bunsey, the novelist, I might haveattained the heights. As a critic Bunsey has never commanded myhighest admiration, and yet I have had my tender moments for him. From a really exacting standpoint he was not much of a novelist, and to his failure to win the wealth which is supposed toaccompany fame I may have owed much of the debt of his sustainedpresence and his fondness for my tobacco. Bunsey had started outin life with high ideals, a resolution to lead the purelyliterary existence and to supply the market with a variety ofchoice, didactic essays along the line of high thinking; but thedemand did not come up to the supply, and presently he abandonedhis original lofty intention in favor of a sort of dubiousromance. The financial returns, however, while a trifle moreregular and encouraging, were not of sufficient importance tojustify him in giving up his friendly claims on my house, mylibrary, my time, my favorite lounge, and my best brand ofcigars, in return for which he contributed philosophic opinionsand much strenuous advice on topics in general and literature inparticular. 

From my childhood I have been in the habit of keeping a diary, arunning comment on the daily incidents of my pleasant butuneventful life, and occasionally, when Bunsey's society seemedtoo assertive and familiar, I sought to punish him by readinglong and numerous excerpts. To do him justice he took thechastisement meekly, and even insisted that I was burying aremarkable talent, sometimes going to the magnanimous extreme ofoffering to introduce me to his publisher, and to speak a goodword for me to the editors of certain magazines with whom hemaintained a brisk correspondence, not infrequently of aquerulous nature. All these friendly offices I gently put aside, in recalling the degradation of Bunsey's ideals, though I went ontolerating Bunsey, who had a good heart and an insistent manner. In this way I possibly deprived myself of a glorious career. 

My ability to befriend Bunsey was due to a felicitous chain ofcircumstances. When the late Mrs. Stanhope passed to her reward, she considerately left behind a document making me the recipientof her entire and not inconsiderable fortune. This proved amost unexpected blow to the church, which had enjoyed the honorand pleasure of Mrs. Stanhope's association, and which, quitenaturally, had hoped to profit by her decease. The late Mrs. Stanhope, who I neglected to say was, in the eyes of Heaven, the world, and the law, my wife, had not lived with me in thatutter abandonment to conjugal affection so much to be desired. We married to please our families, and we lived apart as muchas possible to please ourselves. Though not without certainphysical charms, Mrs. Stanhope was a woman of great moralrigidity and religious austerity, who saw life through thediminishing end of a sectarian telescope, and who cared farmore for the distant heathen than for the local convivial paganswho composed my _entourage_. She had brought to me a considerablesum of money, which I had increased by judicious investments, and I dare say that it was in recognition of my business ability, as well as possibly in a moment of becoming wifely remorse, thatshe bequeathed to me her property intact. I gave her finaltestimonial services wholly in keeping with her standing asa church-woman, and I must say for my friends, whom she hadseverely ignored during her life, that they behaved veryhandsomely on that mournful occasion. They turned out inlarge numbers, and testified in other ways to their regard forher unblemished character. I recall, not without emotion afterall these years, that Bunsey's memorial tribute to the churchpaper--for which he never received a dollar--was a modelof appreciation as well as of Christian forgiveness andself-forgetfulness. 

The passing of Mrs. Stanhope made it possible for me to put intooperation the long-desired plan of retiring a little way into thecountry, not too far from the seductions of the club and thecity, but far enough to conform to the tastes of a countrygentleman who likes to whistle to his dogs, putter over hisroses, and meditate in a comfortable library with the poets andphilosophers of his fancy. Here, with my good house-keeper, Prudence--a name I chose in preference to her mother's selection, Elizabeth--and my gardener and man of affairs, Malachy, I livedfor a number of years at peace with the world and perfectlysatisfied with myself. Although I was dangerously over forty, andmy hair, which had been impressively dark, was conspicuously grayin spots, my figure was good, my dress correct, and my mirrortold me that I was still in a position to be in the matrimonialrunning if I tried. I mention these trifling physical detailsmerely to save my modesty the humiliation and annoyance ofreferring to them in future, and to prepossess the gentle readerwherever the sex makes it highly important. 

I do not deny that in certain moments of loneliness which come tous, widowers and bachelors alike, I had the impulse to temptagain the matrimonial fortune, and counting on my financialstanding, together with other attractions, I ran over theeligible ladies of my acquaintance. But one was a little too old, and another was a good deal too flighty. One was too fond ofsociety, and another did not like dogs. A fifth spoiled herchances by an unwomanly ignorance of horticulture, and a sixthperished miserably after returning to me one of my most cherishedbooks with the leaves dog-eared and the binding cracked. For Ihold with the greatest philosophers that she who maltreats a bookwill never make a good wife. And so the years slipped cosily andcheerily by, while I grew more contented with my environment andless envious of my married friends, and whenever temporarymelancholy overtook me I moved into the club for a month, orslipped across the water, finding in the change of sceneimmediate relief from the monotony of widowerhood. 

In thus fortifying myself against the wiles of woman I was muchabetted by my good Prudence, who never ceased her exhortations asto the sinister designs of her sex, and who had a ready word ofdiscouragement for any possible candidate who might be in theline of succession. "I see that Rogers woman walkin' by the houseto-day, Mr. John, " she would begin, "and I see her turnin' hernose up at the new paint on the arbor. " (I selected that colormyself. ) "It's queer how that woman does give herself airs, considerin' everybody knows she's been ready for ten years totake the fust man that asks her. " Prudence knew that I hadescorted the elderly Miss Rogers to the theatre only the weekbefore, and had commented pleasantly on the elegance of herfigure. But the slight put upon my eye for color was too much. Wily Prudence!

Or a day or two after I had rendered an act of neighborlykindness to the bereaved Mrs. Stebbins she would say quitecasually:

"I don't want to utter one word agin the poor and afflicted, Mr. John, but when the Widder Stebbins hit Cleo with a broom to-day Iown I b'iled over. I shouldn't tell you if it warn't my duty. "

Cleopatra was my favorite cocker spaniel, and any faintimpression my fair neighbor may have made on my unguarded heartwas immediately dispelled. Thus subtly and vigilantly myhouse-keeper kept the outer gates of the citadel, and shooed awaya possible mistress as effectually as she dispersed the predatoryhens from the garden patch. 

But with the younger generation of women, good Prudence was lesscautious. Any maiden under the very early twenties she regardedfair material for my friendly offices, and frequently she visitedme with expressions commendatory of good conduct. 

"I likes to see you with the children, Mr. John, bless 'em, sir. And they do all seem to be so fond of you. There's nothin' thatkeeps the heart so young and fresh as goin' with young people, just as nothin' ages a man so much as havin' a lot of widders anddesignin' old maids about. Of course, " she added, with a returnof her natural suspicion, "you are old enough to be father to thewhole bunch, which keeps people from talkin'. "

Whether it was Prudence's approbation or my own inclination Icannot say, but it soon came about that I was on paternallyfamiliar terms with the entire neighborhood of maidens ofreasonably tender years, and a very important factor in youngfeminine councils. These artful creatures knew exactly whentheir favorite roses were in bloom, exactly when the cherriesback of the house were ripe, exactly when it was time to go totown for another theatre party, to give a picnic up the river, ora small and informal dance in the parlors. I was expected toremember and observe all birthdays, to be a well-spring ofbenevolence at Christmas, and a free and never-failing florist atEaster. I was the recipient of all young griefs and troubles, andno girl ever committed herself unconditionally to the arms of herlover until she had talked the matter over with Uncle John. Allthis, to a good-looking man of--well, considerably over forty, was flattering, but no sinecure. 

One morning, in the late spring, it came over me unhappily thatin a moment of fatal forgetfulness I had promised to be presentthat evening at a card-party--a promise exacted by the "Rogerswoman, " _persona non grata_ to Prudence. A card-party was to mein the category with battle and murder and sudden death, fromwhich we all petition to be delivered in the book of commonprayer--but how to be delivered? I could not be called suddenlyto town, for I had already run that excuse to its full limit. Icould not conveniently start for Europe on an hour's notice. Theplea of sickness I dismissed as feminine and unworthy. And whileI sat debating to what extreme I could tax my over-burdenedconscience, Malachy appeared with the information that he haddiscovered unmistakable signs of cutworms in the rose-bushes, andthat the local custodians of the trees were thundering against animpending epidemic of brown-tailed moth. Surely my path of dutyled to the garden. But that card-party? No, let the cutworm workhis will, and let the brown-tailed moth corrupt; I must takerefuge in flight, however inglorious. It was then that the goodangel, who never forsakes a well-meaning man, whispered to methat far back in a quiet corner of New England was the littlevillage where I had passed my boyhood, which I had deserted forfive and twenty years, but which still remembered me as "Johnny"Stanhope, thanks to the officious longevity of the editor of thecounty paper. 

The situation I explained briefly to Prudence and Malachy, andswore them into the conspiracy. I threw a few clothes into asmall trunk, despatched a hypocritical note of regret to MissRogers, caught the noon train, and was soon beyond the dangerline. Mrs. Lot, casting an apprehensive glance behind her, couldnot have dreaded more fearful consequences than I, looking backon the calamity I was evading. But as we went on and on into thecool, quiet country, and felt the soft air stealing down from thenearing mountains, I began to experience a lively sense of reliefand pleasure, and to wonder why I had so long delayed a visit tomy boyhood home. 

I am sorry for the man whose childhood knew only the roar andbustle and swiftly shifting scenes of the city. For him there isno return in after years, no illusion to be renewed, no joy ofyouth to be substantiated. His habitation has passed away oryielded to the inroads of commerce, his landmarks have vanished, and he is bewildered by the strange sights that time and tradehave put upon his memories. But time has no terrors for thecountry-bred boy. The Almighty does not change the mountains andthe rivers and the great rocks that fortify the scenery, and manis slow to push back into the far meadowlands and the hillsides, and destroy the simple, primitive life of the fathers. 

All of the joy that such a returning pilgrim might have I feltwhen I left the train at the junction, and, scorning the ponyengine and combination car supplied in later years by the railwaycompany as a tribute to progress, set out to walk the two milesto the village. Every foot of the country I had played over as aboy. Here was the field where Deacon Skinner did his "hayin'";just beyond the deacon raised his tobacco crop. That roof overthere, which I once detected as the top of Jim Pomeroy's barn, reminded me of the day of the raisin', when I sprained my ankleand thereby saved myself a thrashing for running away. Here wasPickerel Pond, the scene of many miraculous draughts, and now Icrossed Peach brook which babbled along under the road just assaucily and untiringly as if it had slept all these years and wasjust awaking to fresh life. A hundred rods up the brook was theWidow Parsons's farm, and I knew that if I went through the sidegate, cut across the barnyard, and kept down to the left, Ishould find that same old stump on which Bill Howland sat the dayhe caught the biggest dace ever pulled out of the quiet pool. 

The sun was going down behind Si Thompson's planing mill as Istopped at the little red covered bridge that marked the boundaryof the village. Silas had been dead for twenty years, but itseemed to me that it was only yesterday that I heard his nasaltwang above the roar of the machinery: "Sa-ay, you fellers wantto git out o' that!" The little bridge had lost much of its colorand most of its impressiveness, for I remembered when to myboyish fancy it seemed a greater triumph of engineering than theVictoria bridge at Montreal. And the same old thrill went throughme as I started to run--just as I did when a boy--and felt theplanks loosen and creak under my feet. Here was a home-comingworth the while. 

Hank Pettigrew kept the village tavern. The memory of man, so faras I knew, ran not back to the time when Hank did not keep thetavern. So I was not in the least surprised, as I entered, to seethe old man, with his chair tilted back against the wall, hisknees on a level with his chin, and his eyes fixed on a chromo of"Muster Day, " which had descended to him through successivegenerations. He did not move as I advanced, or manifest theslightest emotion of surprise, merely saying, "Hullo, Johnny, "as if he expected me to remark that mother had sent me over tosee if he had any ice cream left over from dinner. It probablydid not occur to Hank that I had been absent twenty-five years. If it had occurred to him, he would have considered such atrifling flight of time not worth mentioning. 

With the question of lodging and supper disposed of, and with themodest bribe of a cigar, which Hank furtively exchanged for amore accustomed brand of valley leaf, it was not difficult toloosen the old landlord's tongue and secure information of myplaymates. What had become of Teddy Grover, the pride of ourschool on exhibition day? Could we ever forget the afternoon hestood up before the minister and the assembled population androared "Marco Bozzaris" until we were sure the sultan was quakingin his seraglio? And how he thundered "Blaze with your serriedcolumns, I will not bend the knee!" To our excited imaginationswhat dazzling triumphs the future held out for Teddy. 

"Yep; Ted's still a-beout. Three days in the week he drives stagecoach over to Spicerville, and the rest o' the time he does oddjobs--sort o' tendin' round. "

And Sallie Cotton--black-eyed, curly-haired, mischievous littlesprite, the agony of the teacher and the love and admiration ofthe boys! Who climbed trees, rattled to school in the butcherwagon, never knew a lesson, but was always leading lady in theschool colloquies, and was surely destined to rise to eminence onthe American stage if she did not break her neck tumbling out ofold Skinner's walnut tree?

