"I infer," said Barbara, "that the Bascom liver is out of repair."

"Correct. It seems absurd, doesn't it, to be affected by another man's liver while you are supremely unconscious of your own?"

"There are more things in other people's digestions than our philosophy can account for," she replied, with a wicked perversion of classic phrase. "What was the primary cause of the explosion?"

"It was all his own fault," explained Roger. "I like dogs almost as well as I do people, but it doesn't follow that dogs should mix so constantly with people as they usually are allowed to. I was never in favour of Judge Bascom's bull pup keeping regular office hours with us, but he has, ever since the day he waddled in behind the Judge with a small chain as the connecting link. I got so accustomed to his howling in the corner of the office where he was chained up that I couldn't do my work properly when he was asleep. So all went well until the Judge decided to remove the chain and give the pup more room to develop himself in.

[Sidenote: "Pethood"]

"I tried to dissuade him, but it was no use. I told him he would run away, and he said, with great dignity, that he did not desire for a pet anything which had to be tied up in order to be retained. He observed that the restraining influence worked against the pethood so strongly as practically to obscure it."

"New word?" laughed Barbara.

"I don't know why it isn't a good word," returned Roger, in defence. "If 'manhood' and 'womanhood' and 'brotherhood' and all the other 'hoods' are good English, I see no reason why 'pethood' shouldn't be used in the same sense. The English language needs a lot of words added to it before it can be called complete."

"One wouldn't think so, judging by the size of the dictionary. However, we'll let it pass. Go on with the story."

"Things have been lively for a week or more. The pup has romped around a good deal and has playfully bitten a client or two, but the Judge has been highly edified until to-day. Fido got an important legal document which the Judge had just drafted, and literally chewed it to pulp. Then he swallowed it, apparently with great relish. I was told to make another, and my not knowing about it, and taking the liberty of asking a few necessary questions, produced the fireworks. It wasn't Fido's fault, but mine."

"How is Fido?" queried Barbara, with affected anxiety.

"He was well at last accounts, but the document was long enough and complicated enough to make him very ill. I hope he'll die of it to-morrow."

"Perhaps he's going to study law, too," remarked Barbara, "and believes, with Macaulay, that 'a page digested is better than a book hurriedly read.'"

"I think that will do, Miss North. I'll read to you now, if you don't mind. I would fain improve myself instead of listening to such childish chatter."

"Perhaps, if you read to me enough, I'll improve so that even you will enjoy talking to me," she returned, with a mischievous smile. "What did you bring over?"

[Sidenote: A New Book]

"A new book—that is, one that we've never seen before. There is a large box of father's books behind some trunks in the attic, and I never found them until Sunday, when I was rummaging around up there. I haven't read them—I thought I'd make a list of them first, and you can choose those you'd like to have me read to you. I brought this little one because I was sure you'd like it, after reading Endymion and The Eve of St. Agnes."

"What is it?"

"Keats's letters to Fanny Brawne."

The little brown book was old and its corners were dog-eared, but the yellowed pages, with their record of a deathless passion, were still warmly human and alive. Roger had a deep, pleasant voice, and he read well. Quite apart from the beauty of the letters, it gave Barbara pleasure to sit in the firelight and watch his face.

[Sidenote: A Folded Paper]

He read steadily, pausing now and then for comment, until he was half-way through the volume; then, as he turned a page, a folded paper fell out. He picked it up curiously.

"Why, Barbara," he said, in astonishment. "It's my father's writing."

"What is it—notes?"

"No, he seems to have been trying to write a letter like those in the book. It is all in pencil, with changes and erasures here and there. Listen:

[Sidenote: The Letter]

"'You are right, as you always are, and we must never see each other again. We must live near each other for the rest of our lives, with that consciousness between us. We must pass each other on the street and not speak unless others are with us; then we must bow, pleasantly, for the sake of appearances.

"'I hope you do not blame me because I went mad. I ask your pardon, and yet I cannot say I am sorry. That one hour of confession is worth a lifetime of waiting—it is worth all the husks that we are to have henceforward while we starve for more.

"'Through all the years to come, we shall be separated by less than a mile, yet the world lies between us and divides us as by a glittering sword. You will not be unfaithful to your pledge, nor I to mine. Nothing is changed there. It is only that two people chose to live in the starlight and bound themselves to it eternally, then had one blinding glimpse of God's great sun.

"'But, Constance, the stars are the same as always, and we must try to forget that we have seen the sun. The little lights of the temple must be the more faithfully tended if the Great Light goes out. When the white splendour fades, we must be content with the misty gold of night, and not mind the shadows nor the great desolate spaces where not even starlight comes. Your star and mine met for an instant, then were sundered as widely as the poles, but the light of each must be kept steadfast and clear, because of the other.

"'I do not know that I shall have the courage to send this letter. Everything was said when I told you that I love you, for that one word holds it all and there is nothing more. As you can take your heart in the hollow of your hand and hold it, it is so small a thing; so the one word 'love' holds everything that can be said, or given, or hungered for, or prayed for and denied.

"'And if, sometimes, in the starlight, we dream of the sun, we must remember that both sun and stars are God's. Past the unutterable leagues that divide us now, one day we shall meet again, purged, mayhap, of earthly longing for earthly love.

"'But Heaven, for me, would be the hour I held you close again. I should ask nothing more than to tell you once more, face to face and heart to heart, the words I write now: I love you—I love you—I love you.'"

[Sidenote: A Discovery]

Roger put down the book and stared fixedly at the fire. Barbara's face was very pale and the light had gone from her eyes.

"Roger," she said, in a strange tone, "Constance was my mother's name. Do you think——"

He was startled, for his thought had not gone so far as her intuition. "I—do—not—know," he said.

"They knew each other," Barbara went on, swiftly, "for the two families have always lived here, in these same two houses where you and I were born. It was only a step across the road, and they——"

[Sidenote: A Barrier]

She choked back a sob. Something new and terrible seemed to have sprung up suddenly between her and Roger.

The blood beat hard in his ears and his own words sounded dull and far away. "It is dated June third," he said.

"My mother died on the seventh," said Barbara, slowly, "by—her—own—hand."

They sat in silence for a long time. Then, speaking of indifferent things, they tried to get back upon the old friendly footing again, but failed miserably. There was a consciousness as of guilt, on either side.

Roger tried not to think of it. Later, when he was alone, he would go over it all and try to reason it out—try to discover if it were true. Barbara did not need to do this, for, with a woman's quick insight, she knew.

Secretly, too, both were ashamed, having come unawares upon knowledge that was not meant for them. Presently, Roger went home, and was glad to be alone in the free outer air; but, long after he was gone, Barbara sat in the dark, her heart aching with the burden of her father's doubt and her dead mother's secret.



VII

An Afternoon Call

The rap at the Norths' front door was of the sort which would impel the dead to rise and answer it. Before the echo of the imperative summons had died away, Miriam had opened it and admitted Miss Mattie.

[Sidenote: Bein' Neighbourly]

"I was sewin' over to my house," announced the visitor, settling herself comfortably, "and I surmised as how you might be sewin' over here, so I thought we might as well set together for a spell. I believe in bein' neighbourly."

Barbara smiled a welcome and Miriam brought in a quilt which she was binding by hand. As she worked, she studied Miss Mattie furtively, and with an air of detachment.

"I come over on the trail Roger has wore in the grass," continued Miss Mattie, biting off her thread with a snap. "He's organised himself into sort of a travellin' library, I take it, what with transportin' books at all hours back and forth. After I go to bed, Roger lets himself out and sneaks over here, carryin' readin' matter both ways. But land's sake," she chuckled, "I ain't carin' what he does after I get sleepy. I was never one to stay up after nine o'clock for the sake of entertainment. If there's sickness, or anythin' like that, of course it's a different matter.

"Roger's pa was always a great one for readin', and we've both inherited it from him. Roger sits with his books and I sit with my paper, and we both read, never sayin' a word to each other, till almost nine o'clock. We're what you might call a literary family.

[Sidenote: "Jewel of a Girl"]

"I'm just readin' a perfectly beautiful story called Margaret Merriman, or the Maiden's Mad Marriage. Margaret must have been worth lookin' at, for she had golden hair and eyes like sapphires and ruby lips and pearly teeth. I was readin' the description of her to Roger, and he said she seemed to be what some people would call 'a jewel of a girl.'

"Margaret Merriman's mother died when she was an infant in arms, just like your ma, Barbara, and left her to her pa. Her pa didn't marry again, though several was settin' their caps for him on account of him bein' young and handsome and havin' a lot of money. I suppose bein' a widower had somethin' to do with it, too. It does beat all how women will run after a widower. I suppose they want a man who's already been trained, but, speakin' for myself, I've always felt as if I'd rather have somethin' fresh and do my own trainin'—women's notions differ so about husbands.

[Sidenote: Training Husbands]

"Just think what it would be to marry a man, thinkin' he was all trained, and to find out that it had been done wrong. You'd have to begin all over again, and it'd be harder than startin' in with absolute ignorance. The man would get restless, too. When he thought he was graduated and was about ready to begin on a post-graduate course, he'd find himself in the kindergarten, studyin' with beads and singin' about little raindrops.

"Gettin' an idea into a man's head is like furnishin' a room. If you can once get a piece of furniture where you want it, it can stay there until it's worn out or busted, except for occasional dustin' and repairin'. You can add from time to time as you have to, but if you attempt to refurnish a room that's all furnished, and do it all at once, you're bound to make more disturbance than housecleanin'.