"Oh, Sal; she married the Congregational minister down toPeterfield, and was 'lected president of the Temperance Union andsecretary of the Endeavorers. Read a piece down at Fust Churchlast week on 'Breakin' Away from Old Standards, ' illustratin' thealarmin' degen'racy of children nowadays. "

And George Hawley, our Achilles, our Samson, our ideal ofeverything manly and courageous! Strong as an ox and brave as alion! Our champion in every form of athletic sports! Who lookedwith contempt on girls and disdained their maidenly advances! Whothought only of deeds of muscular prowess, and who seemed tocarry the assurance of a force that would lead armies and subduenations! What of George?

"Wa-al, George was a-beout not long ago. Had your room for hissamples. Travellin' for a house down in Boston, and comes herereg'lar. Women folks say his last line o' shirt waists war thebest they ever see. "

Oh, the times that change, and change us! Alas, the fleetingyears, good Posthumus, that work such havoc with our childhooddreams and hopes and aspirations!

It was a relief, after the shattering of these idols, to leavethe society of the communicative Mr. Pettigrew and wander intothe moonlight. Save as adding beauty to the scenery, the moonwas comparatively of no assistance, for so well was the littlevillage stamped on my memory, and so little had it changed in thequarter of a century, that I could have walked blindfolded to anysuggested point. Naturally I turned my steps toward the home ofmy youth, and as I drew near the old-fashioned, many-gabledhouse, with its settled, substantial air, austere yet inviting, its large yard with the huge elms, and the big lamp burning inthe library or "sittin'-room, " where I first dolefully studiedthe geography that told me of a world outside, it seemed to bendtoward me rather frigidly as if to say reproachfully: "You soldme! you sold me!" True, dear old home; in my less prosperous daysI was guilty of the crime of selling the house that faithfullysheltered my family for a hundred years. But have I not repented?And have I not returned to buy you back, and to make such furtherreparation as present conditions and true repentance demand? Isthis less the pleasure than the duty of wealth?

With what sensations of delight I walked softly about thegrounds, taking note of every familiar tree and bush and stump. Icould have sworn that not a twig, not a blade of grass, had beendespoiled or had disappeared in the years that marked my absence. I paused reverently under the old willow tree and affectionatelyrubbed my legs, for from this tree my parents had cut theinstruments of torture for purposes of castigation, and its name, the weeping willow, was always associated in my infant mind withthe direct results of contact with my unwilling person. On alevel with the top of the willow was the little attic room whereI slept, and the more sweetly when the crickets chirped, or thesummer rain beat upon the roof, and where the song of the birdsin the morning is the happiest music God has given to thecountry. Back of the woodshed I found the remains of an oldgrindstone, perhaps the same heavy crank I had so oftenperspiringly and reluctantly turned. Indeed my reviving memorieswere rather too generously connected with the strenuousness andnot the pleasures of youth, but I thought of the well-filled lotin the old burying-ground on the hillside, and of those lyingthere who had said: "My boy, I am doing this for your good. " Idoubted it at the time, but perhaps they were right. At allevents the memories were growing pleasanter, for a stretch ofthirty-five years has many healing qualities, and our childhoodgriefs are such little things in the afterglow. 

In the early morning I renewed my rambles, going first to thelittle frame school-house, the old church with its tall spire, the saw-mill, the deacon's cider press, the swimming pool, and adozen other places of boyish adventure and misadventure. Yourtrue sentimentalist invariably gives the preference to scenesover persons, and is so often rewarded by the fidelity with whichthey respond to his eager expectations. It was not until I hadexhausted every incident of the place that I sought out thecompanions of my school-days. What strange irony of fate is thatwhich sends some of us out into the restless world to grow awayfrom our old ideals and make others, and restrains some in themonotonous rut of village life, to drone peacefully their littlespan! But happy he, who, knowing nothing, misses nothing. Ifthere were any village Hampdens, or mute, inglorious Miltonsamong my playmates, they gave no present indications. I found thegirls considerably older than I expected, the boys lessinteresting than I hoped; but they all welcomed me with thatgrave, unemotional hospitality of the village, and we talked, farinto the shadows, of our schooltime, the day that is never deadwhile memory endures. 

And so it came about that at the close of day I found myselfstanding at the garden gate of the Eastmann cottage. PelegEastmann had been our village postmaster, a grave, shy man, whohad received the federal office because the thrifty neighborsagreed, irrespective of political feeling, that it was much lessexpensive to give him the office than to support him and his twodaughters, the prettiest girls in our school. For they furtheragreed that Peleg was a "shif'less sort o' critter" and nevercould make a living, though he was a model postmaster and anexcellent citizen and neighbor. Hence, when it came Peleg's turnto make the journey to the burying-ground in the village hearse, the whole community of Meadowvale was scandalized by thediscovery that he had left his girls a comfortable littlefortune, enough to keep them in modest wealth. Meadowvale neverrecovered from this shock. It felt that it had been victimized, and that its tenderest sensibility had been violated, and whenhis disconsolate daughters put up the granite shaft to theirfather's memory, relating that he had been faithful and just, theindignant political leader of the village remarked that it was"profanation of Scriptur'. "

Thirty years ago I had stood at this little gate with one of theEastmann girls, escorting her home from Stella Perkins's party. Ihad attempted to kiss her good-night, and she had boxed my ears, thus contributing a disagreeable finale to an otherwise pleasantevening. Time is a great healer and I cherished no resentment atthis late day toward the repudiator of my caresses. In fact Ismiled in recollection of the incident as I walked up thegravelled path and knocked at the door. I wondered if the samevivacious, rosy-cheeked girl would come to meet me, and if Ishould feel in duty bound to make honorable amends. The door wasopened by a tall, spare woman, who carried a lamp. The lightreflected directly on her features, showed a face that in anyother part of the world would be called hard; in New England itis merely resolute. It was the face of a woman fifty years ofage, with massive chin, slightly sunken cheeks, a prominent nose, heavy eyebrows, and a high forehead rather scantily streaked bygray hair. There was no trace of the girlish bloom I had known, of the beauty that once had been hers, but the imperious mannerof the woman was unmistakable. 

"Mary, " I began jocularly, "I have come to apologize. "

She thrust the lamp forward, peered into my face, and said, withnot the faintest trace of a smile or the slightest evidence ofembarrassment:

"Why, that's all right, Johnny Stanhope. I accept your apology. Come right in. "

I went in. We sat in the sitting-room and talked of ourschool-days and our fortunes. I told her how I had gone down tothe city, how I had prospered, of my adventures in the world, ofmy marriage--dealing very gently with my relations with the lateMrs. Stanhope--of my bereavement and present idyllic existence. And she told me of herself, how she had lived on and on in thelittle cottage, caring only for the support and education of herniece, Phyllis Kinglake, an orphan for nearly twenty years. "Youremember Sylvia?" she said, with the first touch of emotion. 

Did I remember Sylvia? My little fair-haired playmate with thelarge eyes and the blue veins showing through the delicate beautyof her face? Little Sylvia, who first won my boyish affection, and with whom I made a solemn contract of marriage when we wereonly seven years old? Did I not remember how I would pass herhouse on my way to school, and stand at the gate and whistleuntil she came shyly out, with her face as red as her little hoodand tippet, and give me her books to carry, and protest with theever present coquetry of girlhood that she thought I had gonelong ago? Could I ever forget how I saved my coppers, one by one, until I had accumulated a sum large enough to buy a wholecocoanut, which I presented to her in the proudest moment of mylife, and how the other girls tossed their heads with theaffectation of a sneer, and with pretended indifference to thisastonishing stroke of fortune? And that fatal evening when Iprovoked my little beauty's wrath, and in all the recedingopportunities of "Post-Office" and "Copenhagen" she had turnedher face and rosy lips away from me, until the world was blackwith a hopeless despair? And the singing-school where she was ourshining ornament, and that blissful night when I stood up withher in the village church, while we sang our duet descriptive ofthe special virtues of some particular flower nominated in thecantata? And how, growing older and shyer, we still preserved ouryouthful fancy even to the day I struck out into the world, bothbelieving in the endurance of the tie that would draw me back?What caprice of fate is it that dispels the illusions of youthand restores them tenfold in the reflection of after years andover the gulf of the grave? Did I remember Sylvia?

Then Mary went on to tell me of Sylvia's happy marriage to GeorgeKinglake, how, when little Phyllis had come, and the world wasat its brightest, the parents had been stricken down in the sameweek by a virulent disease, and how, with her dying breath, themother had asked her sister to look after her little one andprotect her from sorrow and harm. Very simply this stern-featuredwoman told the story of her efforts to do her duty to hersister's child, and it seemed to me that her face grew softer andher voice gentler as she went over the years they had grown oldertogether, while the beauty of this woman's life was glorified bythe willing sacrifices of imposed motherhood. I could not seePhyllis, for she was spending the night with friends in anotherpart of the village. Next time, she hoped, I might be moresuccessful. 

Walking slowly to the tavern my mind still went back to my littleplaymate and the golden days of youth, and if my heart grew alittle tenderer, and my eyes were moistened by the recall, whatneed to be ashamed of the emotion? And if in the night I dreamedthat I was a boy again, and that a fair-haired child played withme in the changing glow of dreamland in the best and purestscenes of the human comedy, was it a delusion to be dispelled, amemory to be put aside? Did I remember Sylvia?

The thought that my train was to leave at ten o'clock did notdepress me as I awoke, with the sunlight streaming through thewindow, for, after all, I was obliged to admit that the monotonyof Meadowvale and the sluggishness of my village friends werebeginning to have an appreciable effect. Then the memory oflittle Sylvia came to me again, and nothing seemed pleasanter, asa benediction to the old days, than a visit to the burying-groundwhere she was sleeping. The previous day I had paid theobligations of remembrance and respect to the graves ofmy kindred, and it gave me at first an uncomfortable feelingto realize that the thought of them was less potent thanthe recollection of this young girl. But was it strange orinexcusable? Had they not lived out their lives of honoredusefulness, and grown old and weary of the battle? And hadnot she passed away just as the greater joys of living wereunfolding, and the assurance of happiness was the stronger?Poor Sylvia!

The spectacle of a correctly dressed, middle-aged man passingdown the street, bearing a somewhat cumbersome burden oflilies-of-the-valley and forget-me-nots, must have had itspeculiar significance to the inhabitants of the village, and manycurious glances were my reward. I passed along, however, withoutexplanations in distinct violation of rural etiquette. The oldcaretaker of the burying-ground met me at the entrance and gaveme the directions--second path to the right, half way up thehill, just to the left of the big elm. The old man had known meas a boy and would have detained me in conversation, but Ipleaded that my time was short, and reluctantly he let me go myway. Slowly up the hill I walked, occasionally pausing to place aforget-me-not on the grave of one I had known in childhood. Evenold Barrows did not escape my passing tribute--a cynical, cross-grained old fellow, the aversion of the boys, who tormentedhim and whom he tormented with reciprocal vigor. No need of aforget-me-not for Barrows, for he never forgot anything, so Igave his somewhat neglected grave the token of a long stem oflittle lilies, in evidence that the past was forgiven, and movedon to avoid possible protestation. 

I paused under the wide-branching elm to recover my breath. Theassent had been arduous for a gentleman inclined to portlinessand with wind impaired by tobacco. I turned to the left, and atthat moment, just before me, a woman's figure slowly rose fromthe ground. A creeping sensation possessed me. My heart boundedand my pulses thrilled. Was this Sylvia risen from the dead?Surely it was Sylvia's graceful girlish form! This was Sylvia'soval face, with Sylvia's large gray eyes. In such a way Sylvia'spretty light hair waved about her temples, and the pink andwhite of her delicate complexion revealed the blue veins. Twenty-five years had rolled back in an instant, and I wasstanding in the presence of the past. Alas, the swift passing ofthe illusion, for the conversation of the evening came to me. 

"You are Phyllis?" I said. 

"I am Phyllis, " she answered softly--her mother's voice--"and youare Mr. Stanhope. My aunt told me. "

I did not answer, for I was staring stupidly at her, reluctant toabandon the pleasing fancy that my thinking of her had broughther back from the dead again. She did not speak, but glancedinquiringly at the flowers I held in my hand. 

"I knew your mother, Phyllis, " I managed to say. "She was a verydear playmate of my childhood. I have brought these flowers toput upon her grave. Shall we go together?"

The girl's eyes filled, and she pointed to the rising mound ather feet. Silently we bent over and reverently laid the liliesand forget-me-nots under the simple headstone. 

"May I talk to you of your mother?" I asked. 

We sat down on a rude bench in the path, and I told her of mychildhood, of the days when Sylvia and I were sweethearts, of ourlittle quarrels and frolics, of her mother's beauty andgentleness. The girl laughed at the recital of our misadventures, and the tears came into her eyes when I touched on my boyishaffection for my playmate. Then she told me of her own life, sopeaceful and happy in the little village, and in the neighboringtown, where she had been educated with all the care and diligenceof the New England impulse. I looked at my watch. 

"It is quarter past eleven, " I said ruefully, "and my train leftat ten. "

"There's another train at three, " she replied. "You will go homeand dine with us? We dine at twelve in the country, you know. "

If I was somewhat ashamed to face Mary Eastmann, she received uswith the same stolidity she had manifested when we first met, andat once insisted that I should remain for dinner. "Go into theparlor, " she said abruptly. 

Phyllis plucked the sleeve of my coat. "Don't go in there, " shewhispered; "that's Aunt Mary's room exclusively, and I'm afraidyou'll not find it very cheerful. Come out on the porch. "

"I know the room, " I whispered back, as we went out together. "Atleast I know the type. Lots of horse-hair belongings. Squarepiano against the wall. Wax flowers under a glass case on themantel. Steel engravings of Washington crossing the Delaware. Family album, huge Bible, and 'Famous Women of Two Centuries' onthe centre table. Seashells, blue wedgwood and German chinathings mingled in delightful confusion on the what-not. If notwax flowers, it's wax fruit. "

Phyllis laughed--how much her laugh was like her mother's--andnodded her head. "Not a bad description, " she assented; "you musthave the gift of second sight. "

"Not second sight. Suppose we call it the gift of secondchildhood. "

We sat on the porch and looked down on the lawn that sloped tothe orchard, and watched the robins run across the grass. And Ipointed out to Phyllis the very tree under which Sylvia and I hadstood the day we had our first memorable quarrel, confessing thatwhile at the time there was no doubt in my mind that Sylvia wasclearly at fault, I was now prepared to concede, after plenty ofreflection, that possibly she might have had a reasonable defence. The recital of this pathetic incident led to other reminiscencesconnected with the old house and its grounds, and I was hardly inthe second chapter when Mary came out and ordered us in to dinner. Mary never invited, never requested; she merely ordered. We sat atthe table, and at a severe look from Mary I stopped fumbling withmy napkin, while Phyllis--sweet saint!--folded her hands and askedthe divine blessing. Pagan philosopher that I was, I was singularlymoved by the simple faith of these two women, and I think that whenI am led back into the fold of my family creed, a girl as young andfair and holy as Phyllis will be the angel to guide me. 

The dinner was toothsome, the environment fascinating, theafternoon perfect, and so it came about quite naturally that Imissed the three-o'clock train. "There is nothing so disagreeablein life, " I explained apologetically to my friends, "as a hardand fast schedule, which keeps one jumping like an electricclock, doing sixty things every hour and never varying theperformance. Fortunately trains run every day except Sunday, andthe general order of the universe is not going to be upsetbecause I am not checking myself off like a section-hand. "

Perhaps Mary did not wholly coincide with my argument, but shewas called away to her sewing-circle, while Phyllis and I loungedlazily on the porch, I continuing my reminiscences. Garrulityis not merely the prerogative of age; the privilege of themonologue is always that of the old boy who comes back to hischildhood's home and finds in a pretty girl a charming andattentive listener. He is a poor orator, indeed, who cannotimprove such opportunities. At a convenient lull in the flow ofdiscourse we went off to ride, exploring the country roads I knewso well, and here began new matter and new reminiscences, patientlyendured by Phyllis, who was a most delightful girl. And when wereturned late in the afternoon it was directly in the line ofcircumstances that I should remain for tea; and after tea Phyllisplayed and sang for me in the little parlor, for Phyllis was amusician of no small merit. When in reply to my inquiry she sanga simple Scotch ballad her mother had sung so touchingly manyyears before, a great lump rose in my throat, and I sat far overin the shadow that she and Mary might not see how blurred were myeyes, and how unmanageable my emotion. At what age does it cometo a man and a philosopher that he is no longer ashamed ofhonest, sympathetic tears?

I shall never know whether it was the journey in the train, the air and cooking of Meadowvale, or the visits to theburying-ground, that upset me, but for the first time in a dozenyears I found myself dissatisfied with my home. I remarked toMalachy that the roses seemed to be in a most discouragingcondition, and that the garden in general was altogetherdisappointing. I noticed that my dogs barked a great deal, thatthe neighbors had become most tiresome, and that Bunsey was anunmitigated nuisance. Even the cuisine, which had been my prideand boast, grew at times unbearable, and I had not been home afortnight before I astonished Prudence by positively assuring herthat the dinner she had set before me was not worth any saneman's serious attention. Whereupon that excellent woman announcedwith superb pride that she "guessed it was about time for thatRogers woman to give another card-party. "

"Prudence, " I said severely, for I encourage no flippancy on thepart of domestics, "that remark, while probably hasty andill-considered, borders on impertinence. I shall overlook it thistime on account of your faithful services in the past. But don'tlet it happen again. In any event, " I amended considerately, "don't let it drop in my presence. "

Thinking it over I came to the conclusion that Prudence was rightin the general effect of the suggestion. What I needed was achange of scene. Long abstention from travel and variety ofincident had made me restless and discontented. I had not been inEurope for two years. Undoubtedly I was pining for a lazy tour ofthe Continent. The thought decided me. I should book my passageon the steamer that sailed the Saturday of the following week. 

Strangely enough, at this interesting moment, I received a letterfrom the chairman of the committee on public improvements in thevillage of Meadowvale, announcing that it had been resolved toprocure new rooms for the village library, and would Mr. JohnStanhope do his native village the honor of subscribing a smallamount toward this desirable end. As it is always much easier foran indolent man to telegraph than to write letters, I replied bywire that Mr. Stanhope felt himself much honored by the request. Not entirely satisfied with this confession, I sent a secondtelegram an hour later doubling my subscription. Still myconscience troubled me. 

"I have not done my duty, " I said to myself. "Here I am, a man ofmeans, I may say of large wealth, with no special obligationsresting upon me, and yet I have done nothing to benefit or enrichmy old home. It is strange that it has not occurred to me beforewhat a privilege, what an honor, it is to be a philanthropisteven in a small way, and with what alacrity those whom Heaven hasblessed with a fortune should respond to the calls of deservingneed. I blush for my past thoughtlessness, and I shall hasten toatone for my astonishing neglect. My duty lies before me, and Ishall not shrink from it, whatever the personal inconvenience. "

Thereupon I telegraphed for the third time to the chairman thatit would give Mr. Stanhope the greatest pleasure to put up asuitable library for the village of Meadowvale, and, in order toguard against any possible misunderstanding, he would depart thefollowing day to confer with the committee as to site andprobable extent of the structure. This concession to myconscience comforted me greatly, and I prepared for my journeywith a lightness that was almost buoyancy. The chairman and twoof the committee met me at the junction. They were mostdeprecatory and apologetic, and mentioned with evident sorrowthe absence of several of the members which might cause apostponement of the conference until the following day. I bore upunder this intelligence with astonishing cheerfulness. 

"My good friends, " I said, "don't let this disturb you for aminute. I am not so pressed for time that I cannot wait on yourreasonable convenience. Your tavern is well kept and the food iswholesome. I think I may say that my old friends in Meadowvalewill interest me until we can come to an amicable understanding. Suppose, to be sure of a full meeting, that we fix the time ofconference at day after to-morrow--a little late in theafternoon. "

After this suggestion had been received with suitable expressionsof gratitude, we journeyed together to the village, where I wasduly turned over to old Pettigrew. And then, as the day was by nomeans done, I strolled down the street and, most naturally andquite unthinkingly, found myself a few minutes later looking overthe Eastmann gate at Phyllis on the porch. To say that thischarming girl was surprised by my sudden appearance was no lesstrue than to admit that she did not seem in the least displeased. I positively had no intention of going in, but before I knew it Iwas sitting beside her, relating in the most casual way thereason of my coming. 

"How good it was of you, " said the ingenuous creature, "and howdelighted and grateful Meadowvale will be. It must be glorious tobe rich enough to do things for other people. "

Now it is not a disagreeable sensation to feel that one is richand good and glorious in the large gray eyes of a very prettywoman, and I was conscious of the mild intoxication from thecompliment. "It is, indeed, " I answered magnanimously. "I havealways maintained that money is given to us in trust for thosearound us, and that in making others happy we find our greatesthappiness. I regret that I have not wholly lived up to thisundeniably correct principle. "

"It will require at least a thousand dollars, " she said naïvely. 

"Oh, at least. "

She was silent a moment. Then she said: "I was wondering what Iwould do if I had a thousand dollars to give away. "

"What do you think you would do?"

"Speaking for my own preferences I think I should like toestablish a country club. "

"The very thing. If there is one crying want more than another inMeadowvale it is a country club, with golf links, tennis courts, and shower baths. "

"Now you are laughing at me. "

"Not at all. Fancy old Hank and you playing a foursome with AuntMary and me for the cider and apples. Why, it would add years ofrobustness to our waning lives. "

"No, " said the girl decisively. "It isn't feasible. "

"Then, " I went on musingly, "we might have an Art Institute, orthe Phyllis Kinglake School of Expression, or the MeadowvaleWoman's Club, or the Colonial Dames, or, best of all, theDaughters of the American Revolution. "

"That shows how little you appreciate the local situation, " sheresponded quickly, "for your best of all is worse and worse. Imagine an order of Daughters in a place where every woman'sancestors did nothing but fight in the Revolution. As well call atown meeting at once. Ah, "--with a sigh--"I see that I shallnever spend the thousand dollars in Meadowvale. "

"Don't be too sure of that, my dear Phyllis, " I exclaimed in anoutburst, for I was in a particularly happy and generous mood;"and remember that when you do decide how the money is to bephilanthropically invested we shall see that it is forthcoming. "

With such agreeable banter the minutes slipped away, and whenMary appeared with the customary invitation to tea, it would havebeen a jolt to the harmonious order of things to decline. Icannot say that I have ever cordially approved the austerity ofthe New England tea-table, with its cold bread and biscuits, itsapplesauce, its frugal allowance of sardines, its basket of cake, and its not very stimulating pot of tea. But such are thecompensations of pleasant society that even these chilly viandsmay be forgotten, and I said my "Amen" to Phyllis's sweet andmodest grace with all the heartiness of a thankful man. As nogentleman may, with propriety, run away immediately after he hasaccepted hospitality, I lingered in the evening, and we had moremusic, which so calmed and rested me that I wondered at my pastnervousness and marvelled that I had even contemplated a journeyacross the water. 

How it came about that the next morning Phyllis and I werestrolling over the village, down by the river and into thepleasant woods, I have forgotten, but I dare say that we werediscussing further developments of philanthropy, and endeavoringto come to a conclusion as to the proper disposition of thattroublesome thousand dollars. The girl was so young andjoyous, so pretty, so arch, so fascinating with that littlecoquettishness that is not the usual type of the Puritan maiden, I could not find it in my heart to remember Mary's words and "tryto instil in her a closer appreciation of the more seriouspurposes of life. " Indeed life is so serious that it is one ofthe blessed decrees of Mother Nature that we have that briefallotment of time when it is too serious to think about, andyouth passes so quickly that it is criminal to rob it of itsgolden hour. In such a presence I felt my own spirits rising, mystep becoming springy, my whole nature less sluggish, and, had Ilooked in the mirror, I should have confidently expected to see ayouthful bloom in my cheeks and a return of hair to primaryconditions. 

It is due to this interesting young woman to say that she coylyurged me not to forget my other friends, since I was to leave sosoon, and it pleased me to fancy that she was not altogetheroffended when I spoke somewhat hastily and rather flippantly ofthose of my former companions who had lapsed into tediousness. Ireminded her also that as the happiest memory of my childhood wasassociated with her mother, so it was sweet to me to be with herand live again, in a pleasant dream, the brightness of the past. Then, for her mother's sake, she shyly let me take her hand whileI went over again, not without emotion, the story of my earlylove. Dear little Sylvia!

The meeting of the committee was followed by a generalcongregation of citizens, and I was invited to the platform, where I outlined my plans. I hinted that the library was merelythe beginning of a number of beneficences which I desired tocontribute to Meadowvale's prosperity, and as I looked down uponmy listeners and caught sight of Phyllis, glancing up withflushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, I was nearly betrayed intopromises of the most preposterous nature. At the end ofmy remarks--I recall that I spoke with unusual grace andeloquence--the chairman stood up and gravely thanked me, intimating that I was a credit to Meadowvale and its perfectpublic school system. I fancy I should have been applauded if ithad been compatible with the nature of the people of Meadowvaleto make so riotous a demonstration. At the close of the meetingit happened, by the purest accident, that I walked home with Maryand Phyllis, and when Mary said in her blunt way that I reallyhad been most generous, Phyllis did not speak, but she slippedher hand under my arm and gave me an appreciative little squeeze, which made me regret that I had not pledged another thousand. 

I was to leave the next morning, thanks to the officious membersof the committee, who had so blunderingly hurried matters toaccommodate me that I had no longer an excuse of remaining. Andit was for this reason that I went in and sat again in the littleparlor, while Phyllis sang for me the songs that were myfavorites, and some her mother sang in the long ago. Memorieswere again pleasantly stirred within me, as was not infrequent inthose days, and I experienced all the happiness that comes to himwho is persuaded that he has made himself a little above theordinary attractions of the earth. In this excess of goodfeeling, and stimulated alike by the music and the consciousnessof a philanthropic impulse, I waited until the moment of partingbefore declaring definitely my excellent intentions. 