"It has to be done slow and careful, unless you have a likin' for rows, and if you're one of those kind of women that's forever changin' their minds about furniture and their husband's ideas, you're bound to have a terrible restless marriage.

"Roger's pa was fresh when I took him, but, unbeknownst to me, he'd done his own furnishin', and the pieces was dreadful set and hard to move. Some of 'em I slid out gently and others took some manouverin', but steady work tells on anythin'. He was thinkin' as I wanted him to about most things, though, when he died, and that's sayin' a good deal, for he didn't die until after we'd been married seven years and three months and eighteen days. If he wasn't really thinkin' right, he was pretendin' to, and that's enough to satisfy any reasonable woman.

[Sidenote: The Will]

"Margaret Merriman's pa died when she was at the tender age of ten, and he left all his money to a distant relation in trust for Margaret, the relative bein' supposed to spend the income on her. If Margaret died before she was of age, the relative was to keep it, and if she should marry before she was of age, the relative was to keep it, too. But, livin' to eighteen' and marryin' afterwards, it was all to be Margaret's, and the relative wasn't to have as much as a two-cent stamp with the mucilage licked off.

"This relative was a sweet-faced lady with a large mole on her right cheek. Margaret used to call her 'Moley,' when she was mad at her, which was right frequent. Her name was Magdalene Mather and she'd been married three times. She was dreadful careless with her husbands and had mislaid 'em all. Not bein' able to find 'em again, she just reckoned on their bein' dead and was thinkin' of marryin' some more.

[Sidenote: Keeping Margaret Young]

"Seems to me it's a mistake for anybody to marry more'n once. In one of Roger's books it says somethin' about a second marriage bein' the triumph of hope over experience. Magdalene Mather was dreadful hopeful and kept thinkin' that maybe she could get somebody who would stay with her without bein' chained up. Meanwhile it was to her interest to keep little Margaret as young as possible.

"Margaret thought she was ten when she went to live with Magdalene, but she soon learned that it was a mistake and she got to be only seven in less'n half an hour. Magdalene put shorter dresses on her and kept her in white and gave her shoes without any heels, and these little short socks that show a foot or so of bare leg and which is indecent, if fashionable.

"Margaret's birthdays kept gettin' farther and farther apart, and as soon as the neighbours begun to notice that Margaret wasn't agin' like everybody else, why, Magdalene would just pack up and go to a new place.

"She didn't go to school, but had private teachers, because it was in the will that she was to be educated like a real lady. Any teacher who thought Margaret was too far advanced for her age got fired the minute it was spoke of, and pretty soon Margaret got onto it herself. She used to tell teachers she liked to say that she was very backward in her studies, and tell those she didn't like that Aunty Magdalene would be dreadful pleased to hear that she was improvin' in her readin' and 'rithmetic and grammar.

"Meanwhile Nature was workin' in Margaret's interest and she was growin' taller and taller every day. The short socks had to be took off because people laughed so, and Magdalene had to let her braid her hair instead of havin' it cut Dutch and tied with a ribbon. When she was eighteen, she thought she was thirteen, and she was wearin' dresses that come to her shoe tops, and her hair in one braid down her back, and dreadful young hats and no jewels, though her pa had left her a small trunk full of rubies and diamonds and pearls. Magdalene was wearin' the jewels herself. They were movin' around pretty rapid about this time, and goin' from city to city in order to find better teachers for 'the dear child' as Magdalene used to call her.

[Sidenote: The Conductor]

"One day, soon after they'd gone to a new city, Margaret was goin' down town to take her music lesson. She went alone because Magdalene was laid up with a headache and wanted the house quiet. When the conductor come along for the fare, Margaret was lookin' out of the window, and, absent-minded like, she give him a penny instead of a nickel.

"The conductor give it back to her, and asked her if she was so young she could go for half fare, and Margaret says, right sharp, when she give him the nickel, 'It's not so long since I was travellin' on half-fare.'

"The conductor says: 'I'd hate to have been hangin' up by the thumbs since you was,' says he. Of course this made Margaret good and mad, and she says to the conductor, 'How old do you think I am?'

"The conductor says: 'I ain't paid to think durin' union hours, but I imagine that you ain't old enough to lie about your age.'

[Sidenote: Ronald Macdonald]

"Just then an old woman with a green parrot in a big cage fell off the car while she was gettin' off backwards as usual, and Margaret didn't have no more chance to fight with the conductor. She saw, however, that he was terrible good lookin'—like the dummy in the tailor's window. It says in the story that 'Ronald Macdonald'—that was his name—was as handsome as a young Greek god and, though lowly in station, he would have adorned a title had it been his.'

"Margaret got to doin' some thinkin' about herself, and wonderin' why it was she didn't seem to age none. And whenever she happened to get onto Ronald Macdonald's car, she noticed that he was awful polite and chivalrous to women. He waited patiently when any two of 'em was decidin' who was to pay the fare and findin' their purses, and sayin', 'You must let me pay next time,' and he would tickle a cryin' baby under the chin and make it bill and coo like a bird.

"Did you ever see a baby bill? I never did neither, but that's what it said in the paper. I suppose it has some reference to the expense of their comin' and their keep through the whoopin' cough stage and the measles, and so on. There don't neither of you know nothin' about it 'cause you ain't married, but when Roger come, his pa was obliged to mortgage the house, and the mortgage didn't get took off until Roger was out of dresses and goin' to school and beginnin' to write with ink.

[Sidenote: Fine Manners]

"Let me see—what was I talkin' about? Oh, yes—Ronald Macdonald's fine manners. When a woman give him five pennies instead of a nickel, he was always just as polite to her as he was to anybody, and would help her off the car and carry her bundles to the corner for her, and everything like that. Of course Margaret couldn't help noticin' this and likin' him for it though she was still mad at him for what he said about her age.

"One morning Margaret give him a quarter so's he'd have to make change, and while he was doin' it, she says to him, 'How nice it must be to ride all day without payin' for it.'

"'I'm under age,' says Ronald Macdonald, with a smile that showed all his beautiful teeth and his ruby lips under his black waxed mustache.

"'Get out,' says Margaret, surprised.

"'I am, though,' says Ronald, confidentially. 'I'm just nineteen. How old are you?'

"'Thirteen,' says Margaret, softly.

"'Don't renig,' says Ronald. 'I think we're pretty near of an age.'

"When Margaret got home, she looked up 'renig' in the dictionary, but it wasn't there. She was too smart to ask Magdalene, but she kept on thinkin'.

[Sidenote: Chance Acquaintances]

"One day, while she was goin' down in the car, two men came in and sat by her. They was chance acquaintances, it seemed, havin' just met at the hotel. 'Your face is terrible familiar to me,' one of the men said. 'I've seen you before, or your picture, or something, somewhere. Upon my soul, I believe your picture is hung up in my last wife's boudoir.'

"'Good God,' says the other man, turnin' as pale as death, 'did you marry Magdalene Mather, too?'

"'I did,' says the first man.

"'Then, brother,' says the second man, 'let us get off at the next corner and go and drown our mutual sorrow in drink.'

"After they got off, Margaret went out to Ronald, and she says to him: 'There goes two of my aunt's husbands. She's had three, and there's two of 'em, right there.'

"'Well,' says Ronald, 'if Aunty ain't got a death certificate and two or three divorces put away somewhere, she stands right in line to get canned for a few years for bigamy. You don't look like you had an aunt that was a trigamist,' says he.

"Margaret didn't understand much of this, but she still kept thinkin'. One day while Magdalene was at an afternoon reception, wearin' all of Margaret's jewels, Margaret looked all through her private belongings to see if she could find any divorces, and she come on a family Bible with the date of her birth in it, and her father's will.

[Sidenote: Facts of the Case]

"Soon, she understands the whole game, and by doin' a small sum in subtraction, she sees that she is goin' on nineteen now. She's afraid to leave the proofs in the house over night, so she wraps 'em up in a newspaper, and flies with 'em to her only friend Ronald Macdonald, and asks him to keep 'em for her until she comes after 'em. He says he will guard them with his life.

"When Margaret goes back after them, havin' decided to face her aunt and demand her inheritance, Ronald has already read 'em, but of course he don't let on that he has. He convinces her that she ought to get married before she faces her aunt, so that a husband's strong arm will be at hand to defend her through the terrible ordeal.

"Margaret thinks she sees a way out, for she has been studyin' up on law in the meantime, and she remembers how Ronald has told her he is under age, and she knows the marriage won't be legal, but will serve to deceive her aunt.

[Sidenote: The Climax]

"So she flies with him and they are married, and then when they confront Magdalene with the will, and the family Bible and their marriage certificate, and tell her she is a trigamist, and they will make trouble for her if she don't do right by 'em, Magdalene sobs out, 'Oh, Heaven, I am lost!' and falls in a dead faint from which she don't come out for six weeks.

"In the meantime, Margaret has thanked Ronald Macdonald for his great kindness, and says he can go now, as the marriage ain't legal, he bein' under age and not havin' his parents' consent. Ronald gives a long, loud laugh and then he digs up his family Bible and shows Margaret how he is almost twenty-five and old enough to be married, and that women have no patent on lyin' about their ages, and that he is not going away.

"Margaret swoons, and when she comes to, she finds that Ronald has resigned his job as a street-car conductor, and has bought some fine clothes on her credit, and is prepared to live happy ever afterward. He bids eternal farewell to work in a long and impassioned speech that's so full of fine language that it would do credit to a minister, and there Margaret is, in a trap of her own makin', with a husband to take care of her money instead of an aunt. Next week, I'll know more about how it turns out, but that's as far as I've got now. Ain't it a perfectly beautiful story?"