"My dear Mary, " I began, turning to that admirable spinster, "youknow how our childhood was linked by a close family feeling, andhow you and Sylvia and I planned in our simple ambitions to livetogether in the great world outside. We may say now that this waschildish romance, and that the caprice of time has made it anidle fancy. For many years we have been separated, and only by ahappy chance have we been brought together. Fortune has been kindto me. I am called a rich man, and I believe I may say withoutboasting that I am far beyond the need of anxiety. But to adegree I am a lonely man. My sister's child is my one nearrelative in the world, and he is a young man with an excellentbusiness, able to take care of himself, and naturally engrossedwith his own occupations. You can understand that at my time oflife, alone as I am, and still young enough to appreciate thejoys of living, I have a feeling of desolation for which noriches can compensate. Had fortune given me a daughter, like ourPhyllis here, I think no happiness could have been so great. Ithas pleased me to look back upon the past, to recall the days ofour childhood, and to see in Phyllis the image of her mother. Whycan I not link the present and the future with the past? Why canI not look on Phyllis as my own daughter, and give to her all thefather love I have learned to feel? I do not rob you either ofher love or her presence. I merely add a new joy to my life, andknow that in caring for you both and in contributing to herhappiness, and securing her against misfortune after we are takenaway, I am carrying out the pledge, however idle at the time, Imade to Sylvia. "

I fancied I saw what may have been the suspicion of a tear inMary Eastmann's eye. It vanished as quickly as it came, and whenshe spoke and thanked me for my generous offer, her voice was ascalm and her manner as collected as if I had made a casualsuggestion for attendance at a prayer meeting. She could notdeny that the opportunity was too enticing to be ignored, andshe admitted that my fatherly proposition was distinctlyadvantageous. Her New England independence rather revolted at thethought of any immediate financial assistance, which was notneeded, while her New England thrift approved a future settlementbased on family friendliness of many years' standing. On thewhole she was inclined to be favorable to my point of view. 

As for Phyllis, she had listened to me with undisguisedamazement. Her big gray eyes had grown larger, and the color lefther cheeks as I finished. Then the rosy red rushed back, her lipquivered and the tears sprang to her eyes. A moment later shesmiled, then laughed, and was serious again. How incomprehensibleare these young girls! Poor child! she had never known a father'slove. 

Phyllis followed me to the door. The light, streaming from theparlor, shone squarely on her exquisite face. A thrill ofpleasure went through me as I realized that at last I had adaughter whom I could love and cherish. I took her hand in bothof mine, and, as I released it, I parted the light, wavy hair, and kissed her forehead. It seemed to me that she trembledslightly, but in a moment she was herself, and a gleam ofmerriment was in her eyes, as she said:

"Of course you will write to me--papa?"

Doubtless the novelty of the situation made me just a littleembarrassed. To be called "papa" the first time by a pretty girlwas more embarrassing than I had expected. And why thathalf-laugh in her eye, and why that almost quizzical tone? Was Inot kind and good enough to be her father, and had I not tried toshow her every paternal consideration? Was I not honestlyendeavoring to fulfil a sacred pledge? I was perplexed but notdiscouraged. "I will prove to her, " I said to myself withfirmness, "that I am entirely worthy of her filial affection, andthat she may lean confidently upon me. " And I went straightwayto bed, and dreamed of her all night as every true father shoulddream of the daughter of his heart and his hope. 

In the very nature of things it was necessary that I shouldreturn frequently to Meadowvale, to confer with the villagecommittee and make all proper arrangements for beginning soimportant a local enterprise. While this put an end to myprojected trip to Europe I accepted the situation with calmnessand forbearance, satisfied that in the pursuit of duty and ingiving happiness to my fellow creatures I should have the rewardof an approving conscience. To my nephew, Frederick Grinnell, Igave the task of preparing the plans, and his excellentsuggestions were cordially adopted. Much of my spare time--and itis amazing how much spare time one has in a village--was spent atthe Eastmann cottage with my new daughter, and in the evening Italked to her of the world outside, quite, I fancy, as Othellomay have spoken to Desdemona, but with a more conservative and abetter impulse. I unfolded to her the wonders of great London, the pleasures of Paris, the beauties of Venice, the sacredmysteries of Rome, the noble traditions of Athens. I journeyedwith her up the Nile and down the Rhine. One night we were in gayVienna, another in Berlin, a third in the grandeur of theAlhambra. From the fjords of Norway to the tea houses of Japanwas the journey of a few minutes, and the indifference of mysurfeited life gave way before the kindling enthusiasm of thislovely country girl, whose world had been the area of scarcelymore than a township. 

But the paternal relation, however honest and commendable myintentions, did not seem to thrive as I had fondly hoped. Only inher teasing moments would this vivacious creature admit thesolemnity of our compact, and when she called me "papa" there wasalways that gleam of the eye, with that merriment of tone, whichmay not have been disrespectful but was certainly not filial. This troubled me exceedingly. I thought it all over and one nightI said to her:

"My dear Phyllis, it has become only too evident that you do notentertain that deferential feeling for me which a daughter shouldhave for a father. I shall not describe your emotions as I haveanalyzed them, but I am satisfied that we shall not make acomplete success of my long cherished plan. However, I am notprepared to withdraw unreservedly from my schemes for yourcomfort and happiness, and since you cannot look upon me as afather, or treat me like a father, I have another suggestion tooffer. Let me be your elder brother, and watch over and guard youas a brother's duty should direct. There shall be no diminutionof my love, no retraction of my promises. Perhaps, in the feelingthat I am your brother, you will talk with me with greaterfrankness, and feel more closely drawn to me, and we shall be allthe better and the happier for the change. "

Thus speaking I took her pretty hand and carried it respectfullyto my lips, at the same time patting it affectionately andassuring her of my brotherly devotion. And this incomprehensiblegirl threw back her head and laughed; then burst into tears, laughed again, flushed to crimson and ran out of the room. I wasgrieved beyond measure. Had I done wrong so quickly and rudely tosever a connection so holy? Had the filial feeling been suddenlyawakened in her breast? Was I depriving this poor child of atender paternal care, for which she longed, but which maidenlycoyness could not immediately accept?

As a philosopher I have made woman the subject of much research, and my library bears witness to the attention I have paid to thewritten opinions of the ablest writers and thinkers of all times, who have had anything to do with this fascinating theme. I haveseen her in all her phases, analyzed her in all her emotions, andBunsey has admitted to me that my theoretical knowledge has beenof great value to him in dealing subtly with his heroines. Andyet, despite my complete equipment in mental construction, I amconstantly surprised by a new development, a sudden andunaccountable phenomenon of feminine nature, which undoubtedlyescaped the experience and reasoning of the experts and sages. Itis indeed a matter of pride in woman that while man has studiedher for thousands of years, she continues to exhibit freshdelights in her infinite variety of moods and to put forthunexpectedly new and astounding shoots. 

I saw Phyllis no more that evening, save in my dreams, and itwas wholly creditable to the goodness of my motives and thesincerity of my affection that she abided with me in myslumbering fancies with no protracted intermissions. The nextday she was as sweet and gracious as ever, but I thought hertone a little constrained, and when, as a father or brothershould, I ventured to speak of the tenderness of our familyrelation, a half-imploring look came into her beautiful eyes. And when I casually remarked on the softness of her hair, or theslenderness of her fingers, her glance was timidly reproachful. All this gave me great unhappiness, and I discovered, to my furtherdistress, that in my attempt to return to the old familiar footingI was neglecting the committee and losing interest in the affairs ofthe library. A certain peevishness took possession of me; I wasno longer myself, and I lost the gayety and sprightliness whichhad been always my distinguishing virtues. 

Furthermore I missed the companionship and solace of my books inthis emergency, for I had no reference library to which I couldgo in Meadowvale for aid in establishing the true condition ofthis strange girl. I recalled dimly that somewhere on my shelveswas a volume which contained a fairly analogous case, but while Iknew that I possessed such a book I could not remember thecircumstances or the incidents cited, and this added to myunrest. Only a student can understand the absolute wretchednesswhich overtakes a man when he finds himself miserably dependenton a distant library. For several days I gave myself up entirelyto my mental depression, greatly wondering at the perplexingchange in my life, and marvelling that in all my explorations inphilosophy I had not provided for just such a crisis, whatever itmight be. One afternoon as I sat in my room at the tavern, looking idly out of the window and across the little river whichrippled by, something seemed to strike me violently in theforehead. It may have been a telepathic suggestion, it may havebeen a return to consciousness; at all events it was an idea. Ileaped from my chair, put on my hat, and proceeded ratherfeverishly to the Eastmann cottage. Phyllis was away for the day;Mary was knitting in the sitting-room. I watched her in silencefor a moment, and then I said abruptly:

"Mary, I think I should like to marry Phyllis. "

Mary Eastmann was not the type of woman to lose herself or betrayastonishment. She pushed her spectacles sharply above her eyes, looked at me sternly, and said in a rasping voice. 

"John Stanhope, don't be an old fool. "

"Whatever I may be, Mary, " I answered, much nettled by her tone, "I do not think anybody can properly regard me as a fool. As forthe other qualification, " I went on complacently, "I am not soold. "

"You and Sylvia were the same age, and she would have beenforty-eight. "

"A man is as old as he feels, " I ventured, finding refuge in aproverb. 

"That is evasive, and has nothing to do with the question. Beside, what reason have you to believe that Phyllis has theslightest desire to marry you?"

"Frankly, not the slightest reason in the world, " I replied withthe utmost candor. "That is why I have been so bold as to speakto you on the subject. "

"Perhaps you thought I might use my influence to help youalong?"

"Quite the contrary, my dear Mary, I assure you. I may not knowvery much about women"--I was quite humble when separated from mylibrary--"but I do know that nothing is so fatal to a lover'sprospects as the encouragement of the loved one's relations. Yousee that I am perfectly frank. "

"Then you wish my opposition?"

"Come, let us be reasonable. I have told you I wish to marryPhyllis. I know my good points, and I am not unacquainted with myweak ones. Unhappily I can figure out my age to a day. Alas, I amforty-eight, and Phyllis is not yet twenty-three. The differenceis positively ghastly from a sentimental standpoint, but if Ilove her, and she is not hopelessly indifferent to me, I thinkthat even that difficulty can be bridged. You know my position, my character, my general reputation. Neither of us knows whatPhyllis really thinks or what she will say or do in the matter. Ido not ask either for your opposition or your good offices. Ihave come to you as an old friend and the girl's nearestrelative to tell you exactly how I feel and what I wish to gain. And I ask only that I may have the same chance to win heraffection that you might grant to a younger man. "

Mary's voice was gentler when she spoke again. "John, " she said, "Phyllis is all I have in the world. It is my one idea to haveher happily married to a worthy man whom she honestly loves. Providence, in inscrutable wisdom, may have decreed that you arethat man, but, " she continued with a sudden return of Yankeecaution, "I have my doubts, considering your age. However, youhave acted honorably in coming to me, and while I think Phylliswould be a better daughter than wife to you, I cannot speak forher. Remember that she is very young and very inexperienced. Heracquaintance with men has been slight. You are a man of the worldand with enough of the surface polish--I don't say it stops withthat--to dazzle any girl accustomed to such surroundings as wehave here. Undoubtedly an offer from you would flatter her; itmight induce her to accept you, thinking that she loved you. Becareful. Be sure of your ground before it is too late. "

As I walked back to the village I mused on what Mary had said, but I felt no apprehension. Most lovers are alike in this--inyouth, in middle age, in senility. Perhaps the advantage ofmiddle life is that a man is more the master of himself, more inpossession of the faculties necessary to carry him through acrisis. Without the impetuous desire of youth, or the deadenedsensibilities of old age, he has a certain serene confidence thatis a mixture of love and philosophy. It disturbed me somewhat tofind with what equanimity I faced a situation which promisednothing. It really annoyed me to note that I was picking outmentally the place to which I should conduct Phyllis in order tohave the harmonious environment adapted to a sentimentalproposition. I remembered that down by the river, just beyondthe willows, there was an old tree where Sylvia and I--ah, somany years ago!--had sat and talked of our lives before us. Tothat sacred spot I would lead Sylvia's daughter, and, passinggently from the past to the present, I would tell her of my loveand of my fondest hopes. How dignified and appropriate such aspot for a frank, calm, and self-contained avowal!

Thus philosophically and amiably plotting I walked contentedlyalong, and, looking up, I saw Phyllis coming toward me, swingingher hat in her hand, and suggesting in her girlish beauty andgraceful outline the poet's shepherdess. She did not see me, and, yielding to a sudden impulse, I stepped quickly aside in theshadow of a neighbor's house, as she passed on with her eyes onthe ground. I followed at a little distance, and discovered, much to my dismay, that she chose the road that led to theburying-ground. Now a cemetery is not at all the spot that a man, whatever his philosophy, would select for a tender declaration, but I was buoyed by the remembrance of Mary's words. "The fingerof Providence may be in it, " I muttered. "The Lord's will bedone. "

Slowly up the winding path she walked, and I as slowly followed. When I reached her, she was standing at her mother's grave, justas she had stood the morning we first met. I tried to accept thisas an omen, but failed miserably, and omens, after all, depend onthe point of view. She raised her eyes, and, seeing me, blushed, another omen which means comparatively little to a man who isaware of the thousand emotions that are responsible for the blushof woman. I was again annoyed by the discovery that my pulseswere not beating wildly, and that my heart was not throbbingtumultuously, and when I addressed a commonplace remark to her Iwas thoroughly ashamed and humiliated. It seemed like taking amean advantage of innocence and inexperience. 

We sat together on the little bench, and for the first time inour acquaintance she appeared embarrassed, as if she knew whatwas passing in my mind. I have always believed that women, inaddition to their acknowledged intuition, have a special sensethat enables them to anticipate a declaration of passion, and Ihad no doubt that Phyllis was fully prepared for my confession inspite of her embarrassment. This induced me to proceed to thepoint without unnecessary preliminaries. 