Miriam muttered some sort of answer, but Barbara smiled. "It is very interesting," she said, kindly. "I've never read anything like it."

[Sidenote: Going the Rounds]

"It's a lot better'n the books you and Roger waste your time over," returned the guest, much gratified; "but I can't lend you the papers, cause there's five waitin' after the postmaster's wife, and goodness knows how many of them has promised others. I don't mind runnin' over once in a while, though, and tellin' you about 'em while I sew.

"It keeps 'em fresh in my memory," she added, happily, "and Roger is so busy with his law books he don't have time to listen to 'em except at supper. He reads law every evening now, and he didn't used to. Guess he ain't wasting so much time as he was. Been down to the hotel yet?" she asked, inclining her head toward Miriam.

"Once," answered Miriam, reluctantly.

[Sidenote: Gossip]

"There ain't many come yet," the postmaster's wife tells me. "There's a young lady at the hotel named Miss Eloise Wynne, and every day but Saturday she gets a letter from the city, addressed in a man's writin'. And every afternoon, when the boy brings the hotel mail down to go out on the night train, there's a big white square envelope in a woman's writin' addressed to Doctor Allan Conrad, some place in the city. The envelope smells sweet, but the writin' is dreadful big and sploshy-lookin'. Know anything about her?" Miss Mattie gazed sharply at Miriam over her spectacles.

"No," returned Miriam, decisively.

"Thought maybe you would. Anyhow, you don't need to be so sharp about it, cause there's no harm in askin' a civil question. My mother always taught me that a civil question called for a civil answer. I should think, from the letters and all, that he was her steady company, shouldn't you?"

"It's possible," assented Barbara, seeing that Miriam did not intend to reply.

"There's some talk at the sewin' circle of gettin' you one of them hand sewin' machines," continued Miss Mattie, "so's you could sew more and better."

Barbara flushed painfully. "Thank you," she answered, "but I couldn't use it. I much prefer to do all my work by hand."

"All right," assented Miss Mattie, good-humouredly. "It ain't our idea to force a sewin' machine onto anybody that don't want it. We can use some of the money in gettin' a door-mat for the front door of the church. And, if I was you, I wouldn't let my pa run around so much by himself. If he wants to borrow a dog to go with him, Roger would be willin' to lend him Judge Bascom's Fido. If the Judge wasn't willin', Roger would try to persuade him. Lendin' Fido would make law easier for Roger and be a great help to your pa.

"I must go, now, and get supper. Good-bye. I've enjoyed my visit ever so much. Come over sometime, Miriam—you ain't very sociable. Good-bye."

The two women watched Miss Mattie scudding blithely over the trail which, as she said, Roger had worn in the grass. Miriam looked after her gloomily, but Barbara was laughing.

"Don't look so cross, Aunty," chided Barbara. "No one ever came here who was so easy to entertain."

"Humph," grunted Miriam, and went out.

[Sidenote: Relief]

But even Barbara sighed in relief when she was left alone. She understood some of Roger's difficulties of which he never spoke, and realised that the much-maligned "Bascom liver" could not be held responsible for all his discontent.

She wondered what Roger's father had been like, and did not wonder that he was unhappy, if his nature was in any way akin to his son's. But her mother? How could she have failed to appreciate the beautiful old father whom Barbara loved with all the passion and strength of her young heart!

[Sidenote: The Secret]

"He mustn't know," said Barbara to herself, for the hundredth time. "Father must never know."



VIII

A Fairy Godmother

[Sidenote: The Postponed Visit]

As cool and fresh as the June morning of which she seemed a veritable part, Miss Eloise Wynne, immaculately clad in white linen, opened the little grey gate. It was a week later than she had promised to come, but she had not been idle, and considered herself justified for the delay.

Miriam opened the door for her and introduced Barbara. Eloise smiled radiantly as she offered a smooth, well-kept hand. "I know I'm late," she said, "but I think you'll forgive me for it a little later on. I want to see all the lingerie—every piece you have to sell."

"Would you mind coming upstairs?" asked Barbara.

"No, indeed."

The two went up, Barbara slowly leading the way. Miriam remained downstairs to make sure that the blind man did not come in unexpectedly and overhear things which he would be much happier not to know.

"What a lot of it," Eloise was saying. "And what a wonderful old chest."

[Sidenote: Dainty Wares]

Trembling with excitement, Barbara spread forth her dainty wares. Eloise was watching her narrowly, and, with womanly intuition, saw the dire need and the courageous spirit struggling against it.

"Just a minute, please," said Barbara; "I'd better tell you now. My father is blind and he does not know we are poor, nor that I make these things to sell. He thinks that they are for myself and that I am very vain. So, if he should come home while you are here, please do not spoil our little deceit."

Barbara lifted her luminous blue eyes to Eloise and smiled. It was a brave little smile without a hint of self-pity, and it went straight to the older woman's heart.

"I'll be careful," said Eloise. "I think it's dear of you."

"Now," said Barbara, stooping to peer into the corners of the deep chest, "I think that's all." She began, hurriedly, to price everything as she passed it to Eloise, giving the highest price each time. When she had finished, she was amazed at Miss Wynne's face—it was so full of resentment.

"Do you mean to tell me," asked Eloise, in a queer voice, "that you are asking that for these?"

The blue eyes threatened to overflow, but Barbara straightened herself proudly. "It is all hand work," she said, with quiet dignity, "and the material is the very best. I could not possibly afford to sell it for less."

"You goose," laughed Eloise, "you have misunderstood me. There is not a thing here that is not worth at least a third more than you are asking for it. Give me a pencil and paper and some pins."

[Sidenote: Higher Prices]

Barbara obeyed, wondering what this beautiful visitor would do next. Eloise took up every garment and examined it critically. Then she made a new price tag and pinned it over the old one. She advanced even the plainest garments at least a third, the more elaborate ones were doubled, and some of the embroidered things were even tripled in price. When she came to the shirtwaist patterns, exquisitely embroidered upon sheerest handkerchief linen, she shamelessly multiplied the price by four and pinned the new tag on.

"Oh," gasped Barbara; "nobody will ever pay that much for things to wear."

"Somebody is going to right now," announced Eloise, with decision. "I'll take this, and this, and this," she went on, rapidly choosing, "and these, and these, and this. I'll take those four for a friend of mine who is going to be married next week—this solves the eternal problem of wedding-presents—and all of these for next Santa Claus time.

"I can use all the handkerchiefs, and every pin-cushion cover and corsage-pad you've made. Please don't sell anything else until I've heard from some more of my friends to whom I have already written. And you're not to offer one of these exquisite things to those unappreciative people at the hotel, for I have a letter from a friend who is on the Board of Directors of the Woman's Exchange, and got a chance for you to sell there. How long have you been doing this?"

[Sidenote: In a Whirl of Confusion]

"Seven or eight years," murmured Barbara. Her senses were so confused that the room seemed to be whirling and her face was almost as white as the lingerie.

"And those women at the hotel would really buy these things at such ridiculous prices?"

"Not often," answered Barbara, trying to smile. "They would not pay so much. Sometimes we had to sell for very little more than the cost of the material. One woman said we ought not to expect so much for things that were not made with a sewing-machine, but of course, Aunt Miriam had been to the city and she knew that hand work was worth more."

"I wish I'd been there," remarked Eloise. There was a look around her mouth which would have boded no good to anybody if she had. "When I see what brutes women can be, sometimes I am ashamed because I am a woman."

"And," returned Barbara, softly, "when I see what good angels women can be, it makes me proud to be a woman."

"Where do you get your material?" asked Eloise, quickly.

Barbara named the large department store where Aunt Miriam bought linen, lawn, batiste, lace, patterns, and incidentally managed to absorb ideas.

"I see I'm needed in Riverdale-by-the-Sea," observed Miss Wynne. "I can arrange for you to buy all you want at the lowest wholesale price."

"Would it save anything?" asked Barbara, doubtfully.

[Sidenote: Practical Help]

"Would it?" repeated Eloise, smiling. "Just wait and see. After I've written about that and had some samples sent to you, we'll talk over half a dozen or more complete sets of lingerie for me, and some more shirtwaists. Is there a pen downstairs? I want to write a check for you."

When they went into the living-room, Barbara's cheeks were burning with excitement and her eyes shone like stars. When she took the check, which Eloise wrote with an accustomed air, she could scarcely speak, but managed to stammer out, "Thank you."

"You needn't," said Eloise, coolly, "for I'm only buying what I want at a price I consider very reasonable and fair. If you'll get some samples of your work ready, I'll send up for them, and hurry them on to my friend who is to put them into the Woman's Exchange. And please don't sell anything more just now. I've just thought of a friend whose daughter is going to be married soon, and she may want me to select some things for her."

"You're a fairy godmother," said Barbara. "This morning we were poor and discouraged. You came in and waved your wand, and now we are rich. I have heart for anything now."

[Sidenote: Always Rich]

"You are always rich while you have courage, and without it Croesus himself would be poor. It's not the circumstance, remember—it's the way you meet it."

"I know," said Barbara, but her eyes filled with tears of gratitude, nevertheless.

Ambrose North came in from the street, and immediately felt the presence of a stranger in the room. "Who is here?" he asked.

"This is Miss Wynne, Father. She is stopping at the hotel and came up to call."

The old man bowed in courtly fashion over the young woman's hand. "We are glad to see you," he said, gently. "I am blind, but I can see with my soul."