"Phyllis, " I said, not without a certain agreeable ardor, "I havebeen talking with Aunt Mary. "

"Indeed?"

"And about you. "

"Really?"

"When I say that I have been talking with Aunt Mary, and aboutyou, " I continued in a grieved tone, for I do not like jerkyresponses, "I wish you to understand that it was in connectionwith no ordinary topic. Phyllis, "--I spoke with the utmosttenderness--"can you not guess the nature of our discussion?"

Phyllis was equal to the emergency; her embarrassment haddisappeared. "I am glad, " she said, "that your conversation sofar as it related to me was out of the ordinary. I suppose I mayask what the topic was--that is, if you don't mind telling. "

This was approaching the serious. "Phyllis, I was telling AuntMary that I loved you and wished to make you my wife. "

A flash, half merry, half angry, came to her eye. "That wasthoughtful of you. Is it customary for gentlemen in the city, when they think they love a girl, to honor all her relations withtheir confidence before they speak to the girl herself?"

I took her hand. She made the slightest motion to withdraw it, and permitted it to remain in my grasp. "Phyllis, " I said withall earnestness, "do not misunderstand me. I sought you at thehouse. You were absent. Your Aunt Mary and I have been friendsfrom childhood, and it was only natural that out of my heart Ispoke the words that were in my mind. I told her that I lovedyou, just as at that moment I might have shouted it from thehousetop. My heart was full of you and I had to speak. Can't youunderstand?"

The girl was still obdurate, and she spoke with some petulance. "If that is the case, perhaps it is just as well that it was AuntMary and not one of the neighbors. "

"Dear little Phyllis, you are not angry with me because I loveyou? You cannot remain angry with me because I confessed my lovebefore I met you to-day? If you had only seen with whatapplications of cold water your aunt rewarded my confidence, youwould pity and not reproach me. "

For a minute the girl was silent. Then she asked softly: "Howlong have you known that you loved me?"

"Must I answer that question candidly and unreservedly?"

"Unreservedly and candidly. "

I seized her other hand and held her firmly. "About fiftyminutes. "

She laughed, rather joyously I thought. "And having loved me forfully fifty minutes, you wish to make me your wife? Confidingman!"

"Little girl, " I said tenderly, "let us be serious. If my dullconsciousness did not awaken till an hour ago, my heart tells methat I have loved you ever since I first saw you standing nearthis spot. I am not going to ask you now whether you love me, orever can learn to love me. It is happiness enough for me to-dayto know how much I love you, and to know that I have told you ofthat love. I do not care to have my dream too rudely and toosuddenly dispelled. Very probably you do not care for me as Ishould like to have you care for me, but do not make a jest of myaffection. I am wholly aware of the preposterousness of mydemands in many respects"--this sounded very conventional andcommonplace, but every lover must say it--"and, believe me, Ishudder when I think of what I have dared confess. "

Then she said with the most delightful demureness: "Mr. Stanhope, is it likely that a girl would sit in a burying-ground on a benchwith a gentleman, allowing him to hold both her hands, unless shecared for him a little--just a little?"

Up to this moment I had fairly forgotten that I was depriving herof all power of resistance, but with such encouragement I took aneven more sympathetic grasp and sat a trifle closer, while theminutes ticked away. A robin flew down from the tree near by andsaucily hopped toward us, until at a rebuking call from his matehe flew away, and I fancied that I could hear them talking overthe situation, and drawing conclusions from their own happiness. Phyllis was the first to break the charming spell. 

"Mr. Stanhope, " she asked, hardly above a whisper, "what did AuntMary say when you told her that you wished to make me yourwife?"

"She said, Phyllis, that Providence may have decreed that I amthe man to bring you happiness. "

And still in that same enchanting whisper, with her face a littlerosier, as she half hid it below my shoulder: "Mr. Stanhope, doyou think that a girl with my Christian training could fly in theface of Providence?"

The philosopher was in love. It comes, I have no doubt, to everywell-ordered man to be in love once. Some there are who maintain, with plausibility, that the passion we call love may be offrequent recurrence, and they point to the passing fancies ofboys and girls, the romances of moonlight, the repeated sighingsof the fickle Corydon, and the matrimonial entanglements of theaging Lydia, as evidence for their argument. That there arevarying degrees of the ecstatic emotion cannot be truthfullydenied. Heaven has wisely decreed that the heart, once filledwith its ideal, may be compensated for the bitter hour of sorrowby the soothing balm of a new affection, and it is even possiblethat the second love may be more satisfying than the first, thethird or fourth more typical of exaltation than its predecessors. But love, whether early or late, in the perfect absorption of thefaculties comes only once; as compared with this remarkablemental state all other conditions are unemotional, unfilling. 

The true lover rises early, before the world is astir. If it issummer and in the country, his thoughts lead him to the coolgroves, the shady banks of the river, the retired spots where hemay uninterruptedly commune with his happiness or his misery, andreflect on the blessings that are to be, or should be, his. Wasit not then as a true lover that in the early morning I walkedinto the country, and down the banks of the stream where Sylviaand I had strayed and talked in the sunny days of youth? Andnature seemed a part of the wedding procession, and the squirrelson the fence rails, and the robins, wrens, and wood-thrushes inthe trees chirped and twittered: "John Stanhope is in love! JohnStanhope is in love!" And the mocking crow, lazily flapping hiswings at a safe distance, croaked enviously: "Ha, ha! oldStanhope is in love. Ha, ha!" Yet the whole conspiracy ofanimated nature could not make old Stanhope in his presentexaltation regretful of his age or ashamed of his passion. 

Mary Eastmann had accepted the situation without comment. Sheneither congratulated nor demurred, but went on with herhousehold duties with the same method and precision as before. Men may come and go, hearts may be won and lost, republics maytotter and empires may fall, but the grand scheme of sweeping, dusting, bed-making, and cooking knows no interruption. If I didnot understand I at least commended this housewifely prudence, and often when the domestic battle was at its height I wouldspirit away my little charmer for the discussion of topics withinmy comprehension. At the outset I had declared that while it hadpleased Providence to begin our romance in a burying-ground, Idid not propose to sacrifice all tender sentiment to meditationsamong the tombs, and I bore her away to the old tree down by theriver, where we sat for hours together as I unfolded my plans forour future life. 

A man who has sat at the feet of the philosophers from Ovid toSchopenhauer, and has gorged his intellect with the abstractprinciples of love, naturally adapts himself to the professorialcapacity, and I soon saw that Phyllis, while one of the mostlovable, one of the sweetest of girls, was almost wholly ignorantof the psychology of passion. I could not expect that a younggirl of twenty-two would discourse glibly of the emotion in itsintellectual phase, but I could not bear the thought that sheshould enter lightly into so serious a compact, and withoutgaining a reasonable comprehension of its mental analysis. Hence, as opportunity presented, I enriched her mind with the beautiesof love from the standpoint of philosophers and thinkers, andshowed her the priceless blessings that must result from a uniondictated by careful provision of reasoning. To these addressesshe listened with sweet patience, and if she did not always grasptheir meaning, she showed much admiration for my erudition andfrequently remarked that she had no idea that love was soabstruse a science. It seemed to me, in the serenity of my yearsand the calm assurance of my love, that I was a most persistentwooer, and I was greatly grieved when she broke out ratherpetulantly one afternoon:

"I don't believe you really love me. "

"You don't believe I love you? And why?"

She hesitated, half abashed by her own outburst, then added alittle defiantly: "Well, in the first place, you never quarrelwith me. "

"And why should I quarrel with you? Aren't you the most amiable, the most perfect little woman in the world?"

"Oh, of course; I know all that. But I have always read, andalways believed, that when two persons are truly, deeply in love, they have most exciting quarrels. Is it not true that in allromances the man is eternally quarrelling with the girl andbidding her farewell forever?"

"Yes, and coming back in ten minutes to weep and grovel at herfeet and beg her to forgive him. My dear little Phyllis, whyshould I bid you farewell forever, when I am morally certain thatin half that time I should be cringing in the turf, weeping andbegging you to say that all is forgiven and forgotten?"

"That would be lovely, " she said pensively. 

"Perhaps, but it would be very undignified and unnecessary. And Iam not at all sure that you would admire me in that attitude evenif I did imitate the heroes of romance. A weeping lover is muchmore agreeable in a novel than in actual life. However if youinsist that we must quarrel, in order to demonstrate thesincerity of my affection, I shall suggest that we have our spatswhen we part for the night, in order that no precious wakinghours may be lost. "

"You are joking, " she exclaimed with a little pout. 

"Not at all. Still, " I added reflectively, "even this plan hasits disadvantages, for if we quarrel when we part at night, itwill necessitate my return to your window, which would not onlyannoy your aunt but might scandalize the neighbors. Furthermoreit might give me a shocking cold, unless you immediatelyrepented, for the nights are very damp. No, " I sighed with greatfeeling, "all this seems impracticable. You must give me a betterreason for my coldness. "

Phyllis toyed with a clover blossom, and made no answer. I wenton:

"As a slight indication of my unlover-like hauteur, let meconfess that I am going to bring you a marvellously glitteringbauble when I come back from the city, something that willbewilder you by day and dazzle you by night. "

She shrugged her shoulders. "Of course you are; you are alwaysgiving me presents. "

I laughed at this. "Well, suppose I am; I have never heard thatit is a sign of waning affection to bestow gifts on the lovedone. "

"You refuse me nothing. I dare say you would give me the BostonState House if I wished it. "

"No, you are wrong there, " I replied decisively. "If I bought theState House I should be compelled to include the emblematiccodfish, and you know my aversion to codfish. "

She smiled at the thought, recalling the Sunday breakfast, andthen with a roguish look and a half-embarrassed laugh she said:"At all events you cannot deny that you did not kiss me when youleft last night. "

"Didn't I?" I asked in amazement, and then, quite thrown off myguard, I added thoughtlessly: "I had forgotten. "

"That, " she replied quietly, "was because you were so taken upwith the philosophy of love, and the mental attitude, that youoverlooked the physical demonstration. Do you remember theconversation?"

Unfortunately I did. I recalled that I had spent an hour or moredefining the moral status of love and proving the sufficingreason. It was not a pleasant reflection that so agreeable andinstructive a conversation was not thoroughly appreciated. 

"We spoke at length on love, " I ventured feebly. 

"That is, you did, " she replied. "I'll admit that it was betterthan an ordinary sermon, because the subject was more personal. But don't you think we admitted the sufficing reason atthe start, and isn't it natural that a girl who has beenconventionally brought up is pretty well satisfied in her ownmind of the moral status? Of course, " she added, with a toss ofher pretty head, "I am not asking you or anybody else to kiss me. I am merely curious to know if this plays any part in thephilosophy of love as understood by the greatest thinkers. "

Her speech had given me time to pull myself together. "No, " Isaid with marked emphasis, "I did not kiss you, because I hadnoted the unworthy suspicions you have expressed to-day, andI was hurt and grieved. It was hard for me to exhibit mydispleasure in this way, and I am regretful now that I havelearned that it was simply playfulness on your part. Don'tinterrupt. I am satisfied that the pure merriment of your natureis responsible for this assault, and I shall take great pleasurein making up this evening for the deficiencies of last night. "

She laughed and we were friends again. And with such jocularasperities the days passed quickly and agreeably until my nephewarrived with the plans and specifications. Frederick Grinnell wasnot only my nephew, but an architect of reputation and promise, considering his years and experience. Like Phyllis he had beenleft an orphan early in life, and it had been my pleasure andprivilege to give him an education and see that he was fairlystarted in life. While I think I may say that Frederick was notquite so attractive as was I at his age, he was nevertheless afine, manly young fellow, tall, well put together, of goodhabits, industrious and devoted to his profession. It pleased meto see that he admired Phyllis's pretty face and bright, animatedmanner; but one evening, when I fancied that he was too deeplystirred by her really beautiful voice, I took the opportunity toconverse with him confidentially as we walked back to the tavern. 

"I have been intending to tell you, Frederick, " I began a littleairily, "of the relations existing between Miss Kinglake andmyself. So far it has been a profound secret"--I did not thenknow that the entire village was gossiping about it--"but I feelthat I owe it to you, as my nearest relative, to admit that MissKinglake and I are engaged. "

I paused, and noting that he did not wince or appear in the leastdegree discomposed, continued:

"Of course you will respect my confidence in this matter. Ofcourse, " I added magnanimously, "it will be perfectly proper foryou to signify to Miss Kinglake that you are aware of our littlesecret as that will put us all on a better basis and lead to nomisunderstandings. It would be awkward to play at cross purposes, and I should be extremely sorry, my dear boy, to think that I hadwithheld anything from you, for you have always enjoyed myfullest trust. "

Whatever he may have thought, his manner betrayed no unusualinterest. "I congratulate you, " he replied very calmly. 

Now that so perfect an understanding existed in the immediatefamily circle, I gave myself no further uneasiness. I was trulyrejoiced to notice that Frederick was deferentially polite toPhyllis, and I encouraged him to show her those polite attentionswhich my betrothed would reasonably expect from my nephew. And attimes I even insisted that he should represent me at certaingatherings of Phyllis's friends, who were too young andfrivolous to claim my serious attention. When he protested, andpleaded headache, business, or other sign of disinclination, Irallied him good-humoredly on his lack of gallantry. 

"Nonsense, my boy, " I argued; "a young fellow of your spiritshould be only too glad to go out with a pretty girl and enjoyhimself. You certainly would not deprive Phyllis of an evening'spleasure because your uncle has a stiff knee which interfereswith his dancing, and--confound it, you know they never let mesmoke at these frolics. Come now, be a good fellow and show theproper family impulse. "

As they went off together I looked at them admiringly and ratherfancied that I saw in them a suggestion of what Sylvia and I hadbeen when we made the rounds of the birthday parties. For it isfair to confess that the image of Sylvia did not infrequentlyrise before me, and I constantly saw in Phyllis the replica ofher adorable mother. In my happiest moments I spoke of thissuggestion to Phyllis, and continued to regale her with fragmentsof my early life associated with her family. At first I thoughtthat the girl was somewhat piqued, fearing that Frederick wasthrust upon her, although she admitted that he was good-looking, polite, and danced extremely well, but I succeeded in convincingher that true love should not be gauged by the low standards ofhot-night dancing, and that all philosophers agree that thepurest affection springs from quiet contemplation, such as Ishould enjoy while she was making merry with her friends. To thisshe once ventured to remark that in that case perhaps myaffection would thrive to greater advantage if I contented myselfwith thinking about her and not seeing her at all, a suggestionwhich wounded me in my tenderest sensibilities, for I wasvery much in love. I was also not a little disturbed when, supplemental to my reminiscences, Mary went back to the past andhumorously drew pictures of me as her own early lover. There isconsiderable difference between the impalpable, airy spirit ofthe fancy and a wrinkled and austere feminine actuality of fifty. 

In the midst of these innocent and improving pleasures a smallcloud appeared in the summer sky. I received a letter addressedin a peculiar but not ornate hand, and I opened it withmisgivings and read it with consternation. 

 MR. STANHOPE SIR: Prudence and I thinks youd better come home. The plummer was hear twice yisterday and the cutworms is awfle. Hero got glass in her foot and the brown tale moths is bad again wich is al for the presnt. 

 Respecfuly

 MALACHY. 

Duty is one of the exactions of life which I have never shirkedwhen there seemed no possible way of evading it, but in thisinstance the call of duty was compromised by matters of equalurgency, for nothing can be more important than the successfuladministration of the affairs of love. It was a happy thoughtthat suggested to me a way out of the difficulty, which wasneither more nor less than that we should all go to the citytogether. I sprang the proposition at a family conference. Phyllis was delighted. "There is always so much to be seen in thecity, " she cried, "and I shall meet Mr. Bunsey. It has been oneof the dreams of my life to know a real literary man. "

This appeared to call for an explanation. Heaven knows I am notjealous of Bunsey, and would not deprive him of a singledistinction that is honestly his. But a regard for the truth, coupled with much doubt as to Bunsey's ability to live up to suchlively expectations, compelled me to resort to a little gentlecorrection. 

"My dear Phyllis, " I said, "you must disabuse your mind of thatfallacy. Bunsey is a popular novelist, not a literary man. "

"But isn't a novelist a literary man?" she asked in amazement. 

"Not necessarily, " I replied pityingly. "In fact I may say notusually. Of course we are speaking of popular novelists. Thepopularity of the novelist is in proportion to his lack ofliterary style. The distinctive popular charm of Bunsey is thathe is not literary--at least, if he is, his critics have notsucceeded in discovering it; he successfully conceals his crime. If he is popular, it is because he is not literary; if he wereliterary he could not be popular. "

"That does not seem right, " said my little Puritan. 

"It is not a question of ethics at all, but a matter oftaste. However, don't be prejudiced against Bunsey becausehe is a product of the time and fairly representative of thecivilization. You shall meet him and shall learn from him how aman may succeed in so-called literature without any hamperingliterary qualifications. "

Mary did not receive my proposition in a thankful andconciliatory spirit. She shook her head doubtfully, and when wewere alone together, she gave voice to her fears. 

"Phyllis is country-bred, " she said, "and knows nothing of thetoils and snares that beset young girls in the city. "

"Toils and snares, " I echoed. "One might gather from yourobjections that we contemplate taking Phyllis to the city merelyto expose her to temptation and corrupt the serenity of her mind. You seem to forget the elevating influences of my modest home. "

"No, John; I dare say that your home is not objectionable, takenby itself. But I am not blind to the seductions of the greatcity. You too forget, " she added, with a touch of complacency, "that I am not inexperienced or without knowledge of theprofligacy of the town. "

"Granting all this, " I said, highly diverted by her earnestness, "and what are some of these seductions you have in mind?"

"Theatres, " she replied promptly, "theatres and late hours, midnight suppers--and cocktails. "

I laughed uproariously. "My dear Mary, if these deadly sins andperils alarm you, we'll cut them out. I care little for theatres, and less for midnight suppers. And as for cocktails, I shall makeit my peculiar charge to see that Phyllis never hears theabominable word. Allowing for the removal of these temptations, Istill think that a trip to the city would do our country flower aworld of good, though I have nothing but praise for the manner inwhich you have brought her up. "

"John, " she answered very gravely, "I have endeavored to do myduty as I saw it. I have tried to bring Phyllis up in the nurtureand admonition of the Lord. "

The expression carried me back to my childhood, and I bit mylips. "Of course you have, " I said. "Wasn't I brought up in thissame village, in the same way? Did not my good mother and myblessed, grandmother inflict nurture and admonition upon me, thatI might grow up as you see me, a true child of the pilgrimfathers? The nurture, I remember, was a particularly hard seat inour particularly gloomy old meetinghouse, and the admonition tookup the greater part of the Sabbath day, with a disenchantingprospect of further admonition at home if I failed to keep awake. I do not mean to say that I am not thankful for the experience. In truth I am doubly thankful--thankful that I had it, andthankful that it is over. "

To this Mary vouchsafed no further remonstrance than adistrustful shake of the head. Excellent woman! Is it not to suchas you, earnest, faithful, self-sacrificing, God-fearing, thatthe best in young manhood, the purest in young womanhood, owe thestrength of the qualities that are the vital force of thenation?

In the end the united opposition was too much for Mary'sarguments, and to town we went. The pleasure of the journey, onmy part, was somewhat clouded as to the welcome we should receivefrom Prudence, and truly it acquired my greatest powers ofdissimulation to feign an easy indifference and air of authoritybefore that worthy creature, as with the most studied politenessand formal hospitality she received us at the gate. Prudence andI had sparred so many years that we were like two expertathletes, and while neither apparently noticed the other, eachwas perfectly conscious of the adversary's slightest movement. Hence I detected at once her strong aversion to Mary, whom sheimmediately selected as a probable mistress, and I saw herseveral times vainly try to repress a grimace of disdain andwrath. It was my first impulse to follow Prudence into thekitchen, after the ladies had gone to their rooms, and make aclean breast of the untoward tidings, but I lacked the moralcourage and contented myself with an inward show of strength. Whyshould I pander to this woman's caprices? Was I not master in myown house? Should I not do as I pleased? I would punish her withthe severity of my silence, and perhaps in a week or two, whenshe was more tractable, I would condescend to tell her exactlyhow matters stood. In this I would be firm. 

But the next morning, before my guests were out of bed, I decidedthat I was not acting wisely. Was not Prudence an old, faithful, and trustworthy servant? Had she not been loyal to my interests, and was not her whole life wrapped up in my comfort? Surely Iwronged her to withhold from her the confidence she had so fairlyearned, and the flush of shame came to my face as I reflectedthat I was indulging my first deceit. I took a turn in thegarden, in the heavenly cool of the early morning, to compose mynerves for a very probable ordeal, and then I walked boldly intothe kitchen where Prudence sat, with a wooden bowl in her lap, paring apples. 

It was one of the unwritten laws of the cuisine that Prudence wasnever to be disturbed when engaged in this delicate operation. She maintained that it destroyed the symmetry of the peel, andI dare say she was right. Consequently she looked at mereproachfully as I entered, and bent again more assiduously toher work. I was much flustered by the ill omen, but I knew thatif I hesitated I was lost; so I advanced valorously, though withaccelerated pulse, and said with all the calmness I couldcommand:

"Prudence, I think it only right to tell you that I am going tobe married. "

One apple rolled from the bowl down along the floor and under thekitchen stove. I cannot conceive of any shock, however great, that would cause Prudence to lose more than one apple. Partly toconciliate, and partly to conceal my own trepidation, I made agallant effort to rescue the wanderer, and as I poked thehiding-place with my stick, I heard her say: "Lord, I know'd it'dcome!"

"The fact that it has come, Prudence, " I answered with a sicklyattempt at gayety, "does not seem to be a reason why you shouldcall with such vehemence on your Maker. There does not appear tobe any need of Providential interposition. Things are not so badas all that. "

I always used my most elegant English when conversing withPrudence. If she did not understand it, it flattered her to thinkthat I paid this tribute to her intelligence. 

"Mr. John, " she said, and there was a suspicious break in hervoice, "for twenty years I have tried to do my duty by you, andnow that I must go--"

"Go?" I interrupted; "who said you must go? Who spoke aboutanybody's going? You certainly do not expect to turn that bowlof apples over to me and leave me to get breakfast?"

"No, Mr. John, I shall go on and do my duty, as I see it, untilyou have made all your plans and are comfortable. "

"Now, look here, Prudence, I am very comfortable as things are, thank you. And you will pardon me if I say I cannot understandwhy you should go at all. I shall continue to eat, I hope, afterI am married, and I think it altogether probable that I shallrequire a house-keeper and a cook. I believe they do have suchthings in well-regulated families. "

"At my age, and with my experience, and considerin' how wehave lived, Mr. John, I couldn't get along with a mistress, 'specially, " she added with a touch of malice, "with a womanconsiderable older than me. "

"Older than you? What are you talking about? Miss Kinglake isyoung enough to be your daughter. "

Another apple rolled on the floor. "Miss Kinglake!" she exclaimedin astonishment, "that lamb? Good Lord, I thought you were goin'to marry the other one!"

"Prudence, " I said rather hotly, for I did not relish heramazement, "you will oblige me by not speaking of these ladies asthe 'lamb' and 'the other one. ' I might gather from your remarksthat I am a sort of ravening wolf, instead of a well-meaninggentleman who is merely exercising the privilege of selecting awife. But, " I said, checking myself, for I was ashamed of myexplosion, "I shall be magnanimous enough to believe that you aredelighted with my choice, and that I have your congratulations. You will be glad to know that Miss Kinglake and I are perfectlysatisfied with each other, and that we are both entirelysatisfied with you. And now that we understand the situation, Ithink I may presume that we shall have breakfast at the usualhour this morning, and to-morrow morning, and for many morningsto come. And, by the way, Prudence, while I have honored youwith my confidence, permit me to impress it upon you that thisrevelation is not village gossip as yet, and you will put meunder further obligations by not mentioning the circumstance. Good-morning, Prudence. Kindly call the ladies at eight o'clock. "

And thereupon I hastily departed, leaving the good woman in astate of stupefaction, since, for the first and only time in ourlong and controversial association, had I retired with the lastword. Taking a second turn in the garden I encountered Malachy, and my conscience reproached me. "Am I doing right, " I askedmyself, "in withholding the glad news from this faithful servantwho has shown himself so worthy of my confidence? Is it not myduty to tell him--not so much to interest him in his futuremistress as to demonstrate the trust I repose in him?"

Malachy received my confidence with less excitement than I hadexpected. In fact I was slightly humiliated by his seeming lackof gratitude. He touched his hat very respectfully, and observedirrelevantly that the roses below the arbor were lookinguncommonly well. This was a poor reward for my attempt atconsideration, and further convinced me of the uselessnessof establishing anything like intimate relations with theproletariat. 

"By the way, Malachy, " I said in parting, "you will keep thismatter a profound secret. Miss Kinglake and I are desirous thatwe shall not be annoyed by village chatter and prematurecongratulations. "

Having discharged my duty to my good servants, I felt that myobligations, so far as the relation with Phyllis was concerned, were at an end, and the morning wore away without furthermisgivings of disloyalty. In the afternoon Bunsey came over forhis daily smoke, and as we sat together in the library, and Inoticed the entire absence of suspicion in his manner, my heartsmote me. "Truly, " I reasoned silently, "I am behaving ill to anold friend who has never withheld from me the very secrets of hissoul. Should I not be as generous, as outspoken, with him as hehas always proved to me? Should I not confide to him this oneprecious secret, at the same time swearing him to preserve it ashe would his life?"

I blew out a ring of smoke, and then I began with the utmostseriousness: "Bunsey, how do you like the ladies?"

He shifted his position, tipped the ashes from his cigar, andreplied tranquilly: "Oh, I dare say I shall in time. "

The answer vexed me. Bunsey was a bachelor, and should have beentherefore the more impressionable. I forgot for the moment, in myannoyance, that he was a novelist, and had been so diligentlycreating lovely and impossible women to order that he was noteasily moved by the realities of humanity. 

"At all events, " I replied with delicate irony, "I am glad thatthe future is hopeful for the ladies. My reason for asking thequestion was simply to lead the way to a confidence I intend torepose in you. To proceed expeditiously to the end of a longstory, I intend to marry one of them. "

Bunsey's tranquillity was unshaken. "Which one?"