"That is the true sight," returned Eloise. Her big brown eyes were soft with pity.

"Have many of the guests come?" he inquired.

"I have a friend," laughed Eloise, "who says it is wrong to call people 'guests' when they are stopping at a hotel. He insists that 'inmates' is a much better word."

"He is not far from right," said the old man, smiling. "Is he there now?"

"No, he comes down Saturday mornings and stays until Monday morning. That is all the vacation he allows himself. You are fortunate to live here," she added, kindly. "I do not know of a more beautiful place."

[Sidenote: Invited to Luncheon]

"Nor I. To us—to me, especially—it is hallowed by memories. We—you will stay to luncheon, will you not, Miss Wynne?"

Eloise glanced quickly at Barbara. "If you only would," she said.

"If you really want me," said Eloise, "I'd love to." She took off her hat—a white one trimmed with lilacs—and smoothed the waves in her copper-coloured hair. Barbara took her crutches and went out, very quietly, to help Aunt Miriam prepare for the guest.

When the kitchen door was safely closed, Barbara's joy bubbled into speech. "Oh, Aunt Miriam," she cried; "she's bought nearly every thing I had and paid almost double price for it. She's already arranged for me to sell at the Woman's Exchange in the city, and she is going to write to some of her friends about the things I have left. She's going to arrange for me to get all my material at the lowest wholesale price, and she's ordered six complete sets of lingerie for herself. She wants some more shirtwaists, too. Oh, Aunt Miriam, do you think the world is coming to an end?"

"Has she paid you?" queried Miriam, gravely.

"Indeed she has."

"Then it probably is."

Miriam was not a woman easily to be affected by joy, but the hard lines of her face softened perceptibly. "Show her the quilts," she suggested.

"Oh, Aunt Miriam, I'd be ashamed to, to-day, when she's bought so much. She'll be coming up again before long—she said so. And father's asked her to luncheon."

"Just like him," commented Miriam, with a sigh. "He always suffered from hospitality. I'll have to go to the store."

[Sidenote: The Best We Have]

"No, you won't, Aunty—she's not that sort. We'll give her the best we have, with a welcome thrown in."

If Eloise thought it strange for one end of the table to be set with solid silver, heavy damask, and fine china, while the other end, where she and the two women of the house sat, was painfully different, she gave no sign of it in look or speech. The humble fare might have been the finest banquet so far as she was concerned. She fitted herself to their ways without apparent effort; there was no awkwardness nor feeling of strangeness. She might have been a life-long friend of the family, instead of a passing acquaintance who had come to buy lingerie.

[Sidenote: Friendly Conversation]

As she ate, she talked. It was not aimless chatter, but the rare gift of conversation. She drew them all out and made them talk, too. Even Miriam relaxed and said something more than "yes" and "no."

"What delicious preserves," said Eloise. "May I have some more, please? Where do you get them?"

"I make them," answered Miriam, the dull red rising in her cheeks. She had not been entirely disinterested when she climbed up on a chair and took down some of her choicest fruit from the highest shelf of the store-room.

"Do you—" A look from Barbara stopped the unlucky speech. "Do you find it difficult?" asked Eloise, instantly mistress of the situation. "I should so love to make some for myself."

"Miriam will be glad to teach you," put in Ambrose North. "She likes to do it because she can do it so well."

The red grew deeper in Miriam's lined face, for every word of praise from him was food to her hungry soul. She would gladly have laid down her life for him, even though she hated herself for feeling as she did.

[Sidenote: An Hour of Song]

Afterward, while Miriam was clearing off the table, Eloise went to the piano without being asked, and sang to them for more than an hour. She chose folk-songs and tender melodies—little songs made of tears and laughter, and the simple ballads that never grow old. She had a deep, vibrant contralto voice of splendid range and volume; she sang with rare sympathy, and every word could be clearly understood.

"Don't stop," pleaded Barbara, when she paused and ran her fingers lightly over the keys.

"I don't want to impose upon your good-nature," she returned, "but I love to sing."

"And we love to have you," said North. "I think, Barbara, we must get a new piano."

"I wouldn't," answered Eloise, before Barbara could speak. "The years improve wine and violins and friendship, so why not a piano?" Without waiting for his reply, she began to sing, with exquisite tenderness:

"Sometimes between long shadows on the grass The little truant waves of sunlight pass; Mine eyes grow dim with tenderness the while, Thinking I see thee, thinking I see thee smile.

"And sometimes in the twilight gloom apart The tall trees whisper, whisper heart to heart; From my fond lips the eager answers fall, Thinking I hear thee, thinking I hear thee call."

"Yes," said Ambrose North, unsteadily, as the last chord died away, "I know. You can call and call, but nothing ever comes back to you." The tears streamed over his blind face as he rose and went out of the room.

"What have I done?" asked Eloise. "Oh, what have I done?"

"Nothing," sighed Barbara. "My mother has been dead for twenty-one years, but my father never forgets. She was only a girl when she died—like me."

"I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me before, so I could have chosen jolly, happy things?"

"That wouldn't keep him from grieving—nothing can, so don't be troubled about it."

Eloise turned back to the piano and sang two or three rollicking, laughing melodies that set Barbara's one foot to tapping on the floor, but the old man did not come back.

"I never meant to stay so long," said Eloise, rising and putting on her hat.

"It isn't long," returned Barbara, with evident sincerity. "I wish you wouldn't go."

"But I must, my dear. If I don't go, I can never come again. I have lots of letters to write, and mail will be waiting for me, and I have some studying to do, so I must go."

[Sidenote: Adieus]

Barbara went to the door with her. "Good-bye, Fairy Godmother," she said, wistfully.

"Good-bye, Fairy Godchild," answered Eloise, carelessly. Then something in the girl's face impelled her to put a strong arm around Barbara, and kiss her, very tenderly. The blue eyes filled with tears.

"Thank you for that," breathed Barbara, "more than for anything else."

* * * * *

Eloise went away humming to herself, but she stopped as soon as she was out of sight of the house. "The little thing," she thought; "the dear, brave little thing! A face like an angel, and that cross old woman, and that beautiful old man who sees with his soul. And all that exquisite work and the prices those brutal women paid her for it. Blind and lame, and nothing to be done."

Then another thought made her brown eyes very bright. "But I'm not so sure of that—we'll see."

[Sidenote: A Request]

She wrote many letters that afternoon, and all were for Barbara. The last and longest was to Doctor Conrad, begging him to come at the first possible moment and go with her to see a poor broken child who might be made well and strong and beautiful.

"And," the letter went on, "perhaps you could give her father back his eyesight. She calls me her Fairy Godmother, and I rely upon you to keep my proud position for me. Any way, Allan, dear, please come, won't you?"

[Sidenote: Awaiting Results]

She closed it with a few words which would have made him start for the Klondike that night, had there been a train, and she asked it of him; posted it, and hopefully awaited results.



IX

Taking the Chance

[Sidenote: Dr. Conrad Comes]

"Well, I'm here," remarked Doctor Conrad, as he sat on the beach with Eloise. "I have left all my patients in the care of an inferior, though reputable physician, who has such winning ways that he may have annexed my entire practice by the time I get back.

"If you'll tell me just where these protegees of yours are, I'll go up there right away. I'll ring the bell, and when they open the door I'll say: 'I've come from Miss Wynne, and I'm to amputate this morning and remove a couple of cataracts this afternoon. Kindly have the patients get ready at once.'"

"Don't joke, Allan," pleaded Eloise. Her brown eyes were misty and her mood of exalted tenderness made her in love with all the world. "If you could see that brave little thing, with her beautiful face and her divine unselfishness, hobbling around on crutches and sewing for a living, meanwhile keeping her blind old father from knowing they are poor, you'd feel just as I do."

[Sidenote: Discussing the Case]

"It is very improbable," returned Allan, seriously, "that anything can be done. If they were well-to-do, they undoubtedly made every effort and saw everybody worth seeing."

"But in twenty years," suggested Eloise, hopefully. "Think of all the progress that has been made in twenty years."

"I know," said Allan, doubtfully. "All we can do is to see. And if anything can be done for them, why, of course we'll do it."

"Then we'll go for a little drive," she said, "and on our way back, we can stop there and get the things I bought the other day. They have no one to send with them, and it's too much for one person to carry, anyway."

"I suppose she has sold everything she had," mused Allan impersonally.

"Not quite," answered Eloise, flushing. "I left her some samples for the Woman's Exchange."

"Very kind," he observed, with the same air of detachment. "I can see my finish. My wife will have so much charity work for me to do that there will be no time for anything else, and, in a little while, she will have given away all the money we both have. Then when we're sitting together in the sun on the front steps of the poorhouse, we can fittingly lament the end of our usefulness."

[Sidenote: Policy of Segregation]

"They won't let us sit together," she retorted. "Don't you know that even in the old people's homes they keep the men and women apart—husbands and wives included?"

"For the love of Mike, what for?" he asked, in surprise.

"Because it makes the place too gay and frivolous. Old ladies of eighty were courted by awkward swains of ninety and more, and there was so much checker-playing in the evening and so many lights burning, and so many requests for new clothes, that the management couldn't stand it. There were heart-burnings and jealousies, too, so they had to adopt a policy of segregation."

"'Hope springs eternal in the human breast,'" quoted Allan.

"And love," she said. "I've thought sometimes I'd like to play fairy godmother to some of those poor, desolate old people who love each other, and give them a pretty wedding. Wouldn't it be dear to see two old people married and settled in a little home of their own?"

"Or, more likely, with us," he returned. "I've been thinking about a nice little house with a guest room or two, but I've changed my mind. My vote is for a very small apartment. You're not the sort to be trusted with a guest room."

[Sidenote: Starting Off]

Eloise laughed and sprang to her feet. "On to the errand of mercy," she said. "We're wasting valuable time. Get a horse and buggy and I'll see if I can borrow an extra suit-case or two for my purchases."

When she came down, Allan was waiting for her in the buggy. A bell-boy, in her wake, brought three suit-cases and piled them under the seat. Half a dozen rocking-chairs, on the veranda, held highly interested observers. The paraphernalia suggested an elopement.

"Tell those women on the veranda," said Eloise, to the boy, "that I'm not taking any trunks and will soon be back."

"What for?" queried Allan, as they drove away.

"Reasons of my own," she answered, crisply. "Men are as blind as bats."

"I'm wearing glasses," he returned, with due humility. "If you think I'm fit to hear why you left that cryptic message, I'd be pleased to."

"You're far from fit. Here, turn into this road."

Spread like a tawny ribbon upon the green of the hills, the road wound lazily through open sunny spaces and shaded aisles sweet with that cool fragrance found only in the woods. The horse did not hurry, but wandered comfortably from side to side of the road, browsing where he chose. He seemed to know that lovers were driving him.

[Sidenote: Horses versus Autos]

"He's a one-armed horse, isn't he?" laughed Eloise. "I like him lots better than an automobile, don't you?"

"Out here, I do. But an automobile has certain advantages."

"What are they?" she demanded. "I'd rather feed a horse than to buy a tire, any day."

"So would I—unless he tired of his feed. But if you want to get anywhere very quickly and the thing happens not to break, the machine is better."

"But it never happens. I believe the average automobile is possessed of an intuition little short of devilish. A horse seems more friendly. If you were thinking of getting me a little electric runabout for my birthday, please change it to a horse."

"All right," returned Allan, serenely. "We can keep him in the living-room of our six-room apartment and have his dinner sent in from the nearest table d'oat. For breakfast, he can come out into the salle a manger and eat cereals with us."

"You're absolutely incorrigible," she sighed. "This is the river road. Follow it until I tell you where to turn."

Within half an hour, the horse came to a full stop of his own accord in front of the grey, weather-worn house where Barbara lived. He was cropping at a particularly enticing clump of grass when Eloise alighted.

"Going to push?" queried Allan, lazily.

"No, this is the place. Come on. You bring two of the suit-cases and I'll take the other."

[Sidenote: Observations]

The blind man was not there at the moment, but came in while Miriam was upstairs packing Miss Wynne's recent additions to her wardrobe. Doctor Conrad had been observing Barbara keenly as they talked of indifferent things. Outwardly, he was calm and professional, but within, a warmly human impulse answered her evident need.

He was young and had not yet been at his work long enough to determine his ultimate nature. Later on, his profession would do to him one of two things. It would transform him into a mere machine, brutalised and calloused, with only one or two emotions aside from selfishness left to thrive in his dwarfed soul, or it would humanise him to godlike unselfishness, attune him to a divine sympathy, and mellow his heart in tenderness beyond words. In one instance he would be feared; in the other, only loved, by those who came to him.

As Barbara went across the room to another chair, his eyes followed her with intense interest. Eloise shrank from him a little—she had never seen him like this before. Yet she knew, from the expression of his face, that he had found hope, and was glad.

"Barbara?" It was Miriam, calling from upstairs.

"In just a minute, Aunty. Excuse me, please—I'll come right back."

She was scarcely out of the room before Eloise leaned over to Allan, her face alight with eager questioning. "You think—?"

[Sidenote: Willing to Try]

"I don't know," he returned, in a low tone. "It depends on the hardness of the muscles and several other local conditions. Of course it's impossible to tell definitely without a thorough examination, but I've done it successfully in two adult cases, and have seen it done more than a dozen times. I'd be very willing to try."

"Oh, Allan," whispered Eloise. "I'm so glad."

Barbara's padded crutches sounded softly on the stairs as she came down. Eloise went to the window and studied the horse attentively, though he was not of the restless sort that needs to be tied.

While she was watching, Ambrose North came around the base of the hill, crossed the road, and opened the gate. He had been to his old solitude at the top of the hill, where, as nowhere else, he found peace. While he was talking with the visitors, Miriam went out, taking the neatly-packed suit-cases, one at a time, and put them into the buggy.

"Mr. North," said Doctor Conrad, "while these girls are chattering, will you go for a little drive with me?"

The blind man's fine old face illumined with pleasure. "I should like it very much," he said. "It is a long time since I had have a drive."

"It's more like a walk," laughed Allan, as they went out, "with this horse."

"We sold our horses many years ago," the old man explained, as he climbed in. "Miriam is afraid of horses and Barbara said she did not care to go. I thought the open air and the slight exercise would be good for her, but she insisted upon my selling them."

[Sidenote: About Barbara]

"It is about Barbara that I wished to speak," said Allan. "With your consent, I should like to make a thorough examination and see whether an operation would not do away with her crutches entirely."

"It is no use," sighed North, wearily. "We went everywhere and did everything, long ago. There is nothing that can be done."

"But there may be," insisted Allan. "We have learned much, in my profession, in the last twenty years. May I try?"

"You're asking me if you can hurt my baby?"

"Not to hurt her more than is necessary to heal. Understand me, I do not know but what you are right, but I hope, and believe, that there may be a chance."

"I have dreamed sometimes," said the old man, very slowly, "that my baby could walk and I could see."

[Sidenote: If Possible]

"The dream shall come true, if it is possible. Let me see your eyes." He stopped the horse on the brow of the hill, where the sun shone clear and strong, stood up, and turned the blind face to the light. Then, sitting down once more, he asked innumerable questions. When he finally was silent, Ambrose North turned to him, indifferently.

"Well?" The tone was simply polite inquiry. The matter seemed to be one which concerned nobody.

"Again I do not know," returned Allan. "This is altogether out of my line, but, if you'll go to the city with me, I'll take you to a friend of mine who is a great specialist. If anything can be done, he is the man who can do it. Will you come?"

There was a long pause. "If Barbara is willing," he answered simply. "Ask her."

* * * * *

[Sidenote: The Plunge]

Meanwhile, Eloise was talking to Barbara. First, she told her of the letters she had written in her behalf and to which the answers might come any day now. Then she asked if she might order preserves from Aunt Miriam, and discussed patterns and material for the lingerie she had previously spoken of. Finding, at length, that the best way to approach a difficult subject was the straightest one, she took the plunge.

"Have you always been lame?" she asked. She did not look at Barbara, but tried to speak carelessly, as she gazed out of the window.

"Yes," came the answer, so low that she could scarcely hear it.

"Wouldn't you like to walk like the rest of us?" continued Eloise.

Barbara writhed under the torturing question. "My mind can walk," she said, with difficulty; "my soul isn't lame."

The tone made Eloise turn quickly—and hate herself bitterly for her awkwardness. She saw that an apology would only make a bad matter worse, so she went straight on.

"Doctor Conrad is very skilful," she continued. "In the city, he is one of the few really great surgeons. He told me that he would like to make an examination and see if an operation would not do away with the crutches. He thinks there may be a good chance. If there is, will you take it?"

"Thank you," said Barbara, almost inaudibly. Her voice had sunk to a whisper and she was very pale. "I do not mean to seem ungrateful, but it is impossible."

"Impossible!" repeated Eloise. "Why?"

"Because of father," explained Barbara. Her colour was coming back slowly now. "I am all he has, my work supplies his needs, and I dare not take the risk."

"Is that the only reason?"

Barbara nodded.

"You're not afraid?"

Barbara's blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Why should I be afraid?" she asked. "Do you take me for a coward?"

Eloise knelt beside Barbara's low chair and put her strong arms around the slender, white-clad figure. "Listen, dear," she said. Her face was shining as though with some great inner light.

"My own dear father died when I was a child. My mother died when I was born. I have never had anything but money. I have never had anyone to take care of, no one to make sacrifices for, no one to make me strong because I was needed. If the worst should happen, would you trust your father to me? Could you trust me?"

"Yes," said Barbara slowly; "I could."

[Sidenote: A Compact]

"Then I promise you solemnly that your father shall never want for anything while he lives. And now, if there is a chance, will you take it—for me?"

Barbara looked long into the sweet face, glorified by the inner light. Then she leaned forward and put her soft arms around the older woman, hiding her face in the masses of copper-coloured hair.

"For you? A thousand times, yes," she sobbed. "Oh, anything for you!"

* * * * *

Late in the afternoon, when Ambrose North and Barbara were alone again, he came over to her chair and stroked her shining hair with a loving hand.

"Did they tell you, dear?" he asked.

"Yes," whispered Barbara.

"I have dreamed so often that my baby could walk and I could see. He said that the dream should come true if he could make it so."

"Did he say anything about your eyes?" asked Barbara, in astonishment.

[Sidenote: Hopeful]

"Yes. He thinks there may be a chance there, too. If you are willing, I am to go to the city with him sometime and see a friend of his who is a great specialist."

"Oh, Daddy," cried Barbara. "I'm afraid—for you."

He drew a chair up near hers and sat down. The old hand, in which the pulses moved so slowly, clasped the younger one, warm with life.

"Barbara," he said; "I have never seen my baby."

"I know, Daddy."

"I want to see you, dear."

"And I want you to."

"Then, will you let me go?"