"Which one?" I echoed with heat, "why, Miss Kinglake, of course. "

"Does she intend to marry you?"

"Naturally. "

"Or unnaturally?"

"Confound your impertinence!" I roared, "what do you mean bythat?"

"No impertinence, at all, my dear fellow. In fact it is mostpertinent. Miss Kinglake is a girl, and you--well, you voted forGrant. "

"Which is your gentle way of saying that I am too old. "

"No, not too old; just old enough--to know better. "

"We are never too old to love, " I said, conscious that I wasuttering a melancholy platitude. 

"Too old to love? Heaven forbid! But we may be too old tomarry--at least to marry anybody worth while. Come, Stanhope, tell me: do you really love this young woman?"

"Love her? Here I have been telling you that I intend to marry acharming girl, and you turn about and ask me if I love her. Ofcourse I love her. I have been loving her in one way and anotherfor years. "

"What do you mean by that? I thought you only met her a few weeksago. "

I smiled pityingly. "So I did, but for years she has been myaffinity. Incidentally I don't mind saying I began by loving hermother. "

Bunsey sat up straight. "Oh, you loved her mother. Was her motherpretty?"

"She was as you see Phyllis. In fact I think she was, ifanything, a trifle prettier. We were playmates and schoolmates, and in the nature of things, if I had not wandered off to thecity, I presume we should have married. Dear little Sylvia, " Iwent on musingly, "I can see her at this moment, looking downfrom heaven and smiling on my union with her daughter. For ifever a match was made in heaven this was. Confound it! what areyou doing now?"

While I was talking Bunsey had reached over, taken a sheet ofpaper and was busily writing. He looked up carelessly. 

"Your story interests me, and is such good material that Ithought I would make a few notes. Young boy loves younggirl--goes to city--forgets her--young girl marries--has charmingdaughter--dies--years pass--venerable gentleman returns--seesdaughter--great emotion on part of v. G. --thinks he lovesher--proposes--accepted--mar--no, there I think I must stop forthe present. "

"Oh, don't stop there, I beg, " I said sarcastically; "if you arethinking of using these materials for one of your popularnovels, be sure to throw in a few duels, several heartrendingcatastrophes, and other incidents of what you call 'action, 'appropriately expressed in bad English. "

Bunsey was imperturbable. "Thank you for your appreciativeestimate of my literary style, " he replied coolly; "but really, my consideration for my old friend deprives me of the pleasure ofrobbing his diary. "

I was still out of temper. "Bunsey, I don't mind favoring youwith a further confidence. You're an ass!"

With this parting shot I strode out of the library, when, remembering the sacredness of my revelation, I turned back. 

"Of course you will understand, Bunsey, that however flippantlyyou may choose to regard what I have said to you, you will havethe decency to keep the subject-matter to yourself. I do not askyour congratulations or your approval, but I demand yoursecrecy. "

"The ass brays acknowledgments, " answered Bunsey meekly, helpinghimself to another cigar. "You may rely on my loyal and devotedinterest. The fact that I have heard your secret twice beforeto-day shall not open my lips or cause me to violate your trust. "

Notwithstanding my attitude of indifference I was greatlytroubled by Bunsey's unfeeling suggestion. Could it be possiblethat I had mistaken my own heart? Was I, yielding, as I hadbelieved, to the first strong passion of my life, only deludingmyself with a remembrance of my vanished youth? I dismissed thethought impatiently. For, after all, was not Bunsey a hopelesscynic, a fellow without a single emotion of the ennoblingsentiment of man toward woman, a sordid story-teller, who createdcharacters for money, wrecked homes, committed literary murders, played unfeelingly on the tenderest sensibilities, and boastedopenly that the only angels were those made by a stroke of thepen and retailed at department store book-counters? And whilethus reasoning Phyllis came to me, so winsome in her girlishbeauty, so radiant in the happiness I had infused into her life, so joyous in the pleasures of the present, that I laughed at myown doubts, reproached myself for my own unworthy suspicions, andstraightway forgot both Bunsey and his evil promptings. 

Love at eight and forty is a very pleasant and indolent emotion, marking the most delightful stage in the progress of the greathuman passion. At twenty-five we talk it; at thirty-five we actit; at forty-five it is pleasant to sit down and think about it. The very young man loves without really analyzing. Ten yearslater he analyzes without really loving. In another decade he hascompounded the proportions of love and analysis, and becomes, under favoring conditions, the most dangerous and hence the mostacceptable of suitors. The man in middle life takes his adoredone tolerantly, and keeps his reservations to himself. In theordinary course of events he has acquired a certain knowledge offeminine character, he knows the rocks and the shoals of love, and, skillful pilot that he is, he avoids them. He is sure of hiscourse, master of his equipment. If he errs at all--but Ianticipate. 

Those were very joyous days, notwithstanding the applicationsof cold water so liberally bestowed by my confidential advisers. And eagerly and successfully I exerted myself to convincethe doubting ones in general, and Bunsey in particular, howabsurd were their suspicions, and how apparent it was that Phyllisand I had been purposely created for each other. Mary threwherself into our pleasures as heartily and joyously as her NewEngland nature would permit, which was never a very riotousdemonstration, and Phyllis, with the effervescence and enthusiasmof girlhood, eagerly assented to every proposition that hadits pleasure-seeking side; while I, as a thoughtful lovershould, busied myself in schemes for summer dissipation, thankfulthat it was in my power to prove so devoted a knight, andinwardly rejoicing at my triumph over those who had taxed mewith such unworthy thoughts. Even Frederick--good fellow thathe was--allowed himself unusual days of vacation to partake of ourmerriment, and it pleased me greatly to see that when businesscares or physical disinclination kept me off the programme, he nolonger allowed his indifference to interfere with his duty as mynephew and personal representative. Such, I take it, is theobligation of all young men similarly placed. 

For, before many weeks had passed, I discovered that it was notwise to allow the fleeting dissipations of the moment, howeveralluring, to monopolize time which should be given to the seriousaffairs of life. I found that a cramped position in a boat in thehot sun brought on nervous headaches, and that too much time inthe garden when the dew was falling was conducive to lumbago. Furthermore I had been invited by a neighboring university todeliver my celebrated lecture on the protagonism of Plato, andseveral new and excellent thoughts had come to me which requiredcareful and elaborate development. I explained these mattersconscientiously and fully to Phyllis, and while she offered nounreasonable protest, her pretty face clouded, and she did me thehonor to say that half the enjoyment was removed by my absence. Once she even went so far as to declare that Plato was a "horridman, " and that she believed I thought more of him than of her--amost ridiculous conclusion but so essentially feminine that Iforgave her at once. And, when she came to me, and put her armsaround my neck and urged me to go with her to a tennis match--afoolish game where grown-up people knock little balls over a netwith a battledore--I pointed out to her that such spectacles, while eminently proper for young folk, argued a failing mind inthose of maturer years. With a charming pout she said:

"Do you think you would have refused to go if my mother had askedyou?"

Now tennis is a sport that has come up since Sylvia and I werechildren together, but I recalled, with a guilty blush, the timewhen she and I won the village championship in doubles in an allday siege of croquet, so what could I say in my own defence?Therefore I went with Phyllis to the tennis-court and sat for twolong and inexpressibly dreary hours watching the senseless andstupid proceedings. It was pleasant to reflect that I was withSylvia's daughter, and I tried to imagine that the keen interestof youth still remained, but I was sadly out of place. I amsatisfied that this game of tennis has nothing of the fascinatingquality of croquet. On our arrival home Phyllis kissed me, andthanked me for what she called my "self-denial, " but after thatone experience Frederick represented me at the tennis-court, as, indeed, the good-natured boy consented to do at many similarfestivities. 

And so the summer wore gradually away, one day's enjoymentlazily following another's, with nothing to disturb the serenityof my life, or to interfere with the calm content into which Ihad settled. Phyllis was everything that a moderate andreasonable lover could wish--kind, gentle, affectionate withinthe bounds of maidenly discretion, attentive to my wishes, and considerate of my caprices. The more I saw of her themore I was persuaded that I had chosen wisely and well. Oneafternoon--Frederick, at my suggestion, had gallantly given uphis work in the office and taken Phyllis down the river. I satwith Bunsey in the library, and took occasion to expound to himthe philosophy of perfect love. 

"The trouble is, " I said, "that people rush blindly intomatrimony. They think they are in love, work themselves up to theproper pitch of madness, propose and marry while they are indelirium. Hence, so much of the wretchedness and misery that wesee in the homes of our friends. For my part I am committed tothe doctrine of affinities. It is true that I, like many others, was guilty of the usual folly in my youth, and perhaps that gaveme the wisdom to wait for my second venture until precisely thefight party came along. Matrimony, Bunsey, is an exact science. If we regulate our passion, control all silly emotion, studyfeminine nature as critically and methodically as we investigatea mathematical problem, and commit ourselves only when theaffinity presents herself, we shall make no mistakes. For, afterall, what is an affinity? Nothing more than a human being sent byProvidence as perfectly adapted to the wheels and curves of yournature. "

"A very pretty theory, " retorted Bunsey, grimly; "and, by theway, when do you think of rushing into matrimony?"

"Really, " I said, somewhat confused, "to be entirely honest withyou, I have not settled on any particular day. You see Phyllisshould have her fling. She is very young. "

"True, but you are not. "

As Bunsey said this he rose and tossed his cigar out of thewindow. "Stanhope, " he went on, "we are old friends, and I don'twish to be continually seeming to interfere with your business, but if I were a man with fifty years leering hideously at me, andengaged to a pretty girl of two and twenty, I'd make quick workof it before Providence came along with a younger affinity in aPanama hat, negligée shirt, and duck trousers. "

I stared at him with a sort of helpless amazement. "Exactly whatdo you mean?" I asked. 

"Well, " he answered, shrugging his shoulders, "at the risk ofbeing kicked out of the house, let me say that I think such anaffinity has already presented himself. "

"Indeed, and who may that be?"

"Suppose we say Frederick. "

"My nephew?"

"Exactly; your nephew. He is an uncommonly good-looking fellow, and, thanks to his uncle's childlike belief in Providence andthe doctrine of affinities, he has most unusual opportunities totest that doctrine for himself. I dare say that he is making aformal study of the situation at this very moment, and invitingProvidence to appear on the scene as his sponsor. "

What more was said at this interview, if, indeed, it didnot terminate with this brutal statement, I cannot recall, for Bunsey, usually so flippant and cynical, spoke with anearnestness that stunned me. My knowledge of the philosophy oflove told me that he was wrong; my observation of the actualitiesof life made me fear that he might be right. Theoretically, Icould not have been mistaken in my course; practically, I beganto see weak spots in the chain of evidence. Swiftly, I ran overthe events of the spring and summer, and as little spots nobigger than a man's hand magnified themselves into black clouds, Bunsey, sitting opposite, seemed to grow larger and larger, andhis smile more malicious and demon-like. Possibly, had I been ayounger and more impetuous man, I should have flown into apassion, taken Bunsey at his word, and kicked him out of thehouse; but the philosophy of the thing engrossed me, filled mewith half fear, half curiosity, and engaged all my mentalfaculties. Had I been mistaken? Could I be deceived in thedaughter of Sylvia?

However strong my suspicions may have been, they were notincreased when, with the evening, Phyllis and Frederick came homefrom their excursion. Never was Phyllis more unreserved, morecordial, more joyous, more attentive to the little wants, whichI, in a mean and shameful test, imposed on her. She could not beacting a part, this New England girl, with her alert conscience, her Puritan impulse and training, her aversion to everything thatsavored of deceit. And Frederick was as much at his ease as if Iknew nothing, as if I had not heard of his duplicity, as if thewhole house and grounds were not ringing with accusations of hisunworthiness. Such are the phenomena of the philosophy of middlelife, I insisted that he should remain for the evening, and, after dinner, with that contrariness accountable only in a truestudent of psychology, I made a trifling excuse and walked downto the square, leaving them together. 

The curfew was ringing as, returning, I entered the lower gate atthe end of the garden, and passed slowly along by the arbor. Itmay have been Providence, it may have been chance, it certainlywas not philosophy that directed my steps to the far side of thesyringa hedge which shut me off from the view of those who mightcome down to the rustic seat at the foot of the cherry tree. Atleast I had no intention of playing the spy, and when I heardFrederick's voice, and knew instinctively that Phyllis was withhim, I quickened my pace that I might not be a sharer of theirsecrets. But an irresistible impulse made me pause when I heardthe foolish fellow say:

"After to-night I shall not come again. It is better for us tobreak now than to wait until it is too late. "

Her reply I could not hear. Presently he said, and a littlebrokenly:

"I have fought it all out. It has been hard, so hard, but I mustmeet it as it comes. "

Then I heard Phyllis's voice: "It is for the best. "

"I believe that you care for me. I know how much I care for you, and how much this effort is costing me. We were too late. Noother course in honor presents itself. God knows how eagerly andhopelessly I have sought a way out of this tangle of duty. "

Again I heard Phyllis's voice, sunk almost to a whisper: "I havegiven my word; it is for the best. "

"The governor has been so good to me, " Frederick exclaimedresentfully, "that I feel like a criminal even at this momentwhen I am making for him the sacrifice of a life. He has been myfather, my protector. What I am I owe to him, and I must meet himlike a grateful and honest man. You would not have it otherwise?"