"Perhaps, but it must be—afterward, you know."

"Why?"

"Because, when you see me, I want to be strong and well. I want to be able to walk. You mustn't see the crutches, Daddy—they are ugly things."

"Nothing could be ugly that belongs to you. I made a little song this afternoon, while you and Miriam were talking and I was out alone."

"Tell me."

[Sidenote: In a Beautiful Garden]

"Once there was a man who had a garden. When he was a child he had played in it, in his youth and early manhood he had worked in it and found pleasure in seeing things grow, but he did not really know what a beautiful garden it was until another walked in it with him and found it fair.

"Together they watched it from Springtime to harvest, finding new beauty in it every day. One night at twilight she whispered to him that some day a perfect flower of their very own was to bloom in the garden. They watched and waited and prayed for it together, but, before it blossomed, the man went blind.

"In the darkness, he could not see the garden, but she was still there, bringing divine consolation with her touch, and whispering to him always of the perfect flower so soon to be their own.

"When it blossomed, the man could not see it, but the one who walked beside him told him that it was as pure and fair as they had prayed it might be. They enjoyed it together for a year, and he saw it through her eyes.

"Then she went to God's Garden, and he was left desolate and alone. He cared for nothing and for a time even forgot the flower that she had left. Weeds grew among the flowers, nettles and thistles took possession of the walks, and strange vines choked with their tendrils everything that dared to bloom.

[Sidenote: A Perfect Flower]

"One day, he went out into the intolerable loneliness and desolation, and, groping blindly, he found among the nettles and thistles and weeds the one perfect white blossom. It was cool and soft to his hot hand, it was exquisitely fragrant, and, more than all, it was part of her. Gradually, it eased his pain. He took out the weeds and thistles as best he could, but there was little he could do, for he had left it too long.

"The years went by, but the flower did not fade. Seeking, he always found it; weary, it always refreshed him; starving, it fed his soul. Blind, it gave him sight; weak, it gave him courage; hurt, it brought him balm. At last he lived only because of it, for, in some mysterious way, it seemed to need him, too, and sometimes it even seemed divinely to restore the lost.

"Flower of the Dusk," he said, leaning to Barbara; "what should I have been without you? How could I have borne it all?"

[Sidenote: Strength for the Burden]

"God suits the burden to the bearer, I think," she answered, softly. "If you have much to bear, it is because you are strong enough to do it nobly and well. Only the weak are allowed to shirk, and shift their load to the shoulders of the strong."

"I know, but, Barbara—suppose——"

"There is nothing to suppose, Daddy. Whatever happened would be the best that could happen. I'm not afraid."

Her voice rang clear and strong. Insensibly, he caught some of her own fine courage and his soul rallied greatly to meet hers. From her height she had summoned him as with a bugle-call, and he had answered.

"The ways of the Everlasting are not our ways," he said, "but I will not be afraid. No, I will not let myself be afraid."



X

In the Garden

[Sidenote: A Summer Evening]

The subtle, far-reaching fragrance of a Summer night came through the open window. A cool wind from the hills had set the maple branches to murmuring and hushed the incoming tide as it swept up to the waiting shore. Out in the illimitable darkness of the East, grey surges throbbed like the beating of a troubled heart, but the shore knew only the drowsy croon of a sea that has gone to sleep.

Golden lilies swung their censers softly, and the exquisite incense perfumed the dusk. Fairy lamp-bearers starred the night with glimmering radiance, faintly seen afar. A cricket chirped just outside the window and a ghostly white moth circled around the evening lamp.

Roger sat by the table, with Keats's letters to his beloved Fanny open before him. The letter to Constance, so strangely brought back after all the intervening years, lay beside the book. The ink was faded and the paper was yellow, but his father's love, for a woman not his mother, stared the son full in the face and was not to be denied.

Was this all, or—? His thought refused to go further. Constance North had died, by her own hand, four days after the letter was written. What might not have happened in four days? In one day, Columbus found a world. In another, electricity was discovered. In one day, one hour, even, some immeasurable force moving according to unseen law might sway the sun and set all the stars to reeling madly through the unutterable midnights of the universe. And in four days? Ah, what had happened in those four days?

[Sidenote: A Recurring Question]

The question had haunted him since the night he read the letter, when he was reading to Barbara and had unwittingly come upon it. Constance was dead and Laurence Austin was dead, but their love lived on. The grave was closed against it, and in neither heaven nor hell could it find an abiding-place. Ghostly and forbidding, it had sent Constance to haunt Miriam's troubled sleep, it had filled Ambrose North's soul with cruel doubt and foreboding, and had now come back to Roger and Barbara, to ask eternal questions of the one, and stir the heart of the other to new depths of pain.

He had not seen Barbara since that night and she had sent no message. No beacon light in the window across the way said "come." The sword that had lain, keen-edged and cruel, between Constance and her lover, had, by a single swift stroke, changed everything between her daughter and his son.

Not that Barbara herself was less beautiful or less dear. Roger had missed her more than he realised. When her lovely, changing face had come between his eyes and the musty pages of his law books, while the disturbing Bascom pup cavorted merrily around the office, unheard and unheeded, Roger had ascribed it to the letter that had forced them apart.

* * * * *

The woollen slippers muffled Miss Mattie's step so that Roger did not hear her enter the room. Preoccupied and absorbed, he was staring vacantly out of the window, when a strong, capable hand swooped down beside him, gathering up the book and the letter.

[Sidenote: Tremendous Power]

"I don't know what it is about your readin', Roger," complained his mother, "that makes you blind and deaf and dumb and practically paralysed. Your pa was the same way. Reckon I'll read a piece myself and see what it is that's so affectin'. It ain't a very big book, but it seems to have tremendous power."

She sat down and began to read aloud, in a curiously unsympathetic voice which grated abominably upon her unwilling listener:

"'Ask yourself, my Love, whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the letter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it—make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me—write the softest words and kiss them, that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself, I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form; I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.'

"Ain't that wonderful, Roger? Wants to get drunk on poppies and kiss the writin' and thinks after that he'll be made into a butterfly. Your pa couldn't have been far from bein' a butterfly when he bought this book. There ain't no sense in it. And this—why, it's your pa's writin', Roger! I ain't seen it for years."

Miss Mattie leaned forward in her chair and brought the letter to Constance close to the light. She read it through, calmly, without haste or excitement. Roger's hands gripped the arms of his chair and his face turned ashen. His whole body was tense.

[Sidenote: A Moment's Pain]

Then, as swiftly as it had come, the moment passed. Miss Mattie took off her spectacles and leaned back in her chair with great weariness evident in every line of her figure.

[Sidenote: Crazy as a Loon]

"Roger," she said, sadly, "there's no use in tryin' to conceal it from you any longer. Your pa was crazy—as crazy as a loon. What with buyin' books so steady and readin' of 'em so continual, his mind got unhinged. I've always suspected it, and now I know.

"Your pa gets this book, and reads all this stuff that's been written about 'Fanny,' and he don't see no reason why he shouldn't duplicate it and maybe get it printed. I knew he set great store by books, but it comes to me as a shock that he was allowin' to write 'em. Some of the time he sees he's crazy himself. Didn't you see, there where he says, 'I hope you do not blame me because I went mad'? 'Mad' is the refined word for crazy.

"Then he goes on about eatin' husks and bein' starved. That's what I told him when he insisted on havin' oatmeal cooked for his breakfast every mornin'. I told him humans couldn't expect to live on horse-feed, but, la sakes! He never paid no attention to me. I could set and talk by the hour just as I'm talkin' to you and he wasn't listenin' any more'n you be."

"I am listening, Mother," he assured her, in a forced voice. He could not say with what joyful relief.

"Maybe," she went on, "I'd 'a' been more gentle with your pa if I'd realised just what condition his mind was in. There's a book in the attic full of just such writin' as this. I found it once when I was cleaning, but I never paid no more attention to it. I surmised it was somethin' he was copyin' out of another book that he'd borrowed from the minister, but I see now. The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. If I'd 'a' knowed what it was then, maybe I couldn't have bore it as I can now."

Seizing his opportunity, Roger put the book and the letter aside. Miss Mattie slipped out of its wrapper the paper which Roger had brought to her from the post-office that same night, and began to read. Roger sat back in his chair with his eyes closed, meditating upon the theory of Chance, and wondering if, after all, there was a single controlling purpose behind the extraordinary things that happened.

[Sidenote: Inner Turmoil]

Miss Mattie wiped her spectacles twice and changed her position three times. Then she got another chair and moved the lamp closer. At last she clucked sharply with her false teeth—always the outward evidence of inner turmoil or displeasure.

"What's the matter, Mother?"

"I can't see with these glasses," she said, fretfully. "I can see a lot better without 'em than I can with 'em."

"Have you wiped them?"

"Yes, I've wiped 'em till it's a wonder the polish ain't all wore off the glass."

"Put them up close to your eyes instead of wearing them so far down on your nose."

"I've tried that, but the closer they get to my eyes, the more I can't see. The further away they are, the better 't is. When I have 'em off, I can see pretty good."

"Then why don't you take them off?"

"That sounds just like your pa. Do you suppose, after payin' seven dollars and ninety cents for these glasses, and more'n twice as much for my gold-bowed ones, that I ain't goin' to use 'em and get the benefit of 'em? Your pa never had no notion of economy. They're just as good as they ever was, and I reckon I'll wear 'em out, if I live."

"But, Mother, your eyes may have changed. They probably have."

[Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Eyes]

Miss Mattie went to the kitchen and brought back a small, cracked mirror. She studied the offending orbs by the light, very carefully, both with and without her spectacles.

"No, they ain't," she announced, finally. "They're the same size and shape and colour that they've always been, and the specs are the same. Your pa bought 'em for me soon after you commenced readin' out of a reader, and they're just as good as they ever was. It must be the oil. I've noticed that it gets poorer every time the price goes up." She pushed the paper aside with a sigh. "I was readin' such a nice story, too."

"Shan't I read it to you, Mother?"

"Why, I don't know. Do you want to?"

"Surely, if you want me to."

"Then you'd better begin a new story, because I'm more'n half-way through this one."

"I'll begin right where you left off, Mother. It doesn't make a particle of difference to me."

"But you won't get the sense of it. I'd like for you to enjoy it while you're readin'."

"Don't worry about my enjoying it—you know I've always been fond of books. If there's anything I don't understand, I can ask you."

"All right. Begin right here in True Gold, or Pretty Crystal's Love. This is the place: 'With a terrible scream, Crystal sprang toward the fire escape, carrying her mother and her little sister in her arms.'"

[Sidenote: Two Sighs]

For nearly two hours, Roger read, in a deep, mellow voice, of the adventures of poor, persecuted Crystal, who was only sixteen, and engaged to a floor-walker in 'one of the great city's finest emporiums of trade.' He and his mother both sighed when he came to the end of the installment, but for vastly different reasons.

"Ain't it lovely, Roger?"

"It's what you might call 'different,'" he temporised, with a smile.

"Just think of that poor little thing havin' her house set afire by a rival suitor just after she had paid off the mortgage by savin' out of her week's wages! Do you suppose he will ever win her?"

"I shouldn't think it likely."

"No, you wouldn't, but the endin' of those stories is always what you wouldn't expect. It's what makes 'em so interestin' and, as you say, 'different.'"

Roger did not answer. He merely yawned and tapped impatiently on the table with his fingers.

[Sidenote: Nine o'Clock]

"What time is it?" she asked, adjusting her spectacles carefully upon the ever-useful and unfailing wart.

"A little after nine."

"Sakes alive! It's time I was abed. I've got to get up early in the mornin' and set my bread. Good-night."

"Good-night, Mother."

"Don't set up long. Oil is terrible high."

"All right, Mother."

Miss Mattie went upstairs and closed her door with a resounding bang. Roger heard her strike a match on a bit of sandpaper tacked on the wall near the match-safe, and close the green blinds that served the purpose of the more modern window-shades. Soon, a deep, regular sound suggestive of comfortable slumber echoed and re-echoed overhead. Then, and then only, he dared to go out.

[Sidenote: A Light in the Window]

He sat on the narrow front porch for a few minutes, deeply breathing the cool air and enjoying the beauty of the night. Across the way, the little grey house seemed lonely and forlorn. The upper windows were dark, but downstairs Barbara's lamp still shone.

"Sewing, probably," mused Roger. "Poor little thing."

As he watched, the lamp was put out. Then a white shadow moved painfully toward the window, bent, and struck a match. Star-like, Barbara's signal-light flamed out into the gloom, with its eager message.

"She wants me," he said to himself. The joy was inextricably mingled with pain. "She wants me," he thought, "and I must not go."

"Why?" asked his heart, and his conscience replied, miserably, "Because."

For ten or fifteen minutes he argued with himself, vainly. Every objection that came forward was reasoned down by a trained mind, versed in the intricacies of the law. The deprivations of the fathers need not always descend unto the children. At last he went over, wondering whether his father had not more than once, and at the same hour, taken the same path.

[Sidenote: Two Hours of Life]

Barbara was out in the garden, dreaming. For the first time in years, when she had work to do, she had laid it aside before eleven o'clock. But, in two hours, she could have made little progress with her embroidery, and she chose to take for herself two hours of life, out of what might prove to be the last night she had to live.

When Roger opened the gate, Barbara took her crutches and rose out of her low chair.

"Don't," he said. "I'm coming to you."

She had brought out another chair, with great difficulty, in anticipation of his coming. Her own was near the moonflower that climbed over the tiny veranda and was now in full bloom. The white, half-open trumpets, delicately fragrant, had more than once reminded him of Barbara herself.

"What a brute I'd be," thought Roger, with a pang, "if I had disappointed her."

"I'm so glad," said Barbara, giving him a cool, soft little hand. "I began to be afraid you couldn't come."

"I couldn't, just at first, but afterward it was all right. How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you, but I'm going to be made better to-morrow. That's why I wanted to see you to-night—it may be for the last time."

Her words struck him with chill foreboding. "What do you mean?"

"To-morrow, some doctors are coming down from the city, with two nurses and a few other things. They're going to see if I can't do without these." She indicated the crutches with an inclination of her golden head.

"Barbara," he gasped. "You mustn't. It's impossible."

"Nothing is impossible any more," she returned, serenely.

"That isn't what I meant. You mustn't be hurt."

[Sidenote: A Wonderful World]

"I'm not going to be hurt—much. It's all to be done while I'm asleep. Miss Wynne, a lady from the hotel, brought Doctor Conrad to see me. Afterward, he came again by himself, and he says he is very sure that it will come out all right. And when I'm straight and strong and can walk, he's going to try to have father made to see. A fairy godmother came in and waved her wand," went on Barbara, lightly, "and the poor became rich at once. Now the lame are to walk and the blind to see. Is it not a wonderful world?"

"Barbara!" cried Roger; "I can't bear it. I don't want you changed—I want you just as you are."

"Such impediments as are placed in the path of progress!" she returned. Her eyes were laughing, but her voice had in it a little note of tenderness. "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything—everything."

"It's only this," said Barbara, gently. "If it should turn out the other way, will you keep father from being lonely? Miss Wynne has promised that he shall never want for anything, and, at the most, it couldn't be long until he was with me again, but, in the meantime, would you, Roger? Would you try to take my place?"

"Nobody in the world could ever take your place, but I'd try—God knows I'd try. Barbara, I couldn't bear it, if——"

"Hush. There isn't any 'if.' It's all coming right to-morrow."

[Sidenote: Beauty of a Saint]

The full moon had swung slowly up out of the sea, and the misty, silvery light touched Barbara lovingly. Her slender hands, crossed in her lap, seemed like those of a little child. Her deep blue eyes were lovelier than ever in the enchanted light—they had the calmness of deep waters at dawn, untroubled by wind or tide. Around her face her golden hair shimmered and shone like a halo. She had the unearthly beauty of a saint.

"Afterward?" he asked, with a little choke in his voice.

"I'll be in plaster for a long time, and, after that, I'll have to learn to walk."

"And then?"

"Work," she said, joyously. "Think of having all the rest of your life to work in, with no crutches! And if Daddy can see me—" she stopped, but he caught the wistfulness in her tone. "The first thing," she continued, "I'm going down to the sea. I have a fancy to go alone."

"Have you never been?"

"I've never been outside this house and garden but once or twice. Have you forgotten?"

All the things he might have done came to Roger, remorsefully, and too late. He might have taken Barbara out for a drive almost any time during the last eight years. She could have been lifted into a low carriage easily enough and she had never even been to the sea. A swift, pitying tenderness made his heart ache.

"Nobody ever thought of it," said Barbara, soothingly, as though she had read his thought, "and, besides, I've been too busy, except Sundays. But sometimes, when I've heard the shore singing as the tide came in, and seen the gulls fly past my window, and smelled the salt mist—oh, I've wanted it so."

"I'd have taken you, if I hadn't been such a brute as to forget."

[Sidenote: More than the Sea]

"You've brought me more than the sea, Roger. Think of all the books you've carried back and forth so patiently all these years. You've done more for me than anybody in the world, in some ways. You've given me the magic carpet of the Arabian Nights, only it was a book, instead of a rug. Through your kindness, I've travelled over most of the world, I've met many of the really great people face to face, I've lived in all ages and all countries, and I've learned to know the world as it is now. What more could one person do for another than you have done for me?"

"Barbara?" It was Miriam's voice, calling softly from an upper window. "You mustn't stay up late. Remember to-morrow."

"All right, Aunty." Her answer carried with it no hint of impatience. "I forgot that we weren't in the house," she added, to Roger, in a low tone.

"Must I go?" To-night, for some reason, he could not bear even the thought of leaving her.

"Not just yet. I've been thinking," she continued, in a swift whisper, "about my mother and—your father. Of course we can't understand—we only know that they cared. And, in a way, it makes you and me something like brother and sister, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps it does. I hadn't thought of that."

[Sidenote: The Barrier Broken]

All at once, the barrier that seemed to have been between them crashed down and was forgotten. Mysteriously, Roger was very sure that those four days had held no wrong—no betrayal of another's trust. His father would not have done anything which was not absolutely right. The thought made him straighten himself proudly. And the mother of the girl who leaned toward him, with her beautiful soul shining in her deep eyes, could have been nothing less than an angel.

"To-morrow"—began Roger.

[Sidenote: "To-morrow is Mine"]

"To-morrow was made for me. God is giving me a day to be made straight in. To-morrow is mine, but—will you come and stay with father? Keep him away from the house and with you, until—afterward?"

"I will, gladly."

Barbara rose and Roger picked up her crutches. "You'll never have to do that for me again," she said, as she took them, "but there'll be lots of other things. Will you take in the chairs, please?"

A lump was in his throat and he could not speak. When he came out, after having made a brief but valiant effort to recover his self-control, Barbara was standing at the foot of the steps, leaning on her crutches, with the moon shining full upon her face.

Roger went to her. "Barbara," he said, huskily, "my father loved your mother. For the sake of that, and for to-morrow, will you kiss me to-night?"

Smiling, Barbara lifted her face and gave him her lips as simply and sweetly as a child. "Good-night," she said, softly, but he could not answer, for, at the touch, the white fire burned in his blood and the white magic of life's Maytime went, singing, through his soul.



XI

Barbara's "To-morrow"

The shimmering white silence of noon lay upon the land. Bees hummed in the clover, gorgeous butterflies floated drowsily over the meadows, and far in the blue distance a meadow-lark scattered his golden notes like rain upon the fields.

[Sidenote: A Cold Shadow]

The world teemed with life, and yet a cold shadow, as of approaching death, darkened the souls of two who walked together in the dusty road that led from the hills to the sea. The old man leaned heavily upon the arm of the younger, and his footsteps faltered. The young man's face was white and he saw dimly, as through a mist, but he tried to keep his voice even.

From the open windows of the little grey house came the deadly sweet smell of anaesthetics, heavy with prescience and pain. It dominated, instantly, all the blended Summer fragrances and brought terror to them both.

"I cannot bear it," said Ambrose North, miserably. "I cannot bear to have my baby hurt."

"She isn't being hurt now," answered Roger, with dry lips. "She's asleep."

"It may be the sleep that knows no waking. If you loved Barbara, you would understand."

The boy's senses, exquisitely alive and quivering, merged suddenly into one unspeakable hurt. If he loved Barbara! Ah, did he not love her? What of last night, when he walked up and down in that selfsame road until dawn, alone with the wonder and fear and joy of it, and unutterably dreading the to-morrow that had so swiftly become to-day.

"I was a fool," muttered Ambrose North. "I was a fool to give my consent."

"It was her choice," the boy reminded him, "and when she walks——"

"When she walks, it may be in the City Not Made With Hands. If I had said 'no,' we should not be out here now, while she—" The tears streamed over his wrinkled cheeks and his bowed shoulders shook.

[Sidenote: All for the Best]

"Don't," pleaded Roger. "It's all for the best—it must be all for the best."

Neither of them saw Eloise approaching as she came up the road from the hotel. She was in white, as usual, bareheaded, and she carried a white linen parasol. She went to them, calling out brightly, "Good morning!"

"Who is it?" asked the old man.

"It must be Miss Wynne, I think."

"What is it?" inquired Eloise, when she joined them. "What is the matter?"

The blind man could not speak, but he pointed toward the house with a shaking hand.

"It's Barbara, you know," said Roger. "They're in there—cutting her." The last words were almost a whisper.

[Sidenote: Allan is There]

"But you mustn't worry," cried Eloise. "Nothing can go wrong. Why, Allan is there."

Insensibly her confidence in Allan and the clear ring of her voice relieved the unbearable tension. Surely, Barbara could not die if Allan were there.

"It's hard, I know," Eloise went on, in her cool, even tones, "but there is no doubt about the ending. Allan is one of the few really great surgeons—he has done wonderful things. He has done things that everyone else said were impossible. Barbara will walk and be as straight and strong as any of us. Think what it will mean to her after twenty years of helplessness. How fine it will be to see her without the crutches."

"I have never minded the crutches," said Roger. "I do not want her changed."

"I cannot see her," sighed Ambrose North. "I have never seen my baby."

"But you're going to," Eloise assured him, "for Allan says so, and whatever Allan says is true."

At length, she managed to lead them farther away, though not out of sight of the house, and they all sat down on the grass. She talked continually and cheerfully, but the atmosphere was tense with waiting. Ambrose North bowed his grey head in his hands, and Roger, still pale, did not once take his eyes from the door of the little grey house.

After what seemed an eternity, someone came out. It was one of Allan's assistants. A nurse followed, and put a black bag into the buggy which was waiting outside. Roger was on his feet instantly, watching.

"Sit down," commanded Eloise, coolly. "Allan can see us from here, and he will come and tell us."

Ambrose North lifted his grey head. "Have they—finished—with her?"

"I don't know," returned Eloise. "Be patient just a little longer, please do."

[Sidenote: All Right]

Outwardly she was calm, but, none the less, a great sob of relief almost choked her when Doctor Conrad came across the road to them, swinging his black bag, and called out, in a voice high with hope, "All right!"

* * * * *

The sky was a wonderful blue, but the colour of the sea was deeper still. The vast reaches of sand were as white as the blown snow, and the Tower of Cologne had never been so fair as it was to-day. The sun shone brightly on the clear glass arches that made the cupola, and the golden bells swayed back and forth silently.

[Sidenote: The Changed Tower]

Barbara was trying to climb up to the cupola, but her feet were weary and she paused often to rest. The rooms that opened off from the various landings of the winding stairway were lovelier than ever. The furnishings had been changed since she was last there, and each room was made to represent a different flower.

There was a rose room, all in pink and green, a pond-lily room in green and white, a violet room in green and lavender, and a gorgeous suite of rooms which someway seemed like a great bouquet of nasturtiums. But, strangely, there was no fragrance of cologne in the Tower. The bottles were all on the mantels, as usual, but Barbara could not open any of them. Instead, there was a heavy, sweet, sickening smell from which she could not escape, though she went continually from room to room. It followed her like some evil thing that threatened to overpower her.

The Boy who had always been beside her, and whose face she could not see, was still in the Tower, but he was far away, with his back toward her. He seemed to be suffering and Barbara tried to get to him to comfort him, but some unforeseen obstacle inevitably loomed up in her path.

[Sidenote: People in the Tower]

There were many people in the Tower, and most of them were old friends, but there were some new faces. Her father was there, of course, and all the brave knights and lovely ladies of whom she had read in her books. Miss Wynne was there and she had never been in the Tower before, but Barbara smiled at her and was glad, though she wished they might have had cologne instead of the sickening smell which grew more deadly every minute.

A grave, silent young man whose demeanour was oddly at variance with his red hair was there also. He had just come and it seemed that he was a doctor. Barbara had heard his name but could not remember it. There were also two young women in blue and white striped uniforms which were very neat and becoming. They wore white caps and smiled at Barbara. She had heard their names, too, but she had forgotten.

None of them seemed to mind the heavy odour which oppressed her so. She opened the windows in the Tower and the cool air came in from the blue sea, but it changed nothing.

"Come, Boy," she called across the intervening mist. "Let's go up to the cupola and ring all the golden bells."

He did not seem to hear, so she called again, and again, but there was no response. It was the first time he had failed to answer her, and it made her angry.

"Then," cried Barbara, shrilly, "if you don't want to come, you needn't, so there. But I'm going. Do you hear? I'm going. I'm going up to ring those bells if I have to go alone."

Still, the Boy did not answer, and Barbara, her heart warm with resentment, began to climb the winding stairs. She did not hurry, for pictures of castles, towers, and beautiful ladies were woven in the tapestry that lined the walls.

She came, at last, to the highest landing. There was only one short flight between her and the cupola. The clear glass arches were dazzling in the sun and the golden bells swayed temptingly. But a blinding, overwhelming fog drifted in from the sea, and she was afraid to move by so much as a step. She turned to go back, and fell, down—down—down—into what seemed eternity.

[Sidenote: The Clouds Lift]

Before long, the cloud began to lift. She could see a vague suggestion of blue and white through it now. The man with the red hair was talking, loudly and unconcernedly, to a tall man beside him whose face was obscured by the mist. The voices beat upon Barbara's ears with physical pain. She tried to speak, to ask them to stop, but the words would not come. Then she raised her hand, weakly, and silence came upon the room.

Out of the fog rose Doctor Allan Conrad. He was tired and there was a strained look about his eyes, but he smiled encouragingly. He leaned over her and she smiled, very faintly, back at him.

"Brave little girl," he said. "It's all right now. All we ever hoped for is coming very soon." Then he went out, and she closed her eyes. When she was again conscious of her surroundings, it was the next day, but she thought she had been asleep only a few minutes.

At first there was numbness of mind and body. Then, with every heart-beat and throb by throb, came unbearable agony. A trembling old hand strayed across her face and her father's voice, deep with love and longing, whispered: "Barbara, my darling! Does it hurt you now?"

"Just a little, Daddy, but it won't last long. I'll be better very soon."

One of the blue and white nurses came to her and said, gently, "Is it very bad, Miss North?"

[Sidenote: Intense Pain]

"Pretty bad," she gasped. Then she tried to smile, but her white lips quivered piteously. The woman with the kind, calm face came back with a shining bit of silver in her hand. There was a sharp stab in Barbara's arm, and then, with incredible quickness, peace.

"What was it?" she asked, wondering.

"Poppies," answered the nurse. "They bring forgetfulness."

"Barbara," said the old man, sadly, "I wish I could help you bear it——"

"So you can, Daddy."

"But how?"

"Don't be afraid for me—it's coming out all right. And make me a little song."

"I couldn't—to-day."

"There is always a song," she reminded him. "Think how many times you have said to me, 'Always make a song, Barbara, no matter what comes.'"

The old man stirred uneasily in his chair. "What about, dear?"

"About the sea."

[Sidenote: Song of the Sea]

"The sea is so vast that it reaches around the world," he began, hesitatingly. "It sings upon the shore of every land, from the regions of perpetual ice and snow to the far tropic islands, where the sun forever shines. As it lies under the palms, all blue and silver, crooning so softly that you can scarcely hear it, you would not think it was the same sea that yesterday was raging upon an ice-bound shore.