And for the third time Phyllis answered: "It is for the best. "

Had I been of that remarkable stuff of which your true hero ismade, of which Bunsey's heroes are made, and had I come up to thevery reasonable expectations of the followers of literaryromance, I should have burst through the syringa with passion inmy face and rage in my heart and precipitated a tragedy. Or, onthe other side, I should have taken those ridiculous children bythe hand, and ended their suffering with my blessing then andthere. But as I am only of very common clay, with little likingfor heroics, I did what any selfish and unappreciative man wouldhave done, and stole quietly away. I even felt a sort of fiercejoy in the knowledge of the security of my position, a meanexultation in the thought that Phyllis was bound to me, and thatthose from whom I might reasonably fear the most, acknowledgedthe hopelessness of their case. Most strangely there came to meno resentment with the knowledge that I had been supplanted by mynephew in the affections of the girl; the fact that she lovedanother surprised rather than agitated me. My argument was upset, my doctrine of affinities had been seriously damaged in myindividual case, and here was I, who should have been yielding tothe pangs of disappointment, or raging with wounded pride, reflecting with considerable calmness on the reverses of aphilosopher. 

I went into the library and lighted a cigar. I threw myself intoan easy-chair, and as I looked up I saw a spider-web in a cornerof the ceiling. "I must speak to Prudence about that in themorning, " I said to myself with annoyance. Then for the firsttime it came to me that I was out of temper, for I am customarilytranquil and not easily upset. My mind wandered rapidly from onething to another, and oddly enough I caught myself humming alittle tune which had no sort of relevancy to the events of theday. I tried to dismiss the incident of the garden as thetemporary folly of a romantic girl, which would wear itself outwith a week's absence. Why should it trouble me? Had I beenlacking in kindness or affection? Should I be disturbed because afew boat rides and the influence of moonlight had wrought on amere child? Was I not secure in her promise, and had I not heardher say she had given her word? As for Frederick, was he not mydebtor? Had he not confessed it? Then why give more thought tothe matter? It was awkward, but both were young and both wouldoutlive it. Sylvia and I were young, and we outlived it. 

But still kept ringing in my ears that despairing half-whisper:"It is for the best. "

Petulantly I threw away my cigar and went up to my room. I walkedover to the dressing-case and turned up the gas. The shadowdispleased me and I lighted the opposite jet. Then I stoodsquarely before the mirror and looked critically at thereflection. 

Yes, John Stanhope, you are growing old. That expanding forehead, with the retreating hairs, tells the tale of time. The gray uponyour cheeks is whitening and the razor must be used morevigilantly to further deception. Those creases in your face canno longer be dismissed as character lines; the shagginess of youreyebrows has the flying years to account for it. Plainly, John, you and humbug must part company. You are not of this generationand it is not for you. 

I turned down the gas, threw open the window and let themoonlight filter in through the elms and over the tops of thelittle pines. The soft beauty of the night soothed me, andgradually and very gently my irritation and annoyance slippedaway. Why should not a young girl, radiant in youth and beauty, affect a young man of her generation? What has an old fellow, with all his money and worldly experience and burnt-out youth, togive in exchange for that intoxication which every girl mayproperly regard her lawful gift? Undoubtedly I should make abetter husband, as husbands go, than my romantic nephew, and anywoman of rare common sense would see the advantages of myposition, but why burden a woman with that rare common sensewhich robs her of the first and sweetest of her dreams? No, JohnStanhope, go back to your pipe and your books and your gardening, your life of selfish, indolent do-nothing. Take life as it comesmost easily and naturally. By sparing one heart you may save two. 

And that nephew of mine--what a fine, manly fellow he provedhimself when put to the test! The governor had been good to himand he was going to stand by the governor. How my heart jumped, and what a warm little feeling there was about the internalcockles as I recalled his words. Bravely said, my boy, and noblydone! I fear I should not have been so generous at your age, andwith Sylvia--

And with Sylvia! How the past crowded back at the thought of her!Who are you, old dreamer, who neglected the gift the good godsprovided in the heydey of your youth to return to chase thephantom of the past? Behind that little white cloud, sailing farinto the north, Sylvia may be peeping at you, and smiling at thedelusion of her ancient wooer. Or why not think that she ispleading with you--pleading for her child and the lover, as shemight have pleaded for herself and somebody else, had somebodyelse known his own heart before it was too late?

I watched the white cloud as it passed on and on, growing smallerand fainter as it receded. I settled back still deeper in mychair and sighed. And then--O unworthy knight of love!--and then, I fell asleep. 

In the morning, before the family was astir, I wrote a note, pleading a sudden and imperative call to town, and vanished forthe day. I argued with myself that such a step was a delicateconsideration for a young woman, who, having listened to aconfession of love a few hours before, would be hardly at herease at a breakfast-table conversation. Incidentally I was notaltogether sure of myself, although I was much refreshed by anexcellent night's sleep which comes to every philosopher withcourage and strength to rise above the unpleasant things of life. If Phyllis had yielded to an emotion of grief, there was littletrace of it when we met at evening. I fancied that she wassomewhat paler, and her manner at times seemed a little listless, but otherwise there was no great departure from her usualdemeanor. As for myself the long sunshine of a summer day and theconviction that at last the opportunity had come to me to playthe rôle of a minor hero gave me a peace that amounted almost tobuoyancy. No need had I of the teachings of the musty oldphilosophers reposing on my bookshelves. John Stanhope hadlearned more of life in a few short hours than all his tomescould impart. His books had helped him many times in diagnosingthe cases of his friends; when John fell ill they mocked anddeceived him. 

Opportunely enough Phyllis followed me into the library, and whenat my request she sat on a little stool at my feet, and I heldher hand and stroked her soft light hair, a pang went through myheart, for I felt that she might be near me for the last time. The philosopher had yet much to learn. For several minutes wewere both silent. Of the two I was doubtless the more ill atease, though I concealed it bravely. 

"Phyllis, " I said at last, "did you ever get over a childishfondness for fairy-stories?"

She smiled at this--was I wrong in fancying that her smile wasthat of sadness?--and answered: "I hope not. "

"Because, " I went on, bending over and affectionately patting thehand I held, "a little fairy-tale has been running through myhead all day, and I have decided that you shall be the first tohear it and pass on its merits. And because, " I added gayly, "ifit has your approval I may wish to publish it. Shall I begin?"

She nodded her head--I could swear now to the weariness the poorchild was so staunchly fighting--and looked off toward thesunset. 

"Once upon a time--you see that I am conventional--there lived abeautiful young princess, on whom a wicked old troll had cast anevil eye. Now this wicked troll was not so hideous as the trollswe see in our fairy-books--I must say that--but he was so wickedthat even this deficiency could not excuse him. The princess wasas young and innocent--I was going to say as simple--as she wasbeautiful, and the wicked troll talked so much of his experiencein the world, and boasted so hugely of his wealth and generosityand other shining virtues, that the imagination of the poorlittle princess was quite fired, and she was flattered intothinking that here was a treasure not to be lightly put aside. And so, in a foolish moment she consented to be his bride, and hetook her away to his castle--I believe trolls do have castles--tomake ready for the marriage. While the preparations were goingon, and the wicked old troll was laughing with glee to think howhe had deluded a princess, a handsome young prince appeared onthe scene, and what so natural as that the princess shouldimmediately contrast him with the troll. And it came about, alsoquite naturally, that before the prince and the princess knewthat anything was happening, they fell so violently in love witheach other that the birds, and the bees, and the flowers in thegarden, and the squirrels in the trees sang and hummed andgossiped and chattered about it. "

Here I paused. Phyllis did not look up, but I felt a shiver runthrough her body as I stroked her hair and put my arm around hershoulder to caress away her fear. 

"But it happened that although the princess was so much in lovethat at times she must have forgotten even the existence of theold troll, she was still possessed of that most inconvenient andannoying internal arrangement which we call the New Englandconscience, and one night, when the prince had declared his lovewith more ardor than usual, she remembered the past, how she hadpromised to marry the troll, and how she must keep her word, asall good princesses do. And the prince, who was a very uprightyoung man, most foolishly listened to her, and agreed to give herup. Whereupon these poor children, having resolved that it wasfor the best--"

Phyllis looked up quickly. Her face was white, and a look, halfof fear, half of reproach, came to her eyes. She sank down andhid her face in her hands. Both my arms were around her and Ieven laughed. 

"Dear little princess, " I whispered, "don't give way yet. Thebest is still to come. For you must remember that this is afairy-tale and all fairy-tales have a good ending. And, to make along story short, this wicked old troll was not a troll at all, but a fairy-godmother, who had taken the form for good purposes. I would have said fairy-godfather, but I have never come across afairy-godfather in all my reading, and I must be truthful. Well, the fairy-godmother came along right in the nick of time--and, ofcourse, you know who married and lived happily ever after?"

The convulsive movement of the poor child's body told me shewas weeping. And I, being a philosopher, and more or lesshard-hearted, as all philosophers are, let her weep on. Presentlyshe said in a voice hardly audible:

"I gave you my promise and I meant to keep it. I am trying sohard to keep it. "

"Of course you are, little girl, but why try? A bad promise isfar better broken than kept, and, come to think of it, I am notat all sure that I am anxious to have you keep it. How do youknow that I am not making a desperate effort to secure my ownrelease?"

She raised her head quite unexpectedly and caught me with thetears in my eyes. My eyes always were weak. "Why, you arecrying!" she said. 

"Of course I'm crying. I always cry when I am particularly wellpleased. It is a family peculiarity. You should see me at thetheatre. At a farce comedy I am a depressing sight, and that isthe reason I always avoid the front seats. "

Then realizing that I might be carrying my gayety too far, I wenton more soberly:

"Can't you see, Phyllis, that the old fool's romance must come toan end? Don't you understand that had I the selfish wish to holdyou to a thoughtless promise, our adventure would terminate onlyin misery to us both? Perhaps you and I have been the last to seeit, I, because I was thinking too much of myself, you, becauseyou were carried away by an exalted sense of duty. Thank heavenit is clear to us both now. For it is clear, isn't it, dear?"

The foolish girl did not reply, but she kissed my hand, and it isastonishing how that little act of affection touched andstrengthened me. 

"So we are going to make a new start and begin right. To-morrow Ishall see Frederick and make a proposition to him, and if thatrascal does not give up his heroics and come down to his plainduty as I see it--well, so much the worse for him. No, don'traise objections"--she had started to speak--"for I am alwaysquarrelsome when I cannot have my own way. Go to your room andthink it over, and remember, " I said more gently, for that oldtide of the past was coming in, "that you are Sylvia's daughter, and that Sylvia would have trusted me and counselled you to obeyme in all things. "

Slowly and with averted face Phyllis rose and walked toward thedoor. I had commanded her, and yet I felt a sharp pang ofbitterness that she had yielded so quickly to my words. It seemedat the moment that everything was passing out of my life; thatPhyllis, that Sylvia, that all the once sweet, continuous memorywas lost to me forever. I could not call her back, and I couldnot hope that she would return. Philosopher that I was I couldnot explain the sinking and the fear that took possession of me. The philosopher did not know himself. All his thought and all hisreasoning could not solve the simple riddle the quick intuitionof a girl made clear. 

She had reached the door before she paused. Then she turned. Ihad risen mechanically and stood looking at her. As slowly shecame back and waited as if for me to speak. And when the dullphilosopher groped helplessly for words and could not meet theappealing eyes, she put her hands on his shoulders, and laid herwarm, young face on his heart, and said, "Father!"

 * * * * *

The night was peacefully beautiful. I had strolled out of thegarden and down to the river, and there along the bridle-path onthe winding bank I walked for miles. Absorbed in my own thoughtsI gave no heed to my little dog, Hero, trotting at my side andlooking anxiously up at me with her large brown eyes, as ifsaying in her dog fashion: "Don't worry, old man; I'm here!" Astrange, inexplicable happiness had fallen to him who thought heknew all others, and did not know even himself. I crossed theriver to return on the opposite shore, and all the way back, through the arching trees, the shadows danced in the moonlightand the crickets chirped merrily. Life seemed so contrary, sobewildering, for I thought of the wedding music in those earlymornings at my boyhood home, and I wondered at the optimism ofNature in attuning all emotions to a joyous note. 

Again in my garden I saw a half-light in Phyllis's room. Comingnearer I saw that she was standing at the window, with the samecloud on her face that had betrayed the battle with herconscience. At sight of her all the joyous emotion of my newtenderness overwhelmed me and I cried out cheerily:

"Good-night, Phyllis!"

Something in my voice sent a smile to her eyes and gladness toher heart, as, half leaning from the window, she kissed her handto me and called back softly: "Good-night, father dear!"

The south wind came, bringing the scent of the rose and thehoneysuckle, and stirring the drowsy branches of the elms. Theriver rippled merrily in the moonlight, hurrying to bear thetidings of happiness to the greater waters, and off in thedistance the blue hills lifted their heads above the haze. Towardthe north scudded the friendly little white cloud, and it seemedagain a soothing fancy that Sylvia--

O sweet and pleasant world!

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Page 103: Changed housekeeper to house-keeper for consistency. 

Page 116: Changed typo "effervesence" to "effervescence. "

Page 142: Changed typo "moolight" to "moonlight. "